Indigenous and Afrodescendant Social Movements in Northwestern Venezuela

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THE LEFT-TURN OF MULTICULTURALISM: INDIGENOUS AND AFRODESCENDANT SOCIAL MOVEMENTS IN NORTHWESTERN VENEZUELA

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Authors Ruette, Krisna

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THE LEFT-TURN OF MULTICULTURALISM: INDIGENOUS AND AFRODESCENDANT SOCIAL MOVEMENTS IN NORTHWESTERN VENEZUELA

Krisna Ruette

A Dissertation Submitted to the Faculty of the

SCHOOL OF ANTHROPOLOGY

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements For the Degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

In the Graduate College

THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA

2011

THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA GRADUATE COLLEGE

As members of the Dissertation Committee, we certify that we have read the dissertation prepared by Krisna Ruette entitled The Left-Turn of Multiculturalism: Indigenous and Afrodescendant Social Movements in Northwestern Venezuela and recommend that it be accepted as fulfilling the dissertation requirement for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

______Date: 10/31/11 Ana Alonso

______Date: 10/31/11 Thomas Sheridan

______Date: 10/31/11 James Greenberg

______Date:

Final approval and acceptance of this dissertation is contingent upon the candidate‟s submission of the final copies of the dissertation to the Graduate College. I hereby certify that I have read this dissertation prepared under my direction and recommend that it be accepted as fulfilling the dissertation requirement.

______Date: 10/31/11 Dissertation Director: Ana Alonso

STATEMENT BY AUTHOR

This dissertation has been submitted in partial fulfillment of requirements for an advanced degree at the University of Arizona and is deposited in the University Library to be made available to borrowers under rules of the Library.

Brief quotations from this dissertation are allowable without special permission, provided that accurate acknowledgment of source is made. Requests for permission for extended quotation from or reproduction of this manuscript in whole or in part may be granted by the copyright holder.

SIGNED: Krisna Ruette

AKNOWLEGEMENTS

This dissertation research has been made possible thanks to the support, supervision and guidance of sponsors, professors, movement activists, family members and friends. I first and foremost thank the people of Veroes and Moroturo, who were willing to share their memories and everyday forms of struggle. In Veroes, I counted with the invaluable friendship and support of Guillermo and Sandra. To them, I wish to express my deep gratitude. Special thanks I want to give to “El Niño,” who is not with us anymore. Many other people in Farriar, Palmarejo and Agua Negra also provided vital support and advice. I am also indebted to the people of Moroturo, Santa Inés, Mapararí and San Pedro for their kindness and guidance. Their names remain confidential in order to ensure their privacy. In Caracas, I also counted with the support of many indigenous and afrodescendant leaders of the Parlamento Indígena de América, the Comisión Presidencial de Pueblos y Comunidades Indígenas, the Asamblea Nacional, the Dirección de Pueblos Indígenas de la Universidad Bolivariana, the Comisión Presidencial para la Eliminación y Prevención del Racismo en el Sistema Educativo Venezolano, the Dirección de Educación Intercultural del Ministerio del Sistema Educativo, and the Ministry of Indigenous People. To all them I wish to express my gratitude. I want to thank the institutions that granted me funds for my doctoral studies and fieldwork research. I appreciate the support of the Fulbright Association, the School of Anthropology, the Graduate College, the SBSRI of the University of Arizona, the Tinker Foundation, the P.E.O International Peace Scholarship Fund, and the Consejo de Desarrollo Científico y Humanístico- UCV. Special thanks I express to the Wenner-Gren Foundation for funding my doctoral fieldwork activities, in 2007. To all of my teachers at the School of Anthropology of the University of Arizona I express my gratefulness. I am particularly indebted to my committee members who have been motivating models of scholarship, teaching and research. I appreciate the guidance of my advisor Dr. Ana Alonso, who directed my masters and doctoral studies with thoughtful, challenging and encouraging orientations. I am very grateful to Dr. Thomas Sheridan who has been an inspiring teacher and a patient research mentor. I also want to thank Dr. James Greenberg for his supportive guidance and for shaping my work with thoughtful-provoking questions. Special thanks I want to express to Dr. Susan Philips for her continuous orientations, support and encouragement during my research and writing process. I also want to thank Dr. Jane Hill for providing insightful comments on my research. I am also much indebted to the Arizona State Museum, in particular the Office of Ethnohistorical Research. Diana Hadley, Dr. Dale Brenneman, and Dr. Thomas Sheridan provided me a unique opportunity for working in historical documentary projects. I wish to thank the Bureau of Applied Research in Anthropology (BARA), in particular Dr. Marcela Vázquez-León, Dr. Diane Austin and Dr. Tim Finan. Student peers and friends at the University of Arizona also supported this research with conversations and guidance. I specially thank Aurea Toxqui, Anton Daughters, Gillian Newell, Jacqueline Messing, Tania Granadillo, Edaena Saynez-Vasquez, Heidi Orcutt, Jessica Piekelick, Maisa Taha, Ana Oyarce, Anita Carrasco, Paola Canova, Salvador 5

Aquino, Tara Dubel, Maurad Majahed, Kate Goldage, Laura Tesler, Eric Pavri, Marie Sardier, Matt Iles, Karen Cohelo, Christian Español among others. I also wish to thank my dear friend Hecky Villanueva (que en paz descanse), who was always an inspiring friend. All of them made my graduate studies in Tucson a wonderful and enriching experience. Gillian, Tania and Christian provided comments and suggestions on some chapters of this dissertation. In Venezuela I want to thank the Ministerio del Poder Popular para la Cultura, in particular the Offices of Indigenous and Afrodescendant Affairs. At this institution I counted with the support of Tatiana Jimenez, María Cristina Bassalo, George Amaiz, and Karol Cortes. I want to express my gratitude to the Center of Anthropology of the Instituto Venezolano de Investigaciones Científicas (IVIC) for providing me the opportunity to continue my research and writing process. Special thanks I give to my mentor Dra. Hortensia Caballero-Arias for her enduring guidance, challenging questions, and unconditional support. I have also counted with the patient mentoring and protective support of Dra. Lilliam Arvelo for more than 15 years. I would like to express my gratitude to other members of the Center of Anthropology, such as Prof. Abel Perozo, Dr. Bernardo Urbani, Dr. Eliezer Arias, Dr. Horacio Biord, Dra. Bertha Pérez, Dr. Werner Wilbert, Dra. Erika Wagner, Dr. Stanford Zent, Dr. Eglee Zent, Xiomara Escalona, Eduy Urbina, Viviana Cuberos, Maura Falconi, Nuria Martin, Nicolas Gonzalez, Katiuska Velazquez, Beatriz Juarez, Gladys Obelmejías, and Meyby Ugueto for their academic advice and guidance. Hortensia, Lilliam and Bernardo provided suggestions and comments on many chapters of this dissertation. I would like to thank my friends and sisters Marcia López, Cristina Soriano, Yoly Velandria, Yadira Rodríguez, Valeria Murgich, and Izabella Giriat for their invaluable generosity, empathy and patience over these years. I want to thank, Marcia for her support during my fieldwork activities in Moroturo, and for sharing insightful ethnographic observations and interpretations. Yadira and Yoly also helped me with the elaboration of the maps of this dissertation, as well as with the formatting process. Writing a dissertation in a foreign language has been great challenge. I had the honor to count with the editing skills, insights and suggestions of Dr. Dick Parker, who helped me to narrow down many of my arguments and to make my writing style more intelligible and friendly. I also want to thank professors Miguel Angel Contreras and Luis Molina from the Universidad Central del Venezuela and Mila Ivanovich. This dissertation would not have been written without the support of my parents Columba and Fernando. To them I want to express my endless gratitude and love for their trust, patience, friendship and encouragement. No words I have for expressing the gratefulness that I hold for my daughter Julia. She accompanied me during the whole dissertation writing process with inspiration, laughter, surprises and enjoyment. She has thought me to ponder my own life expectations in both the academic and affective domains. I also want to express my thankfulness to my sister María Fernanda and my brother Arturo for being my best friends in difficult and joyful moments. I want to acknowledge my daughter`s grandparents, Josefina, Regina, Anaira and David, for being there whenever I need them. I also wish to express my gratitude to my partner José Antonio for his patience, comprehension and love during these years. 6

DEDICATION

For my parents Columba and Fernando

and

my beloved daughter Julia 7

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF FIGURES ...... 10

LIST OF TABLES ...... 11

ABSTRACT ...... 12

INTRODUCTION ...... 14 Setting the Problem ...... 14 Venezuela: the contemporary Bolivarian context ...... 17 New social mobilizations in the Bolivarian context ...... 24 Two case studies: a comparative approach ...... 28 Dissertation outline ...... 33

CHAPTER 1. THEORETICAL FRAMEWORK ...... 36 Multiculturalism: recognition or redistribution? ...... 36 Latin America‟s neoliberal multiculturalism and social mobilization ...... 44 Social Movements and the State ...... 50 The mobilizing habitus of social movements ...... 54 Mobilizing frames ...... 58 Strategic actions and social mobilization ...... 62 Contemporary ethno-racial movements in Latin America: indigenous and afrodescendant organizations ...... 65 Methodological considerations: doing ethnography in revolutionary times ...... 81

CHAPTER 2. AYAMÁN HISTORICAL ENGAGEMENTS ...... 88 Imaginations of conquest: Ayamán “midgets” ...... 90 Early colonial articulations: encomiendas and doctrinas ...... 95 Resguardos and Cumbes: new strategies of engagement ...... 99 Late colonial anxieties: ethno-racial mixing and cumbe formation ...... 102 Banishing indigenous territories: the expansion of coffee in the nineteenth century ..104 Modern imaginations: Ayamans as linguistic, cultural and genetic “survivals.”...... 111 Sisal, Drought, and Migration: Historical memories in the early XX century...... 115 Agrarian Reform in Moroturo: politics of exclusion for Ayamán people ...... 125 “Pajonal contra conuco:” the expansion of cattle ranches ...... 127 Concluding remarks: ...... 129

CHAPTER 3. CIMARRONES, COMUNEROS AND CAMPESINOS: AFRODESCENDANT HISTORICAL EXPERIENCES IN THE YARACUY VALLEY ...... 132 Slave Trade, Miners, and Kings ...... 134

TABLE OF CONTENTS - Continued

Encomiendas, Haciendas, Cocoa, and Doctrinas ...... 137 Andresote: the cimarrrón leader ...... 141 Manumission, medianeros and jornaleros: afrodescendants during Independence and civil wars ...... 146 Afro-Comuneros: new legal-territorial subjectivities (1900-1936) ...... 153 Losing the communal lands (1936-1958) ...... 157 Land Reform and the expansion of commercial agriculture (1958-1980) ...... 163 Afrodescendant Land Struggles under structural adjustment changes ...... 175 Concluding remarks ...... 182

CHAPTER 4. FROM STATE INDIGENOUS MULTICULTURALISM TO INDO- SOCIALISM (1999-2009) ...... 187 Legal inclusions of indigenous peoples: A brief historical overview...... 188 “A compromise for history”: a new multicultural order for indigenous peoples? ...... 196 The National Constituent Assembly ...... 200 The Organic Law for Indigenous Peoples (LOPCI) ...... 215 Venezuelan Indo-socialism: A new ideological ecology ...... 219 The Minister and indigenous warriors: at the “service” of the socialist project ...... 225 “Indigenous socialism” in the eyes of CONIVE and other State institutions ...... 232 Indigenous leaders speak: a particular ideological ecology ...... 237 Questioning neo-socialist multiculturalism ...... 243 Concluding remarks ...... 248

CHAPTER 5. AT THE MARGINS OF THE REVOLUTION: AFRODESCENDANTS EXCLUSIONS FROM THE VENEZUELAN STATE (1999-2009) ...... 251 A history of legal exclusion ...... 251 Invisible Multiculturalism: afrodescendant Struggles for Legal Inclusion ...... 257 The second proposal: seeking incorporation in the constitutional reform ...... 263 Afrovenezuelan institutional spaces ...... 277 Concluding remarks ...... 283 Comparative Remarks: Indigenous and afrodescendant forms of incorporation within the modern multicultural Venezuelan State...... 284

CHAPTER 6. THE AYAMÁN-TURERO ORGANIZATION: RITUAL AND POLITICAL MOBILIZATION ...... 289 The Ayamán turero organization: roles, settings and transformations ...... 290 Framing processes of the Ayamán-turero organization ...... 313 Ayamán strategic actions: from ritual encounters to legal petitions ...... 347 Concluding remarks ...... 406

TABLE OF CONTENTS - Continued

CHAPTER 7. THE AFROYARACUYAN MOVEMENT: ARTICULATING LAND AND SOCIO-CULTURAL ORGANIZATIONS...... 411 Formation of the Afroyaracuyan Movement ...... 411 Structure of the movement: bridging cultural, land and political Afro organizations .418 Afroyaracuyan mobilized frames and identities: ...... 426 Strategic actions of the Afroyaracuyan movement ...... 479 Concluding remarks: assessing the movement ...... 514

CHAPTER 8. COMPARING AYAMÁN AND AFROYARACUYAN STRUCTURES, FRAMES, AND STRATEGIES ...... 518 Contrasting structures ...... 518 Comparing framing processes ...... 519 Comparing Strategic Actions ...... 529

CONCLUDING IDEAS ...... 542

REFERENCES ...... 550

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 1 Study Area Map ...... 29 Figure 2. Ayamán Territory ...... 89 Figure 3. Ethnohistorical map of Lara State ...... 92 Figure 4. Federmann´s route map ...... 93 Figure 5. Migration of Ayamán families ...... 120 Figure 6. Contemporary afrodescendant communities of the Yaracuy River ...... 133 Figure 7. Cerro Moroturo. Ayamán Community ...... 292 Figure 8. Turero Patios in Lara and Falcón State ...... 309 Figure 9. Afroyaracuyan contemporary communities ...... 412

LIST OF TABLES

Table 1 Strategies of the Ayamán-turero organization ...... 349 Table 2. Afroyaracuyan Organizations in Veroes Municipality ...... 419 Table 3. Strategies of the Afroyaracuyan Movement ...... 481

ABSTRACT

This dissertation explores the impact of multiculturalism on the relationship between ethno-racial social movements and the Venezuelan State. It assesses movements‟ capacity to achieve recognition and redistribution within a State embracing anti-neoliberal multicultural discourses and policies.

I conducted a comparative ethnographic study of two ethno-racial movements in northwestern Venezuela – the Ayamán-turero indigenous organization located in Lara state and the Afrodescendant movement in Yaracuy state. In order to explain the contemporary variations of these movements‟ strategic capacities, I proposed the concept of mobilizing habitii – which I defined as the multilayered dispositions, practices, perceptions, and values orienting social mobilization. I argue that the mobilizing habitii of social organizations can be explored by examining their collective actions frames, strategic actions, and habitual practices. Historical evidence suggests that Ayamán mobilizing habitii have been characterized by strategies of avoidance, while

Afroyaracuyan mobilizing dispositions have been shaped by their direct engagement with the State.

My comparative research also suggests that Afroyaracuyan people from Veroes have managed to engage in successful territorial struggles, involving effective land redistribution. In contrast, Ayamán people have focused their efforts on reproducing State cultural performances and local ritual practices. However access to material resources, still remains limited for this indigenous population, and almost impossible to achieve through ethno-racial forms of mobilization. 13

My comparative endeavor also shows how the Venezuela multicultural project represents a significant rupture with other Latin American neoliberal multicultural projects. Since 2006, the Venezuelan State has been indigenized, by representing indigenous peoples as the “seeds” and “holders” of the socialist project. The State has institutionalized some indigenous organizations by controlling their resources and by politicizing some leaders. Paradoxically, afrodescendant peoples have remained at the legal margins of this process, facing the ideological barriers of the myths of racial democracy and mestizaje.

My conclusions suggest, that ethnic recognition in Bolivarian Venezuela ensures limited redistribution of material resources, while it simultaneously re-essentializes ethno-racial categories and produces new subjectivities. In other words, ethno-racial mobilization is limited for achieving substantial material resources, even in States which are implementing anti-neoliberal multicultural policies.

INTRODUCTION

Setting the Problem

Since the late 1980s, sixteen Latin American nation-states have adopted multicultural legal frameworks acknowledging the rights of indigenous and/or afrodescendant peoples. In this new context many social movements have emerged seeking cultural visibility, social justice, access to resources, political participation and new relationships with the State and transnational powers (Seoane and Taddei 2003; Zibechi

2003; Jackson and Warren 2005; Dávalos 2005; Postero and Zamosc 2006; Seoane et al.

2005; Van Cott 2005; Yashar 2005; Almeida 2005; Contreras 2007; Vanden 2008;

Stahler-Sholk et al. 2008). Many scholars argue that multicultural reforms and mobilization along ethno-racial1 lines have not ensured successful redistribution and access to material resources in Latin America (land, water, housing, credit, etc.) (Jackson

1996; Almeida 2005; Hale 2002, 2005; Jackson and Warren 2005; Speed 2005; Speed and Sierra 2005; Engle 2010). Indeed, they have gone further and maintained that States embracing neoliberal orientations use multicultural legal frameworks to co-opt, fragment and demobilize social movements.

1 In this ethnography I use the term ethno-racial, to refer to the historical and everyday articulation of race and ethnicity. I follow Omi and Winant‟s (1994:55) definition of race as a non-essential, unstable, and non-fixed complex of social meanings signifying and symbolizing conflict and interests regarding different types of human bodies. My study adopts Alonso‟s (1994) definition of ethnicity as a constructed, contextual, and fluid dimension of identity based on the subjective recognition of common life-style indexes (such as religion, language, dress, occupation), physical type, and descent. The author explains that what differentiates ethnicity from race is that the former privileges status distinctions based on life style characteristics, while race evokes somatic indexes (like body and hair features and skin color). 15

This dissertation aspires to achieve two broad goals. Firstly, it inserts Venezuela within the ongoing discussion in Latin America over the impact of multiculturalism in processes of recognition and/or redistribution. Secondly, based on the experience of two movements – one indigenous and one Afrovenezuelan – it examines the effects of multicultural reforms on the relationship between ethno-racial social movements and the

State.

The Venezuelan experience can be regarded as of particular interest for various reasons. To start with, until very recently academic discussions over the implications of multiculturalism on social movements had been largely based on the experiences of countries implementing neoliberal policies. Venezuela offers us the first example of the introduction of multicultural policies under a government which explicitly defined its opposition to neoliberalism and which furthermore, has been applying this policy for more than a decade.2

After undertaking a constituent process in 1999, the Venezuelan Bolivarian3 State recognized indigenous peoples as distinct ethnic groups with specific rights to their ancestral lands, political organizations, cultures and languages. In contrast, afrodescendants have been excluded from this process of multicultural recognition. Later on, (after overcoming the great political instability which characterized the period from

2 In Nicaragua multicultural State polices were implemented during the Sandinista regime, yet they were shaped by processes of war and the need to counter the alliances of the Contra forces with the Miskito (Hooker 2009). 3 Bolivarianism refers to some of the precepts and ideologies developed by Simón Bolívar during the early nineteenth century. This historical leader is considered the liberator of Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, Perú and Bolivia. Today Bolivar`s ideologies are widely reinterpreted and circulated by President Hugo Chávez and other Bolivarian movements in the region in order to evoke discourses on Pan-American anti-imperialism, Latin American independence and integration, and social justice. 16

the short-lived coup in April 2002 to the defeat of the Revocation Referendum in 2004) the Bolivarian government announced a “21st Century Socialism” as its new political horizon. This perspective led, in turn, to modifications in the State´s political rhetoric and in the implementation of multicultural policies, resulting in the framing of a new “Indo- socialist” project.

It is to be assumed that a multicultural policy implemented within this political project of “transition to socialism” will present features that distinguish it from other experiences conditioned by the restrictions imposed by neoliberal orientations. Evidently, the general debate could be enriched if we are capable of establishing: to what extent and in what ways does the Venezuelan experience differ from those which had previously been developed under the aegis of neoliberalism? Of course, we have not tried to undertake a comparative study of multiculturalism in different countries.4 I merely take the existing literature, nourished basically by other experiences and conceptual advances in the continent, and ask what novel elements in the Venezuelan experience could serve to enrich this debate. I therefore concentrated my attention on Venezuela and asked in what ways we should approach the problem of examining the effects of multiculturalism on processes of ethno-racial mobilization.

To this end, I undertook a comparative approach based on ethnographic experiences with two social movements: The Ayamán-turero organization and the

4 This research antecedes the current experiences of constitutional multiculturalism in Bolivia and Ecuador which have inevitably nourished the general debate on multiculturalism. Partly for this reason we have not taken these experiences as a point of reference. But there is another reason. Before 1999, when Venezuela adopted its multicultural framework, the examples of the incorporation of multiculturalism into the corpus of National Constitutions were countries in which the indigenous population represented a reduced proportion of the total population, and were also located outside from the main population concentrations. Such was the case of Brazil (1988) and Colombia (1991). 17

Afroyaracuyan movement both located in northwestern Venezuela. I specifically analyze how these movements negotiate both access to material resources (land, credit) as well as cultural and legal recognition within the Venezuelan Bolivarian State. I explore how multiculturalism shapes the mobilizing habitus, the framing processes and strategic actions of these ethno-racial movements, as they forge alliances and networks with other movements and perform negotiations with State institutions. Overall this study seeks to shed light on the relationship between social movements and the State, within the new multicultural configurations of the Venezuelan State.

Venezuela: the contemporary Bolivarian context

By the end of the 1980s the government of Carlos Andrés Pérez proposed the

Gran Viraje project (the great turn), which involved the radical implementation of structural adjustment policies. This neoliberal turn sought to replace the existing import substitution model of industrialization with a new free market regime. During this period the State gradually lost control of the national oil industry by allowing direct participation of foreign investments. Consumer petroleum subsidies were reduced, increasing fuel prices and transportation services. Accordingly, the government adopted decentralization policies seeking to erode the control of the State (Llambí and Gouveia 1994; Arias 1995,

2001; Di John 2005; Lander 2005; Duffy and Everton 2008).

Moreover, during this period the Venezuelan State experienced great socio- political instability. Just eleven days after these reforms were launched; urban riots known as the “Caracazo” initiated a cycle of protests in Venezuela (López Maya 1999, 18

2005). This process of popular unrest continued until 1993, after two coup d´état attempts and the final impeachment of Carlos Andrés Pérez. Structural adjustment policies in general had negative social effects in Venezuela, as they undermined real wage levels, increased unemployment rates, and exacerbated social inequality, environmental degradation and insecurity (Parker 2003).

Meanwhile the nearby countries of Brazil (1988) and Colombia (1991) adopted both structural adjustment policies as well as new multicultural legal frameworks. In

1998, Venezuela was considered one of the most “immature” nations in regard to indigenous and afrodescendant people‟s rights, not to mention its lack of responsiveness towards indigenous demands on land rights and self-determination (Arvelo-Jiménez

1982; Mansutti 2000; Van Cott 2002; Bello 2005; González-Ñáñez 2009; Kuppe 2009).

During the 1980s and 1990s the Venezuelan State in fact promoted the usurpation of indigenous lands, as it privileged mining and timber concessions, and supported development projects in indigenous territories (Arvelo-Jiménez 1982; Mansutti 2000).

Moreover, in spite of the salient rise of civil right movements in the continent, afrovenezuelans continued to be excluded by the legal State, due to the pervasiveness of discourses on mestizaje and racial democracy (Wright 1990; Perozo and Pérez 2001;

García and Arratia 2002; Ishibashi 2007).

Following the election of Hugo Chávez in 1998, the Bolivarian government explicitly denounced the devastating effects of neoliberal policies (Parker 2003, 2005;

Lander 2005; Duffy and Everton 2008; Rodríguez 2010). In the political-ideological realm, the Chávez administration initially adopted the thesis of “constitutive power” and 19

“participatory and protagonist democracy.” This novel State project involved a profound critique of liberal democracy, neoliberalism, and American imperialism, as well as the radical need to achieve economic, social, and cultural justice (Laclau and Mouffe 1985;

Negri 1994; López-Maya and Lander 2011). Chávez in particular re-signified the concept of people (pueblo) and nation, as he sought to re-establish the Republic as an independent, truly sovereign, and autonomous country (Lander 2005:30-31).

After an attempted coup and a national oil strike in 2002, and a period of political instability which lasted until late 2004, the Bolivarian government first proposed a so- called “socialism of the twenty first century” (Lebowitz 2006). This project claims to be anti-dogmatic, since it conceives social history as shaped by conscious agents motivated by self-reflection, passion, will and intention. This new socialism is supposed to differ from the “old socialisms” since it seeks to make visible the historical and cultural specificities of Latin American peoples, and it calls for the “recovery” and preservation of “indo-American socialism” (Chávez 2007a; Biardeau 2007; Monsonyi 2007). In this context, the State aims to ensure the participation of all excluded peoples as well as the recognition of multiple identities, and different modes of life, feeling and knowledge

(Biardeau 2007).

In the legal arena, the Venezuelan government proposed a Constituent Assembly which had the objective of re-establishing the Republic and ensuring the social inclusion of “excluded peoples” into the nation-state. The Bolivarian Constitution, approved by popular vote in December 1999, recognized new rights involving the direct participation of all citizens in the formulation, execution and control of public administration (López- 20

Maya and Lander 2011:59). The Constitution also acknowledged for the first time the multiethnic and pluri-cultural character of the Venezuelan nation. Indigenous people were recognized as distinct ethnic groups with specific rights to their ancestral lands, political organizations, cultures, and languages (CBV 1999, Chapter VIII).

The Bolivarian State also introduced various laws which were clearly incompatible with the previous neoliberal policies. In 2000, President Chávez passed a new cooperative law, stimulating the rapid formation of more than 300,000 cooperatives

(Martínez et al. 2010). During this period, a new agrarian law was also sanctioned aiming to redistribute land among peasants and eradicate large landholdings. In 2001, the State also sanctioned a law for demarcating and titling indigenous lands (Bello 2005). In 2002 the Law of Social Security (which has still not been implemented), marked a radical repudiation of the neoliberal reform sanctioned by the Caldera administration in 1997

(Parker 2003, 2005).

In accordance with these ideological, political and legal shifts, the Venezuelan

State started implementing socio-economic transformations oriented toward a

“development from within” (desarrollo desde adentro) of its economic structure

(Biardeau 2007). Since 2003, the Bolivarian State embraced the notion of “endogenous development,” that was proposed as a sui generi productive horizon that sought to empower popular organizations and to promote a “social and solidarian economy”

(Parker 2007:61). Overall, the Bolivarian State searched for alternatives to neoliberalism seeking to reverse the profound inequalities in the distribution of wealth, employment, 21

housing, education and land (Parker 2003, 2005; Lander 2005; Duffy and Everton 2008;

Rodríguez 2010; Buxton 2011; Lopez-Maya and Lander 2011).

The most important initiatives in Venezuela have been linked to the control of the

State oil industry (Parker 2005).5 Since 1999, the Bolivarian government has managed to control petroleum prices by revitalizing intergovernmental agreements with the OPEC and by restructuring the management structure of the State oil company PDVSA

(Petroleos de Venezuela) (Parker 2005:43). However, these policies have not implied a total rupture with transnational capital or multilateral economic institutions. Venezuela in fact remains one of the most stable oil suppliers of the US (Lander 2005:32).

In any event, State control of the oil industry and other economic sectors has had important consequences. Since 2002 the government has rechanneled oil revenues toward extensive social programs. With the support of its profits, the revolutionary government has created new subsidy programs and micro-credit policies promoting the creation and co-management of cooperatives, productive communes, communal councils, and endogenous nuclei of development among others (Parker 2005, 2007; Lander 2007).

Once the oil lockout had been successfully defeated in 2003 and with the increase of oil revenues, the government launched diverse State missions (misiones), seeking to redress social inequalities (López-Maya and Lander 2011:71). These parallel temporary programs sought to gradually replace and transform the capitalist institutional structure of the Venezuelan State. The missions provide primary and preventive health care in urban

5 Former oil policies during the 1980s and 1990s sought for the internationalization of the State-oil company PDVSA (Petróleos de Venezuela). At the time oil revenues were invested outside of the country, in spite of the dramatic fiscal crisis of the State. During this period oil prices were very low since PDVSA duplicated its productive capacity and its production levels, violating in turn its agreements with OPEC (Parker 2003:92-93). 22

and rural areas (Misión Barrio Adentro), subsidized food (Misión Mercal), educational programs for illiterate people (Misión Robinson), social attention to nomads (indigent people) (Misión Negra Hipólita), training for workers in centers of endogenous development (Misión Vuelvan Caras), national identification cards (Misión Identidad), among others (Lander 2007; López-Maya and Lander 2011). The State also created

Misión Guaicaipuro, in order to provide special attention for indigenous people and ensure their incorporation within public policies. Critical analysis of these Bolivarian missions suggest that they mainly serve to “buy votes” during electoral process (Penfold-

Becerra 2007). Others argue that these missions are mere populist and patrimonial practices that foster clientelism and corruption (Arenas 2010). However, it is at least clear that the Bolivarian missions represent, in terms of size and scope, one of the largest social fund programs established in Latin America in recent decades.

In the international arena it is also important to mention that Venezuela has strongly critiqued the Free Trade Area of the Americas (FTAA) (Lander 2005). The State has designed policies seeking to foster national autonomy, as well as, Latin American integration and international cooperation with Russia, China, and India (Lander 2005).

Futhermore, in 2001, Venezuela proposed the Creation of the Alianza Bolivariana para los Pueblos de Nuestra America (ALBA).6 This international alliance has the objective of integrating and supporting the economic development of Caribbean and Latin American nations. ALBA has been presented as an alternative to US Free Trade Agreements

(ALBA 2010).

6 ALBA is currently integrated by Venezuela, Cuba, Bolivia, Nicaragua, Honduras, San Vincent and Las Granadinas, Dominica, Antigua and Barbuda, and Ecuador. 23

Moreover, the Bolivarian government has also engaged in a gradual process of nationalization. In 2007, the Venezuelan State recovered the main electricity and communication companies of the country. In 2008, the iron industry of the Orinoco, which was under the control of Italian-Argentinian capital, was also recovered by the

State. This same year the Venezuelan government purchased the Spanish owned Bank of

Venezuela, as well as transnational cement industries such as Lafarge, Holcim and

Cemex.

In the financial sector, the Bolivarian State has also established new regulations on currency exchange in order to prevent the flight of capital and control economic inflation. In 2011 the National Assembly approved the repatriation of gold reserves

(estimated in 18,000 million US dollars), which since the 1980s had been deposited in international banks (Depablo-Diaz 2011).

However, in spite of these nationalist policies that seek to redress previous neoliberal configurations, Venezuela has significantly increased its imports from US,

China, Brazil and Spain, particularly in sector of food7 (INE 2011). Some argue that the market economy, private property, liberal legislations and a wide spread capitalist culture are still present in the “anti-neoliberal” Bolivarian State (Rodríguez 2010:201). However, others suggest that the redistributive policies of the Venezuelan State represent “the most radical state-led challenge to the “market fundamentalism” of the neoliberal “Washington

Consensus” in decades…” (Duffy and Everton 2008:120).

7 In 2011 Venezuela imported a total of 15,827 millions of US dollars in goods from. The 1269 million of dollars spent in importing foods, represented 8% of total imports (INE 2011). 24

As stated by Greenberg et al. (2011) it becomes evident that neoliberal and anti- neoliberal policies are not intrinsically articulated to specific political systems or forms of government. In this case we have seen how in Venezuela neoliberal, anti-neoliberal and multicultural policies coexist in complex ways, seeking nationalization, endogenous development, economic and political sovereignty, social equality, popular participation and recognition of cultural diversity. This particular scenario has presented new challenges and opportunities for social movements seeking to negotiate resources with the Venezuelan Bolivarian State.

New social mobilizations in the Bolivarian context

In this new Bolivarian milieu, diverse social movements have emerged seeking economic justice and political participation, as well as recognition of cultural differences.

Since the constituent process in 1999, multiple social organizations have mobilized in order to guarantee new spaces for the exercise of citizenship rights within the new nation.

In this process of struggle, novel “insurgent imaginaries” have been constructed aiming to create decolonized, democratic, and dialogic spaces (Contreras 2007:222). For the

Venezuelan government, social movements are conceived of as the main base or “motor” of the Bolivarian project, in order to reach the goals of “popular power,” eco-human dignity, autonomy, and the formation of new empowering configurations.

James Petras (2008) suggests that in Venezuela there exists one of the most extensive and influential networks of social movements. Multiple organizations of civil society are now supported “from above” by president Chávez, and “from below” by local 25

activists seeking more social justice and inclusion (Petras 2008:40). According to

Martínez, Fox and Farrel (2010) popular power and participatory democracy is constantly rebuilt on the basis of a particular relationship between social movements and the

Venezuelan government. In their view, Venezuelan social movements constantly test the effectiveness of new Constitution, verifying the extent to which it is applied in practice

(Martínez et al. 2010:19).

However, in spite of their new visibility, social movements in Venezuela have been characterized as weak, disarticulated, dispersed, lacking clear goals, employing auto-censorship, and in general experiencing high levels of institutionalization and alienation in relation to the State. Critics of the Bolivarian government argue that Chávez has imposed his personalistic, authoritarian, charismatic, and populist model of democracy, and in consequence aims to disarticulate civil society organizations (Arenas and Calcaño 2006; Uzcátegui 2006; Capriles 2007).

Others indicate that Venezuelan social movements face important obstacles within the government, even beyond the bureaucratic inertia and the corruption which is so prevalent (Martínez et al. 2010:7). If this is so, social movements confront a dual fight as they defend the government and, at the same time, are obliged to challenge the processes of institutionalization and bureaucratization of the State apparatus (Martínez et al. 2010).

Uzcátegui (2006) suggests that the ecological and student movements have been fragmented, while indigenous, women, and counter-culture organizations have been co- opted by the government‟s left-wing rhetoric. 26

Moreover, there are authors who, while accepting the criticisms, nevertheless still recognize that Venezuelan social movements have gained a protagonist role in the configuration of a new State model (Lander 2006b, 2007; Fermín 2007; Petras 2008;

Martínez et al. 2010). Social movements are recognizing that significant political spaces have been opened, as they seek for ways to achieve their transformative goals (Martínez et al 2010). Since 1999, Venezuelan indigenous, woman, peasant, and afrodescendant organizations have mobilized and gained important new institutional and legal spaces, as well as new fields for negotiating with the State.

Indigenous movements, in particular, have strengthened their political visibility and participation, after achieving their legal recognition in the Constitution. They have three representatives in the National Assembly, and have participated in the creation of new legal instruments, such as the Organic Law of Indigenous Peoples and Communities

(LOPCI) and other laws related to land demarcation, language rights, and indigenous patrimony. The government also created the first Ministry of Indigenous Peoples to guarantee the visibility, inclusion, and participation of this population.

Moreover, in the discursive realm, indigenous peoples and their organizations have been recognized by the Bolivarian government as the authentic “seeds” of the socialist project, since their cultures value the principles of tolerance, reciprocity, solidarity, equality, cooperation, and egalitarianism (Chávez 2007; Monsonyi 2007).

However, in spite of recognizing these aforementioned advances, in 2009 the National

Indian Council of Venezuela (CONIVE) publicly claimed that the indigenous movement has been demobilized and fragmented. They argue that their organizations lack 27

independence and concrete goals to assert their rights. CONIVE also claims that indigenous organizations are facing significant confrontations and tensions after the formation of the Ministry for Indigenous Peoples (Quispe and Tillet 2010). In sum, it is clear that the indigenous movement in Venezuela is facing an ambiguous process of empowerment and institutionalization.

In contrast to the salient “visibility” of indigenous peoples, afrodescendants‟ rights have not been specifically recognized in the Venezuelan Constitution or in any other legal instrument of the State, despite several legal petitions made by the Network of

Afrovenezuelan Organizations in 1999 and 2007. Members of the National Assembly opposed the approval of these legal requests, on the basis that afrodescendant people cannot be considered a distinct ethnic group. Yet in spite of their legal and institutional marginality, afrovenezuelan organizations continue pursuing their goals on cultural visibility, political participation, and equal access to resources such as land, water, credit, and education. However the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations is also facing internal fragmentation due to processes of institutionalization and internal ideological divergences.

Overall, it is clear that Bolivarian multicultural legal reforms have produced a significant disparity among indigenous and afrodescendant rights. Yet, what is the impact of this disparity among indigenous and afrodescendant movements? How do these differences in legal status shape movement‟s material and symbolic strategies to access resources and to negotiate with the national State? In this historical political conjuncture, how do indigenous and afrodescendant movements manage to produce and transform 28

their mobilizing habitii, “collective action frames” and strategic actions in order to meet their ends? How do both movements confront, adapt, or contest the alienating and institutionalizing forces of the revolutionary government? How do they articulate and reconcile multicultural and class-based discourses? These questions are examined by comparing and contrasting two ethno-racial movements located in northwestern

Venezuela.

Two case studies: a comparative approach

This research explores comparatively two ethno-racial movements in northwestern Venezuela, the Ayamán-turero organization located in Lara and the

Afroyaracuyan Movement whose main headquarters are situated in the state of Yaracuy

(Figure 1).

The Ayamán-turero organization has 26 active members who live in the community of Cerro Moroturo, Urdaneta Municipality, Lara state. Its main goal is to perform the Tura dances – a ritual devoted to celebrate the annual harvest of agricultural crops and to commemorate the ancestral spirits of the corn. All members of this organization self-recognize as tureros or believers (devotos) of the Tura spirits, and as

Ayamán or descendants of the Ayamán indigenous peoples. In 2005, members of this organization traveled to Caracas in order to request their legal recognition as legitimate indigenous people before the National Assembly. In response to this petition, the

CARIBBEAN SEA

CORO

FALCON STATE

Churuguara Sta. Cruz de Bucaral Maparari Río Tocuyo

Aguada Boca de Aroa Grande Siquisique Sta. Inés Moroturo Agua Negra Palmarejo Morón Aroa El Chino Farriar Taria SAN FELIPE Duaca YARACUY STATE Carora LARA STATE Nirgua

BARQUISIMETO

El Tocuyo

Ayamán-Turero Organization Afroyaracuyan Movement 0 10 20 30 40 100 Km

Figure 1 Study Area Map

Permanent Commission of Indigenous Peoples of the National Assembly officially recognized the Ayamán people in the Organic Law of Indigenous Peoples (LOPCI).

Moreover, in 2007 about twenty members received an identification card (cédula de identidad) recognizing them both as Venezuelans and as Ayamán citizens. Yet, they have been relatively unsuccessful in securing other and perhaps more tangible „State‟ resources, such as access to land and credit.

Many members, for instance, have expressed the need to have more land for agricultural production, since most families have less than 2 hectares. In turn, most male members must work as wage laborers in nearby cattle ranches or travel twice a year to work in corn or sesame plantations in order to ensure their material reproduction.

In spite of these structural limitations and pressures, the majority of Ayamán families have not mobilized in order to access land. Moreover, most Ayamans do not participate in land committees or agricultural cooperatives in order to occupy idle State lands which are close by. Instead, they have focused on developing strategies for obtaining cultural resources and political visibility by requesting financial support to local State institutions for the Tura rituals. An important question thus is why Ayamans make little use of the State‟s multicultural legal system in order to access material resources? Why do Ayaman people not mobilize in order to access to land? Why do they rather seek symbolic and cultural capital, even when land is considered a crucial asset for guaranteeing the material and cultural reproduction of most households?

On the other hand, the Afroyaracuyan movement is composed of 25 active members who mainly dwell in the communities of Farriar, Agua Negra and Palmarejo, of 31

the Veroes Municipality, Yaracuy state. The movement was formed in 2001 and is linked to the National Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations (ROA). Movement members are involved in numerous activities involving support for State educational programs, political parties, and cultural and musical performances. They also operate a radio station that promotes afrodescendant music and historical programs in nearby communities.

Many members of the Afroyaracuyan movement are involved in land cooperatives, which have been able to recover about 11,000 hectares of communal lands since 2001.8 These activists have developed a wide range of discursive and embodied strategies to negotiate access to land and State credit. They have used the legal system to make both cultural and land petitions before national, regional and local State institutions.

A relevant question is how this organization has managed to effectively negotiate resources with the Venezuelan multicultural State, in spite of the legal marginality of afrodescendant peoples.

As I will show in this comparative ethnographic study, the mobilizing frames and strategic actions of both afrodescendant and indigenous peoples are significantly different. Their capacity to negotiate with the State is not given necessarily by the multicultural legal frameworks or “political-legal opportunities” offered by the

Bolivarian State. I rather propose that each organization is shaped by multilayered

“mobilizing habitii,” producing different forms of engagement with the Venezuelan State.

8 These lands were granted as communal property in 1925 by President Juan Vicente Gómez to the afrodescendant population of Agua Negra, Palmarejo and Farriar. From the 1950s on, Portuguese, Spanish and Cuban immigrants made illegal purchases of the lands in order to establish sugar cane and banana plantations (see Chapter 3). 32

My comparative approach seeks to explore the complex relationships existing among indigenous and afrodescendant peoples - which have been critically overlooked in

Venezuelan anthropological studies (Wade 1995, 1997; Pineda 2001; Whitten 2003;

French 2004). With the exception of García and Quintero (1999) few studies have examined how Venezuelan ethno-racial social movements interrelate, build alliances, or compete in order to accede to State resources.

This study also highlights the overlooked ethno-racial and political dimensions of rural peoples in northwestern Venezuela by paying attention to their ethnic-based forms of mobilization. Rural populations in northwestern Venezuela have been represented as race-less peasants (e.g. Powell 1971; Roseberry 1980, 1989; Yarrington 1997).

Venezuelan ideologies of racial democracy and mestizaje (ethno-racial intermixing) have contributed to the invisibility of afrodescendant and indigenous populations located in this region (Wright 1990; Pérez y Perozo 2003). For instance, before 1999, the

Venezuelan State considered Ayamán indigenous peoples almost “inexistent” or fully

“assimilated.” In fact, the states of Lara and Falcón are not listed in the indigenous national census of 1992 and 2001. On the other hand, most afrodescendant peoples in the state of Yaracuy are still recognized by national institutions as peasants or farmers.

In sum, this dissertation aims to examine the overlooked ethno-racial dimensions of these populations, as they mobilize in order to negotiate redistribution and recognition from the Bolivarian multicultural State. My comparative approach seeks to shed light on how multiculturalism shapes the mutually constituted relationships between social movements and the State. By specifically comparing movement‟s mobilizing habitii, 33

“collective actions frames,” and strategic actions I seek to explore how class and ethnic dimensions are articulated and mobilized in discourse and action.

Dissertation outline

Chapter one presents an overview on theories of multiculturalism and the relationship between social movements and the State. I examine the concepts of collective action frames, strategic action, and mobilizing habitii. I also discuss the situation of contemporary indigenous and afrodescendant social movements in Latin

America, in order to compare and analyze the diversity, reaches, scales, limitations, and impact of ethno-racial organizations in Venezuela.

Chapters two and three, present a historical-ethnographic contextualization of the communities of Moroturo and Farriar-Palmarejo-Agua Negra respectively. I examine how Ayamán and Afroyaracuyan peoples have engaged with colonial and post-colonial

States. I explore how they historically produced and transformed particular “mobilizing habitii” shaping their different negotiating capacities with the local, regional and national

State.

Chapter four addresses the discursive and legal practices of the Venezuelan State regarding indigenous multiculturalism. I underscore the diverse legal reforms addressing indigenous multicultural rights in Venezuela between 1999 and 2009. I underline the ideological multiplicity shaping the multicultural Bolivarian project, in particular its notions on indo-American socialism, anti-imperialism, historical debt, and indigenismo. I 34

also explore some of the institutionalization processes experienced by the contemporary national indigenous movement.

Chapter five examines the processes of legal exclusion and inclusion of afrodescendant peoples in the multicultural State of Venezuela. I probe the forms in which contemporary afrodescendant peoples have framed legal demands and placed them before the Bolivarian State. I also discuss the creation of institutional spaces for afrodescendant peoples within this new multicultural order. Finally, I explore the institutionalization process and the gradual fragmentation of the national afrodescendant movement.

Chapters six analyzes the framing and strategic actions of the Ayamán-turero organization of Moroturo, Lara State. I examine how this indigenous organization has been shaped by the multicultural Venezuelan State. I describe the structure of the organization and the roles and settings of its members. I show how ritualization and ethnicization processes are intertwined in Ayamán negotiating practices with the State and with local powers. Overall, I explain how the Ayamán organization performs collective frames and actions for pursuing State recognition, redistribution of resources, and political autonomy.

Chapter seven underscores the framing processes and strategic actions of the

Afroyaracuyan movement in Veroes, Yaracuy state. I explore the formation of the organizations that make up this movement. The specific strategies of the movement are analyzed, in order to appreciate how activists construct negotiating spaces with the

Venezuelan local, regional and national State. I draw attention to the everyday 35

articulations of this movement with other social organizations and political parties in the region. I highlight the ongoing processes of ethnicization and territorialization that take place among ethno-racial and land organizations in Veroes.

Chapter eight compares the structures, mobilizing frames and strategic actions of both the Ayaman-turero organization and the Afroyaracuyan movement. I assess how each of the movements negotiates in different ways with the Venezuelan multiculturalist

State, as they seek recognition and redistribution of symbolic and material resources.

Finally, the conclusion presents some general remarks on what ethno-racial social movements can achieve in a State that has embraced for the first time multicultural legislations and anti-neoliberal policies. I discuss how does legal recognition impact social movement‟s capacity to access to State resources.

CHAPTER 1. THEORETICAL FRAMEWORK

In this Chapter, I situate my theoretical approach on multiculturalism as related to the recognition and redistribution debate. I review current deliberations on the relationship between multiculturalism and neoliberalism in Latin America. Furthermore, I examine the literature on the relationship between social movements and the State. I discuss my understanding of collective framing processes, strategic actions, and mobilizing habitii in order to advance ways of examining how movements shape their orientations as they negotiate with nation-states. Subsequently, I provide a brief overview on the situation of contemporary indigenous and afrodescendant social movements in

Latin America, in order to compare and analyze the diversity, reaches, scales, limitations and impact of these ethno-racial forms of mobilization. Finally, I present some methodological considerations orienting the findings of this study.

Multiculturalism: recognition or redistribution?

Everyone is agreed that the development of multicultural perspectives coincides in time with the imposition of neoliberal policies, roughly from the 1980s on. But there are differences over the relationship between these two phenomena. Some see multiculturalism as an intrinsic element of neoliberalism. Others see multiculturalism as a defensive strategy in the face of neoliberal reforms. And, as we will see yet others suggest that the evidence available from the Latin American experience indicates that 37

there is no simple correlation between the advances of neoliberalism and the strength of multiculturalism and that there are other variables that need to be taken into account.

The main theoretical proponents of multiculturalism argue that liberal democracies require the recognition of the multiple cultures that make up these polities in order to ensure the “real” freedom of their subjects and the “full” exercise of their individual and group rights (Taylor 1994; Parekh 1995, 2000; Kymlicka 1989, 1995,

1997).

Charles Taylor‟s works on “the politics of recognition” developed one of the most emblematic and well known theories on multiculturalism. He argued that cultural communities require the protection of the State since they constitute their member‟s source of identity (Taylor 1994). A key argument of Taylor‟s proposal is that demands for recognition suppose a connection between recognition and identity. In this sense, he suggests, “…identity is partly shaped by recognition or its absence, often by the recognition of others” (Taylor 1994:98). In his view, misrecognition or non-recognition can cause real damage and harm and represent a form of oppression. In this regard he states that “…misrecognition shows not just a lack of due respect. It can inflict a grievous wound, saddling its victims, with crippling self-hatred” (Taylor 1994:98-99).

Taylor has been widely criticized for his primordialist view that emphasizes the concept of authenticity. His model presumes that “all members relate to a collectivity in the same way” and that there is an existing degree of cultural cohesiveness that must be preserved (Tempelman 1999:22). Tempelman wants to know who defines these frameworks, calling attention to the diversity existing within cultural communities. She 38

states that the recognition of a particular collectivity limits in turn the cultural options of individuals to shape their own identities.

Gerd Baumann also critiques Taylor‟s work arguing that it reduces multiculturalism to the politics of recognition, and thus becomes a moral issue that has implicit “the presumption of equal value…” (1999: 111). He suggests that Taylor assumes that all minorities demand the same type of recognition. Instead, Baumann argues that minorities differ in their philosophies, ideologies and political aspirations. This point will be developed later when I compare the recognition projects of indigenous and afrodescendant peoples in Venezuela.

Furthermore, Baumann argues that elites tend to impose their own visions of multiculturalism and culture. He shows for instance how nationalists claim to speak for

“the common people” and how their ideologies evoke blood bonds and soil tropes. These strategies are grounded in notions of sovereignty and national citizenship, and thus freeze and harden cultural identifications (Baumann 1999:113). In light of these critiques,

Taylor‟s concept of multiculturalism appears as bounded, ideologizing and hermetic. This dissertation aims to show how facets of this primordialist liberal approach have shaped

Venezuelan Bolivarian multiculturalism, by re-essentializing indigenous peoples and excluding afrodescendant peoples and other minority groups.

Another theory on multiculturalism, developed by Bhikhu Parekh (1995, 2000), argues that multiculturalism is not only about difference but also about people who sustain their culture. He suggests that culturally derived differences are structured by

“being embedded in a shared and historically inherited system of meaning and 39

significance” (Parekh 2000:3). In consequence, he stresses the importance of moving beyond the mere preservation of cultures. From his point of view, there is no need to define cultures as unworthy or worthy cultures. Instead, he calls for coming to terms with the degrees of “coherence” in cultural traditions and institutions, and asks which practices or values of social interactions may or may not be offensive. His non-essentialist approach maintains that community identities are not fixed; instead, they are complex clusters of tendencies that pull in different directions, which may be weighted and developed in multiple ways (Parekh 1995). For him, identities are not substances; they are rather subject to debate among community members, as well as being challenged by outsiders.

Parekh also argues that liberal States should not define a priori which cultural practices should be preserved. For him, recognition should be based on an inter- communication across boundaries; as a result, toleration is not a given, but an ongoing process. For Parekh, the limits of diversity and pluralism are defined by an open dialogue between minorities and majority communities over disputed practices. In his view, the boundaries of this debate are finally framed by the public culture in general.

This “civic” approach recognizes the internal diversity within cultural communities and highlights the possibilities of communication across cultures. Yet, as

Tempelman (1999) points out, this view is incapable of dealing with communities which are not willing to communicate or engage in civic dialogues, such as separatist or nationalist groups. Moreover, since not everything is open to dialogue, this civic approach may not be able to come to term with extremists. As I will show in the case of 40

Venezuela, this dialogical approach has limitations for explaining struggles involving indigenous peoples‟ land rights, since some State nationalist factions consider these demands as non-negotiable threats to the integrity of the nation and its territory.

Will Kymlicka (1989, 1995, 1997), another multicultural theorist, insists that group rights and the precepts of “political liberalism” are compatible. He argues that liberal societies must protect minority communities, since they represent the necessary condition for guaranteeing the autonomy of their individual members. In Liberalisms,

Community and Culture, Kymlicka argues that individual autonomy is based on the capacity of each individual to “choose” his own idea of the good life (1989:165). This particular form of autonomy depends on the freedom of each individual to create and reflect upon his or her life plans. The author moves beyond the classical individualistic perspectives by proposing that these conditions of individual autonomy and freedom may only be achieved through membership in a cultural community.

This universalist approach has been criticized since it suggests that cultures must be protected only in order to ensure that individuals may preserve their capacity to examine their options and make decisions in meaningful ways. In this sense, what must be protected is the individual moral person, independently of his (or her) ethnic, racial, or cultural references. Kymlicka has also been questioned for his uncritical alignment with the authority of the liberal State, which is depicted as an impartial arbiter which determines when a group requires external or internal protections (Hale 2002).

All of the abovementioned proposals on multiculturalism tend to naturalize the liberal State and its basic conceptions by conceiving of individuals as the legitimate 41

bearers of all basic rights (Collier et al. 1997). They have also been critiqued on account of their limited focus on nation-states, which are seen as super-tribal entities defining and coordinating the goals of each culture-group (Baumann 1999:99). From this perspective, multicultural regimes seem to be inexorably identified with national ideologies.

Other critiques argue that multiculturalism and the politics of recognition tend to dismiss issues of redistribution and contribute to the erosion of the welfare state (Gitlin

1995; Barry 2002; Fraser 2000, 2003; Arneil and MacDonald 2010). Some critics suggest that multicultural policies divert time, resources and efforts away from redistribution projects (Gitlin 1995:126; Fraser 2000). Others argue that multiculturalism tends to have a “corroding effect” on the sense of common identity, belonging, solidarity and trust among citizens. These critics also believe that the “politics of grievances” which involves the recognition of historical discrimination and injustice, also fosters distrust between different groups, thus preventing the effective formation of cross-ethnic coalitions seeking to pursue common goals of social justice (Gitlin 1995).

Other critical views on multiculturalism argue that it tends to misrepresent the real causes of social inequality. Barry (2002) and Hooker (2009) suggest that the emphasis on cultural differences serves to displace any focus on race. Others allege that an emphasis on ethnic differences is a way for avoiding the problem of class, weakening the formation of pan-ethnic alliances seeking for housing, education, employment, and other basic needs (Fraser 2000). In sum, these critiques tend to argue that groups‟ identities and cultural recognition supplant class interests and notions of exploitation. From this viewpoint, recognition tends to obscure struggles over redistribution and structural 42

change, as well as the search for social justice. Nancy Fraser (2000, 2003), in this regard, suggests that there is an ideological tension between a “socialist imaginary” that is based on the concepts of redistribution and social interests and the emergence of a “new political imaginary” focused on notions of recognition, difference, identity and cultural representation.

Fraser proposes the need to develop a critical theory of “recognition” that aims at identifying and sustaining versions of cultural politics that can be cogently articulated with a social politics of equality. She argues that justice requires both redistribution and recognition (2003). In this sense, she asks a key question for this study; under what conditions can a politics of recognition help support a politics of redistribution? In other words, can multiculturalism favor social justice and access to material resources?

Banting and Kymlicka (2006), suggests that multiculturalism does not necessarily involve less redistribution. They argue that the welfare State has experienced independent processes of erosion. In fact they assert that there is no data proving a clear correlation between multicultural policies and the restructuring of the welfare State. For instance, they suggest that countries such as Canada have simultaneously embraced strong multicultural polices and resisted the retrenchment of the welfare state. They contend that, before the implementation of multicultural policies, people had already abandoned struggles for economic equality (2006:14). They also respond to the argument on

“misrecognition” suggesting that groups confront injustice in different ways. Thus, some privilege ethnicity, while others focus on class and race inequalities. In sum, they categorically argue that multiculturalism does not seek to replace class with cultural 43

differences (Banting and Kymlicka 2006:19). Yet, as stated by Arneil and Mc Donald

(2010), the fact that multiculturalism does not undermine the welfare State does not mean that they are not related. In other words, attention must be paid to how multiculturalism overlaps historically with processes of neoliberalization, privatization and State retraction.

Grounded on the above mentioned critiques and questions, this study seeks to analyze the effects of multicultural policies on processes of ethno-racial mobilization. In the case of Latin America, there is a complex scenario of multiple forms of neoliberalisms, anti-neoliberalisms, and neo-socialisms, which have adopted or promoted multicultural regimes. This study proposes to examine the limits and reaches of multiculturalism and its particular characteristics in the current, evidently fluid, political conjuncture in Venezuela. Following John Nagle (2009), I intend to move beyond moral judgments on State-sponsored multiculturalism. Instead, from an ethnographic perspective I explore some of the unanticipated, ambivalent and ambiguous consequences of multiculturalism in the everyday experiences of actors in social movements.

As mentioned earlier, since 1999, a new set of multicultural discourses and policies have emerged in Venezuela explicitly related to the government‟s Bolivarian project, but questions remain. What is the nature of this new form of multiculturalism? In what ways has Bolivarian multiculturalism been co-constructed, circulated, and embraced by social movements? What are the discursive and material implications of Venezuelan

Bolivarian multiculturalism? Chapters 3 and 4 of this dissertation explore these questions, by focusing on the negotiations of the national indigenous and afrodescendant 44

movements with the Venezuelan State. However, before addressing these questions it is important to examine how multicultural regimes have been adopted by States embracing neoliberal policies in Latin America.

Latin America’s neoliberal multiculturalism and social mobilization

Multiculturalism in Latin America has been implemented as a State policy many nation-states. In the last decades, twelve Latin American countries have recognized constitutional rights for indigenous peoples, while only three countries (Brazil, Colombia, and Ecuador) have acknowledged rights for afrodescendant populations (Van Cott 2006;

Hooker 2008).

Many scholars have critically examined the relationship between multiculturalism and neoliberalism, and the extent to which redistribution is achieved under this particular configuration (Hale 2002, 2005; Speed 2005; Van Cott 2006). Some have explored how social movements have been impacted by multicultural neo-liberal policies (Díaz-

Polanco 1997; Álvarez et al. 1998; Assies 2000; Jackson and Warren 2002; Sieder 2002;

Hale 2002, 2005; Speed 2005; Postero 2005). These authors argue that multicultural neoliberal reforms in fact favor the demobilization, fragmentation and domestication of indigenous social movements, as more radical organizations are marginalized, and distinctions between recognized and unrecognized peoples are reinforced (Hale 2002,

2005; Postero 2005; Almeida 2005; Engle 2010).

Charles Hale (2002, 2005) suggests that neoliberal multiculturalism is a cultural project that defines the spaces and the language of contention of cultural rights, “… 45

stating which rights are legitimate, and what forms of political action are appropriate for achieving them; and even, weighing in on basic questions of what it means to be indigenous” (2002:490). He argues that facets of neoliberal multiculturalism have been implemented in Guatemala and in other Central American countries “as long as it does not go too far” (2002:490). He further contends that multicultural discourses are used by political actors to “affirm cultural difference,” while recognizing cultural rights only to the extent that they are consistent with the ideal of liberal democratic pluralism. From this perspective, those who question or challenge these liberal rights are ostracized as radicals, intolerant or extremist (2002:491). In sum, for Hale (2002) neoliberal multiculturalism has the power to restructure the arena of political contention driving a wedge between cultural rights and the assertion of the control over resources necessary for those rights to be realized. He indicates for example, that indigenous organizations may achieve cultural rights, but may find themselves trapped in unequal negotiations for resources and political power.

Moreover, other scholars suggest that State multiculturalism also shapes indigenous and afrodescendant subjectivities according to neoliberal precepts of individuality and self-regulation (Postero 2005; Speed 2005). Furthermore, multicultural rights also remain ambiguous and have significant problems for their actual implementation (Assies 2000). In other words, they tend to become a regulatory discursive regime, reproducing older power structures that do not ensure social rights.

In this sense, Speed (2005) also argues that the recognition of indigenous rights can be seen as part of the so-called “process of democratization” and as a requisite to 46

participate in the neoliberal project. For instance, in Mexico multiculturalism is conceived as a crucial step in order to achieve social equality and ensure democratization.

In this regard she poses the following questions: “Is multiculturalism fundamentally compromised in its relationship to neoliberalism? Can it, or should it, be a discourse of struggle, and a goal of collective action, and if so, under what conditions?” (Speed

2005:34).

Engle (2010) also suggests that multicultural policies in Latin America have tended to displace issues related to structural distributional inequalities. She indicates that indigenous and afrodescendant movements have “largely displaced or deferred the very issues that initially motivated much of the advocacy: issues on economic dependency, structural discrimination, and lack of indigenous autonomy” (Engle 2010:2). She alleges that increased cultural rights sometimes lead to decreased opportunities for autonomy and development. However, she also argues that, in some cases, indigenous and afrodescendant movements can pursue redistributive goals while simultaneously claiming rights to culture. In their most radical forms, as in some experiences in Colombia, cultural rights pursued by afrodescendant and indigenous movements can seek to articulate heritage, land and economic development as inseparable goals (Engle 2010:8).

Moreover, Hooker (2009) argues that demands to end racism and existing racial hierarchies also become overlooked or dismissed under the aegis of multicultural regimes, whether neoliberal or socialist-oriented. She indicates that the establishment of multicultural policies does not imply a direct challenge to the racialized characteristics of the State. She suggests that in Nicaragua, multiculturalism involved “a kind of superficial 47

recognition,” not addressing the complex dynamics of racial hierarchies based on the supremacy of mestizo ideologies. This author asserts that the Nicaraguan State adopted a multicultural framework, in order to undermine the alliance of the Miskitous and costeños with counterrevolutionary forces supported by the US. (Hooker 2009:158).

From the abovementioned perspectives, ethno-racial movements seem to be more vulnerable to being co-opted by State multicultural regimes, as they tend to focus on cultural rights and de-emphasize structural demands for social equality and resource distribution and against racism.

However Van Cott (2006) has categorically challenged these critical views on neoliberal multiculturalism. She argues that multicultural and structural adjustment policies are not correlated across Latin America. For instance she suggests that countries implementing intense structural adjustment reforms (like Argentina, Chile and Perú) have embraced modest multicultural policies. On the other hand, Ecuador and Venezuela, which have sought to erode neoliberal policies, have the most ambitious multicultural legal frameworks in Latin America (Van Cott 2006:281). She argues that these countries have embraced a new form of “populist multiculturalism” as they have sought to confront neoliberal reforms and experienced significant political and economic instability (Van

Cott 2006:295). In contrast, “neoliberal multiculturalism” does emerge in Central

America, particularly in Guatemala, Nicaragua and Mexico, where constitutional rights for indigenous peoples have been recognized as the result of military pressures from indigenous factions. In these aforementioned countries neoliberal elites are particularly strong and unified (Van Cott 2006:293). 48

Overall, Van Cott (2006) argues that the available data does not support the thesis that multicultural reforms have demobilized or deflected radical demands. She proposes that multiculturalism has in fact promoted the advance and participation of indigenous movements in Latin America. She even suggests that after multicultural policies have been implemented indigenous social movements have significantly challenged and blocked neoliberal policies, opposed free trade agreements, and confronted foreign corporations. From this view point, multicultural reforms are not seen as limiting social mobilization “but as a foothold” allowing for the creation of new spaces for the negotiation and articulation of transformative demands (Van Cott 2006:285,294).

These contrasting interpretations on the effects of multiculturalism are also linked to the debate on the relationship between class and ethnicity in Latin America (Wade

1997; Díaz-Polanco 2005). Since the 1990s, several scholars have pointed out the process of ethnicization of peasant or class-based organizations (Restrepo 2004), as well as processes of class differentiation taking place among indigenous peoples (Postero and

Zamosc 2006:14). For instance, peasant organizations that formerly focused on struggling for land in Mexico are now self-identifying as indigenous, as they pursue ethnic goals. In this regard, Dietz (2006) argues that the re-indianization of peasant organizations has been shaped by the process of privatizing land, the crisis of the corporatist agrarian regime, the monetarization of subsistence-oriented economic units, and the marginalization of indigenous communities by rural State development agencies. In response to these processes, and as a result of the failure of agrarista and indigenista 49

policies, new movements have emerged, now seeking ethnic recognition and cultural rights.

Left-wing scholars have questioned this shift toward identity politics, since it tends to support the interests of specific groups and thus prejudices universalistic projects in favor of social justice. Yet in spite of these changes in goals and orientations, Peter

Wade suggests that the contemporary debate should not focus on the primacy of class versus race/ethnicity, or vice versa, but on how these dimensions intersect with each other and with other domains of difference (Wade 1997:99). In fact, most indigenous movements in Latin America cannot be defined as simply resource or culturally- ethnically focused. Instead, social movements tend to generate hybrid strategies and discourses mixing and articulating ethnic, racial, class and gender demands. For instance, in Peru indigenous organizations simultaneously mobilize for accessing mines and controlling education (García and Lucero 2006). In Colombia as well, indigenous and afrodescendant movements have been able to simultaneously articulate territorial, cultural and economic demands (Wade 1997; Gow and Rappaport 2002; Dixon 2008; Engle

2010).

In light of the abovementioned debates and antagonistic visions, this dissertation seeks to analyze the effects of multicultural policies within contemporary Bolivarian

Venezuela. What can ethno-racial social movements achieve in the Venezuelan revolutionary milieu? Can they access material resources and political participation as they achieve cultural rights? How do movements‟ members articulate and reconcile ethnic and class-based discourses as they mobilize? I examine these questions by 50

focusing on the mutually constituted relationship between social movements and the

Venezuelan State. In the following section I will present some general considerations on this topic.

Social Movements and the State

Contrary to the view that considers social movements as autonomous struggles within civil society (Melluci 1985), this study conceives movements as emerging in processes of negotiation and appropriation with the State (Foweraker 1995; Jenkins and

Klandermans 1995; Tarrow 1998; Harvey 1999; Della Porta and Diani 1999; Edelman

2001; Luders 2003; Goldstone 2003; Hale 2005; Speed and Sierra 2005; Petras and

Veltmeyer 2005; Johnston 2011). In other words, the State remains as one of the main actors in processes of mobilization, in spite of globalization and the formation of international networks (Della Porta and Diani 1999). In fact, most social movements seek to have the power to influence State policy through mass mobilizations, protests, electoral politics, and direct engagement with State institutions. Thus, as movements pursue new relationships with States and formal politics, they get involved in the “reworking of power relations” (Stahler-Sholk et al. 2008:2)

Social movements have been linked to various efforts to democratize the State, and to reshape its relationship to civil society. Yet most studies tend to highlight a distinction between movement politics and institutionalized politics (Goldstone 2003). In other words, movements have been seen as outsiders or extra-institutional groups independent of the State. Some recent studies focus on how social movements are in fact 51

essential actors of “normal politics.” In this regard, Goldstone argues that “… state institutions and parties are interpenetrated by social movements, often developing out of movements, in response to movements, or in close associations with movements”

(Goldstone 2003:2). Social movements in fact shape the very formation of parties, electoral processes, legislatures and courts in many countries (Van Cott 2005; Yashar

2005).

In Latin America, social movements have usually been seen as popular struggles located outside despotic or imperial political cores (Laclau and Mouffe 1985). Others have argued that they were the product of a breakdown of the State‟s monopoly over administrative, coercive and military institutions (Stockpol 1979). Some authors even suggested that there were no real social movements in Latin America, as the State had a greater degree of intervention and control than elsewhere. These views were strongly contested in the 1990s by Foweraker, who indicated that the decline of import substitution industrialization and the emergence of military and populist regimes, shaped in different ways the formation and trajectories of social movements in Latin America

(Foweraker 1995:34).

In more recent times, Petras and Veltmeyer have suggested that in Latin America

“All of the social movements, from the least to the most consequential and dynamic, are engaged in struggle for state power” (2005:3). Warren and Jackson (2002:12), as well, indicate that in spite of the transnational dimensions of many movements “the state remains a crucial focus of indigenous activism because state politics continues to mediate the impact of global political and economic change on local communities” (Warren and 52

Jackson 2002:12). While not all movements seek control of State power, many have managed to influence processes of government destabilization, as in the recent cases of

Argentina, Bolivia and Ecuador (Becker 2008; Vanden 2008). In sum, it is clear that social movements in Latin America are playing out their struggles at the level of the nation-state (Edelman 1999; Postero and Zamosc 2006:3).

However, the study of social movements clearly shows the need to question the conceptualization of the State as monolithic. It is important to consider that the State‟s interaction with social movements varies across its different levels of centralization

(Tarrow 1998). For instance, different decentralized agencies such as municipalities or local and regional State development agencies (which have their own political practices) interact in diverse forms and levels of intensity with social movements. I am particularly interested in understanding the different ways in which social movements construct diverse negotiating spaces with the Venezuelan State, as they aim to protect and ensure the social and economic reproduction of their members, their political participation, and their cultural and ethnic recognition.

Moreover an examination of the relationship between the State and social movements must also explore the effects of institutionalization. This process used to be considered the natural fate of all social movement organizations. It was seen as the final stage of movements as they gradually became organic parts of society (Della Porta and

Diani 1999). This process was also conceived as the result of competition between movement groups and organizations, as some factions engaged in conventional politics 53

while others rejected working within the existing institutional framework (Tarrow 1998;

Della Porta and Diani 1999).

Yet today institutionalization is also seen as a key strategy of nation-states, seeking to amplify differences within movements, fostering their pacification and moderation, while marginalizing and demobilizing more radical organizations

(Koopmans 2004). From this perspective institutionalization and radicalization contribute to the declining phase of cycles of protests, as the State reacts to social movements with progressive concessions and co-option. Koopmans specifically argues that institutionalization tends to predominate in political systems providing diverse opportunities and institutionalized channels for social movements, and where authorities contemplate concessions and accommodation (2004:29).

However, some authors argue for not conceiving institutionalization as a dead end for social movements. Institutional settings can also serve as spaces for

“micromobilization” (Foweraker 1995). In other words, institutions also provide motives for insurgency, while at the same time giving social movements economic, ideological, and organizational resources for engaging in processes of mobilization. In this regard,

Launsbury suggests understanding institutionalization as a complex process by which social movements become embedded in diverse overlapping institutions that allow struggles for change to continue, although in less dramatic or overt ways (2005:94). He thus suggests focusing on the fracture lines of institutions, in order to understand the possibilities of perspectives for ongoing change within these structures. This approach is particularly useful for analyzing social mobilization in Venezuela, as ethno-racial 54

organizations have different degrees and forms of embedding within State institutions. I will show for instance how both the indigenous and afrodescendant movements have sought for institutionalization within the Venezuelan State, and how in turn this process has created fractures, divisions and tensions within and between their organizations, while at the same time it has offered the possibility of new forms of participation, visibility and access to resources.

The mobilizing habitii of social movements

I propose exploring the historical relationship between social movements and the

State by focusing on the concept of “mobilizing habitii.” Bourdieu`s theory of habitus has tended to be dismissed by social movement scholars since it mainly addresses problems of reproduction and determination, and has no pretentions of accounting for situational contingencies, improvisation, invention and creativity (Frère 2011:247). In other words, the concept of habitus has been more productive in explaining the inertia of social structures and the persistence of traditions. In turn, habitus seems to be a limited concept for addressing social change and abrupt shifts in behavior (Salman and Assies

2010:234). Moreover this concept has been widely criticized for being too global and homogenizing, and for overlooking differentiation beyond class distinctions.

However, some scholars have sought to transcend these theoretical limitations of the concept of habitus, in order to adapt it to the study of social movements (Eyerman and Jamison 1998; Salman and Assies 2010; Frère 2011). Relying on the studies of

Corcuff and Lahire, Frère proposes a dynamic concept of habitus. He adopts the notion 55

of “plural actor,” that conceives of agents as capable of both inventing situations and inventing themselves in different contexts (2011:251). From this view point, individuals do not transfer or reproduce their dispositional structures. Instead, “…they carry a plurality of dispositions – corresponding to a plurality of social contexts – within themselves” (Frère 2011:254). In other words, actors have a variety of adapted dispositions, habitual practices and abilities that are not unified or homogenous. This is precisely the vision that I will adopt in order to examine the range and variation of strategies embraced by the Ayamán and the Afroyaracuayan movement. I argue that some strategies emerge from the historical multilayered “mobilizing habitii” of social organizations and their members, while other strategies instead are adopted from other movements, local intellectuals, the media, political parties, and State institutions.

Thus I follow Frère‟s definition of the habitus as “…both an internalized social unconscious and a cradle of creative imagination” (2011:264). He believes that social movements are in fact shaped by the creative processes of a “militant habitus.” For instance he argues that different organizations can develop a shared militant habitus, as they engage in international meetings or forums. Yet, at the same time each member has his/her own militant dispositions embedded in its life course history.

In a similar manner, Salman and Assies (2010) suggest that the concept of habitus, in spite of its limitations, can help us reveal the “more profound strata of group and class culture” shaping social movements‟ performances. They call for examining the

“multistratified” or “multilayered” embodiment of the habitus marked by gender, region, and religion, etc. among others. They call for paying attention to actor‟s dispositions, 56

actions and reactions, which range from ideologies to everyday strategies of interaction.

In their view, the habitus of social movements are shaped by memories of conflict, crisis of daily routines, the conquest of new spaces and “homemaking patterns of daily exchange, routine, and “practical sense” (Salman and Assies 2010:235).

Eyerman and Jamison‟s (1998) work on the role of music within social movements also shows how the “habitus in action” emerges in meetings, demonstrations and in performances of songs, speeches and slogans. They argue that movements can have a “habitus of rebellion” that serves to shape collective identities and to incorporate new generations in traditions of protest. In their view, this particular habitus can be embodied in ritualized practices, defining their “preferences and tastes and linking generations.” (1998:28).

In light of the aforementioned contributions, I propose to use the concept of

“mobilizing habitii” in order to interpret the historical formation, reproduction and transformation of a movement‟s strategies. I take this concept from Bourdieu‟s passage stating that “… Even when they look like the realization of explicit ends, the strategies produced by the habitus and enabling agents to cope with unforeseen and constantly changing situations are only apparently determined by the future” … “ they are determined by the past conditions of production of their principle of production, that is, by the already realized outcome of identical or interchangeable past practices” (1990:61).

In this sense, I define the “mobilizing habitii” as a multistratified set of dispositions and schemes of perceptions orienting the “system of strategies” adopted by social actors during processes of mobilization. This particular dynamic habitus is shaped 57

by actor‟s “history of past exchanges and negotiations” with the State, and by the everyday experiences of engagement with allies, State functionaries, intellectuals, media, political parties, among other actors. It is not a set of structured norms shaping mobilizing actions, as resource mobilization theories would argue, nor an unconscious model defining an actor‟s decision-making processes. Following Bourdieu, the mobilizing habitus is the “source of the strings of moves” which is not the product of “strategic intentions” (1990:62). Yet for Bourdieu, the strategies produced by the habitus are mainly oriented towards the maximization of symbolic and material profit. In my view, the system of strategies has instead multiple contextual ends, origins, degrees of internalization, frequency of use and outcomes.

But how can one ethnographically grasp the “mobilizing habitii” of a social organization? In other words, what are the material expressions of the habitii? To this end, I propose focusing on two specific dimensions of social mobilization: a) framing processes (Snow and Benford 1992) and b) the performance of strategic actions (Munck

1990, Ganz 2004). These dimensions allow us to contrast what social actors say and what they do, in order to reconstruct the possible range of strategies adopted by social organizations and their actors. In this dissertation, I examine the “mobilizing habitii” of indigenous and afrodescendant movements by exploring how they produce, circulate, and transform frames and strategic actions as they engage in struggles and negotiations with the new multicultural Venezuelan State. In the subsequent section, I present a more detailed discussion on the concepts of mobilizing frames and strategic action.

Mobilizing frames

The notion of framing, first derived from Goffman (1974), was specifically adapted to the study of collective action by Snow et al. (1986), Snow and Benford (1988,

1992), and Gamson (1992). Framing processes involve the construction and interpretation of events, grievances, blames, recruitment, strategic actions, and the selection of targets and tactics (Gamson 1992; Snow and Benford 1992; Benford and

Snow 2000; Johnston and Noakes 2005; Miethe 2010; Benford 2011). Attention to the dynamic construction of frames allows us to understand how movements produce orientations, meanings, and identities that shape their perception and interpretation of events, activists, targets, and problems.

Snow and Benford proposed that movements “… frame or assign meaning to interpret relevant events and conditions in ways that are intended to mobilize potential adherents” (Snow and Benford 1988:198). Thus, to call for action and motivate participants, movements tend to produce interpretative packages explaining multiple problems in condensed and narrow terms, highlighting their main issues and ignoring others (Johnston and Noakes 2005). In other words, a social movement‟s framing is about locating evocative symbols that can resonate and motivate potential participants to engage in collective action (Vallochi 2005).

Framing processes may generate collective action frames, which are shared interpretations of situations, based on common experiences (Snow and Benford 1988,

1992). Identity markers, values, beliefs, goals, rhetoric and ideological elements compose these frames. Social movement actors have the role of selecting which symbols must be 59

emphasized and then packaged in order to be mobilized and circulated. This is a process of punctuation and encoding of objects, situations, events, experiences or sequences. Yet, frames must also have “resonance,” which means having correspondence with the emotions, identities, and cultural values that people hold about themselves and others

(Snow and Benford 1992). Thus, in order to achieve resonance, there must be significant overlap between the mobilized frames and the identities and cultural milieu of potential participants.

However, studies of collective action frames have been criticized for being relatively static (Goodwin et al. 2001:6). Some argue that the concept of framing has been overused and has trivialized or obscured the role of ideology (Oliver and Johnston

2005:186). In response to these critiques scholars have tended to explore how framing is an ongoing process that continuously changes and evolves over time, and that is not mechanically controlled by a single person or group of activists (Della Porta and Diani

1999; Johnston and Noakes 2005). Some authors call attention to the overlooked role of emotion in shaping the construction of collective frames (Gamson 1992; Goodwin et al

2001; Wood 2001; Gould 2004). Others have warned against using frames and ideology as interchangeable concepts. They argue that a single frame for instance, can be tied to multiple or even conflicting ideologies (Oliver and Johnston 2005:186).

In sum, I proposed to examine the production and circulation of mobilizing frames, in order to capture the discursive dimensions of the “mobilizing habitus” of social actors. In other words, this concept allows us to analyze ideologies of mobilization, and furthermore to contrast “what people say about what they are doing” with “what people 60

actually do.” I am not interested in the specific functions of frames: bridging, prognostic, diagnosis, etc. (Snow and Benford 1992). I rather seek to explore how these discursive strategies organize and produce cultural meanings among participants and organizations, and how in turn this process shapes movements‟ perceptions of their strategic actions. In this dissertation, I will pay specific attention to the production of identity frames during processes of mobilization.

Identity frames

Social movements tend to produce and circulate identity frames in order to create common symbols, negotiate differences and enact strategies. I follow some scholars that have focused on the processes of identification that take place among movement members (Kearney 1998; Warren 1998; Pineda 2001; Pardo 2002; Warren and Jackson

2002; Gow and Rappaport 2002; Rubin 2004; Restrepo 2004; Stephen 2005a; French

2006). These studies suggest that movements require the construction of unified or essentialist identities in order to achieve visibility, secure bargaining power within the

State, and legal recognition. In light of this, ethnicity has been demonstrated to be a form of symbolic capital, and a strategic weapon for movements who lack resources, political leverage, formal institutions or party support. In other words, the process of mobilization always involves the projection of “sameness,” the production and redistribution of cultural capital, and the construction of collective action frames (Snow and Benford

1992; Warren 1998; Kearney 1998; Stephen 2005a). 61

In Chapters 6 and 7, I examine how the Ayamán-turero organization and the

Afroyaracuyan movement produce and circulate master identity frames of self- recognition. “Master” frames tend to be generic, flexible, and inclusive and have significant cultural and emotional resonance among participants. These types of frames are organizing algorithms that evoke powerful cultural symbols and are usually linked to cycles of protest (Snow and Benford 1992; Benford 2011). They also have strong resonance with the historical, cultural and emotional milieu in which they are circulated and embedded. They not only evoke powerful sentiments against injustice (Gamson

1992), but can also mobilize a larger range of emotions such as hope, revenge, suffering, and pride, among others (Goodwin et al. 2001; Wood 2001; Gould 2004).

Moreover, frames of self-identification should not be seen as natural or imposed statements but as “positionings” grounded on social relations and historical practices (Li

2000). In this sense, Jackson and Warren argue that movements use multiple representations of indigenousness rather than the established criteria of self-determination established by law (2005:554). These authors call for moving beyond mere critiques of essentialism, and instead pay attention to the processes of self-definition that take place beyond the identities that are being asserted in specific times and places.

In this dissertation, I examine how Ayamán-turero and Afroyaracuyan activists mobilize identity frames in their negotiations with the Bolivarian State. I argue that some frames are articulated with the mobilizing habitus of these organizations, while others resist their internalization. Moreover, I show how some frames incorporate new ideologies into the dynamic habitus of their organizations, while others remain 62

reproducing their former symbolic and ideological dimensions. I underscore the range of identities that emerge during these processes and the different strategies through which they are enacted. I also show how framing process are key discursive strategies for mobilizing, producing and transforming local ethno-racial, political and territorial identities. However, beyond this discursive realm, I also embrace the concept of strategic action, which I discuss in the following section.

Strategic actions and social mobilization

Social movements usually embrace different strategies for gaining recognition, challenging the established order, or seeking supporters and resources (Munck 1990;

Ganz 2004). In sociology, the concept of strategy has been deconstructed as the product of military discourses and liberal business management ideologies (Knights and Morgan

1990). Resource mobilization studies and rational choice theories have tended to focus on strategic action from a utilitarian perspective. Following Olson, they analyze the strategic calculations of self-interested rational actors (Munck 1995). For this approach, strategic choice not only depends on previous relationships with authorities, or on ideological alignments, it also seeks to mobilize supporters, neutralize or transform elite or mass media, and reframe targets (McCarthy and Zald 2009:196). Nevertheless, this perspective on strategic action is limited since it focuses on individual actors or “rational minds” that mobilize according to the logic of the market (Tarrow 1998).

New studies on strategizing processes attempt to move beyond the individual market-oriented dilemmas of game theory. Instead, strategies are seen as “the creative 63

output of leadership teams” (Ganz 2004:183). Strategizing processes are purposive, distributed and relational phenomena that involve multiple actors seeking different goals

(Munck 1990; Ganz 2004; Goodwin and Jasper 2004; Krinsky and Barker 2009). In this sense, strategic action places social movements in the realm of politics. In other words, social movements are themselves political actors (Munck 1990, 1995).

From this perspective, attention is given to the entire strategic “arena” (Krinsky and Barker 2009) and to “the mutual expectations of different strategic players”

(Goodwin and Jasper 2004:16). Strategic decisions depend on the interactions between social movements and other players (Goodwin and Jasper 2004:28). The State and the protestors are not the only actors; so are the media, bystanders, non-State targets and potential allies. From this position, the study of strategic thinking involves examining timing, choice of tactics, psychological elements of expectations and surprise, and sources of credibility and trust (Goodwin and Jasper 2004:16).

The examination of strategies also allows us to explore the relationship between intentions, actions and outcomes. I take up Ganz‟s (2004) question about why some movements are more likely to develop particular strategies than others. He suggests not focusing on the effectiveness of strategies, but on variations of strategic capacities over time. In his view, strategies must be understood as creative thinking that is usually shaped by the motivation, relevant knowledge and heuristic processes of leadership teams (Ganz

2004:183). Strategies are also forms of cultural learning as they are linked to psychological and emotional dimensions (Goodwin and Jasper 2004). In sum, a strategy 64

“is how we turn what we have into what we need to get what we want. It is how we transform our resources into the power to achieve our purposes” (Ganz 2004:181).

Social movements tend to use flexible repertoires of strategies and tactics during political processes (Tarrow 1998). Some tend to replicate the tactics of older movements while others introduce innovative actions. Some movements adopt the strategic frameworks of transnational organizations and networks. Strategic actions can thus travel between movements, regions, sectors, cities and nations (Della Porta and Diani 1999).

They can be the product of direct contacts between movements or can also be shaped by the mass media.

In this dissertation, I examine how the Ayamán-turero and the Afroyaracuyan movements employ a great variety of flexible and ever-changing strategies in order to achieve their particular goals. Some are produced by the mobilizing habitus of the movement‟s actors, while others have been adopted from other national organizations, local intellectuals, political parties, or State institutions. These strategies have also produced different effects and outcomes, as these organizations engage in negotiations with the State and with other local political forces. Now, in order to have a broader comparative scheme, let us explore some of the general characteristics of ethno-racial social movements in Latin America, focusing on the causes, goals, strategies, and frames of indigenous and afrodescendant organizations.

Contemporary ethno-racial movements in Latin America: indigenous and afrodescendant organizations

Ethno-racial movements have recently emerged throughout Latin America, belying the prejudices of “old Left” movements that only took into account class-based mobilizations (Stahler-Sholk et al. 2008). In spite of their great diversity, indigenous and

Afro-Latino or afrodescendant organizations tend to assert their communal identities, defend their collective rights, and claim territories and social justice. They are also constantly challenging modern definitions of democracy, political participation and citizenship (Yashar 2005; Stahler-Sholk et al. 2008).

The causes and factors shaping the proliferation of ethno-racial social movements in the continent are multiple. Many authors argue that they are not the mere continuation of mass mobilizations and resistance, but a direct response to the rise of neoliberal globalization in the region (Díaz-Polanco 1997; Assies et al. 2000; Álvarez et al. 1998;

Edelman 1999, 2001; Sieder 2002; Warren and Jackson 2002; Hale 2002, 2005; Speed

2005; Postero 2005; Nash 2005; Yashar 2005; Van Cott 2005; Speed and Sierra 2005;

Petras and Veltmeyer 2005; Almeida 2005; Dávalos 2006; Postero and Zamosc 2006;

Stahler-Sholk et al. 2008; Vanden 2008; Fischer 2009). In their view neoliberalism has challenged the livelihoods and autonomy of both indigenous and afrodescendant populations, reinforcing their social, political and cultural exclusion. Now let us explore in more detail some of the goals, frames and strategies of indigenous and afrodescendant movements in the continent, in order to have a general point of comparison for analyzing the Venezuelan ethno-racial movements. 66

Indigenous movements in Latin America

Since the 1990s, diverse indigenous movements have emerged with singular strength in many parts of Latin America. Peoples defining themselves as indigenous are engaging in different “struggles and accommodations” throughout the continent (Warren and Jackson 2002:11). Around these processes of mobilization certain myths have been constructed suggesting that indigenous peoples essentially resist all forms of oppression, or that they all fight for environmental protection or share homogenous agendas of citizenship and self-determination (Postero and Zamosc 2006). However, many scholars have called for examining the great diversity of discourses, goals and strategies that exist among indigenous organizations in Latin America (Warren and Jackson 2002; Gow and

Rappaport 2002; Postero and Zamosc 2006).

As stated earlier, most authors agree that the proliferation of these movements has been linked to neoliberal policies that affected indigenous groups historically excluded from the State. Yashar (2005) sees the emergence of indigenous social movements as the result of three main factors: the need to ensure or expand citizenship regimes, the strength of trans-community networks, and the formation of public spaces for political association. Van Cott (2005) focuses rather on the crisis of traditional political parties and the formation of new political spaces as the main factors explaining the rise of indigenous movements in Latin America.

Baud (2009), on the other hand, argues that the appearance of contemporary indigenous social movements has “deep roots” and are linked to long-term historical processes and relationships between indigenous peoples and “power-holders” (Baud 67

2009:21). He indicates that the question is not so much about how long indigenous social movements have existed in Latin America, but about how they relate to the State.

Dávalos (2005) suggests that several processes converged between the 1970s and the 1990s, shaping the gradual formation of indigenous movements such as: the expansion of Liberation Theology ideologies, the return of democracy, the collapse of the

Soviet bloc, the defeat of the working class, the proliferation of postmodern thinking and the consolidation of US hegemonic power (Dávalos 2005:28). For Fischer (2009), the rise of indigenous social movements should be specifically understood as the product of the debt crisis of the 1980s and the multiple neoliberal reforms implemented during this period (Fischer 2009:3).

Since the abovementioned factors converged differently in distinct regions and nation-states, indigenous movements also emerged expressing great diversity in terms of their scope, membership, goals, collective action frames, strategic actions and reaches.

Postero and Zamosc (2006) suggest that attention must be paid to the specific actions and practices of each movement, in order understand how different groups and factions seek for different things (Postero and Zamosc 2006:4).

In general, indigenous movements demand a great variety of rights, from cultural and legal recognition, territory and autonomy, to political participation and citizenship

(Assies 2000; Warren and Jackson 2002; Postero and Zamosc 2006; Stahler-Sholk et al.

2008). New Pan Indigenous movements have emerged in the continent, celebrating indigeneity. Many of these organizations circulate discourses on ecology and their essentially spiritual relationship with the “mother” land (Warren and Jackson 2002). Evo 68

Morales, has been represented as one of the main leaders of the pan indigenous movement, especially in countries turning to the left, like Bolivia, Venezuela, Ecuador, and Nicaragua. These discourses are permeated by profound critiques of colonialism and western forms of authority, and they seek to rework notions of citizenship and political participation (Almeida 2005; Monsonyi 2007).

Some organizations have sought autonomy and self-determination (Gow and

Rappaport 2002; Díaz-Polanco 2005; Postero and Zamosc 2006; Engle 2010). Since the

1980s, two main indigenous mobilizations marked the emergence of autonomous social movements: 1) the autonomic process of the Atlantic Coast in Nicaragua that started in

1984 and the Zapatista mobilization in Chiapas, México in 1994 (Díaz-Polanco 2005:43).

However, goals of autonomy and self-determination are significantly different. For radical organizations they involve the right to secession and full independence as a nation-state. Others conceive self-determination instead as political and legal autonomy within existing modern States, while yet others envision it as the mere recognition of human rights (Engle 2010:3).

For instance, in Bolivia and Ecuador some indigenous movements have proposed the formation of pluri-nation States. They have been successful in articulating in the national political agenda debates on autonomy, land, territory, culture and citizenship

(Yashar 2005; Hidalgo 2005; Becker 2008). They have also managed to overthrow governments, as they struggle to defend local autonomy (Yashar 2005). In the 1990s in

Ecuador one of the first ethno-racial movements demanding political inclusion and multicultural and pluri-national recognition emerged (Hidalgo 2005:342). CONAIE in 69

particular, has been considered a fundamental actor in promoting inclusive and pluri- ethnic politics in the Andean region (Yashar 2005). This movement obliged the left to modify its proposals and to include ethno-cultural dimensions in their struggles (Hidalgo

2005). Thus, from a grassroots level they managed to achieve direct participation in electoral processes (Hidalgo 2005; Becker 2008). However, some authors suggest the

Ecuadorian indigenous movement has been diluted and co-opted by multiculturalism, as it remains excluded from national level decision-making processes concerning the distribution of economic resources (Almeida 2005:94). As a result, it is argued, contemporary Ecuadorian indigenous movements lack coherent projects for the construction of a pluri-national State, have poor alliances with other excluded-exploited sectors, and have lost their political directionality and critical discourse (Hidalgo

2005:344).

Territorial demands are also one of the most important goals of indigenous movements in Latin America (Plant 2002; Gustafson 2002; Yashar 2005; Dietz 2006;

Postero and Zamosc 2006; Becker 2008; Kent 2008; Rappaport 2009). Since the 1990s, in Guatemala for instance the CONIC (Coordinadora Nacional Indígena y Campesina) managed to articulate mobilizations for recovering land for indigenous and ladino peasants (Brett 2008). Indigenous Federations in Ecuador, from the province of

Chimborazo (highland Quichua) have adopted strategies (in articulation with NGOs) for recovering land and renegotiating market relationships. These indigenous federations represented a new level of territorial administration, as they did not only seek land as a means of production, but also pursued the “administrative control of rural space” 70

(Bebbington 2004:408). The Organization of Indigenous Peoples of Pastaza (from the

Ecuadorian Amazonian Province of Pastaza) and other Amazonian indigenous organizations have also developed projects for controlling and legalizing their territories

(Sawyer 2004; Becker 2008). Struggles over land in this context were closely related to legal agrarian changes, the politics of petroleum, neoliberalization processes and the incursion of multinational corporations (Sawyer 2004).

Indigenous movements in Colombia also have long historical trajectories of struggles for the land through their cabildos (indigenous councils) (Rappaport 1994,

2009; Rathgeber 2006). The Regional Indigenous Council of the Cauca Department

(CRIC) has recovered around 35,000 hectares of land. Amazonian Colombian indigenous organizations also managed to reclaim 18 million hectares, as they sought for local governance and relative autonomy (Rathgeber 2006:112). In turn, in 1991, the Colombian

Constitution recognized the existence of Indigenous Territorial Entities.

In the Bolivian highlands, Aymara and Quecha organizations also have struggled to defend and reconstitute their ayllus by employing the power of land reform laws (Plant

2002). Some organizations, in particular Aymara farmers‟ unions and the lowland indigenous federation (Confederación Indígena de Bolivia), have demanded the acceleration of land reform (Gustafson 2002). In México the Zapatista movement also achieved the recognition of “Pluri-Ethnic Autonomous Regions” and has recovered lands with both legal and armed mobilizations (Harvey 1999; Stephen 2002; Collier and

Quaratiello 2005; Dietz 2005). Even in Argentina, where indigenous populations have 71

been rendered invisible, some organizations have mobilized in order to seek the recognition of their lands (Schwittay 2003).

Many of these indigenous land mobilizations are grounded on previous experiences and alliances with peasant or rural land movements (Becker 2008). However, today most of these indigenous organizations tend to articulate their territorial demands with claims for ethnic recognition, self-determination and political autonomy (Yashar

2005; Postero and Zamosc 2006). Postero and Zamosc (2006) argue that indigenous movements located in States with large indigenous populations tend to not struggle for land or political autonomy since these goals would represent a significant potential threat to the stability of those nations. Instead, most movements have opted for the cultural or political-electoral path in order to achieve their goals. Nevertheless, it is clear that land and territorial rights still represent one of the most important demands of indigenous organizations in Latin America.

Numerous “indigenous rights movements” have also emerged, in most cases shaped by international legal instruments produced by the International Labor

Organization (ILO) and the United Nations (Warren and Jackson 2002; Stephen 2005b;

Engle 2010). Since the 1980s, in more than sixteen countries, indigenous organizations and movements have engaged in law-making processes, resulting in a large “wave” of multicultural constitutional reforms (Yashar 2005; Van Cott 2005; Stephen 2005b). Pan-

Mayan movements in Guatemala sought to participate in the definition of their legal indigenous rights (Warren 1998). In Brazil, the Indian movement, in spite of its marked diversity and fragmentation, managed to participate in the drafting of the 1988 72

Constitution (Warren 2006). Colombian indigenous movements were also actively engaged in the framing process of the 1991 Constitution (Jackson 1996; Rappaport

2009). Even today, the U‟wa coalition of Colombia and organizations of El Cauca continue to use a great diversity of legal strategies in order to defend their indigenous territories (Rodríguez-Garavito and Arenas 2005; Rappaport 2009). Mapuche organizations in Chile have also embraced legal actions in order to seek for autonomy, land recovery, self-determination and constitutional recognition (Castro 2005). In

Mexico, indigenous rights organizations also emerged appropriating legal multicultural instruments, as they sought for alternative juridical mechanisms (Sierra 2005; Speed

2005; Stephen 2005b). In general, indigenous movements in Latin America have been closely linked to the politics of law, as they have actively participated in multiple law- making processes.

Moreover, indigenous movements have also built large national and transnational networks, linking distinct organizations across multiple geographical locations

(Foweraker 1995; Warren 1998, 2003; Yashar 2005; Van Cott 2005; Becker 2008).

These networks take different forms; some are horizontal, vertical, social, political, economic, cultural and/or political. Others are competitive or collaborative, or internal, regional, national and transnational. States, NGOs, churches and local intellectuals also play significant roles in shaping the formation, transformation and continuity of these networks (Tarrow 1998; Diani 2003; Yashar 2005).

In Latin America, transnational advocacy networks (Keck and Sikkink 2000) tend to be linked by common discourses, exchanges of information, shared values and 73

services. Yashar (2005) even argues that without these networks contemporary indigenous movements would not have arisen in regions such as Mexico, Bolivia and

Ecuador. In her view, networks constitute the spaces where indigenous activists and leaders create ties, build leadership skills, and develop trust. The density and extension of organizational networks are also seen as strategic resources shaping for instance, the formation of ethnic parties and the electoral performance of indigenous movements (Van

Cott 2005:42).

From this perspective, hierarchical networks among social movements and organizations serve to ensure political cohesion. In this regard, Fischer adds that the formation of international alliances among indigenous movements has not only created political pressure on nation-states, but has also strengthened “indigenous civil society” in

Latin America (Fischer 2009). Becker (2008), on the other hand, shows how indigenous movements in Ecuador created new alliances with transnational advocacy networks and

NGOs in order to establish sustained relationships with global organizations and thus undermine the need to build coalitions with left-oriented organizations. These networks managed to integrate both ethnic and class dimensions into their struggle (Becker

2008:168). Yet in other countries, Baud (2009) argues, some organizations face problems when seeking to mobilize at national or transnational levels, as they start losing

“dynamism and power base” (Baud 2009:20).

In sum, since the 1990s indigenous movements have become one of the most important political actors of the continent. In many countries such as Ecuador, Bolivia and Mexico they represent the base of prolonged processes of mobilization that have 74

managed to challenge and transform governments and States, political parties, territorial configurations and legal instruments.

In Venezuela, indigenous movements have engaged in multiple negotiations with the State, requesting cultural, territorial, political, economic, religious and social rights

(Mansutti 2000; Van Cott 2002; Giordani and Villalón 2002; Bello 2005; Aguilar and

Bustillos 2006; Guevara 2007). Since 1999 they have achieved full “legal recognition” in the constitution and in many other juridical instruments. They have also gained numerous institutional spaces such as the Permanent Commission of Indigenous Peoples at the

National Assembly, the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples, among others. In Chapter 4, I explore some of the characteristics of the Venezuelan indigenous movement, and how since 1999, it has participated in multiple legal and political interactions with the

Venezuelan nation-state. I further examine how indigenous movements co-constructed with the State and some national intellectuals notions on multicultural indo-socialism. In

Chapter 6, I focus particularly on the Ayamán-turero organization, in order to examine how this indigenous-religious organization has produced new framing processes and strategic actions after the establishment of the Bolivarian multicultural order. In the subsequent section, I will describe the general goals, achievements, strategies and limitations of some afrodescendant movements in Latin America.

Afrodescendant movements in Latin America

Contemporary afrodescendant social movements have also emerged as significant political actors since the 1990s in Colombia, Brazil, Ecuador, Nicaragua, Panamá, 75

Honduras, Venezuela among other Latin American nation-states. These organizations are grounded on long historical trajectories based on the formation of maroon communities, slave revolts, black militia organizations, and the participation of black people in the independence of Spanish America and in civil wars (Whitten and Quiroga 1998; Leal

2001; Dixon 2008; Anton 2008).

Many contemporary black movements in Latin America have mobilized in order to contest racial discrimination (Hanchard 1994; Wade 1995, 2003; Grueso et al. 1998;

Hooker 2005, 2008, 2009; Covin 2006; Dixon 2008; Paschel and Sawyer 2008). Since the 1970s, Brazilian black social movements have struggled against nationalist ideologies on racial democracy (Hanchard 1994; Telles 2004; Covin 2006). Black activists articulated class and racial politics and mobilized anti-racist identity frames. Modern black politics in Brazil was in fact consolidated with the formation of the Movimento

Negro Unificado (MNU) which mainly focused against racial discrimination (Telles

2004:48; Covin 2006:191).

However, mobilizations based on racial identification have faced significant difficulties due to multiple factors. Black activists must overcome the myth of racial democracy, and the stigma of being anti-nationalist or against building a unified national identity (Wade 1997; Hooker 2005, 2008, 2009; Covin 2006). In many cases, Afro or black organizations have been ironically perceived as mobilizing racist ideologies, when calling for racial equality (Paschel and Sawyer 2008:199). This is also the case in

Venezuela, as the National Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations has sought to deconstruct the myth of mestizaje, which tends to render invisible existing racial 76

hierarchies and racist practices (Montañéz 1993; Mijares 2003; Ishibashi 2003, 2007;

Herrera 2004, 2007; Bolívar et al. 2007).

In consequence, many black movements in Latin America have reworked their collective identities and frames, by shifting from racial to ethnic forms of self- identification (Wade 1997; Hooker 2005; Anderson 2009). In this sense, they have adopted the ethnic rhetoric of indigenous movements as they seek to assert their cultural and historical distinctiveness (Hooker 2005). According to Peter Wade, black organizations in Colombia have emulated the organizational strategies of indigenous movements, and in turn, their leaders have adopted “Indian-like” identities before the

State (Wade 1997). These movements have also constructed their identities on human rights discourses in order to articulate and gain the support of transnational networks

(Dixon 2008). In Honduras, as well, black Garifuna activists have adopted the symbolic meanings typically associated with indigeneity – link with tradition, rootedness in territory, and special relationships with nature (Anderson 2009:9). Yet in general, Afro or black social movements still face the difficulty of being portrayed as simply of a different race, and not in the eyes of the State, the bearers of specific cultures, corporate identities, or “traditions.”

In spite of these challenges, many Afro and black organizations have engaged in the process of creating and supporting transnational networks. International organizations, foundations, academic and research institutes have been key in helping

Latin American black social movements to gain national visibility and overcome racist barriers (Paschel and Sawyer 2008). In Colombia, for instance, these networks have been 77

able to articulate struggles across communities that are usually dispersed or marginalized, and to project their goals beyond national borders (Dixon 2008:184). In Brazil, black movements have also gained international visibility as they build strong networks and alliances with transnational organizations and NGOs. This process of “NGOization” has created multiple organizations with different access to resources, sizes and scopes (Telles

2004). Overall, the transnationalization of Afro-Latin social organizations has allowed new spaces and visibility for black movements across the Americas (Dixon 2008:184). In this regard, Paschel and Sawyer argue that black organizations “are beginning to constitute viable political interest groups” that not only have achieved significant policy changes, but also have “shaken” ideologies of racial democracy and mestizaje in the continent (2008:202).

In a few cases such as Colombia, Brazil and Nicaragua, afrodescendant social movements have mobilized and achieved land recognition (Wade 1995, 1997; Alvarez et al.1998; Pineda 2001; Pardo 2002; French 2002; Gordon and Hale 2003; Lihnares 2004;

Engle 2010). In Colombia during the 1980s and 1990s, multiple black movements started to create alliances with peasant organizations as they engaged in direct struggles for territorial recognition. Land rights were the focus of their mobilizations, in association with cultural and ethnic issues. After complex legal struggles, finally in 1991, Law 70, of the Colombian constitution granted specific rights to “black communities.” The latter were legally defined as collective ancestral territories located along the rivers of the

Pacific coast, inhabited by families of Afro-Colombian descent, who have their own culture, traditional forms of production, history and customs (Wade 1995). Through this 78

process, “blackness” was territorialized, as these communities were circumscribed to specific rivers in the Pacific Basin (Wade 1995; Grueso et al. 1998; Wouters 2001; Pardo

2002). This process has created tensions among the Pacific Coast communities, who now compete in asserting more or less “authentic” forms of blackness (Pardo 2002). Yet, today Afro-Colombian organizations continue to make territorial claims, similar to those of indigenous people (Engle 2010). However, they are shaped by processes of spatial displacement, repression, and fragmentation due to the spread of violent conflicts in rural areas. Black peasant organizations of the Cauca region face the irony of having their lands recognized in a progressive multicultural legislation, while at the same time the

Colombian State remains uninterested in protecting them from the spread of violence

(Wouters 2001:517).

Brazilian black movements have also mobilized in order to secure territorial rights. In 1980, they called for land expropriation in Palmares and for the formation of a national Pole of African-Brazilian emancipation (Leal 2001; Linhares 2004). In 1988, during the constituent assembly, black consciousness organizations proposed the recognition of tenure rights of rural black communities and the creation of the Abolition of Slavery‟s Centennial Commission and the of Advisory Council for Afro-Brazilian

Affairs (Linhares 2004:827). The “folklorization of blackness,” memories of slavery and diaspora, landscape and ethnic markers, collective land use, and cultural practices have been key in shaping this process of quilombo State recognition in Brazil (French 2006:

323). However, the implementation of this clause has certainly involved tensions and 79

disputes among community factions, some of whom remained excluded from this process of land titling (French 2006).

In spite of the aforementioned achievements, the legal status of black people in multicultural Latin America is still ambiguous (Anderson 2009). In contrast to indigenous peoples, most multicultural States have not recognized afrodescendant people as legal members of their nations (Hooker 2005, 2008). Afro-Ecuadorian movements have been one of the exceptions, as they managed to gain State legal recognition for afrodescendant people in 1998 (Anton 2008). In the 1990s, this movement tended to focus its struggles on the rescue of “national dignity” (Whitten and Quiroga 1998). They articulated ethnic, nationalist, ecological and anti-colonial frames in order to make visible the economic marginalization of afrodescendant populations. Yet they faced strong racist barriers.

Moreover, most of their organizations tended to be localized and fragmented, and they also lacked resources (Whitten and Quiroga 1998). In spite of these difficulties, Afro-

Ecuadorian movements tend to support the multiethnic model of the nation, as they seek for inclusive, democratic and participatory frameworks (Anton 2008). During the constituent assembly of 2007, the Afro-Ecuadorian Movement introduced a proposal reclaiming: the strengthening of inclusive and intercultural democracy, the political representation of ethnic minorities in order to confront racism and discrimination, and for the reform of the education system (Anton 2008:221-222).

In sum, afrodescendant movements in Latin America face multiple obstacles and challenges for achieving the recognition of their collective rights. Although they emulate in some cases indigenous movements strategies, by focusing on cultural difference, they 80

are still perceived in some cases as not sufficiently distinct from the majority of the population in order to claim State specific protections (Hooker 2008:286). Moreover, their mobilized identities are also depicted as inauthentic or as mere inventions (Gordon

1998). In addition, afrodescendant movements also confront the problem of representing both rural and urban black populations that have different forms of self-identification and agendas.

In Venezuela, since 1999 afrodescendant movements have also mobilized in order to achieve legal and cultural recognition. The Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations

(ROA) emerged in 2000, after the establishment of the new constitution and its multicultural order. This network articulates multiple organizations that distinguish themselves by their geographical location, their actions and projects (Charier 2000:11).

They have gained diverse institutional spaces within the multicultural State. They have also managed to highlight issues on racial discrimination and to challenge hegemonic notions on racial democracy (García and Arratia 2002; Ishibshi 2007; García 2007;

Camacho 2008). However, afrovenezuelan people remain excluded from the process of legal multicultural recognition embraced by the Venezuelan nation-state. In Chapters 5 and 7, I will explore some of the effects of this process of legal exclusion, and how in turn, it has shaped the frames and strategies of the Afroyaracuyan movement in Veroes-

Yaracuy.

All in all, some of the guiding questions underlying this dissertation are: What is the nature and scope of Venezuelan Bolivarian multiculturalism? In which ways has

Bolivarian multiculturalism been co-constructed, circulated, and embraced by indigenous 81

and afrodescendant social movements? Why, in the face of relatively similar material conditions, such as limited access to land, low-income, and proletarianization process, have the Ayamán-turero organization and the Afroyaracuyan movement developed different frames and strategies for negotiating recognition and redistribution with the

Venezuelan State? In order to probe these questions, I confronted different methodological challenges, which I will make explicit in the following section.

Methodological considerations: doing ethnography in revolutionary times

Conducting fieldwork research in my home country, involved different forms of political engagement, as well as multiple levels of subjective reflexivity. On the one hand, as a Venezuelan citizen I experienced the advantage of being familiar with the national culture, the landscape, its language, and its politics. Moreover, from my previous ethnographic experiences conducted since 2000 among rural communities in the states of

Lara, Falcón, and Yaracuy, I had had the opportunity to learn about some of the diverse political and cultural dimensions of northwestern Venezuela.

On the other hand, conducting fieldwork activities in revolutionary times in my own country involved a great challenge in terms of my forms of political engagement with State functionaries, activists, local intellectuals, and community members. In almost every encounter or interview, I was requested to make explicit my political position regarding the Bolivarian revolution, as well as my opinions on the proposal of constitutional reform and on the impact of the State social missions. My interlocutors usually verified my political orientations, by checking with people and organizations who 82

knew me, the places where I had studied, my family origins, my knowledge of Marxist literature, and my levels of participation in national revolutionary demonstrations.

In turn, I usually disclosed my political orientations by stating that I am in favor of some of the legal, political, economic and social changes that are taking place in my country and in Latin America. Yet in spite of my political sympathies toward these political transformations, I made an effort to maintain a critical view in order to assess the scope and limitations of the new Bolivarian multicultural order. I am aware that the perspectives of the so-called “oposición9” may seem to be missing in this dissertation, since I had very few opportunities to interview large landowners and local elites. It was not safe to approach local landowners since I was politically associated with revolutionary or chavista10 organizations in both communities, and sicarios (assasins hired by landowners) represented a threat to my personal security. However, whenever possible I try to incorporate the perspectives of the few elite members who I managed to interview, as well as some critical or oppositional views of local community members. In the following section, I will present a brief description of my fieldwork activities.

Fieldwork activities

In the midst of the abovementioned political climate, I conducted fieldwork activities between October of 2006 and December of 2007, during a total of 15 months. I first carried out archival research and interviews in State institutions in order to collect

9 “La oposición” is a term used to refer and homogenize the multiple political and ideological factions that critique and oppose the Venezuelan Bolivarian government and its policies. 10 “Chavista” is a homogenizing term to designate a great diversity of groups that support the revolutionary process, and who follow President Hugo Chávez. 83

legal and official documents addressing afrodescendant and indigenous peoples‟ rights to ethnic recognition. Archival work at the National Institute for Land was almost impossible. State agents assumed that I represented the interests of local landowners or that I could misuse information in favor of the “opposition” or the “empire.” Thus, I never gained direct access to the archives in order to estimate historical changes in land tenure and reconstruct specific processes of land adjudication. I only had access to selected materials, such as public reports and evaluations of adjudicated lands in Veroes,

Yaracuy state.

I also conducted archival research at the National Assembly, specifically at the

Permanent Commission for Indigenous Peoples. After several interviews and encounters, some State functionaries agreed to provide information on the petitions made by Ayamán people in 2005. In this institution, I managed to collect public documents (proposals, laws, institutional projects, and brochures) addressing indigenous peoples rights and access to their ancestral lands.

Between November 2006 and March of 2007, I also carried out open ended- interviews with key State functionaries, indigenous and afro-descendant leaders, lawyers, politicians, and anthropologists involved in each legal petition. In the Presidential

Commission for Indigenous Peoples I conducted interviews with legal assessors and functionaries who were directly involved in the petitions made by the Ayamán movement. Furthermore, I conducted interviews with State functionaries in the National

Commission for Indigenous Land Demarcation located at the Ministry of Environment. I was offered the job to conduct the process of land demarcation in Moroturo. I declined 84

the offer, but I agreed to collaborate in the process by organizing several workshops regarding the new laws of indigenous land demarcation. As I will explain later, my involvement with the Commission of Land Demarcation shaped my encounters with

Ayamán people, who usually perceived me as a State agent.

Moreover, I carried out open-ended interviews with functionaries of the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples. I gathered information on how the Ministry and other institutions promote the legal recognition of indigenous peoples and the demarcation of their lands.

At the same institution, I also held conversations with functionaries of Misión

Guaicaipuro11 as well as with several “indigenous socialist warriors.” Furthermore, I interviewed the main leaders of the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations, as well as functionaries of the Office for Afrodescendant Issues of the Ministry of Culture.

During the months April-December of 2007, I carried out open-ended interviews with local State functionaries and agrarian technicians in Yaracuy and Lara. I learned about the legal procedures and policies involved in local land claims and the diversity of strategies enacted by the State in order to mediate conflicts. Moreover, I interviewed functionaries of the Municipal Institute for Rural Development in Farriar-Yaracuy. They provided data regarding the status of rural cooperatives, local land committees, the impact of State rural credit, and land occupations in the region.

Furthermore, I conducted semi-structured interviews with members and non- members of the Ayamán-turero organization and the Afroyaracuyan movement. In

11 State mission created in 2003 which main objective is to guarantee the participation of indigenous peoples in State public policies. This institution, currently affiliated to the Ministry of Popular Participation for Indigenous Peoples, aims at accelerating the formation of indigenous communal councils and communes in order to settle the historical debt of the nation toward indigenous peoples. 85

Moroturo, I interviewed a sample of twenty-six households of non-members and sixteen households of members. In the afrodescendant communities, I interviewed twenty-two households of non-members and nineteen households of members. For each household, I gathered information on: a) members‟ participation in local or regional organizations, b) their opinions regarding the role of local organizations within their communities, c) their perceptions on the distribution and use of community resources (land, water, access to credit, d) their forms of self-identification, e) their knowledge of the current constitution and its multicultural laws, and f) their opinions on land reform and demarcation.

During all stages of my fieldwork activities I carried out participant observation of different contexts and practices in which both community and movement members negotiated with State institutions and local political factions. I registered Ayamán forms of negotiating political visibility and financial resources with functionaries and lawyers of the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples. I also traveled with members of the Ayamán indigenous organization to the state of Zulia, in order to participate in the National

Commemoration of the Day of Resistance. In addition, I witnessed numerous conversations among Ayamán leaders, local intellectuals and cultural activators.

Furthermore, I participated in diverse community assemblies involving: a) debates about indigenous land demarcation, b) distribution of credit for agricultural purposes, c) the formation of indigenous communal councils, d) the creation of indigenous research teams, and, e) the formulation of housing projects. In these contexts, I observed and gathered information about local forms of leadership, the articulation of the Ayamán indigenous movement with other local organizations, the impact and role of local 86

political factionalism within community decision-making processes, and the salient status and political divisions among indigenous and non-indigenous members within the community. I was also invited to participate in three rituals of the Tura dances. I learned about the role of each member within these dances. I witnessed the participation of State functionaries, politicians, journalists, and local intellectuals within this context as they provided economic support for the event.

Moreover, I participated in the regular meetings and activities of the

Afroyaracuyan movement, in which members defined and discussed their political and cultural programs. I conducted participant observation of the official petition of ethnic recognition made by the National Network of Afro-Venezuelan Organizations before the

National Assembly in March 2007. I also assisted at three large commemorative events organized by the Afroyaracuyan movement. I was able to observe the performative practices of many members as they engaged in conversations and debates with National deputies, Ministers, and National and local intellectuals.

I also participated in the weekly meetings of local afrodescendant Communal

Councils. During these gatherings, I was able to register the performances of local leaders and political factions, as they created projects for requesting State resources. I was also invited to the weekly meetings of some agricultural cooperatives and local land committees. I was able to observe and tape-record some of the negotiations of these organizations with local landowners and State officials. In addition, I had the opportunity to travel with a group of Yaracuyan Communal Council leaders to visit several institutions in Caracas in order to request funds and welfare assistance for their 87

communities. Furthermore, I assisted at meetings of the Afroyaracuyan movement with representatives of the Legislative Camera of the state of Yaracuy. I also accompanied members of the Afroyaracuyan movement to occupy their requested lands. During this process, I observed members‟ everyday activities as they negotiated with local landowners and with State functionaries of the National Institute of Land.

Overall this dissertation seeks to compare two ethno-racial movements, which have been and are still embedded in an ever-changing political process. As I keep in contact with many leaders and some members of these organizations in Veroes and

Moroturo, new scenarios, strategies, actors, voices and frames have emerged since 2007.

So far, I just hope to show a brief glimpse of some of the struggles, achievements, limitations, ambiguities and challenges of these organizations and their members, as they continue engaging with the new multicultural Bolivarian State. 88

CHAPTER 2. AYAMÁN HISTORICAL ENGAGEMENTS

This Chapter examines some of the multiple historical processes that shaped the

Ayamán12 people from 1528 until 1999. I analyze the divergent and contradictory ways in which this indigenous population mobilized against, escaped from, and/or engaged with colonial and post-colonial States. I focus on how the Ayamán people produced diverse strategies for controlling and producing land-based resources and how this process transformed political, economic and cultural localities. In the course of this Chapter I show how factions of this indigenous population produced and transformed a particular

“mobilizing habitus,” based on spatial avoidance and marked territorial mobility.

The contemporary Ayamán territory is located in the Corean orographic system of northwestern Venezuela, specifically between the Sierra of San Pedro situated in Falcón and the Sierra of Parupano in Lara state (Figure 2) (Vila, M. 1966a, Vila, P. 1969). This region presents a complex system of mountains that range from 900 to 400 mts. above sea level. Their intermediate valleys are irrigated by small streams that flow towards the north and become tributaries of the Tocuyo river. The main localities of this territory are the towns of Aguada Grande, San Miguel de los Ayamans, and Moroturo. The latter, which is one of the central field sites of this comparative study, is situated in a lower valley, near the depression of Duaca (Jahn 1973:47-48).

12 Because the people that I interviewed at Moroturo self-identify as Ayamán, this chapter focuses on historical references made to this particular indigenous group. I do not intend to argue that Ayamán people have been a homogenous cultural or ethnic group across time. This term was first reported by Federmann in 1530, and has later been reproduced by colonial authorities, intellectuals, historians and anthropologists. 89

Caribbean Sea Punto Fijo

Coro

F A L C O N

Churuguara Sta. Cruz de Bucaral Mapararí

R. Tocuyo

Aguada Grande Siquisique Sta. Inés Moroturo R. Aroa

Matarere

Carora L A R A Barquisimeto Y A R A C U Y

Territorio Ayamán

Figure 2. Ayamán Territory

Overall, the region is characterized by a mosaic of altitudinal ecological zones.

Near the Tocuyo river and some of its tributaries there are alluvial deposits, where subsistence crops are grown. In the arid lands surrounding Siquisique and San Miguel de los Ayamanes the contemporary vegetation is predominantly xerophytic. Cetaceans prevail in this sector such as Céreus deficiens (cardón) and Opuntea caribaea

(Guasabara) as well as very dry forests of Bulnecia arbórea (Vera) and Tabebuia cerratifolia (Curari) (Vila 1966a; Municipio Urdaneta 2011). As we move towards the east, some of the mountain slopes of the region of Aguada Grande present dry foothill forests (Bosque seco Premontano). This particular area has been significantly impacted by coffee agricultural practices, thus very few large trees such as Anacardium excelsum

(Mijao) and Spundias mombin L. (Jobo) remain (Vila 1966a; Municipio Urdaneta 2011).

The Moroturo Valley has dry tropical forests, which are characteristically areas of intense agricultural practices. As I will show in this Chapter, Ayamans have inhabited and moved across these different ecological zones, historically engaging in diverse productive regimes. Their colonial and post-colonial “mobilizing habitus” has been shaped by the ever-changing historical political economy experienced in northwestern Venezuela since

1528.

Imaginations of conquest: Ayamán “midgets”

Historians and anthropologists have constructed complex ethno-historical maps of the Ayamán territory. Authors like Arcaya (1906, 1920), Oramas (1916) and Febres-

Cordero (1941), believed that, at the time of the conquest, the distribution of indigenous 91

peoples in northwestern Lara state was: Ajaguas in Baragua, Jirajaras in Siquisique, and

Ayamanes in San Miguel and Moroturo (Figure 3). However, according to Ramón

Querales (1995, 1998, 2006) the Valley of Baragua, Siquisique, Moroturo, Duaca (Lara state) and a great part of the territory of Falcón state was all inhabited by Ayamán people.

In contrast to this position, Pedro Pablo Linares (1995) has suggested that the region was a multiethnic territory in which Jirajaras, Ayamanes and Ajaguas conformed a larger ethno-political confederation. Overall, all authors indicate that Ayamán people had remained within the limits of the territory described by Nicolás de Federmann in 1530

(Figure 4). They also tend to agree that before the European invasions, the Moroturo

Valley (where I conducted this ethnographic study), Aguada Grande and San Miguel de los Ayamanes, were inhabited by Ayamán people.

Ayamán people first established direct contacts with European colonizers in 1530, when Nicolas de Federmann invaded the Sierra of Parupano in order to find indigenous labor and establish mining projects.13 This Dutch conqueror wrote one of the early colonial representations of the Ayamán people. In his text “Viaje a las Indias de la Mar

Océano” (Travel to the Indies of the Ocean Sea) Federmann narrates his expedition through the contemporary states of Falcón, Lara, Yaracuy, Cojedes and Portuguesa.

Chapter V specifically refers to his “encounter” with the “Ayamanes.”

13 The early conquest of the Gobernación of Venezuela, was shaped by a Capitulación given by the Spanish crown to the Welsares in 1528. This contract allowed this Dutch company to exploit, populate, and govern the province of Venezuela (Arcila Farías 1989:299). It obliged the Welser´s Company to establish two cities, build three forts and bring 300 Spanish men and 50 Dutch miners. The contract also gave them license to bring horses and to enslave rebel Indians and bring black slaves for mining purposes (Arcila Farías 1989). Nicolás de Federmann was one of the first conquerors sent to this colonial province, in order to fulfill the terms of this commercial agreement (Freide 1960:38-39). 92

Figure 3. Ethnohistorical map of Lara State (Source: Querales 1995:3)

Figure 4. Federmann´s route map (Source Federman 1916)

He portrays Ayamán people as initially unwilling to establish alliances with his troops, despite the fact that he intended to dialogue with some caciques14 by sending messengers. He describes that most Ayamans deliberately abandoned their villages or burned their houses. He also narrates how a group of about six hundred Ayamans screamed and played the botuto (a kind of horn made out of a large shell), as they shot arrows at his troops from a distance (Federmann 1916:36). In his own words, Federmann describes Ayamans as willing to engage in a “desperate resistance” since they were moved by fear and thus preferred to destroy their “properties.”

He reports having built a successful alliance with one faction of Ayamans, when he requested them to recognize themselves as vassals of the Spanish King. He later notes that far away in the mountains there is a region inhabited by fierce “enanos” (midgets) 15 who do not approve of contact with Xideharas Indians or with other Ayamán groups

(Federmann 1916: 38). Another significant theme in Federmann‟s narrations is the relationship of Ayamán people with their indigenous neighbors. He explains that these

“Indians” are always enemies of other neighboring peoples but that they do not travel or invade other territories (Federmann 1916:43). In other passages, he states that Ayamans resisted establishing peaceful relations with the Cayones, since the latter had killed some

Ayamán prisoners. Here we can appreciate the representation of factionalism and

14 It is possible that Federmann used this term to designate indigenous leaders, similar to those that he encountered in Santo Domingo (La Española). Yet it cannot be inferred that Ayamans had a similar political structure based on hereditary indigenous chiefs as was the case of the Taino. 15 This particular representation of Ayamans as short people has permeated the colonial imaginary of many researchers and intellectuals who interpreted this description as an indication of the existence of “pigmies” in the Americas (Cruxent and González 1957; Lucena 1971; Domínguez 1984). Physical anthropologists and archaeologists during the 1950s conducted an expedition in the Sierra of Parupano with the goal of verifying and registering the height of Ayamán people (Cruxent and González 1957). 95

divisions among Ayamán people. One group is seen as more open to establish alliances with other indigenous groups and with the Welsares, while the other seeks autonomy and isolation. This description not only points to the political differences among Ayamán factions, but also suggests that at the time their “mobilizing habitus” were by no means homogenous.

Overall, Federmann‟s text has had a significant impact in the creation of historical memories related to Ayamán people. Local chroniclers use this text as a source for legitimating contemporary processes of ethnic recognition in the region, and for the claiming historical and geographical continuity of this indigenous population in the region (See Chapter 6). Yet, in general very little is known about the initial impact of this early process of conquest in the Ayamán territory.16 However, as new colonial institutions were gradually consolidated in the region, it is clear that the Ayamans created and performed alternative mobilizing strategies in order to cope with the subsequent impact of colonization.

Early colonial articulations: encomiendas and doctrinas

During the seventeen century, Ayamán people were subjected both to the encomienda 17 system and to religious doctrinas.18 Although early sources offer only

16 It is known that the Welsares managed to extract great quantities of gold between 1529 and 1538 and enslaved more than 1000 Indians of different nations, many of whom who were sold in Santo Domingo as servants (Arcila Farías 1989:299-300). 17 Encomiendas were grants of labor and tribute rights from the Spanish Crown to a Spaniard over an entrusted group of Indians. The encomiendas were mainly granted to the early discoverers and first settlers, and obliged them to congregate Indians in their settlements and provide a church, a priest, icons, and ornaments. The encomenderos also had to provide the Indians with agricultural instruments, food, cotton (to make dresses), health care and water. The Indians, on the other hand, were required to work for their encomenderos two or three days a week (Rojas 1985; Arcila 1957, 1989; Salcedo Bastardo 1977). 18 This religious institution is similar although different from catholic missions. In Venezuela, 96

fragmentary evidence, it is known that in 1608 the encomienda system was introduced in the southern region of the Tocuyo River, gathering together different indigenous groups in order to meet the labor demands of the European settlers (Rivas 1989).

Ayamán people were also incorporated into the Catholic colonial system. In 1608 a doctrina was established in the Province of the Ayamanes by Bishop Alcega, when he undertook his pastoral visit to Carora (Perera 1964). Father Gordón indicates that

Ayamán Indians were assigned to the Parish of San Miguel in the province of the Altos de los Ayamanes which at the time was called, the “fifth” parish (Perera 1964 IV:70).

However, during this decade no specific towns were founded in the region.

Later on, in 1617, the Vicario Licenciado Presbítero Pedro Gordón de Almazán visited the Indians of the jurisdiction of Carora in order to describe this population, assign parishes, and establish pueblos (towns) and churches. In 1617, he visited Los Altos of the

Province of the Ayamanes, where he reported the existence of nine encomiendas with a total 971 Indians. The Visitador finally established the parish and celebrated a mass dedicated to San Miguel Arcángel (Perera 1964 IV:69). Thus it is clear how, during the early colonial period, Ayamans were forcibly incorporated into the encomienda system.

Subsequently, in 1620 the Gobernador y Capitán de Venezuela, Don Francisco de la Hoz Berrío, visited the jurisdiction of Carora in order to found four pueblos (towns) that would congregate the Indian population of the region. On September 2nd of 1620, he

doctrinas and encomiendas tended to juxtapose. Their main task was to provide ecclesiastic attention to a group of Indians dwelling in the geographical area of a Spaniard city, and were granted in encomienda to the founders of the settlement. The doctrinero priests, were part of the secular or regular clergy; thus they depended directly on the Bishops and the Governor (Armellada 1997:126-130). 97

finally ordered the founding of the Pueblo of San Miguel de los Ayamanes, which also had the status of doctrina (Perera 1964 Cap XII:150).

However, since this town was quite distant from the lands of the Indians, the settlement was constantly abandoned by them (Perera 1964, CapXIII:164-165). The founding of this pueblo led to serious tensions with the encomenderos of Carora, as many autos were dictated by the Regidor and Juez Poblador Serrano indicating that the latter did not send their quota of Indians. The encomenderos argued that there was not enough corn to feed the Indians in the new town of San Miguel. In fact, in the town, only a few houses were built, and very few Indians inhabited this settlement. Moreover, the church was never built, due to the lack of Indian labor. For Perera (1964), the town of San

Miguel de los Ayamanes never flourished due to this tension between doctrineros and encomenderos. Based on this scattered data, we might infer that Spanish production during this early colonial period was critically affected by a shortage of labor. We will see how this process was also shaped by the constant flight of Indians, who resisted their incorporation into these colonial institutions.

Some years after the precarious establishment of San Miguel, raiders from the cities of Coro, Barquisimeto and Nueva Zamora (Maracaibo) entered with blacks, mulatos, ladinos and Indians of various origins to capture Ayamán Indians as prisoners and steal their few possessions. There are specific reports stating that in 1640 vecinos of

Barquisimeto conducted entradas in the Pueblo of San Miguel de Ayamán. Around 1645,

Fabian Perozo entered the town of San Miguel in the company of Indians from Coro, blacks, mulatos and slaves, capturing Ayamán men, woman and children (Perera 1964, 98

Chap X:154). He was also accused of taking these Indians to Coro (contemporary Falcón state), branding them as though they were animals and distributing them to work in their haciendas (Perera 1964, Chap X:156).

Later on, with the abolition of personal service for the encomenderos, in 1687 a new census was made in the town of San Miguel reporting a total of 745 Indians with their caciques. Ninety-six of the Indians ascribed to this town were fugitives and there were six forastero Indians (Perera 1964 Chap X:158). In sum, during the seventeenth century, Ayamans were forcibly incorporated into the Spanish regime through the encomienda and doctrina system. Yet, as a result of the pressure of the encomenderos to secure their labor supply, and the violent encounters with raiders, Ayamans seemed to resist participating in the consolidation of Spanish settlements.

Overall, it is clear that the presence of encomiendas, towns and doctrinas reshaped the existing interethnic relationships of Ayamán people with their neighbors.

However, further in depth archival research is needed in order to unravel the complex historical processes shaping this early colonial period in the region. So far, the data suggests that Ayamans‟ strategic actions were focused on running away from Spanish settlements, to more remote or inaccessible areas, possibly located in the Sierra of

Parupano, Moroturo, and in the northern bank of the Tocuyo River. In this sense, one can presume that the Ayamans‟ “mobilizing habitus” sought to create alternative spaces, where they could reproduce their own cultural, political, economic and ecological practices. I subsequently discuss how this strategy, based on spatial mobility and 99

“runaway” practices, was also reproduced during the eighteen century, yet with new social configurations and supported by alliances with other ethno-racial groups.

Resguardos and Cumbes: new strategies of engagement

In 1720, a Real Cédula was issued, establishing the limits of an indigenous resguardo at San Miguel de Ayamán. The text stated that the limits of the lands granted to these Indians were: to the north until Mapiare, to the south Matatere, to the east the cerro El Pisal and to the west Siquisique (Jahn 1973:153). Little is known about who requested this collective title or about the number of inhabitants within this indigenous reserve and the productive activities and legal status of its dwellers. What can be inferred is that this collective land title was requested as a way to protect Ayamán people from the land invasions of Spanish colonial settlers. It is also possible that this resguardo encouraged the withdrawal of Ayamán people from the main towns. In other words, the

“reserves” served as spatial institutions for detaching indigenous peoples from other colonial spaces of power, in this case el pueblo (the town). I do not intend to suggest that

Ayamán people were isolated or entirely autonomous within this particular territory. On the contrary, historical sources indicate that Ayamans were fully articulated to the system of tribute payment to local encomenderos. Yet, it is important to note that this indigenous group managed to create its own spaces within the colonial geography and move across the disperse “nodes” of the Sierra of Parupano and the Moroturo Valley.

100

A pastoral visit: Obispo Martí

One of the key colonial historical references pointing to a habitus of spatial mobility among Ayamán people are the reports of Bishop Mariano Martí. This priest initiated his pastoral visit to the Province of Caracas in 1764. One of his texts narrates his journey from Siquisique to Moroturo. Martí explains that the Indians of the region tended to be nomadic and that many traveled to the “fertile valley” of Moroturo in order to cultivate corn. As he arrived to the nearby town of San Miguel de los Ayamanes, he indicates that along the trail there were many cornfields belonging to the people of the town. Forty families inhabited this settlement, with a total of one hundred and forty five individuals, while thirty-five families were distributed in the nearby countryside. He states that the town was a doctrina of tributary Indians “of the Ayamán nation,” that was

“… only inhabited by them, without any mixture with Spaniards, or other castes, within the town and or outside it.” He also indicated that these “… Indians were isolated in the montes, and have conserved their etnia and have remained backward. They speak bad

Castilian, but only the elders know their own language well” (Vila 1980:169).

He further reports that the local priest had not been able to indoctrinate them well, and that production in that town was mainly for subsistence. Thus, many Indians tended to go to cultivate in the Moroturo Valley, where there were whites and other settlers.

From this colonial narration, one can sense aspects of the mobilizing habitus of Ayamán people, as they refused indoctrination and sought to maintain a dispersed settlement pattern. 101

Later on, Martí provides a brief description of the Moroturo Valley, which is located only twelve leagues away from the town of San Miguel. He indicates that this valley was suitable for to the cultivation of cocoa, and that he had found small villages of two hundred inhabitants. He states that Ayamans from San Miguel used to come to these villages in order to cultivate corn and work in the cocoa haciendas of white Spanish settlers (Vila 1980). The Bishop also reports that many Indian families from Siquisique had migrated to the mountains of La Venta and Parupano in order to establish labranzas

(cultivated plots) due to the fertility of the region.

From Martí‟s narrations, one can sense the constant territorial mobility and adaptability of the local indigenous population as they created new spaces in order to cultivate corn. It is also clear that by the late colonial period the Ayamán population of the region was articulated to the cocoa hacienda economies, particularly in Moroturo.

Indigenous people seemed to have combined their subsistence economy mainly based on the cultivation of corn, with the payment of tribute to the doctrinero priests. The

Ayaman‟s particular forms of spatial mobility denote the formation of a specific mobilizing habitus that involved economic articulations with the Spanish regime, and certain degrees of spatial autonomy.

However, for Martí, this autonomy was interpreted as “isolation in the montes.”

This particular interpretation was later reproduced by modern ethnographers who described Ayamans as an isolated indigenous group. In my view, these historical representations tended to overlook the complex historical interethnic relationships between the Ayamán people and other indigenous and afrodescendant peoples in the 102

region. The ethno-racial interactions in the hacienda context in fact shaped the formation of new forms of territorialization known as cumbes or runaways settlements. In the following section, I discuss how these “alternative territories” provoked intense fear and anxiety among Spanish functionaries, as these “autonomous” spaces constantly challenged the supposed territorial continuity and control of the colonial State.

Late colonial anxieties: ethno-racial mixing and cumbe formation

On September 30 of 1798, the Corregidor of Siquisique was given a report written by the Presbyterian Gabriel Cayetano Lindo, priest of the town of San Miguel de los

Ayamanes. This text indicated how Ayamán people sought to escape from the colonial regime by building alliances with other ethno-racial groups. The document referred to:

“ … the report that was proportioned by the Presbytery Don Gabriel Cayetano Lindo, Priest of the town of San Miguel de Ayamanes, [in regard to] having collected some Indians under his charge that were fugitives and arrochelados in the town of Bobare, jurisdiction of Barquisimeto, passing from there- [to] the montes of Moroturo where they have cumbes, and a sanctuary led by a black that incites them. In consequence, broach vuestra merced the issue with priest Lindo and, by your own means, inform about the Indians that you have lately been able to retrieve from the montes, more or less the number there might be in the [montes] of Moroturo, the towns from which they originate or are born, what weapons they have … and enter to these montes, collect the Indians that you can find, conduct them to their respective towns, and capture the black that leads them, and who is their leader.19 [translation and emphasis are mine].

19 “92/ El Illmo. S.or Obispo de esta Diocesis con fha 20 del que espira me acompano copa del oficio que le pason el Presbitero Don Gabriel Cayetano Lindo Cura del Pueblo de San Miguel de Ayamánes (ø) haber recoxido algunos Yndios de los de su cargo que andaban fugitivos y arrochelados en el Pueblo de Bobare, jurisdiccion de Barquisimeto pasandose de alli · los Montes de Moroburo en lo que tienen cumbes, y hasta un Santuario capitaneados de un Negro que los fomenta. En consequencia tratar· vm el asunto con el cura Lindo y por su medio se informar· de los yndios que el ha conseguido sacar de los Montes ultimamente, el numero que habra poco menos en los de Motoburo, de que Pueblos son oriundos o nacidos, que armas tienen; y bien cerciorado de todo acordar· con el Teniente de Barquisimeto para que puestos de acuerdo senalen dÌa y paraxe para reunirse el numero de ver (ø). De una y otra jurisdiccion de los de mas posibles que puedan assi mantenerse, y entren a dhos Montes, recoxan los Yndios que hallaren los 103

These documentary fragments reveal particular representations of indigenous peoples living in San Miguel, Moroturo and Bobare, which I infer are likely to have been

Ayamans. These documents refer to these indigenous people as “fugitive Indians” living in the montes of Moroturo. This data suggests that this population had managed to escape from the doctrina and establish independent settlements in Moroturo. In the eyes of the

European colonizer, the arrochelados evoke tropes of disorder and liberty, not coinciding with their colonial ideals of civilization, control and supposed harmonious evangelization. For the local priests, these Indians even provoked fear, on account of their condition as “irreducidos” and “naturales,” situated at the margins of the colonial regime. The term arrochelados in this context alludes to the unwillingness of these indigenous peoples to pay tribute and to obey the religious and social norms imposed at the doctrina. These characterizations clearly speak of a strategy of “resistance” or refusal on the part of the indigenous population to become fully incorporated into the Spanish regime of colonization and evangelization.

Furthermore, in these texts the montes of Moroturo are seen by the Spanish as a suitable space for the establishment of cumbes. As stated earlier the spatial trope of montes evokes undomesticated or uncontrolled spaces, inhabited in the colonial imagination by “savages” or non-reduced peoples. Moreover, the use of the term cumbe is also relevant, as it alludes to runaway or maroon settlements characterized by a high degree of social, political and economic autonomy. conduzcan a su respectibos Pueblos, y aprehendan a ese Negro que los capitanea a el qual se le seguir· la causa por el corregidor o Juez del Partido en donde se hallase. Caracas, 30 de septiembre de 1798. Al Corregidor de Siquesique.” I have to thank Cristina Soriano for locating and transcribing this document. Source: AGN, Section: Gobernación y Cap. General, tomo: LXXIII, folio: 92. 104

In addition, these texts speak of how these particular cumbes were sustained on the basis of strategic alliances between indigenous peoples and “blacks.” Very little is known about the political interethnic relationships among “caste” groups in this region during the colonial period. With the exception of Soriano (2009), most studies have focused on studying blacks or Indians as separate “castes,” representing distinct political interests and diverging subaltern projects. Furthermore, these documents reveal the anxieties of priests and local military forces, for not being able to evangelize the indigenous population and confine them to the doctrine territories.

Overall, it is clear that during the late colonial period new ethno-racial configurations and forms of territorialization emerged in the region. A mobilizing habitus based on spatial withdrawal from colonial settlements was reproduced. Yet at this time it involved the complex performance of cumbe strategies (building interethnic alliances, seeking for inaccessible spaces, setting up systems of surveillance, accessing arms, among others). The cumbes and montes were constituted as alternative spaces, in which both groups were able to construct and reconfigure their own forms of leadership, production, religiosity and territoriality. In turn, this process created anxiety and fear among Spanish regional authorities, thus revealing the fragility and weaknesses of the collapsing colonial regime of the late eighteen century.

Banishing indigenous territories: the expansion of coffee in the nineteenth century

During the nineteen century small farmers‟ and indigenous peoples‟ lives were radically transformed as colonial forms of property were destroyed with the process of independence and the federal wars. The new republican State established laws to alienate 105

and transfer realengas,20 communal indigenous reserves and municipal lands into private hands. Particular laws facilitated this process of creating small and middle size holdings, by eliminating colonial protections and fostering the establishment of free contracts

(Roseberry 1983).

Throughout this period, many indigenous resguardos of the former Province of

Venezuela were alienated by the new Republic (Coppens 1971; Roseberry 1983;

Hernández 1994; Yarrington 1997; Amodio 1991, 2005; Caballero and Cardozo 2007).21

Yet no reference is to be found concerning the resguardo of San Miguel de los Ayamanes during this early process of independence.

Moreover little information is available regarding the participation of Ayamán people in the wars of independence. What we know is that Father Andrés Nicolás

Torrellas22 mobilized his parishioners of San Miguel to rebel in favor of the King. In fact an Indian caudillo at Siquisique, called Juan de los Reyes-Vargas wrote to Torrellas in

1816, stating that he was willing to dar el grito de rebeldía (declare himself in rebellion against the independence of the province of Caracas) if he received the support of troops.

After this call, Torrellas, accompanied the realist factions of Fernando Miyares (governor

20 Realengas were the lands that belonged to the King of Spain. 21 Article 200 of the Federal Constitution of 1811 approved the repartition and division of indigenous communal lands, into individual properties (Armellada 1977:17-18). Furthermore, in 1821 The General Congress of Colombia established another law that aimed at extinguishing indigenous tributes and reserves. Yet almost none of these legal instruments were implemented, as the agrarian legislation of the young republic was contradictory. Amodio (2005) argues that the division of indigenous resguardos involved the rupture of ethnic groups who were based on kinship networks during the colonial period, since this form of collective property allowed many indigenous peoples to maintain some elements of their relationship to the land. Coppens suggests that this complex liberal legislation mainly favored the interests of socio-economic powers (1971:11). Overall, very few indigenous people were able to legalize their property titles. 22Torrellas was assigned to the parish of San Miguel in 1809, and by 1812 he became an influential priest in the town of Siquisique (Perera 1964 Chap X:164; Fundación Polar 1989, IV:61). 106

of Maracaibo) and José Ceballos (brigadier of Coro), with the armed expedition of

Monteverde, when they entered the region of Siquisique. The towns of San Miguel de los

Ayamanes, Moroturo, Siquisique y Río Tocuyo supported this realist rebellion, mainly due to the influence of father Torrellas and the Indian Reyes-Vargas (Fundación Polar

1989, IV:61).

Later on, in 1821, Torrellas and Reyes-Vargas switched to the patriot band.

During this year, Miguel de La Torre (realist military commander of Barquisimeto) reports the existence of Indian rebels in Moroturo and Siquisique, who were lead by

Reyes-Vargas. For this reason, La Torre assigned tenant Don Francisco Galeno to organize guerrillas in that valley in order to control the Indian patriot rebels (León

1985:151). Moreover, Manuel Lorenzo, another commander of Barquisimeto reported that by 1821 most people in Moroturo and Siquisique did not support the Royalist forces of King Fernando VII (León 1985: 157). La Torre also indicates that lieutenant Francisco

Galeno managed to destroy the rochela of Indians at Moroturo and El Zanjón (León

1985: 151,156).

Overall, this fragmented historical record suggests that some Ayamán factions at

San Miguel, Moroturo and Siquisique, were strongly controlled by the religious leadership of Torrellas and the indigenous authority of Reyes-Vargas. Yet, on the other hand the final destruction of the rochela reveals that other factions had managed to resist their incorporation within the catholic religious regime. Thus, one can infer that the mobilizing habitus of local Ayamán people was by no means homogenous. 107

Furthermore, the historical geography of the region indicates that during the early nineteenth century new roads were built creating complex commercial networks between the towns of Siquisique, Carora, Barquisimeto, Baragua, Coro, San Miguel and Moroturo

(Grau 1987). In the arid region of Siquisique and San Miguel rural activity was based on the raising of sheep, goats, donkeys and mules. Most people lived from the products of these small herds, by selling their skins, or making shoes and horse saddles (Grau

1987:1379). Many families, which we assume were Ayamán, considering their spatial distribution and some references of historical memories, also produced cocuy or dispopo

(agave cocui) and cocuiza (Fourcroya humbolditiana). Grau argues that the exploitation of these wild plants, which grew in great quantities in this region, represented the economic base of “poor families” (Grau 1987:1381). The local population used all the parts of these plants. Men collected the cocuy and from its stems made alcoholic beverages as well as edible syrups. From its leaves, they extracted the fibers, and women were in charge of weaving fine hammocks, clothes, sacks, and rope. Grau suggests that these practices existed where the indigenous population was located, although the mestizo population also produced their hard liquor from cocuy (Grau 1987:1380-1381). Overall, the production of cocuy and cocuiza has identified the rural populations of northern Lara state.

Grau further reports that by 1840 there were many unpopulated “empty spaces.”

In general, the region had a great deal of idle land and was not very attractive for criollo sharecroppers (1987:1381). The parishes of San Miguel and Moroturo, of the Cantón of

Carora were almost deserted by 1845. Official authorities in Moroturo even proposed 108

eliminating this parish since there were no people inhabiting the valley. He explains that this situation was due to the unhealthy conditions of that micro region.23 However, by

1870 this situation had changed as new settlers arrived in search of land to produce coffee. The boom of coffee in the region accelerated the process of titling and the radical expansion of the agricultural frontier24. In this, regard Grau states:

“The districts of San Miguel25 and Moroturo are completely devoted to agriculture: high mountains and ferocious vegas (ravines) constitute its soil; in the former coffee is produced on a great scale, and all minor fruits, and an infinity of roots. In the latter, cocoa and coffee on a small (scale) and all other minor fruits and roots…” (Grau 1987:1382).

Thus, by the late nineteen century the Ayamán territory was clearly shaped by multiple capitalist productive forces, in articulation with subsistence conuco activity.

Coffee made highlands more attractive to incoming agricultural settlers, while many lowlands appropriate for cocoa production became marginal spaces. In fact, Grau indicates that Moroturo (located in a tropical lowland depression), did not prosper as a result of its poor environmental conditions and relative isolation. Its population declined from 415 inhabitants in 1873 to 331 in 1881. In contrast, the population of Aguada

Grande26 (in the highlands of the Sierra of Parupano) expanded, as more lands were destined to the production of coffee, and due to its strategic localization near the road

23 It is interesting that a similar description as an unhealthy region is given to the afrodescendant valley of Yaracuy that was also a region of runaway communities during the late eighteen century. 24 The introduction of coffee in Venezuela was in 1801, and by 1830, it had replaced the production of cocoa, which until then had been the main export commodity of the Province of Venezuela (Roseberry 1983:71-72). In the central and coastal regions, the large cocoa haciendas incorporated coffee within their productive structure. This process reinforced the articulation of the plantation (focused on the production of commercial crops) and the conuco sectors (Carvallo and Ríos 1984). 25 For Grau this district included the town of Aguada Grande. 26 Aguada Grande is not mentioned in former colonial historical references since it might have been a small village or dispersed settlement. 109

connecting Siquisique and Barquisimeto. Thus, by 1881 Aguada Grande had reached around 3,341 inhabitants (Grau 1987:1383). We will later show how this pattern was radically changed during the twentieth century when many Ayamán families located in the highlands of Aguada Grande migrated to the Moroturo valley due a serious period of drought.

Moreover, the indigenous resguardo persisted in this territory until the end of

1870s. There are reports of criollo landowners claiming that these lands had great value due to their access to water. They argued that the local indigenous population under- exploited the riverbanks of the Tocuyo and Siquisique rivers. Grau indicates that the

Indians opposed the incursions of these criollo settlers in these lands (1987:1383). He suggests that in spite of the resistance of indigenous peoples, many settlements entered in a “rapid process of mestizaje.” This data indicates that the resguardo did serve the purpose of providing a relative autonomy for indigenous peoples during the nineteenth century. Moreover one can also sense, how water and land became disputed resources, as the population started to increase with the expansion of coffee production.

Very little is known about Ayamán people during the violent processes of the

Federal Wars (1854-1864). The participation of indigenous peoples throughout this period of State formation has in general been silenced or erased from the historical memory of the nation. One of the few references to Ayamán people is made in 1866, in a

Decree issued by the Legislative Assembly of the Sovereign State of Barquisimeto. It indicates that the “old town of San Miguel, which has always been the head of the parish, was destroyed during the federal war” (Perera 1946:183). Instead, the town of Aguada 110

Grande was considered as more prosperous in agricultural terms, and was on “its way to progress.” This brief reference suggests that the population located at the doctrine of San

Miguel was somehow aligned with one of the political factions during the federal war.

Other scattered information suggests that some Ayamans, participated in the

Federal Wars. According to Ramón Querales (1995), Ayamans joined the forces of

General Juan Crisóstomo Falcón in the early stages of these wars. In 1859 Silverio

Querales, (of Ayamán origin and second commander of the militia of Carora) was named

Civil and Military Chief in Siquisique. Miguel Querales is also known for his participation in significant military events as he also joined the liberal forces of Falcón and Zamora (Querales 1995:30). Further research is required to understand the positioning, ideologies and roles of different Ayamán factions within the complex process of civil war that took place in Venezuela between 1954 and 1864. Yet it is clear that many colonial forms of incorporation and subjection were transformed, in light of the unstable processes of State formation and the expansion of commercial agriculture.

At the end of the nineteen century, Ayamán people also lost their formal legal status as indigenous subjects, as result of a law establishing that indigenous peoples only existed in the Guajira and the Amazon regions27 (Armellada 1977). Thus, Ayamans as well as many other indigenous peoples located in the central regions of the country were radically erased as “Indians” from the liberal nation. From the State‟s perspective,

Ayamans only existed as “poor” peasants or as jornaleros (daily wage laborers), serving as part of the labor force of the agrarian republic of the late nineteen century. In the

27 This law was promulgated in 1884 by the liberal administration of Guzman Blanco. 111

imagined Venezuelan nation, Ayamans were rendered invisible as indigenous peoples, as they were inscribed as criollo peasant people within the coffee economy. However, in the ethnographic imagination of anthropologists, historians and geographers of the early twentieth century, Ayamans were represented as indigenous icons of northwestern

Venezuela.

Modern imaginations: Ayamans as linguistic, cultural and genetic “survivals”

Once Ayamans were incorporated within the coffee political economy, modern historians and ethnographers represented this indigenous population as a fading survival.

In 1906, Pedro Manuel Arcaya published a short article in the national liberal newspaper

El Cojo Ilustrado, titled: “Indigenous languages spoken in the state of Falcón.” This historian refers to how the descendants of Ayamán people in the Sierra of Parupano and in the Municipality of San Miguel have been “preserved” and “without doubt in the same

[place] where Federmann found them in 1530” (Arcaya 1906:848). It is interesting how

Arcaya, as well as many other scholars (including myself) use the text of Federmann to create spatial and historical continuities aiming at legitimizing the presence of Ayamán people in these territories.

Furthermore, Arcaya also represents Ayamans as people who had known how to

“resist” in western Venezuela the destructive actions of time and events, preserving the memory of their “primitive language.” He states that until a few years earlier, many of the older population still spoke their indigenous language, and that some individuals in

San Miguel must still remember it. Moreover, in the History of the State of Falcón, 112

Arcaya also argues that Ayamans have been preserved in the same places that they occupied since the pre-Columbian epoch (Arcaya 1920:61). The author uses the image of

“preservation” since many geographers and historians at the time argued that Ayamán people as well as other indigenous peoples in the state of Falcón and Lara were extinct. In

Arcaya´s view, Ayamans were relatively isolated from the larger processes of conquest and population decimation occurred in the Río Turbio Valley since 1580, and in many other regions. Moreover, this author also assumes that Ayamán people remained frozen or completely isolated from the complex processes that occurred during the nineteenth century. I do not agree with Arcaya´s argument of colonial “isolation,” since as stated earlier there is significant data suggesting encounters and processes of incorporation of this indigenous group into the hacienda economies of the region, the encomiendas, and the doctrines. However, I believe that it is important to recognize that Ayamán people, as well as the Gayón population (their neighbors towards the south), had a particular form of incorporation within the colonial regime, which was characterized by the abovementioned strategies of spatial mobility and interethnic alliances.

Moreover, for Arcaya the presence of the language is the “proof” of Ayamans‟ state of relative isolation or preservation, since by the late nineteenth century there are no reports of other living indigenous peoples speaking a non-colonial language in the region.

In this regard, he states that many Ayamans had indigenous names and that until recently many people spoke the Ayamán dialect in the mountains of the Urdaneta District

(1920:62). 113

The fact that Ayamán people used their own language until the late nineteenth century suggests in the first place the capacity of this population to ensure social spaces for its use and reproduction. It can be inferred that Ayamans were able to use their language in the multiple alternative territories and cumbes located outside of the Spanish doctrines and settlements. In addition, there is significant data indicating the lack of success of the Spanish project of evangelization in the region and their possible failure in imposing the use of Spanish as the hegemonic language. Overall, Arcaya showed particular interest in describing Ayamán linguistic characteristics as a way of legitimizing their “authentic” indigenous identity.

Luis Oramas was another modern ethnographer interested in the indigenous peoples of northwestern Venezuela. In his text Materiales para el estudio de los dialectos

Ayamán, Gayón, Jirajara, Ajagua published in 1916, he continues reproducing linguistic representations of Ayamán people. From his point of view, these indigenous people would soon disappear. He states that at the time there were “very little remnants in the surrounding areas de the Municipality of San Miguel, Aguada Grande and Moroturo of the Urdaneta District” (Oramas 1916:7).

Alfredo Jahn also provided linguistic and ethnographic descriptions of Ayamán people between 1910 and 1922. He recognized ethno-spatial continuities as he states that:

“…the mentioned territory has been inhabited since the time of Conquest by Ayamán

Indians in the septentrional part, in other words between Matatere and the Tocuyo river…” (Jahn 1973:49). His description of the town of San Miguel de los Ayamanes indicates the following: 114

“ The little town of San Miguel will disappear. We found its church in ruins and 8 or 10 decaying houses inhabited by one or another family, descendants of the Ayomanes, but that have forgotten their primitive language. This decadence dates, according to what we were informed, from 1870. Until then the Indians were congregated there and they maintained their habits and language, but later they dispersed through the nearby countryside, and although the language of their ancestors fell into disuse, (this was not the case with) their customs, especially the fiestas of religious character. On the days of our visit, the only ones who (spoke) the ayoman language were, Pascual Ramos an almost centenary Indian perfectly conserved, that exercised as cacique, and two old [woman] Indians, one in San Miguel and the other in a place called El Bonito...” (Jahn 1973:49).

Jahn‟s description fits well with the data suggesting that the town of San Miguel was abandoned in 1868, after its devastation during the Federal Wars. Moreover, he argues that before 1870 Ayamán indigenous peoples maintained their culture. It is difficult to reach conclusions about the degree of incorporation of Ayamán people within these complex processes of early State formation. Although it is clear that San Miguel was in decadence after the Federal Wars; it is not obvious why this specific town was devastated, and why not other towns such as Siquisique or other settlements that were affected by these processes.

On the other hand, his reference to the dispersion of the population, not only points to the incapacity of the colonial regime to establish stable doctrines or towns in the region. It also refers to patterns already reported by Bishop Martí in which the community was disaggregated and its inhabitants tended to be highly mobile. Finally, the work of Jahn is the first text to make specific reference to the Tura dances. He provides a detailed description of the ritual and its main actors. He also advanced some hypotheses regarding the symbolic meanings evoked during these practices. Since then, most studies 115

on Ayamán people have focused on the Tura Dance, as in the works of Luis Arturo

Domínguez (1984), Miguel Acosta-Saignes (1985), Natividad Barroso (2004), among others.28

Overall, modern ethnographers seemed obsessed with the idea that Ayamán people were “preserved,” and isolated from the impact of the colonial and republican formations. The preservation of the Ayamán language was a central “attribute” distinguishing this indigenous population, which became a sort of “survival” icon in the region. Today linguistic anxieties still shape local intellectuals, who indicate that there are still some Ayamán speakers, “hidden in the mountains.” However, the historical data clearly indicate that the Ayamans have been fully articulated to processes of State formation and to the commercial expansion of coffee and sisal in northwestern

Venezuela.

Sisal, Drought, and Migration: Historical memories in the early XX century

The first decades of the twentieth century in Venezuela were characterized by the consolidation and integration of centralized State power and the control of regional caudillismo under the dictatorship of Juan Vicente Gómez (1908-1935) (Coronil 1997;

Caballero 2003). Throughout this period, the system of latifundia was expanded and land monopolization reached extremely high levels (Powell 1971; Delahaye 2001; Acosta-

Saignes 2009). In addition, the traditional agro-export structure and the land tenure system suffered drastic changes with the discovery of oil fields, as most of the

28 In chapter 6, I offer my own interpretation of the Tura dances, as a symbolic space for negotiating resources with the State and redefining leadership and kinship networks. 116

agricultural labor migrated to the cities. This regime offered favorable conditions for the exploitation of oil by foreign companies, displacing coffee as Venezuela‟s major export product (Roseberry 1983, 1989; Coronil 1997:78).

During the early twentieth century, the Moroturo Valley and the Sierra of

Parupano experienced significant changes regarding their forms of production, ecology and population mobility. Many Ayamán communities in the arid lands engaged in the production of sisal29 – a variety of agave (agave sisalana) – while others worked as jornaleros in coffee and cattle haciendas (Vila 1966a; De la Plaza 1980).

Ayamán sisaleros worked cleaning the land, and cutting and processing the leaves. Oral histories indicate that they undertook long journeys, transporting sisal leaves from the arid hills of La Venta and Las Catalinas, to Aguada Grande, by this time the main commercial town in the region. However, once the international market of hard fibers had become stabilized, after the Korean war, the production of sisal in the region decreased dramatically, thus generating a higher rate of unemployment (Vila 1966a:191).

This could have been one of the multiple factors shaping the high mobility of Ayamán people during the decade of the fifties to other regions, in the search for land.

However, at the time, some sectors of Moroturo, Aguada Grande and Siquisique continued to be transformed by the expansion of coffee. Oral histories narrate how entire

Ayamán families together with the local criollo population participated in the collection

29 The production of sisal in Venezuela was initiated by the British Company Ferrocarril Bolívar, which brought three sacks of sisal seeds to the region of Barquisimeto in 1913 (Vila 1966a:190; De la Plaza 1980:118). By 1938, the arid soils of the plains of Barquisimeto were covered with plantations of this fiber. Many old coffee haciendas, as well as the arid lands of the depression of Siquisique became planted with sisal, creating new labor configurations and conditions. It is clear that the expansion of this crop was based on previous practices of collecting and processing cocuy and cocuiza in this region.

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of coffee beans. Although Ayamans and many other peasant groups had to work as wage laborers in these fields, many managed to maintain their own conucos on public or idle lands. In these plots they cultivated corn, quinchoncho, papaya, and beans to be sold in local markets or for consumption. It is at this time, that the Ayamans, began to be depicted as conuqueros, which in general were considered by the State and its intellectuals as unproductive and “negative” agents for the agricultural and economic development of the nation (De la Plaza 1980).

Another factor shaping Ayamán incorporation into the modern capitalist market economy was the exploitation of timber in the Moroturo Valley. For instance, an Ayaman man states in this regard: “…when we arrived here at Moroturo in 1953, there were very few houses, there were only the trails of the roleros (timber extractors), they took out the timber, and that‟s how the roads started” (Mr. Pineda, October 2007). Very little statistical or economic data is available regarding the establishment of timber markets in the region or about who controlled its commercialization. Yet, what is clear is that

Ayamans migrated from the region of Aguada Grande, the Sierra of Parupano, and

Siquisique and they actively participated in the process of tumbar montañas (cutting down trees).

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Tumbando montañas: migrations within the Ayamán territory

Esto que era montaña, ellos hicieron esos conucos, tumbaron montañas, todo lo que tumbaban era de ello, ello mismo lo hicieron.” (Graciela, August 2007.)

Antes todo esto era una montaña, pasaban pura veredita (small trails), se escuchaban los leones, cuando pasaban por la quebrá (stream), roncaban los leones (Petra, October 2007).

Ayamán historical narratives indicate that their parents and grandparents arrived to the Moroturo Valley, by “tumbando montañas.” This expression refers to the act of cutting down trees and vegetation in unpopulated areas and is commonly used by many other rural communities across northwestern Venezuela. This phrase evokes historical memories of the expansion of the agrarian frontier that started at the end of the nineteenth century in many regions of the country (Roseberry 1983; Grau 1987; Yarrington 1997).

In other words, it speaks of a time when many idle lands were occupied by coffee planters, and expanding cattle ranches, thus requiring mobile free labor to deforest these areas.

Tumbar montañas also involved the formation of multiple productive relationships based on medianería (sharecropping). Free laborers arrived at the haciendas, establishing verbal agreements of exchange with their owners. The new migrants would be given montañas enteras (whole mountains) to be cleared, where they could build a shack, and sow in their own conucos. In most cases, the agreement established that the new settlers should give half of their production to the owners. In other cases, the land was recognized as the property of those who cleared it. What was required then, was the 119

seasonal labor power of these settlers to harvest the coffee plantations or to work on the cattle ranches.

Many Ayamán families at Moroturo remember the time when their ancestors came from other regions in order to tumbar montañas and to establish “flourishing conucos.” One local chronicler states in this regard: “...those people of old times loved to cut down mountains, with a machete.30” Some Ayamán families indicate that their ancestors, parents and grandparents came from Aguada Grande specifically from the sectors of Siquisique, San Miguel de Ayamanes, Los Vegones, Las Catalina, and La

Venta (Figure 5). These communities are referred in many contexts as a region of old tureros, who are remembered for practicing the Tura dances in their patios,31 according to the “authentic customs.” Moreover, many community members indicate that their parents moved because of a severe drought during the mid-fifties. The pluviometric data for this time in effect indicates a significant drought in the region of Siquisique (Vila

1966a:58).

Other Ayamán families migrated from El Mille, Churuguara and Santa Cruz de

Bucaral all located toward the north, in the state of Falcón. These communities as well are recognized as having established long-term patios for celebrating the Tura dances.

Now let us explore specific historical memories of Ayamán migrations in the region of Moroturo, which reveal some of their strategic actions as well as aspects of

30 “…esa gente de antes le encantaba tumbar montaña a punta de machete.” (Domingo Adjuntas, October 2007). 31 Turero patios are specific ritual locations where Ayamans celebrate the Tura dances every year. These patios are numbered and articulated according to the spiritual, political and historical hierarchy of their owners. Thus as Ayamans moved across their territory, they created new patios, where they could celebrate their annual rituals and renegotiate their kinship and political relationships. This point will be further examined in Chapter 6. 120

Río Tuy

Palmar

Cerro MOROTURO

400

MOROTURO

Sta Sta Ines

1:100.000

ESC

AguadaGrande

Ayamanes

San Miguel de San Miguel

Copey

Catalina

Figure 5. Migration of of families Migration 5. Ayamán Figure

Siquisique

Turero Patios Sources: (Dominguez 1984; Rivas 1987;Ruette y López 2010) Sources: (DominguezLópez y 1984; Rivas 1987;Ruette

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their mobilizing habitus. Domingo Adjuntas, one of the most important Ayamán chroniclers of the region, narrates some of the historical processes experienced by several families as they arrived at the Moroturo Valley:

“... In 1948 we go, arrives the first family. I am Indian, the proper root. Here they divide (themselves) by name, Adjuntas, Querales, Perozos, Pineda, Timaures, Piña, we are the same tribes. We distinguish ourselves by our last names. They arrived at San José del Palmar, La Pollana, belonging to Mr. Cornelio Rodríguez. They arrived there to work with a señor called López. There they were jornaleando (daily wage laboring), collecting corn. They collected corn, sugarcane, pumpkin and sweet potato. Their landlord told them, there is a free mountain on the land (right) in front. If you want to work it, take it. He got into the land and cultivated 140 hectares of corn, manioc, topocho (variety of musacea), quinchoncho (kind of bean), beans. Three years later, he brought the family to make a house inside, they bring their things. KR- Where did they come from? DA- from where? From La Venta, they said there they would find free land, that everybody should come, that there is land. A good group of eight families was coming, carrying everything that they had. The people located themselves there, and all that (became) full of food. Lopez tells them, I gave you that (montaña) to work, you filled it with people and now it is a town. Lopez talked with Marco Pérez Jiménez who was the boss and rich. And the boss said that that land belonged to Don Lopez, (and) he says that he needs the land. He said, you pick up everything that is (on the plot), the land is not yours, that‟s what it is. He told them that he had another mountain. Those (Ayamán people) love those mountains. When they were already inside there, they also filled that, they made a house. The Sr. says that they should give him (back) the land, I told you that I wanted it for work, he said but that land is mine. But what can we do? Let‟s go to Caño Negro, but there was no water, we had to go from one pole to the other to collect water. They took out the family from Caño Negro, there we did sell the lands. We went out to Moroturo. Because of studying, many have been superando (accessing higher social status). (Domingo Adjuntas. Moroturo Abajo, August 2007).

This narrative reveals the high spatial mobility of some Ayamán families who in less than a decade migrated to three different places within the Moroturo Valley. Thus, 122

mobility seemed to be an effective territorial strategy employed by some Ayamán families in order to mitigate the pressures of landowners and the violations of sharecropping contracts. From this text, one also learns that Ayamans are represented as

“lovers” of the mountains. This image evokes fragments of the mobilizing habitus of

Ayaman people, which involved the preferential occupation of peripheral areas. This fragment also shows the complex relationships of this indigenous population with local landowners. The reported dialogue between the landowner (Sr. Lopez) and the Ayamán family depicts the processes of de-territorialization experienced by this indigenous group during the mid-twentieth century. This dialogue further illustrates the formation of verbal contracts indicating the need of Ayamán people to sell their labor power in order to access land.

This historical memory also suggests the territorial pressure that Ayamán families experienced in the sector of Aguada Grande, as they claimed that there was free land in

Moroturo. In sum, one can sense how the expansion of the agricultural frontier and of cattle ranching practices shaped the territoriality of Ayamán peoples, as they continued performing strategies of mobility in order to look for land-based resources. Yet ironically this particular mobilizing habitus also entailed strong degrees of articulation and dependency on landlords and capitalist farmers.

Let us explore other historical narratives of arrivals at Moroturo which illustrate some of the strategies enacted by Ayamán actors. Mariana , Queen of the Tura dances who remembers the arrival of her family to the aforementioned region:

“We arrived at Moroturo, and as we did not have house we arrived under a palo (tree), where we tied up the donkeys. Later Isabel Medina rented us a miruca 123

(small wooden house), the sister-in-law of Alejandro Timaure. They had conuco (family subsistence plot). Later we bought the house of Lucila Arrieche, in the cerro (hill) there were only three little houses. The Timaure were there, but they lived in the same house as Sinforoso Hurtado, those were turero, they came from the vegones (riverbanks near Aguada Grande) where we came from. Here in the Palmar of San José, near the cerro Moroturo were the Adjuntas, Juan Adjuntas, Rogelio Adjuntas, Diego Adjuntas, Anastasio Adjuntas, Leonidas Adjuntas, Ezequiel Adjuntas. Sirila Querales, Domingo Querales y Enriqueta Adjuntas were also there, all those tureros. The musicians were the Torreabla, Geniro Torreabla. All that was montaña. Severiano Adjuntas and Balbina Suárez also came from Río Abajo, from El Abra, that is all llaná (plains), cardones (cactus), sheep, they were coming seeking land suitable for cultivating” (Mariana, Moroturo, October 2007). Petra an ex turera dancer also remembers the early days when she and her family arrived at Moroturo:

“P- When I arrived, my comadre lived there, and the mother of Modesto (the actual mayordomo of the Tura dances). There they lived. The one who is there is Cruz Martínez and where Carlos lives belonged the late (recently deceased) Pedro. Before this was all montaña, there were small trails, the lions could be heard when they passed the quebrá (small stream), the lions roncaban (snored) KR- Why did you come? P- I don‟t remember, the crops did not grow, there was no rain. First my uncle came, then my grandfather and after him my father. He built a shack around there to bring them, further down, next to La Pollana. They came with my grandfather, they came sacando tarea (performing daily wage labor)” (Petra, Moroturo, October 2007).

These memories show how many families enacted the strategies of mobilizing across space in order to mitigate climate changes and lack of resources. The use of the last names evokes lineages of Ayamán families and how these groups became linked to specific places. In the first narrative of Mariana, one observes the relevance of turero identity as a force linking Ayamán migrating families with their strategies of creating new localities within their territory. They recognize themselves as people from the vegones (riverbanks), of the region of Aguada Grande. This locality is depicted in many 124

narrations as a place of “authentic” old tureros.32 Maria‟s testimony also reveals how

Ayamans embraced the strategy of purchasing houses and lands, as she states how their family bought a house.

The narrative of Petra, also explains how her family gradually arrived to Moroturo due to the lack of rain. Petra indicates that she and her family were from Las Catalinas near the vegones (riverbanks), and that her father sold all his possessions in this region before arriving at Moroturo. She also stated that her grandfather was an old turero and he had a patio that was moved to El Palmar.

Overall, around the mid twentieth century, Ayamans arrived at the Moroturo

Valley in search of new lands for production. Many of these families had to abandon their practices of cultivating sisal and cocuy, and raising sheep. In this process of migration, they continued to be jornaleros in the coffee haciendas and in the expanding cattle ranches. In some cases, they were motivated by the need to search for better lands in order to guarantee subsistence crops, and in other cases, they were forced to move by local landowners. In this very process, they reproduced diverse strategies of mobility across their territory. However, through these local migrations, Ayamans were not disarticulated from the colonizing effects of the modern State. By 1961 the Moroturo

Valley was selected as an experiment site for implementing Agrarian Reform projects. In fact, the emerging democratic State established an asentamiento campesino (peasant settlement) precisely in this Valley.

32 Mariana, queen of the Tura dances says that at the vegones, people filled three canoes with chicha (fermented corn) during the rituals. This act indicates the great attendance of tureros and the importance of the leaders of this ritual. 125

Agrarian Reform in Moroturo: politics of exclusion for Ayamán people

After the removal of Dictator Marcos Pérez Jimenez in 1958, Rómulo Betancourt

(AD‟s most prominent political leader) was elected President. Under these circumstances, the State promulgated the Agrarian Reform Law on March 5th of 1960, as part of a plan for peaceful land reform33 (Ley de Reforma Agraria 1961).

In 1961 the Agrarian Reform was implemented in the Moroturo Valley. The so- called Proyecto Moroturo involved the distribution and regulation of 24,640 hectares of cultivable lands and the establishment of an asentamiento campesino (peasant settlement)

(Armas 1998). A total of 1,600 plots of 10 hectares each were allotted to different peasant families. These plots were later grouped in 14 lots. Each family was given one of these plots, with a house and a cow. During the early stage of this peasant settlement, substantial volumes of corn and sorghum were produced. The valley was even called at the time “the granary of Lara State,” due to its high levels of productivity. At the time, there was significant credit support providing fertilizers, seeds, herbicides and pesticides.

33 There have been many positions regarding the impacts of this Agrarian Law. Some point out that by 1980 the agrarian reform was still slow but that in fact managed to benefit 313,864 peasants by giving some access to land. Supporters of the reform also highlight that between 1951 and 1971, land renters decreased from 23.78% to 5% (Gímenez 1998). However, the reform also received significant critiques in terms of its concrete impact on the agrarian structure. Many scholars point out that the reform increased the number of middle size land holdings, not meeting the objective of expanding the number of small units. Comparative data from the agrarian census of 1961 and 1971 suggests that holdings of less than 50 hectares diminished from 8.4 % to 7.5%, while medium holdings (between 50-999.9 ha) increased from 20.3 to 25.6%. Large holdings, on the other hand, only diminished from 71.7% to 66.9%. In general, critics argue that after more than 15 years of reform, land concentration in few hands did not vary significantly (Delahaye 2001). 126

They also received financial support for purchasing trucks and sowing machinery. A

Technical School of Agriculture was even established at Moroturo.34

From this early process of Agrarian Reform, Ayamans were systematically excluded. Historical narratives of some of the first Ayamán settlers at Moroturo indicate that they only participated in order to cut down trees and clean the lands of the adjudicated plots. Of the Ayaman families that I interviewed in Moroturo only three received land in the peasant settlement or parcelamiento. In this regard, Mr. Tobías said:

“ …at that time we were only taken into account in order to tumbar las montañas (cut down the trees), due to our force…none of us received land during the parcelamiento, we were left aside” (Tobías Moroturo, November 2007).

Graciela also remembers in this sense:

“…in Moroturo they gave one plot, a house and a cow, no one here has one of those plots, the rich started buying them, one rich plot goes from here (her house) to the road.” (Graciela, Moroturo, August 2007).

These fragments as well as many other historical memories of Ayamán people reveal how this population was systematically excluded from State land reform processes.

In fact, most people who were given the plots were from other regions such as Falcón and

Barquisimeto. This situation suggests that Ayamans had in general limited strategies for negotiating access to land and financial credit from the State. Moreover, as I will show further on, between the 1970s and 1990s, many Ayamans continued losing access to land as they witnessed the rapid expansion of cattle ranches and commercial agriculture.

34 A gradual decrease in the productivity of these plots due to the lack of continuity in financial assistance was later reported. Thus, many families decided to sell their rights of occupation during times of intense drought or financial difficulties. Today some of these plots are occupied while others are completely abandoned.

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“Pajonal contra conuco:” the expansion of cattle ranches

From the 1970s to the 1990s, many Ayamán families in Moroturo started to lose their lands.35 Cattle ranches expanded into the Moroturo Valley, encroaching on the land of small holders. Many Ayamán families remember with rage and irony how William

Ereu, a former Mayor of the Urdaneta Municipality became owner of most of the lands surrounding the Cerro Moroturo. Many household heads indicate that they had to sell their plots to this State functionary. The transactions usually occurred during times of need, especially when members of the family got sick and they required cash in order to travel to Barquisimeto. Jacinto in this regard states:

“Many here sold to William Ereu, who was the Mayor, he started buying and now he is a multimillionaire, he has more than 3 thousand head of cattle and more than five hundred hectares of land, and the rest of us do not even have where to work.” (Jacinto, Moroturo, November 2007).

Because of this process of land loss, many Ayamán families started to migrate to the state of Portuguesa in order to work as seasonal laborers in large corn and sesame plantations. Some of these families migrated in groups to Turén, only to return later to

Moroturo after each cropping season. Other family members adopted the strategy of working on the expanding cattle ranches. Many male Ayamán household heads started to

35 Between 1974 and 1982, the economic policies of import substitution of the Venezuelan State started to collapse. Still, the high prices of oil aided the State to cope with this crisis and keep supporting agricultural subsidies (Coronil 1997). Land reform was reoriented to the regularization of land tenure and credit programs. Later, during the rest of the 1980s, the dramatic fall of oil prices produced the collapse of the redistributive policies of the State. Under these circumstances, the State concentrated on the repayment of its external debt, and on the development of its land market (Delahaye 2001; Arias 2001). In general, the late twentieth century experienced a process „medianización‟ or increase of middle size holdings (Giménez 1998; Delahaye 2001).

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work as jornaleros (day laborers) in the lands of Ereu and of other local landowners.

They basically work year round placing wooden poles and wire fences, and cleaning and caring for the grasslands dedicated to pasture.

Today many Ayamán families indicate that they are surrounded by cattle ranches and their fences. They barely have land for cultivating subsistence plots, as 75% of their occupied plots do not exceed 1 hectare per family. These families cultivate a great diversity of crops: mainly corn and black beans, complemented with papaya, manioc, pumpkin, and banana. Some households started to produce aloe vera and pineapple, as these products are in high demand in international markets. Other Ayamán members of the community also raise a few cattle (maximum 3 heads) and sheep, yet this practice requires renting lands for pasture at very high rates.

Overall, one can sense how by the end of the twentieth century, Ayamán people were shaped by a process of proletarianization. They adopted new spatial strategies as they started to migrate to other States in order to search for work. Moreover, other families were directly subjected to the monopolizing strategies of local ranchers. This process involved the separation of Ayamán families from their conucos, and their reconnection as wage laborers in these very same spaces. Yet since most Ayaman members did not participate in peasant organizations or land committees, they had limited possibilities for recovering land or embracing legal strategies against land encroachments.

Instead, the Ayamans focused on reproducing their ritual organizations. As they moved across space or lost lands, they continued constructing turero patios, where they 129

celebrated the annual rites of the Tura dances. As I will later explain in Chapter 6, these ritual practices served Ayaman people to engage in negotiations with the State and with other local political factions. These rituals became central strategies for mitigating the multiple political-ecological changes of the region and for guaranteeing a certain degree of political and cultural autonomy.

Concluding remarks

This historical overview shows how Ayamán people were actively incorporated into the colonial regime since 1530. They were radically impacted by the capitulación given to the Welsares in 1528, the establishment of encomiendas in 1608, the formation of towns and doctrinas since 1617, the incursions of raiders in the 1640s, and by the establishment of a resguardo in 1720. These colonial forms of incorporation were in turn contested by the Ayamán using diverse strategies of mobility. In this process, Ayamans managed to establish cumbes based on strategic alliances with black and runaway slaves.

In spite of their articulation with the Spanish colonial regime, Ayamans were able to maintain a certain degree of autonomy.

Little is known about Ayamán people during the nineteenth century. Scattered evidence suggests that their support shifted between political factions during the process of independence, as they gradually became wage laborers within the new expanding coffee economy. Yet it is possible that they managed to maintain a certain degree of mobility and autonomy within the resguardo, in spite of the devastating effects of the wars of independence, and their relative participation during the Federal Wars. 130

The early twentieth century also transformed Ayamán forms of incorporation within the nation-state‟s economic structure, as they engaged in the production of sisal in the arid lands and continued to work as wage laborers or medianeros (sharecroppers) in coffee haciendas. Yet, by the 1950s, they started to migrate to the Moroturo Valley, due to a prolonged drought and to the collapse of the sisal industry. In this process they occupied idle lands as they contributed to expand the agrarian frontier in the region.

Thus, regardless of their strong articulation with the expanding capitalist agricultural system, Ayamán indigenous people continued to enact strategies of spatial mobility in order to meet their demands on land-based resources and secure certain degrees of autonomy.

In the 1960s, Ayamán people were also shaped by the Agrarian Reform. This indigenous population was significantly excluded from the process of land distribution. It was only employed by the State, as labor to clean the lands. Subsequently, Ayamans gradually lost most of their land, as they sold their productive conucos during times of vulnerability. Cattle ranches also expanded into the region, while structural adjustment policies made poor peasants even more vulnerable. During this process, most conucos were incorporated and dissolved into large hatos (cattle ranches). These processes increased structural inequalities among the local population of the Moroturo Valley. Thus by 1999, Ayamans had very little access to land-based resources, as their territories continued to be fragmented by the ever expanding strategies of cattle ranchers.

Overall, this historical overview shows that Ayamans people have not been an isolated indigenous group, as suggested by many ethnographers (Arcaya 1906, 1920, 131

Oramas 1916, Jahn 1973, Febres-Cordero 1941, Dominguez 1984). Instead, they have been actively engaged in colonial and postcolonial economic, political and cultural formations. They have also created different spatial strategies in response to their incorporation into the colonial regime and the modern nation-State. Their diverse mobilizing habitii have produced multiple strategies involving: spatial mobility, non- direct political participation or engagement within the State, proletarianization processes, household fragmentation, cycles of occupying and losing land, exclusion from State public policies, and the transformation of local indigenous identities.

Some of these strategies have continued into the present, while new ones have emerged after the Ayamán people were recognized by the new multicultural Venezuelan

State in 1999. In the nearby lands of Veroes in the state of Yaracuy, afrodescendant people have experienced common and different historical processes. However, as I show in the following Chapter the formation and transformation of their mobilizing habitus has been quite different, as have their forms of engaging and negotiating with the Venezuelan

State. 132

CHAPTER 3. CIMARRONES, COMUNEROS AND CAMPESINOS: AFRODESCENDANT HISTORICAL EXPERIENCES IN THE YARACUY VALLEY

This Chapter examines the multiple historical processes experienced by afrodescendant people in the Yaracuy Valley between 1555 and 1999. I show how people of African origin developed multiple strategies for contesting and/or negotiating their processes of incorporation within the colonial and post-colonial States. Overall, I explore how these afrodescendant communities created and transformed multilayered “mobilizing habitus,” shaped by experiences of slavery, violence, ethno-racial alliances, political networks, processes of land struggle, and proletarianization.

The black zone (zona Negra) of the Yaracuy Valley roughly corresponds with the contemporary municipality of Veroes, which is made up by the afrodescendant communities of El Chino, Farriar, Palmarejo, Agua Negra, Taría, and La Olla (Figure 6).

Most of these localities share a long history that can be traced back to the early colonial period and the formation of cocoa haciendas and cumbes (runaway settlements).

This afrodescendant territory is located in the depression of the middle and lower

Yaracuy River. The region is characterized by alluvial plains of deltaic and maritime constitution. This tectonic depression is surrounded to the north by the mountain formation of Aroa and to the south by the Nirgua Mountain Range (Vila 1966b:25).

Towards the east, is the delta of the Yaracuy River that flows into the Caribbean Sea.

These lowlands, approximately at 40 mts. above sea level, are seasonally inundated by the Yaracuy River and its tributaries. This explains the existence of dense macrotermic

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Agua Negra

Palmarejo

Palo Quemado Farriar

Hacienda La Rosita

Río Marcano El Chino

LOS CAÑIZOS Taria

Macagua

Río Yaracuy

San Felipe

0 2000 4000 6000 8000 mt

Figure 6. Contemporary afrodescendant communities of the Yaracuy River 134

tropical forests, which are rich in palms (yagua [Attalea sp], Palma redonda [Sabal maucitieformis]) and large trees such as tuque (Ocotea sp), samán (samena saman), carbonero (Piptadenia psilostachya) among many other species (Vila 1966b:67).

Slave Trade, Miners, and Kings

The first licenses to introduce black slaves into Venezuela were issued in 1525.

(Brito-Figueroa 1985:169; Acosta-Saignes 1987:23). During the colonial period, most of the black enslaved people of the Province of Venezuela were forcibly brought from the regions of Angola, Guinea, Congo and Sierra Leone (Acosta-Saignes 1987). From these regions were also introduced members of distinct ethnic groups such as Angolas (Dande and Kwanza Rivers), Zape (Sierra Leone) Congos (Democratic Republic of Congo),

Luangos (Congo River), Malembas, Bantú (Congo), Bras (Niger), Nalus (Guinea Bissau),

Biafras (Cameroon), Tare or Tarí (Mono River), and Minas (Cameroon) (Acosta-Saignes

1961, 1987).

The first concession to import black slaves to northwestern Venezuela was given to the Welsares in 1528. This German company introduced 2,500 slaves into the region in order to develop their gold mining projects. By 1550, the Welsares had introduced about eighty slaves to the mines of Buría - which belonged to the jurisdiction of Nueva Segovia de Barquisimeto (Friede 1961:123; Brito-Figueroa 1985:170; Acosta-Saignes 1987:24). It is difficult to estimate the total number of black enslaved people that arrived at Yaracuy, and their particular ethnicity, since relevant historical evidence is fragmentary. Yet it is clear that black slaves were requested during this early stage of colonization in order to 135

back mining projects in the region. However, many enslaved people embraced the strategy of running away from the mines and incipient haciendas, which in turn generated increases in the demand for labor (Brito-Figueroa 1985).

El Rey Miguel: contesting colonial territorializations

One of the earliest black movements in the Province of Venezuela took place at the mines of Buría (in the contemporary state of Yaracuy). This insurrection started in

1552 with the uprising of fifty slaves lead by one of them named Miguel. This group of rebels attacked some soldiers and managed to take objects and mining instruments for the production of weapons. Women also played a key role in the organization of the movement, especially Giomar who was Miguel‟s partner. After this initial revolt, the runaway slaves established a cumbe or “independent political unit” in the nearby sierras, east of the city of Nueva Segovia, which they named Curduvaré (Herrera 2003:107). In this new independent locality, according to Spanish documentary sources, Miguel named himself Rey (King), and gave to Giomar the title of Reina (Queen). These hierarchal forms of political leadership were possibly projected by the colonial conceptions of the

Spanish regime, as they also indicate that Miguel‟s son was named prince and that he had ministers, bishops and officials (Simón 1625 in Herrera 2003:110).

From this cumbe location, Miguel encouraged black slaves, mulatos and Jirajara

Indians to follow his example and to destroy colonized cultivated fields. Thus, in alliance 136

with Jirajara Indians36 this group of afrodescendants killed several Spanish soldiers and destroyed their mining equipment at Buría. Three years later, Miguel and his followers prepared an attack on Nueva Segovia (Barquisimeto) and El Tocuyo. In 1553, a group of two hundred fifty runaway slaves and Indians attacked Nueva Segovia killing and wounding many vecinos (neighbors), priests and soldiers and destroying and burning churches and houses. Afterwards, the colonial authorities managed to locate the cumbe and finally assassinated Miguel and captured some of his followers (Brito-Figueroa 1961,

1985; Alegría 1984; Acosta 1999; Herrera 2003; Ramos 2005).

The objectives and motivations of this rebellion have been widely debated in the historiography. During the colonial period, this movement was interpreted as a savage, malign, depraved, and diabolic act (Ramos 2005). Some modern historians like Arcaya, even argued that Miguel was simply driven by unconscious impulses. For Brito-Figueroa

(1985) the insurrection of Negro Miguel must be understood as a movement promoted by the exploitation and suffering experienced by black and indigenous peoples during the period of conquest. In his view, Miguel‟s rebellion was a reaction to slavery (Brito-

Figueroa 1985:206-207). In this line of thought, Herrera suggests that this movement must be considered an insurrection that had the clear intentions of eliminating the system of slavery and destroying Spanish settlements (2003:114).

36 The formation of the cumbe was based on alliances with the Jirajara indigenous population. It is worth mentioning that this indigenous group resisted with violence for more than two hundred years their incorporation into the Spanish regime. However, the interethnic relationships among black slaves and Jirajara Indians were not always optimum. Between 1624 and 1639 black slaves and mulatto soldiers, in fact participated in processes of “reducing” and “pacifying” Jirajara Indians in the southern highlands of Yaracuy. Because of this process, the town of Nirgua was established as one of the first republics of mulattos in the province of Venezuela (Páez 1998:25; Humboldt 2004:52).

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This rebellion not only reveals the effects of the gold mining projects under the colonial State. It also sheds light on how some afrodescendant actors had the capacity to create at the cumbes new strategies of political organization and interethnic alliances.

This movement also represents a fundamental historical narrative among many contemporary afrodescendant people in the region. In other words, it constitutes one of the most important nodes in the historical imagination of afrodescendant peoples in

Yaracuy, and it symbolizes a source of political agency shaping contemporary forms of mobilization.37

Encomiendas, Haciendas, Cocoa, and Doctrinas

During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the Spanish regime established in the Yaracuy Valley was made up of a complex mosaic of encomiendas, towns, missions, and haciendas.38 Mule trails and narrow dirt roads interconnected these colonial spaces (Piñero 1994:76). As the mining projects started to deteriorate, many colonizers dedicated themselves developing haciendas and plantations.39 Slaves were

37 I will further discuss in chapter 8 how representations of Miguel‟s rebellion are articulated in mobilizing discourses of the contemporary Afroyaracuyan movement. 38 Around 1630, towards the northeast of the Yaracuy region, along the Aroa River, Alonso Sanchez de Oviedo established the copper mines of Cocorote or what has been called as the “minas de Aroa.” This extractive activity employed the labor of black slaves that were brought from the ports of Puerto Cabello and Borburata (Acosta-Saignes 1987:151-170; Vila 1966b:70). Yet many slaves managed to escape from these mines, establishing several cumbes in the region. This region was one of the few mining centers of northwestern Venezuela until the late nineteenth century. 39 Wolf and Mintz (1977) distinguish between haciendas and plantations in the Caribbean. The hacienda type in general operated with scarce capital. Haciendas usually did not expand their production, as they served small stable markets. Families owned these productive units as wealth circulated among kinship networks (1977:37). Both haciendas and plantations required large extensions of land. Yet the former tended to control enough land to ensure also the existence of subsistence plots, as well as access to forest resources for the reproduction of its labor (1977:39). Plantations on the other hand, were characterized by their high degree of capitalization since their production was usually oriented to large supranational markets. These productive units usually required large extensions of land to ensure their 138

brought to the lowlands surrounding the middle and lower Yaracuy River. These lands, characterized by heavy rains and high temperatures, were considered by missionaries and

Spanish settlers as suitable for the establishment of cocoa haciendas (Piñero 1994:76). As the Indian population fled from the missions and encomiendas, more black slaves were required in order to meet productive demands.

In the Yaracuy Valley, the owners of the haciendas were of different social status and castes, ranging from white nobles, commoners, indigenous people, free blacks and poor people. Although slaves did not own land, they had rights of use in some cocoa groves (Piñero 1994:77). Yet in general, the lives of most black enslaved people in

Yaracuy were associated with the establishment of cocoa haciendas and plantations (Vila

1966b; Perazzo 1982; Piñero 1994; Páez 1998). The gradual expansion of cocoa haciendas demanded increases in black slave labor. Each enslaved person had the duty to take care of nine hundred trees. This same productive structure was also implemented by the ecclesiastic latifundia at the missions, who tended to employ indigenous people as labor (Perera 1964; Páez 1998:45). Yet it is also known that some free Indians owned some cocoa haciendas in the region (Piñero 1994:76).40

possibilities of expansion. They also tended to have very little unproductive land. (1977:48-51). Overall, the authors argue that the initial condition for the establishment of haciendas was the lack of capital and not the absence of labor. 40 These cocoa haciendas were based on the “organic relationship” between agriculture for exportation and subsistence agriculture (for family reproduction) (Ríos and Carvallo 1990:59). Subsistence forms of production were in fact a necessary condition that was part of what has been known as the binomio plantación-conuco (binomial plantation-household subsistence plot) (Carvallo and Hernández 1977). Moreover, the haciendas were not homogenous territories. Cocoa and sugar cane haciendas did not necessarily mean large extensions of continuous land. These productive units in the central coastal region of Venezuela were usually fragmented and their surrounding hills or mountain regions constituted “reserves” for developing conuco activities (Ríos and Carvallo 1990:59). The maintenance of reserve lands for conuco production was a condition sine qua non for the functioning of export agricultural production. 139

The agrarian census of 1720 indicates that in the Valley of Yaracuy there were twenty-seven landowners owning a total of 1,070 hectares planted with 53,500 cocoa trees (Páez 1998:47). Missionaries, Spanish and Canary Island landowners produced this crop in large quantities. The cocoa seeds were transported along the Yaracuy River and exported in many cases without permission from Nueva Segovia de Barquisimeto (Páez

1998).

Most colonial haciendas of the middle and lower Yaracuy Valley were located near the towns of Los Cañizos, Palo Quemado, Macagua and Limoncito, which were populated by poor whites, black slaves, mestizos and mulatos (Perera 1964). The cocoa hacienda Las Rositas specifically corresponds with the geographical location of Farriar

(where I conducted this contemporary ethnographic study). Yet no specific information on the number of enslaved peoples and other groups is available for this particular locality. Additionally, Don Pedro José de Olavaría (1720-1721) also reported the existence of other cocoa haciendas in Canoabó, Urama, Cabria and Taría.41 These towns have been historically articulated to the area of study as there are documents indicating that runaway slaves traveled between these communities (Felice-Cardot 1957).42

This form of subsistence activity guaranteed a sufficient labor supply for the seasonal demands of the haciendas (Ríos and Carvallo 1990:60). 41 It has been suggested that there may be a connection between the name of Taría and the Tarí African group who were brought from the Mono River (Togo) (Acosta-Saignes 1987). 42 These settlements were mainly populated by black slaves and free people who worked for the haciendas. Historical records also indicate the existence of capellanías de negros in the towns of Cabria and Taría, which also had their origin in the formation of hatos and haciendas. These capellanías were responsible for indoctrinating enslaved blacks in the haciendas (Perera 1964:43). Finally, by 1773 Bishop Martí confirmed the existence of these towns and indicated that they were populated by slaves and free people who engaged in the production of cocoa (Vila 1966a; Vila 1980).

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Thus, by the mid-eighteenth century, the territory of the Yaracuy Valley was occupied by a complex network of cocoa haciendas, missions, towns and cumbes. The

Guipuzcoana Company (1729-1784) was established in the region in order to control the commerce of cacao exports. This company built a custom house at the confluence of the

Cocorotico and Yaracuy rivers, in order to manage the many boats that transported cocoa from the valley. This situation created great tensions with the missionaries, the Canaries and free blacks who had established complex illegal commercial networks with the Dutch

(Perera 1964; Páez 1998).

However, the so called “reserve spaces” located around the haciendas (Ríos and

Carvallo 1990) were not as homogenous as they seemed. These territories were deeply articulated with or even made up of, cumbe locations in which runaway black slaves and indigenous people constructed alternative settlements. Local historians indicate that many cumbes were established around the hacienda of Las Rositas (near Farriar), Taría, Cabria, the mission of San Javier and the settlement of Los Cañizos. These territories were formed by runaway black slaves escaped from the mines of Aroa, from local cocoa haciendas and from Coro and the Curaçao Island (William Sequera, Gustavo Suárez, and

Gabriel López, personal communication 2007). Unfortunately very little is known about the internal political and cultural dynamics of cumbe territories in Yaracuy, and the multiple social relations reproduced among afrodescendant, “white” and indigenous peoples. What is known is that by 1730 at least four cumbes had been established in the middle-lower Yaracuy River. These spaces were controlled and organized by Andresote, 141

a cimarrón (runaway slave) leader who established direct negotiations with Dutch cocoa smugglers and with other interested colonial groups.

Andresote: the cimarrón leader

The rebellion of Andresote requires a detailed examination since it represents one of the most significant historical identity markers among contemporary Afroyaracuyan peoples of the Municipality of Veroes. Moreover his actions reveal the formation of a complex collective “mobilizing habitus,” based on a wide range of economic, political and defensive strategies.

Around 1732, Spanish authorities expressed their concern regarding the constant smuggling practices of black slaves and of large groups of free blacks in the region. The zambo Andrés López del Rosario, also called Andresote, was an enslaved man born in

Valencia (north central Venezuela), who since the early eighteenth century had become a cimarrón. He led many groups of armed rebels that fought to protect their commercial activities with the Dutch and with the missionaries. His troops were supported by cumbes located on the Aroa riverbanks, at the royal trails of San Nicolás and San Pedro and between the Yaracuy and the Taría rivers. The latter locality was in fact the main settlement of Andresote and his followers (Felice-Cardot 1957:46; Acosta-Saignes

1987:268). This group of subaltern rebels also had the support of the black population and poor whites of the towns of Morón, Alpargatón, Sanchón, Urama, Taría and Cabria.43

43 It is said that he used to attend catholic mass in Cabria, while at the same time he commanded “armed forces” to protect local commercial networks from the monopolizing interests of the Guipuzcoana Company (Felice-Cardot 1957; Perera 1964).

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This leader also managed to build a wide range of political and economic alliances with different status groups in the region. Settlers of the city of San Felipe were in fact accused of collaborating with Andresote, since its Canary Island inhabitants opposed the control and monopolization of the Guipuzcoana Company (Perera 1964; Acosta-Saignes

1987:268). It is also reported that some missionaries supported Andresote and his commercial arrangements with the Dutch (Perera 1964: 17). However, in general,

Andresote‟s “followers” were composed of blacks and Indians who ran away from the houses and haciendas of their “white owners.” This afrodescendant leader also counted on the “interested” support of Dutch smugglers from Curaçao, who provided ships, gunpowder, weapons, alcohol, and tabacco to the rebels in exchange for cocoa (Felice-

Cardot 1957; Brito-Figueroa 1961:46; Acosta-Saignes 1987). Thus it is clear that this afrodescendant leader and his supporters performed a wide range of strategies of alliance in order to secure the support of diverse status and ethno-racial groups in the region.

Moreover Andresote and his followers also managed to articulate effective defensive strategies. Many documents refer to the violent encounters of this leader with Spanish regional authorities; in most cases the latter were unsuccessful in controlling these

“rebels” (Felice-Cardot 1957; Brito-Figueroa 1985). For instance, in 1734, a military expedition of three hundred soldiers was organized from Caracas, in order to capture

Andresote and his supporters. Yet the mission was dismantled by several successful ambushes of the mobilized runaway people (Brito-Figueroa 1985:210).

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The cimarrón strategies of Andresote were also characterized by their wide- ranging geographical impact. In fact, the colonial government had to organize a new expedition with 1,500 soldiers brought directly from the ports of La Guaira and Puerto

Cabello. At the mouth of the Yaracuy River, the Spanish authorities constructed a fort with a capacity for 8 to 10 canons. However, these efforts were again unsuccessful. One colonial functionary confessed that they were unable to reach this leader because:

“…the monte where these wicked people dwell is impenetrable, and only they can move with ease there since they have been raised in the said montes, and these are very extensive, since they have more than forty leguas, all closed, and that impedes the deployment of armed forces to fight them” (Brito-Figueroa 1985:210).

It becomes evident how late colonial authorities had very little capacity to control or even enter in cumbe territories. This colonial representation of the cumbe shows how afrodescendant people managed to create alternative territories and perform effective defensive strategies. Yet, these cumbes were by no means isolated localities. On the contrary, they were open to the formation of alliances and relationships with other colonizing forces or other subaltern groups such as fugitive Indians and poor whites

(Pollak-Eltz 2000:67). Overall, although many of these cumbes were later destroyed by

Spanish expeditions, this mobile runaway population of blacks, zambos and Indians managed to establish other cimarrón settlements in more distant locations (Perera 1964).

In general, Andresote has been represented by official historiographers as having different characteristics and motivations. Some argue that he was a bandit, who was only motivated by his personal interest in accumulating power and capital (Felice-Cardot

1957; Páez 1998). Others have pointed out that Andresote conducted a sort of civil war 144

against the Guipuzcoana company (Vila 1966b:185). However, several historians indicate that the actions of Andresote represented a struggle against slavery, which is reflected in the great support that he had from most afrodescendant peoples in the region (Brito-

Figueroa 1985; Acosta-Saignes 1987; Suárez and Sequera 2001).

Moreover, contemporary afrodescendant activists in Veroes argue that Andresote has been misrepresented by the official historiography, since he was a great ideologist and political leader. Today Andresote is an important historical figure in the Yaracuy

Valley. The Afroyaracuyan movement in Farriar, Palmarejo and Agua Negra consider that this leader inspires their current struggles. Some indicate that his spirit protects many of his descendants in their struggles against landowners, repressive State forces, and transnational interests. In sum one can sense how the strategies of Andresote are reinterpreted in the present and incorporated within the contemporary mobilizing habitus of local actors. In Chapter eight, I explore in more detail how historical memories of

Andresote structure many of the mobilizing frames of the Afroyaracuyan movement in

Veroes.

By the end of the eighteenth century, the number of mulattoes in the region of

Yaracuy increased. In 1776 before the official ratification of the Cédula Gracias al

Sacar, the city of San Felipe had already started to open procedures of limpieza de sangre, which to some extent permitted the social mobility of some mulattoes (Páez

1998:51). Thus, the ethno-racial mosaic of the Yaracuy Valley was significantly transformed by the pressure of mulatos and their goal to move up within the caste system, 145

as well as by the smuggling practices of cimarrones, free blacks, black slaves, Indians, and poor whites.

Yet, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, the complex articulation of colonial locations (haciendas, missions, cumbes and towns) started to be affected by the gradual dismemberment of the Spanish regime. In Yaracuy, the afrodescendant population had heard of the black rebellion of Coro (1795), (Arcaya 1949; Aizpúrua

1983; Soriano 2009), and of the activities of Guillermo Ribas in the Barlovento region

(1767) (Acosta-Saignes 1987; García 1989). Moreover, black slaves, mulatos, and free blacks circulated the news that the Spanish King had issued new laws ensuring better treatment for enslaved peoples. However, the divulgation of this information had been zealously fought by white criollos. This colonial silencing strategy of news that got to be common knowledge, created great tensions among black slaves, and many sought to escape from haciendas and plantations (Pollak-Eltz 2000).

As the wars of independence developed, afrodescendant people experienced new transformations since the colonial agrarian structure was dismembered and the caste system was legally abolished. The following section examines how afrodescendant people experienced new transformations, as they became wage laborers, or medianeros

(sharecroppers) in the surviving haciendas (De la Plaza 1980; Brito-Figueroa 1985).

Throughout this process, they reshaped their mobilizing habitus, as they engaged with the post-colonial Republican State.

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Manumission, medianeros and jornaleros: afrodescendants during Independence and civil wars

During the early nineteenth century, the population of the Yaracuy Valley was severely affected by smallpox epidemics, the destructive effects of the independence wars, and the earthquake of San Felipe in 1812. When the province of Caracas first claimed its independence from Spain on April 19th of 1810, San Felipe declared its support for this political cause.44 In turn, realist troops from Coro entered this territory seizing food supplies in the town of San Nicolás. This process provoked the immediate flight of many slaves from the haciendas, whether out of fear, or simply taking advantage of the opportunity (Paéz 1998:81).

Later on, after the fall of the First Republic in 1813, the properties of many white revolutionary criollos of Yaracuy were confiscated by the Junta de Secuestros

(Confiscation Council) (Páez 1998:73). This process of confiscation produced significant changes in the land tenure regime, as small properties became accumulated in fewer hands. During this period, black slaves started to escape in greater numbers, encouraged by the circulating liberal discourses on equality and freedom. In fact, there are reports pointing out the shortage of black slaves in many cocoa haciendas of the Yaracuy Valley.

This decline of slave labor, in turn, increased the incorporation of peones (unskilled labor or farm hands) as part of the labor force in the local cocoa haciendas (Páez 1998:74).

44 The white criollos of this city in fact collected funds to support the revolutionary troops (Páez 1998). Yet, not all cities and Provinces of Venezuela supported the project of Caracas. In fact, in northwestern Venezuela, Maracaibo and Coro declared themselves in favor of Spain.

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Moreover, since there was limited access to capital, the infrastructure and productive patterns of many haciendas deteriorated.

Very little information is available concerning the political positioning of the local afrodescendant population during the early wars of independence. Official historiography only recognizes the participation of José Joaquín Veroes, as one of the few examples of afrodescendant participation within the process of independence.45What can be inferred is that the local afrodescendant population must have developed different strategies to adapt to the complex political changes in the region and to its multiple contradictions and violent processes. One can hypothesize that some black slaves had the opportunity to escape and join one or another of the diverse existing cumbes in the region. Others could even have supported the process of independence. Yet, the actions, decisions and practices of afrodescendant peoples during this early period of independence have been silenced in most of the documentary records, as well as by the official historiography.

By the end of the wars of independence and the establishment of the Third

Republic, the Venezuelan State issued several laws in order to extend the period of manumission for black slaves (see Chapter 5). In 1835, there were a total of 2,321 slaves in the Province of Barquisimeto.46 That year only three freedom certificates were issued in the Cantón of San Felipe (Páez 1998:104). This suggests that manumission was

45 Veroes was the son of a black woman, who was raised by a criollo white family of San Felipe. During a public event at the local church of this city, he was requested to take off his boots, suit and cape by the local authorities, since these garments were not allowed to be used by “colored” people. As an act of protest, Veroes in turn smacked the face of the son of the second royal lieutenant of the city, and escaped and hid in the city of El Tocuyo. Years later, he enlisted as a soldier in the Republican Army, supporting patriotic troops in many battles (Pérez 1997:250). The contemporary municipality of Veroes was named after this figure of the process of independence, who is one of the few icons of afrodescendant participation in these wars. 46 At the time the Cantón of San Felipe was part of the Province of Barquisimeto.

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certainly not a viable alternative for black slaves in the region. Unfortunately, there is no available data reporting the number of cimarrones that inhabited the area during this time.

By 1839 the population of the valley had increased due to the expansion of the agricultural frontier in many parishes (Grau 1987:1410). During this period free blacks and daily workers at the cocoa haciendas migrated to other micro regions, searching for new lands and job opportunities. Thus, the cocoa haciendas gradually lost their importance in the Valley, since they required great amount of capital investment, as well as sufficient labor that could adapt to the high temperatures of the tropical valley. By this time, coffee was also introduced into the region, and on the foothills of the Yaracuy

Valley one million five hundred trees had already been planted (Páez 1998:88).

“Spontaneous colonizers” created small and middle size coffee exploitations in the region

(Roseberry 1983; Grau 1987; Yarrington 1997).

Furthermore, in 1845 the concession to navigate the Yaracuy River was given to

British companies for a period of fifteen years (Páez 1998). Thus, the river that had once been under the control of Andresote and his followers, was now being transformed by foreign capital and new ships. In consequence, a custom post was established at El

Peñón, in order to control the exports and in general, the commercial activities of the region. El Chino –located near the contemporary town of Farriar– became the main port for shipping products down to the mouth of the Yaracuy River. Grau, in particular, suggests that at the time, between El Chino and San Felipe, there were many dispersed cocoa haciendas, separated by great extensions of jungle (1987:1412). Thus, it is clear 149

how the existence of cumbe territories was ignored by the modern geographical eye of the

State. No official data is available concerning the populations that might have lived nearby the cocoa haciendas of Las Rositas. Much less is to be found about the transformation of cumbe settlements and their articulation with the haciendas, conucos and urban centers during the nineteenth century.

After the abolishment of slavery in 1854, afrodescendant people of the Yaracuy

Valley remained invisible and silenced in the eyes of the State. For instance, no information is available concerning the number of slaves that were freed after this decree in the state of Yaracuy. One can only infer a gradual process of proletarianization experienced by black slaves, who became peones, medianeros or jornaleros in many haciendas (De la Plaza 1980:16; Brito-Figueroa 1985). Thus many afrodescendants had to remain on the very same haciendas where they were once enslaved, since they lacked access to land. Some worked under the system of medianería (sharecropping) which was based on contracts providing access to certain amounts of land, usually located on the foothills or near the external limits of the haciendas. Peasants in turn, were allowed to sow on these lands on the condition that they provide the landowner with half of their total production. Overall the lack of data for this period does not allow us to infer much about the ways in which Afroyaracuyan people engaged in processes of mobilization during the wars of independence. Even less can be concluded about the possible transformations of their “mobilizing habitii.”

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The Federal Wars in afrodescendant territories

In 1859, with the arrival of General Ezequiel Zamora at San Felipe, the territory of Yaracuy was officially declared a regional State of the Republic. The Federal Army occupied San Felipe and the afrodescendant communities of Taría, Los Cañizos and

Agua Negra (Páez 1998:113). Between 1858 and 1869, nineteen combats took place in the state of Yaracuy, particularly in San Felipe, Yaritagua, Nirgua, Urachiche, and

Camunare (Páez 1998:115).

Throughout this turbulent period, coffee plantations continued dominating the region. Yet very little labor was available, as many enslaved peoples were enrolled in the different warring factions (Brito-Figueroa 1985; Páez 1998). Limited information is available in relation to the participation of afrodescendant people in the civil war process in Yaracuy. It is known that many peasants participated in the Ejército del Pueblo

(People‟s Army) commanded by General Ezequiel Zamora. A peón (daily agricultural laborer) called Prudencio Vázquez from the hacienda of Camunare, with the support of the zambo Antonio Durán and Juan Escalona organized montoneras47 in the western region of Yaracuy. Raúl Domínguez, a historian of land conflicts in Yaracuy, argues that these “montonera” movements “were similar to the cumbes of Andresote,” as they employed secondary trails and small roads to mobilize their people in their struggles to ensure access to land (Domínguez 1992:27).

47 All names of Afroyaracuyan people that I interviewed in 2007 have been changed in order to ensure full human subject protection.

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Very few memories of the Federal War period are registered in the contemporary oral narratives of the local population of Veroes. However, Margarita,13 one of the leaders of the Afroyaracuyan movement at Agua Negra, remembers in this regard:

“The afrodescendants fought in the War of Zamora, around 1858. The testimony of that is the recognition of the lands of Agua Negra and Palmarejo. My father told me, they did not know what the Federal War was, my father told me, who was born in 1894 that his father told him that they helped the soldiers. When some whites came to catch the mestizos,48 they hid them. They helped them. Some soldiers arrived to the house; they hid them on the caballete.49 They sought for them everywhere, but they did not find them.” (Rosa, Agua Negra, April 2007).50

This historical memory conflates the Federal War (1859-1864) with the process of land recognition that took place later, between 1912 and 1925, during the regime of Juan

Vicente Gómez. Yet what is interesting are the ethno-racial dimensions of this narrated confrontation. The category of mestizo, not only evokes the cultural and ethno-racial mix of blacks, zambos, and indigenous peoples, but also in this context becomes a sort of political category vis-a-vis the whites. Although the Federal War in Venezuela did not represent a case of caste wars (as in Yucatán for instance), the Ejército del Pueblo was mostly composed by landless peoples of indigenous and afrodescendant origin.

Furthermore, this fragment also reveals that some of the afrodescendant population could

48 K – Quiénes eran los mestizos? R- mestizos, negros los que llamaban antes zambos entre indio y afrodescendiente, antes le decían negro (Rosa, Agua Negra, Abril 2007). 49 An elevated wooden structure located inside rural houses. 50 “Los afrodescendientes lucharon en la Guerra de Zamora, por ahí en 1858. El reconocimiento a eso son las tierras de Agua Negra y Palmarejo. Mi pápa me decía, ellos no sabían que era la Guerra Federal, mi pápa me decía, que nació en 1894 que su pápa le contaba que ayudaban a los soldados. Cuando venían los blancos a agarrar a los mestizos ellos los escondían, ellos lo ayudaban. Llegaron unos soldados a la casa, ellos lo pusieron en el caballete, los buscaron por todas partes y no los encontraron” (Margarita, Agua Negra, Abril 2007).

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have participated passively in this process by providing logistic support to some factions, and not necessarily through direct enrollment as troops.

Further studies should be conducted, in order to underscore the role of afrodescendant peoples in the Federal Wars in Yaracuy. Contemporary Afroyaracuyan leaders have reinterpreted the current historiographical silences on this process. For instance, Suárez and Sequera (2001) argue that the population of Taría, El Chino, Farriar,

Palmarejo and Agua Negra actively engaged in armed conflict. Although no specific data is provided on the type of participation of this population during those conflicts, they argue that afrodescendant people from Veroes did not suffer injuries, since they used spells and prayers that were transmitted from their ancestors through oral channels

(Suárez and Sequera 2001:10). This image of “protected” bodies in the context of civil war constitutes a critical representation of power and agency that nurtures contemporary land mobilizations.

In sum, during the nineteenth century, afrodescendant communities in the

Yaracuy Valley were shaped by intermittent wars, the expansion of coffee, and the decline of cocoa production. The end of legal slavery involved a gradual process of de- territorialization for black enslaved people, as many became wage laborers (peones or jornaleros) or enlisted in the different armies or montoneras that mobilized across the country. It is likely that Afroyaracuyan participation within the federal wars fostered the transformation of their mobilizing habitus. The engagement in armed warfare undoubtedly prepared some communities and actors to confront the subsequent revolutions that took place at the turn of the twentieth century. 153

Afro-Comuneros: new legal-territorial subjectivities (1900-1936)

After the fall of the Guzmán Blanco regime, great political instability shaped the formation of the Yaracuy state. Between 1889 and 1908 at least five different regional authorities ruled in this political entity (Perazzo 1946; Páez 1998). During this time, the

Revolución Libertadora, conducted by General Cipriano Castro affected many communities and created internal political factions within the Yaracuyan regional State.

In 1900 many towns were affected by the sacking and robbery perpetuated by castrista troops coming from the Venezuelan Andes (Páez 1998:143). In general, there was great political turmoil, until the establishment of the Gomez‟ regime in 1908. This leader managed to control most regional caudillos; as the modern State was finally centralized with the advent of oil revenues, the formation of a national army, and the payment of the international debt (Coronil 1997; Caballero 2003).

During the early twentieth century, the political economy of the Yaracuy Valley continued to be transformed by the expansion of coffee in the foothill regions. Yet cocoa production, in spite of its national decline, remained the dominant crop in the lowlands of the Yaracuy Valley, where most of the afrodescendant population lived (Páez 1998).

Sugar cane haciendas also started to expand in the upper Yaracuy River, specifically in

Yaritagua, Urachiche and Chivacoa (Domínguez 1992; Páez 1998:139). Furthermore, the railway system was consolidated in order to facilitate the transportation of agricultural crops. Roads were also developed across the region in order to recover the agricultural networks by connecting commercial and productive sites (Páez 1998:151). 154

During this period land was transferred and concentrated into very few hands

(Páez 1998:142). Processes of privatization also affected communal lands. The resguardos (indigenous reserves) of Chivacoa, Cocorote, San Pablo and Guama were rapidly dissolved and purchased by large landowners. The usurpation of these lands was achieved with the complicity of local registers since by law none of these communal properties could be legally purchased (Domínguez 1992:30).

The recognition of the communal lands of Agua Negra and Palmarejo constituted a crucial historical event for the local afrodescendant population. During this process the local population embraced multiple legal and political strategies in order to achieve access to State lands. Suárez and Sequera (2001), who are local afrodescendant historians, have reconstructed this process of land recognition based on oral sources.

They explain that Felipe Galaví, governor of the state of Yaracuy once Gómez had taken power, received a report indicating that Cipriano Castro intended to recover the

Presidency and had directed troops loyal to him to invade Yaracuy. This functionary went to the region of Veroes and told the local population about the intentions of Castro, but one of them said: “Do not worry Galaví, we have been warned by the President, return without worrying, nothing is going to happen here” (Suárez and Sequera 2001:11).

Galaví thus went back to San Felipe, while General Mateo González remained in

Palmarejo. General Esteban González Feneite was at El Chino and Carlos Landínez

(Carlitos) stayed in Agua Negra. These local allies of Gómez prepared a strategy for repelling the attacks of Cipriano Castro and his troops. They distributed the afrodescendant population in the following manner: two “warriors” were placed at the 155

Salao River, two at the Macagua River, two at the stream of Blanca Creek and two in

Chiripano (Suárez and Sequera 2001:11).

These oral sources indicate that the Castrista army entered the town of El Chino, killing people, animals, pigs, chickens, and goats. They tied stones to the donkey‟s tails so that they would drown when crossing the Yaracuy River. The Castristas finally arrived at the communities of Palmarejo and Agua Negra, but no one was injured since their African deities protected them (Suárez and Sequera 2001:11-12).

After this event, the population of Agua Negra and Palmarejo requested the State to cede them some unoccupied lands, as recognition of their support for the Gomecista regime. Thus, on the 11th of August of 1925 General Juan Vicente Gómez approved the

“free adjudication of two lots of idle lands that conform a continuous portion, and have twenty thousand four hundred hectares, which are localized in the jurisdiction of the

Veroes Municipality…”(Gaceta Oficial 1925: No 15.660). In sum, the lands were legally given to the communities under the required formalities of the Ley de Tierras Baldía y

Ejidos (Law of Idle and Ejido Lands) of 1919 (Gaceta Oficial 1925: No 15.660).

This process shows how Afroyaracuyans managed to articulate legal and war-like strategies in order to gain access to State land-based resources. Throughout this procedure they also established a direct dialogue with the State, inscribing this strategy of legal struggle within their mobilizing habitus. Moreover their new status as comuneros

(communal holders) not only shaped most of the twentieth-century land negotiations in the region, but also fostered the formation of a new rural-afrodescendant identity. Let us 156

examine the following fragment of an interview in which tropes of this comunero historical identity are evoked:

“Before 1925, the comuneros already referred to themselves as such, due to their collective work. If I had a montaña (virgin plot which was still uncultivated), they helped me to establish the conuco, there was that, the helping of each other, it was afrovenezuelan socialism, to share, to be solidario (caring). In 1925, 20,400 hectares were legally recognized to the comuneros of Agua Negra and Palmarejo, by decree, by presidential gazette (official State newspaper). Here we could establish in gazette a municipality with the 20,400 hectares. Before, measures were purely visual, based on the boundaries we can say that these lands were the fruit of struggle, the State gave them away, they gave them to us, but they were the result of struggle. They were recognized when Gómez (…) Well then comes Cipriano Castro, and the comuneros of Agua Negra and Palmarejo confronted Castro´s army. These lands have been preserved until now, we never lost sense of belonging, these communal lands belong to our passive cimarrones” (Lorenzo, Palmarejo, March 26th 2007).

As expressed in this text, comunero identity has been central in the construction and reproduction of multiple representations that articulate ethno-racial, historical, legal, political and productive identity markers. Being comunero today evokes, on the one hand, ideologies of legal struggle. On the other hand, it conveys a distinctive juridical status for the population of Agua Negra and Palmarejo in contrast to other afrodescendant communities of the region such as Farriar, El Chino and Taría, who are seen as excluded from this communal form of territorialization.

Moreover, being a comunero also implies having a particular productive relationship with the land and, in turn, a particular form of territoriality. Thus, comunero and conuquero categories are deeply linked as they both index collective productive practices and the use of slash-and-burn techniques for cultivating multiple crops. Most comuneros indicate that they worked their plots in a collective manner, and with the 157

support of their families. In this sense, comunero identity is also tied to the organization of kinship relationships for productive practices.

Overall, as I will later show, memories of this particular event have inspired great part of the contemporary land mobilizations in the region Veroes. This form of territorialization provided a unique legal status that since 2002 has allowed the recovery of more than 11,000 hectares of land.51 Moreover, I believe that this process represents a significant historical event, representing a critical dialogue between Afroyaracuyans and the Venezuelan State. As a result of this process, most comuneros inscribed in their mobilizing habitii: the possibility of embracing effective legal strategies, the memory of being taken into account by the State, and the pride of having gained collective land titles. In fact, I argue that this historical conjuncture marked the formation of a habitus of

“land struggle” in the region.

Losing the communal lands (1936-1958)

“Como una serpiente escondida entre la niebla que desciende desde las altas y empinadas cumbres, se extiende sobre el valle la siembra de caña de azúcar” (Domínguez 1992:45)

Towards the end of the Gomez‟s regime in 1935, Venezuela presented great extensions of land owned by few proprietors. Acosta Saignes (2009) describes the state of

51 This legal status has also shaped the emergence of categories such afro-comuneros. The Afroyaracuyan movement has circulated this term in many land and public mobilizations directed at the regional and national State authorities.

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Yaracuy as one of the regions with the greatest concentration of large landed estates.52

The municipality of Veroes, where most of the afrodescendant communities were located had a total of 11,442 hectares under production. There were 106 proprietors registered.

One of them had 7,000 hectares, and another had 3,000. In contrast, 104 small holders produced on the remaining 1,442 hectares (Acosta-Saignes 2009:64).

After the death of Gomez in 1936, State power was transferred to one of his ministers, Eleazar López-Contreras. After many years of political repression, political groups and peasant organizations started to emerge and mobilize, and sought access to the monopolized lands owned by the dictator and his family. The government of López-

Contreras, which had the support of landlord factions, appealed to coercive and conciliatory tactics in order to deal with peasant conflicts (De la Plaza 1980; Acosta-

Saignes 2009). Later on, in September of 1945, president Medina-Angarita established the first Agrarian Reform Law – days before he was overthrown from government by a coup directed by Acción Democrática and the Patriotic Military Union (De la Plaza 1980;

Acosta-Saignes 2009).

In 1945, rural agitation continued to emerge in the central areas of the country after the establishment of the Junta Revolucionaria de Gobierno (1945-47), which was mainly represented by Acción Democrática. Landlords expelled many pisatarios from their haciendas during this time of unrest. The government in turn promulgated a decree

52 Based on the census of 1932, he reports that Yaracuy had 214,267 registered hectares, held by 1,146 proprietors. At the time, fifty-seven landowners held a total of 169,038 hectares, while 1,089 smallholders owned only 45,229 hectares. In other words, 78.9% of the owned lands belonged to large landowners in this region (Acosta-Saignes 2009:69).

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regulating displacements from uncultivated plots (predios rústicos) (Delahaye 2001).

Furthermore, in 1946 the Federación Campesina de Venezuela was established, as a way to organize, centralize and institutionalize local peasant organizations. The Communist

Party and Acción Democrática fought for the control of this organization, the latter finally succeeding in controlling the federation (Powell 1971).

These complex political shifts and policies affected the Yaracuy state. Agro- industries started to consolidate with the expansion of sugar cane plantations and the incursion of foreign capital. In 1946, the Cuban Agro Anonymous Company of Jesús

Azqueta arrived at the town of Chivacoa. This company purchased many large haciendas in the district of Urachiche and later in the 1950s expanded into the region of Veroes, in the so-called zona negra (Domínguez 1992:51).

During the military dictatorship of Marcos Pérez Jiménez (1948-1958), agrarian priorities changed radically. The nationalist project known as the Nuevo Ideal Nacional

(New National Ideal) favored the expansion of rural capitalist exploitations (Castillo

1985; Domínguez 1992:46). The State also concentrated its efforts on specific plans, promoting the extensive cultivation of sugar cane, corn, cotton and rice, and supporting the creation of extensive system of irrigation. In sum, the agrarian policies of this period were focused on the development of medium and large units of production and the elimination of small „traditional‟ producers or conuqueros (Castillo 1985).

In Yaracuy, the repressive tactics of the Pérez Jiménez administration dissolved many labor and peasant organizations. For the Azqueta Agricultural Company located in

Yaracuy, Venezuela continued to represent a great opportunity for expanding their sugar 160

cane monopoly, due to the weakness of the local labor movement, the lack of union leaders and the support of the military government. In Chivacoa, the regional authorities of Yaracuy persecuted most of the lawyers and leaders of the Sugar Cane Labor Union of the Bruzual district. Moreover, sugar cane enterprises also had the support of local government authorities (Domínguez 1992:46).

Thus, during the Pérez Jiménez regime, mobilized rural peoples had to embrace non-overt tactics. Direct confrontation was not an option since the Seguridad Nacional constantly harassed the local population. Military incursions were also conducted into the mountains in order to search for rural union leaders (Domínguez 1992:49). Oral histories indicate that many leaders of the Zona Negra, specifically from Agua Negra, Palmarejo,

Farriar and Los Cañizos participated in these struggles concentrated in the sugar cane industry Central Matilde in Chivacoa. In Agua Negra, some inhabitants remember how afrodescendant people were tortured by repressive State authorities. Eustaquia Montero in particular indicates that Apolinar Izarra, Eloy Graterol Parra, Ramón Amaya Felipe

Monagreda and the local healer Evangelio Amaya were tortured and harassed by the government of Pérez Jiménez (Suárez and Sequera 2001:15)

During this military regime, agro-industrial complexes rapidly expanded throughout the afrodescendant territory. Government policies were oriented to increasing the number of companies and supporting them with credit programs. This expansion certainly involved the accumulation of land by these companies, and in turn the re- territorialization of existing conuquero spaces. In fact, between 1955 and 1957 a total 27 161

land transactions were registered in the afrodescendant communal lands of Agua Negra and Palmarejo (INTI 2005).53

Overall, afrodescendants in Veroes experienced complex processes of land transfer that involved the purchase of large extensions of land by criollo landowners and the incipient incursions of agro-businesses into their communal lands. The complicity of the land registers and the comunero representatives was salient, since these land transaction were illegal, due to their un-transferable nature of the original concession.

Historical memories of members of the communities of Agua Negra, Palmarejo and

Farriar also refer to this process of land transactions. These recollections evoke ambiguous feelings. Some of them express rage due to the illegal practices of foreign landowners. Other narratives indicate with shame that these comuneros should not have sold the lands. They implicitly criticize the role of José Pensini-Sánchez and Francisco

Martínez-Travieso (the communal representatives), for allowing these land sales. The following text illustrates some of these tensions involving the sale of communal lands:

“… after 1940 (people) had to go with sugar cane, that‟s what takes place this stage. Later landowners came from other countries, Spain. They rented six hectares, they moved my boundaries (fences) and took it (the land). Those sales were illegal, the State, itself says that it is not allowed, they are un-transferable. Thus, land was reordered; no more people can now come to buy land” (Leopoldo, Palmarejo, May 2007).54

53 Throughout this period, Carlos Escarrá, a large local landowner, managed to accumulate six different land rights to the communal lands, representing a total of 2,000 hectares. Furthermore, three land transactions among the comuneros also took place (INTI 2005). Thus, some comuneros managed to accumulate more land rights than others. Later in 1957, two comuneros sold to the Banana Company of Venezuela a total of four hundred hectares (INTI 2005). 54 “ …en 1940 tenían que ir con la caña, esto es lo que sucede en esta etapa. Luego vinieron los terratenientes de otros países, España. Alquilaban seis hectáreas, movían mis linderos y así agarraban. Esas ventas fueron ilegales, el mismo Estado nos las permitía, eran intransferibles. Así fue que la tierra fue reorganizada, más gente no puede venir a comprar tierra” (Leopoldo, Palmarejo, May 2007).

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This fragment shows how the renting of land played a key role in the re- territorialization of the communal lands. These transactions are not officially registered in the documentary record, but certainly represented an effective strategy on the part of the expanding landowners for occupying the land and later moving its boundaries. Other narratives in the region speak of how landowners took advantage of the vulnerability of the comuneros during times of plague or economic difficulties. In this regard, Leopoldo, one of the main leaders of the Afroyaracuyan movement in Palmarejo stated:

“…. in 1950 the struggle against the terratenientes (landholders) took place. For instance I rented six or twenty hectares, and got by all right. But a time of poverty arrived, the plague attacked the plantain, and people had to sell their land for clothes, food, for fish. These (the sales) did not happen here because the people wanted. It was the Spaniards who continued colonizing, enslaving them. They arrived, can you imagine, they sowed all this with cane. My grandmother tells how Agua Negra was a zone of plantain, which they sold in Puerto Cabello, Valencia, San Felipe. There in Agua Negra, they invested; they bought a car to sell the plantain. But later came the cane, if someone did not want to sow, they planted cane around (his plot). The cane fostered impoverishment; people must go back to plantain, diversifying their crops” (Leopoldo, Palmarejo, March 2007).21

This text refers to the impact of the expansion of sugar cane in the region. It also reveals how land sales represented a local household strategy for coping with economic and ecological changes. This narrative further speaks of a time in which some families were dependent on the production of plantain,55 as it depicts how they were strongly articulated to the center-coast regional agricultural market.

55 Very little is known about the political economy of plantain in that region. This crop is certainly considered a local identity productive marker of afrodescendant localities. Plantain also represents one of the primary crops produced by afrodescendant conuqueros in the area. In fact, the contemporary afrodescendant movement promotes the production of plantain as a way to substitute sugar cane and return to conuco practices.

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All in all, during the Pérez-Jiménez regime one can sense an accelerated process of communal land transactions. Afroyaracuyans had to embrace the strategy of selling their communal land plots during times of economic need. Throughout this process a sense of vulnerability and economic subjection was inscribed in the memories and habitus of comunero actors, who suddenly faced the condition of being peones (daily workers) on their own lands. Moreover during this time, a small group of landowners took control of most of the communal lands. This process of land encroachment, was reinforced by the already mentioned alliances among State functionaries (who registered these illegal transactions), military and European landowners (seeking more land to expand sugar cane production), and State repressive forces (protecting the interests of the latter). We will see how this political strategy was later reinforced during the subsequent years of “democracy.” Under the new hegemonic regime of the punto fijistas,

Afroyaracuyan people continued to be incorporated simply as peasants or rural people within the imaginary nation.

Land Reform and the expansion of commercial agriculture (1958-1980)

After the fall of the Pérez Jiménez regime and the establishment of the Punto Fijo

Pact the State embraced an inward oriented model of economic growth (Llambí and

Gouveia 1994; Arias 2001). During this period, peasant leaders and organizations started to reemerge and to reclaim encroached lands. Domínguez (1992), indicates that

Yaracuyan peasants confronted landlords and latifundistas with a more clear conception of class. Men and women reclaimed the redistribution of the lands of the Valley of 164

Chivacoa, denouncing the haciendas of the Vollmer, the Azqueta and the Giménez families. However, these petitions and denunciations were ignored and disregarded by the power structures protecting the interests of foreign agricultural investments (Domínguez

1992:58).

Furthermore, as peasants continued to struggle for structural changes, they also started to produce discourses on the disappearance of the conuco vis-a-vis the establishment of mono-cultivation. This shift was inscribed in the memories of most contemporary afrodescendants, who argued that the demise of the conucos was critically linked to their own proletarianization, economic vulnerability and to prejudicial ecological changes. It is pointed by left-wing rural leaders how the substitution of the conuco by these large agro-companies involved the destruction of forests and rivers, thus endangering wildlife species (Domínguez 1992:61). In Chapter 8, I will further describe how in the contemporary Venezuelan context (1999-2009) the loss of the conucos is later reinterpreted under the project of endogenous development.56

Another discourse that emerged among mobilizing peasants was based on a critique of slavery. Sugar cane plantations were represented as the sites for the continuity of slavery and its relationships of exploitation. For instance, Domínguez reports how peasant leaders at the time indicated that they were “slaves” of the Central Matilde. I will

56 Moreover, I will also discuss how conuquero identity is reconstructed as an ideal “mode of life” ensuring less vulnerability and evoking socialist relations of production, as well as aspects of afrodescendant identity. The emergence of this conuquero discourse represents the basis for the mobilization of anti-capitalist identities that within the framework of an endogenous development discourse has been ethnicized. In other words, in order to guarantee inclusion within the projected socialist State, local afrodescendant movements have appealed to “endogenous discourses” and have revalued conuquero forms of production and social relations.

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further examine how this critique of slavery, permeates most of the contemporary mobilizing habitus and collective action frames of the afrodescendant population in

Veroes.

Overall, the agrarian reform represented a new betrayal for many Yaracuyan rural peoples, in the sense that most land petitions were not processed. Yet it is important to appreciate that, during this period, new forms of organization were established in rural areas. In the Yaracuy state, as well as in other regions many Comités de Tierra (Land

Committees) were structured. This was the basic organizational entity for denouncing the usurpation of lands and requesting adjudications before the State.

In Veroes, particularly in El Chino and Agua Negra, several Land Committees were formed. They were crucial for organizing most of the land mobilizations that later took place during 1980s, 1990s and after 1999. Although these Committees were diverse in their political nature, they were usually led by members of AD or COPEI (at least until the late 1990s when these traditional parties lost their hegemonic power). Leaders of these parties sought in turn to gradually institutionalize and demobilize the political force of these Committees (Domínguez 1992).

Thus, it seems clear that political parties played key roles in shaping the mobilizing habitus of peasant actors. This articulation involved great degrees of institutionalization (Foweraker 1995), as land movement leaders were co-opted with money and public positions all over the Yaracuyan region (Domínguez 1992). Yet, as I will further argue, past and contemporary peasant movements in northwestern Venezuela cannot be understood in isolation from political parties and the State (Edelman 1999; 166

Petras and Veltmeyer 2002). Political parties were, and are still, fundamental forces transforming movement formation processes, as well as some of their multiple strategies involving negotiations with the State.

Se pagaron y se dieron el vuelto: Agrarian Reform in Veroes

The communal lands of Agua Negra and Palmarejo were also transformed by the

Agrarian Reform of 1961 and the formation of the democratic State.57 Since these lands were under the juridical figure of collective property, this process of territorialization was saliently different. In 1963 the government of Rómulo Betancourt transferred by Decree the 28,625 hectares of land to the National Agrarian Institute (IAN) (No 1124, Gaceta

Oficial No 27.274). For the purposes of the agrarian reform, these lands corresponded with the topographic area of “Almabique-Boca de Aroa- Boca de Yaracuy-La Hoya.”

Within this agrarian polygonal were located the communal lands of Agua Negra and

Palmarejo, which have 20,400 hectares (INTI 2005).

This act of State re-territorialization represented a process of internal colonization. The State, in theory could not transfer lands that had already been declared as communal lands - which were defined as “unalienable, un-transferable, and un- sizeable.” Thus, it is clear how this communal property was not only rendered invisible

57 During the early agrarian reform period, new agro-business groups started to emerge, each of them having their own crops and specific territories. In 1961, there were 14,932 units of exploitation in Yaracuy, representing 338,360 hectares of cultivated land (Páez 1998). Sugar cane became the main crop produced in the region. In 1961, 584,634,250 kilograms of sugar cane were produced, on 729 plots, occupying a total of 11,790 hectares (Páez 1998:244). The V Agrarian census shows how the number of hectares devoted to the production of sugar cane increased radically in contrast to the number of hectares employed for the production of corn and beans, which decreased significantly. This data suggests that sugar cane production expanded at the expense of the conucos.

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by local comuneros and local landowners. The new democratic State also obviated the juridical conditions of these lands, by transferring them to the IAN, and not taking into account its un-transferable and unalienable character.

In regard to this process of re-territorialization imposed by the IAN, Pedro one of the contemporary afrodescendant peasant leaders of Farriar indicates:

“The State performed a trick with the communal land, to say it like a peasant. The State, when the Agrarian Reform law was created, when Betancourt, the State published, they published in gazette and passed the communal lands over to the State, the communal lands were transferred to the State. They had to pay the comuneros. That could not happen because the lands are un-transferable, and cannot be sold … The State dispatched and gave the change (back) to itself. There is no record of the transactions. It was a maneuver with the foreigners; there they took control of the land.” (Pedro, Farriar May 2007).58

This text reveals how local afrodescendant peasants were aware of the strategies implemented by the State, which involved attempts to break up and redistribute collective lands. Yet why was the State interested in these lands? The following narrative from

Dionisio, one of the main afrodescendant peasant leaders of Palmarejo illustrates part of the complexities of this process of territorialization imposed by the Venezuelan State:

“In the times of the IAN (National Agrarian Institute), there was a policy after 1959, the Cubans arrived when Fidel took away the lands dedicated to sugar cane. A bourgeoisie arrived and they were installed in Los Cañizos and in Chivacoa. For Veroes they established the (following) strategy, before there was plantain, they arrived to root out the ancestral cultivation, which was the conuco. There were uncultivated lands in the foothills; it was difficult to know where the conuco was.

58 “El estado hizo una trampa con la tierra comunera, pa‟ lo que decimo campesinamente. El Estado cuando se creó la Ley de Reforma Agraria cuando Betancourt, el Estado sacó, sacaron en gaceta y pasaron las tierras comuneras al Estado, las tierras comuneras las trasfirieron al Estado. Tenían que pagarle a los comuneros, eso no podía ser porque las tierras son de todos. Las tierras son intransferibles, invendibles, no tiene procedencia de ningún color. El Estado se despachó y se dió el vuelto. No aparece quien cobró ni nada, fue una maniobra con los extranjeros, ahí se apoderaron de la tierra” (Pedro, Farriar May 2007).

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There, they entered with cattle ranchers, and the minister lets them enter in order to exploit. They had to start to deforest, and the IAN creates a policy to resettle the parceleros, it was to reduce from 30 to 10 hectares the extension they occupied in the same lands that belonged to them… They created peasant companies, the term that they used is not so crazy, but they needed people that would obey orders in Agua Negra. They changed palm houses for blockhouses, and then in 1976, tribunals were given the faculty to notary land sales. The lands passed to the IAN. They needed to conduct the partition (of the communal lands), and since it was uncultivated land they could not do it, they did not have the time or the technical (personnel). They gave away the common lands in the gazette, they did not realize (the partition) because the lands are collective…All the documentation was introduced, but was declared null. They create the document and start to use a course of action. They convert the documents, a legal tag (coletilla), a realismo mágico. They create the figure of the right-holder (derechante). There are no boundaries (lindero), they could not know where they were located. I buy the right, they bought the bienhechuría.26 The Supreme Court of Justice induced the creation of two administrations. In the community of Agua Negra and here (at Palmarejo) was represented by my father. I asked to my father, and I saw that something was there, but I did not know. If I said vox populi that the lands belonged to the community but, what they have is bienhechuría.59 I was very capitalist; I had a conuco, why did these people have so much? Why do I not have even twenty hectares? Once I told my father, that is your fault” (Dionisio, Palmarejo, February 2007).60

59 Bienhechuría: Construction built on idle lands. Improvements made by a leaser to an asset. 60 “Cuando el IAN, hubo una política desde 1959, los cubano llegan cuando Fidel les quita las tierras para la caña. Llega una burguesía y los instalan en Los Cañizos y en Chivacoa. Para Veroes montan la estrategia. Antes había plátano, ellos llegaron a acabar con los cultivos ancestrales que era el conuco. Había tierra inculta en la sierra, el conuco no se sabía dónde estaba. Así se meten por allá con los ganaderos y el ministro deja que se metan para explotar. Ellos tenían que empezar a deforestar, y el IAN crea una política de reubicar a los parceleros. Era reducir de 30 a 10 hectáreas en la misma tierra de ellos… Ellos crearon empresas campesinas, el término que utilizaron no es tan descabellado, pero necesitaban gente que cumpliera órdenes en Agua Negra. Cambiaron las casas de palma por casa de bloque. Y ya en 1976 se creó, se le da al tribunal la facultad de notariar la venta de las tierras. Las tierras pasaron como del IAN. Necesitaban hacer la partición (de la tierras comuneras), y como era tierra inculta no lo pudieron hacer, no tuvieron tiempo ni los técnicos. Ellos entregaron las tierras en gaceta en común, no lo hicieron porque las tierras son colectivas... Toda la documentación estaba metida, pero fue declarado nulidad. Crean el documento y empiezan a utilizar una medida, el documento lo convierten, una coletilla legal, un realismo mágico. Crean la figura de derechante. No hay lindero, no podían saber dónde están ubicados. Yo compro el derecho, compraban la bienhechuría. El Tribunal Supremo de Justicia indujo a que crearan dos administraciones. En la comunidad de Agua Negra y aquí (Palmarejo) les representaba el papá mío. Yo le preguntaba al papá mío y veía que había algo ahí, pero no conocía. Si lo decía a voz populi, que esa tierra era de todo, lo que tienen es bienhechuría. Yo era muy capitalista, yo tenía un conuco, porque esta gente tiene tanto, porque no tengo unas veinte hectáreas. Una vez le dije a papá, esto es culpa suya” (Dionisio, Febrero 2007).

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This narrative discloses many aspects of this process of State land transfer. First it reveals a new actor within this process of territorialization, which was the cattle rancher.

Although there had been hatos in some parts of the Yaracuy state, since 1950 this productive force radically increased (Paéz 1998). The lowlands of the Yaracuy River in particular became attractive. Many of these lands had also been old haciendas, and they were already deforested and suitable for the expansion of cattle ranches. As exposed by

Dionisio this political economy was clearly protected by the national and regional State institutions, which were looking for ways to guarantee lands for these new enterprises.

Furthermore, this fragment also shows how the State aimed to use the partition or segmentation of these lands, in order to produce new territorial assemblages. For this reason, it created the figure of derechista, or right-holder that would manage the transactions of these collective rights. Dionisio exposed one of the critical issues involving the process of purchasing and selling land rights within the communal holding of Palmarejo and Agua Negra: the collective nature of this land title was obviated. In other words, this “oversight” permitted selling rights without specifying the boundaries or the quantity of hectares to be transferred. This maneuver was promoted by many different actors: the leaders of the administrative entity, the landowners, government functionaries, and some comunero factions.

Today, many local afrodescendant leaders criticize the role of the local administrative entity. Many suggest that the community representatives of this entity were involved in fraudulent transactions and that they received bribes in order to obviate the collective characteristics of the title. Thus, one can sense how mobilized 170

afrodescendant comuneros did not share homogenous visions on the value of the collective ownership of their lands. Some sought to fight for these rights, while others fostered illegal land sales.

Furthermore, between 1961 and 1980 the communal lands of Veroes experienced the gradual incursion of agro-businesses in the region. These companies sought to expand their production by purchasing some of the communal lands of Agua Negra and

Palmarejo. For instance, the Compañía Anónima Bananera, continued to expand not only at the expense of the communal lands, but also purchased great extensions of land in the area of the community of La Olla. Today, this company remains in the region, and has diversified its activities towards the production of palm oil. Moreover, during this period small scale agro-businesses were also established in the communal lands territory; such as the Sociedad Mercantil Coromoto, La Sociedad Mercantil Santa Fé y la Companía

Agrícola San Javier (INTI 2005). Furthermore, the data suggests that many land sales took place among comuneros. This indicates that some comuneros continued accumulating more lands than others. This issue is critical since this has been a constant source of tension expressed in many of the historical memories regarding land transfers in the region.

In sum, the process of land reform did not favor local afrodescendant peasants at

Veroes. Communal lands suffered a profound process of segmentation and re- territorialization. During this period, sugar cane mono-production was finally consolidated in the region. Many local afrodescendants were displaced from the land, as conucos were gradually replaced by sugar cane fields and cattle ranches. This particular 171

condition made local afrodescendants more vulnerable when they had to confront the subsequent economic crisis of the early 1980s. Their mobilizing habitus was thus shaped by experiences of land loss and proletarianization. The existing data suggests that at the time, afrodescendant strategies for accessing State resources were limited and controlled by the interests of landowners, agro-businesses, state functionaries, co-opted political leaders and some comunero factions. Their system of possible strategies even got more restricted as the repressive tactics of State augmented with the economic crisis of the

1980s.

Land struggles at the Gusanillos-Palmarejo

During the decade of the 1980s, Venezuela experienced great inflation, forced devaluation, increased debt, considerable internal deficits and the reduction of international reserves (López Maya 1999; 2005; Lander 2006a). This process of economic crisis was identified with Viernes Negro (Black Friday), the day in 1983 when the Herrera government was forced to devalue the national currency. During the subsequent administration of President Jaime Lusinchi, the State continued to be in great economic and fiscal crisis, and capital flight increased rapidly (Coronil and Skurski

1991:293).

The traditional political parties as well as labor unions started to lose their representative and negotiating legitimacy (López-Maya 1999:212). At the same time, the

Venezuelan State employed increasingly violent strategies to control the rural areas. In

1986, in Yaracuy in the town of Yumare national police forces tortured and massacred a 172

group of nine social leaders, with the excuse that they were members of the guerilla.61 In

1988, the even more notorious Amparo Massacre occurred, in which sixteen fishermen were killed on the banks of the Arauca River in the Apure state. The victims were also unjustly accused of being members of guerilla forces, in this case the Colombian National

Liberation Army (Coronil and Skurski 1991). In sum, during this period, the Venezuelan

State deployed its violence in many rural areas in order to bolster its increasingly fragile hegemony.

During the 1980s, sugar cane plantations continued to expand in the Yaracuy

Valley. In the municipality of Veroes many land struggles took place against sugar cane landowners. Several people at Palmarejo, Agua Negra and Farriar remember the events that developed in the lands called Los Gusanillos.62 One of the current afrodescendant leaders from Palmarejo recalls this event stating:

“One of the most recent struggles (lucha) took place in the (cultural) complex, that of the Gusanillo, here everything started, they met here, but as to what happened. I was not leading (the struggle), it was Francisco Prieto, Panchón, Herzon Landinez, they came from Caracas, they had left their studies in order to work at the Coche Market (…) in 1982 there were many months of fighting and struggling. Here in this very same place they installed themselves, not by way of the tribunals, but by burning cane. They got a tractor, plowed the land, and sowed plantain seeds. At this point the National Guard was sent. That was tremendous; we had never seen such an intense struggle. Here they caught me; they had already taken us of (the land). We were approaching in protest with a flag, in protest, but when we arrived we were received with gunshots. They arrested me, they gave me several planazos,63

61 The perpetrators of these acts were protected by regional and national government interests and the case was never prosecuted (MINCI 2006). 62 In this location was established the Cultural Complex Andresote, which is the current headquarters of the Afroyaracuyan movement. Members of this movement have organized events to commemorate this land struggle and the death of Alirio Romero, who was one of the victims of the many violent encounters between the local afrodescendant population and the National Guard. 63 Planazo is the act of hitting or smacking someone‟s body with a peinilla. The latter is a fine flexible steel lamina, which does not have cutting edges. The National Guard employs these arms in “public order” interventions (Vázquez-Díaz 2006). 173

they captured us. They gave my uncle cachazos64 on the head, there was no kind of compassion. They said that ten blacks must be killed so the people would calm down. They killed a muchacho with a FAL65 shot in the back. They arrested me. It‟s difficult to imagine such a humanitarian government. People must know what we went through. Even at night, here there were no guarantees, the door was violated, the kitchen, they cut off the light, they locked us up at the regional police command. The National Guard moved around in the town, they perforated the water tank with bullet holes so that we could not consume water. After they killed Alirio, they installed a National Guard command for torture. With our heritage of cimarrones, we continue fighting” (Leopoldo, Palmarejo March 2007).66

Another leader of the movement, who self identifies as Afro-peruvian evoked the following memory in regard to El Gusanillo struggle:

“... here it was the struggle for the land, the process of recovering this land (he points to the plot behind the Andresote Cultural Complex). A group of military attacked the population. Thank God there was only one death, the (National) Guard fired at those present. I was not directly involved; I came only once, they had a little shack. But someone told me, you are not from here, that made me feel excluded. (Back) then, I was still a muchacho. When the guard entered, they shot the muchacho, Alirio Romero. He studied 6th grade, I was with him in the car, when he was shot. The doctors let him die; they attended him without any urgency. He had a FAL shot. Henry Chirino was driving, he was taken away without using the regular route, he was taken out through Agua Negra. They changed him to another vehicle, Estasi Parra‟s and we went to the hospital. As I told you, they attended him

64 Clubbing with the handle of a revolver or pistol. 65 FAL: is an automatic weapon used by the security units of the National Guard. 66 “La lucha más reciente, es la lucha que se da aquí en el complejo, la de Gusanillo, aquí todo comenzó, se reunían aquí, pero que pasa, yo no estaba liderizando, era Francisco Prieto, Panchón, Hérzon Landínez, ellos venían de Caracas, dejaron los estudios para trabajar en el mercado de coche (…) en 1982 hubo varios meses de pelea y de lucha. Aquí en este mismo sitio se instalaron, no por tribunales sino quemando caña. Buscaron un tractor, rastraron la tierra, sembraron semilla de plátano. Aquí llego la Guardia Nacional, eso fue tremendo, nunca habíamos visto una lucha tan fuerte. Aquí me agarraron, ya nos había sacado. Veníamos en protesta con bandera en protesta, pero al llegar fuimos recibidos con disparos. A mí me agarraron preso, me dieron varios planazos, nos agarraron. A mi tío le dieron cachazos por la cabeza, no había ningún tipo de compasión. Decían que había que matar a diez negros pa‟ que a la gente se le quite la arrechera. Mataron a un muchacho de un tiro de fal entre la espalda. Me llevaron preso Un gobierno humanista como este jamás se ha visto, la gente tiene que saber lo que vivimos nosotros. En la propia noche aquí no había garantía, violaban la puerta, la cocina, quitaban la luz, nos encerraban en la comandancia de la policía regional. Los Guardias Nacionales andaban en el pueblo, zumbaron tiro al de tanque de agua para que no consumiéramos agua. Instalaron un comando de la Guardia Nacional para torturar, después de que mataron a Alirio. Con nuestra herencia de cimarrones seguimos luchando” (Leopoldo, Palmarejo March 2007).

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in a perfunctory way and just after he had spasms, it was that he was already dead. The doctor knew that he had no salvation. We returned to the town and it was totally taken over by the Guard. We were not allowed to enter” (Martín, Palmarejo, March 2007).67

These narratives reveal the structural violence and exclusion experienced by afrodescendant peoples during this period. These texts express different experiences of violence. On the one hand, they depict the role of the National Guard protecting the interests of regional State forces and local landowners. The use of the verb attack

(arremeter) condenses the physical violence perpetuated the State. The description of the wound, as produced by the FAL also indexes that this act was inflicted by the State, since the National Guard monopolizes these kinds of weapons. Other forms of violence produced by the State are depicted in the negligent actions of the medical doctors, as well as in the control of the vías de comunicación (ways of communication or roads) and access to water and electricity. The establishment of the National Guard command at the comunero territory also evokes a clear act of spatial violence.

These memories reflect the ambiguity involved in many land mobilizations.68

They are saturated with images of vulnerability as actors are depicted as victims of the

67 “…Aquí, estaba la lucha de tierra, el proceso de recuperación de esta tierra (apunta al terreno detrás del Complejo Cultural Andresote). Un grupo de militares arremetieron contra la población. Gracias a Dios hubo un solo muerto, la guardia le dispararon a la gente. Yo no estaba metido en forma directa, vine una sola vez, tenían un chozita. Pero alguien me dijo tú no eres de aquí, eso me hizo sentir excluido, cuando eso estaba yo muchacho. Cuando la guardia entro, le dispararon al muchacho, Alirio Romero. Él estudiaba sexto grado, yo iba en el carro con el cuándo le dispararon. Los médicos lo dejaron morir, lo atendieron pasivamente, iba con un tiro de fal (…) Iba conduciendo Henry Chirino, no lo sacaron por la vía normal, lo sacaron por Agua Negra. Lo cambiaron a otro vehículo, el de Estasi Parra y nos fuimos para el hospital. Como te dije lo atendieron en forma pasiva y en un momentico le dio un ataque, era que ya había muerto. Ya los médicos sabían que no tenía salvación. Regresamos al pueblo y estaba totalmente tomado por la Guardia. No nos permitieron la entrada…” (Martín, Palmarejo, March 2007). 68 The lands of the Gusanillos at the end were finally adjudicated to the afrodescendant population in 2003. 175

repressive strategies of the regional State and its overt violence. Yet at the same time, their agency emerges in the very act of promoting meetings, taking the lands, sowing them, conducting public protests, and building a shack. I argue that this ambiguous tension was incorporated within the mobilizing habitus of the local afrodescendant population, as actors simultaneously positioned themselves as victims and as luchadores

(strugglers). I will further discuss how this particular habitus of ambiguous agency continued shaping many of the subsequent land struggles during the following years.

Overall, this event represents a fundamental emotional memory of violence which has marked many contemporary mobilizations. It also constituted the start of new cycles of rural protest in these afrodescendant territories during the subsequent process of State neo-liberal reforms. As stated by Coronil and Skurski, Venezuela State violence reordered and dis-ordered arrangements and meanings, reflecting “hidden historical landscapes” and inscribing territorial memories (1991:289-291).

Afrodescendant Land Struggles under structural adjustment changes

By the end of the 1980s, the Venezuelan government of Carlos Andrés adopted structural adjustment policies that sought to eliminate tariffs, subsidies, wage regulations, exchange rate control, among others things. (Llambí and Gouveia 1994; Arias 1995,

2001; Di John 2005). Moreover, during this period the Venezuelan State experienced notable socio-political instability. The “Caracazo” mobilizations of 1989, initiated a cycle

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of protests in Venezuela (López Maya 1999, 2005).69 Between 1993 and 1998 new protests emerged in the agricultural sector. Salamanca (1999) indicates that “producers” employed sui generis and diverse methods of protest. Some mobilizations conducted civil strikes, the closure of roads, the occupation of bridges and ports. The agricultural entrepreneurial sectors also engaged in these cycles of protest (Salamanca 1999:253). In sum, during this process of economic liberalization the State and the government were seen as the main targets of rural protests. For Salamanca this period is characterized by confrontations of social movements against institutions and not so much towards the private sector.

Mobilizations at this time reclaimed State intervention to raise salaries and improve the provision of social services such as water, health, education and security.

Demands in the agricultural realm, involved the State protection against external competition (Salamanca 1999:254). Yet access to land remained to be a critical issue for many rural peoples in Yaracuy and in other regions of the country. Moreover, in Veroes the private sector and not only the State remained a principal target of peasant protests and struggles.

69 This event has been characterized as the most severely repressed riot in the history of Latin America, as more that 1,000 people were killed according to unofficial estimates (Coronil and Skurski 1991:291). This cycle of popular unrest continued until 1993, and was accompanied by two coup d´état attempts and the subsequent impeachment of President Carlos Andrés Pérez.

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Los Cañizos-Palo Quemao: a regional land struggle

In Yaracuy during the 1990s, the sugar cane industry expanded its productive forces, particularly through the Central Río Yaracuy and the Central Matilde Agricultural

Complex. Other agricultural industrial companies were established in the region such as

Industrias Pampero, Frutas Nirgua, Alimentos Yaracuy, Alimentos Nina, PROMASA,

Lácteos Yaracuy, Destilería Yaracuy and the Bananera Venezolana (Paéz 1998:25). The proliferation of these industries, promoted the migration of many rural peoples towards

San Felipe, capital of the Yaracuy state. This produced the abandonment of many peasant settlements. According to Páez, this internal migration affected the process of land distribution as plots that were established on the basis of the Agrarian Reform passed from the peasant settlements into private hands (Páez 1998:25).

However, this process of land transfer to private hands was not an altogether peaceful process, nor was it the mere result of rural diasporas, as is implicitly suggested by Páez (1998). On the contrary, during this decade, many peasants actively requested lands from the IAN. And, in many cases they had to engage in processes of struggles with local landowners in order to gain the legal recognition of occupied plots.

One of the most emblematic land struggles started in 1987 at Los Cañizos-Palo

Quemao, located at the municipality of Veroes. Local peasants from different regions occupied and requested these lands arguing that since 1965 the National Agrarian

Institute had acquired these plots by expropriation. However, the IAN had sold a total of

11,400 hectares to Gianni Serva, Francisco Polito, Wladimir Rodríguez, Alex Mijares 178

and the Azqueta group. These landowners managed to establish great sugar cane latifundia in the region (Tribunal Penal 2006).

Thus, for more than 18 years, local peasants requested the legal adjudication of these State lands at the IAN. Finally, in 1987 the Land Committee of Los Cañizos decided to occupy these plots. In turn, regional State authorities persecuted peasant leaders and their settlements were destroyed under the orders of local landowners. The organized peasants under the leadership of Braulio Álvarez, attended the Agrarian Court and requested an amparo (legal protection), which was finally conceded. In consequence, the legality of the occupation at Los Cañizos was reestablished as well as the right of local peasants to stay on the IAN lands. However, this latter institution did not give these peasants any legal documentation or title. Therefore, after several violent encounters with repressive State forces, in 1992, part of the lands were recovered by the mobilized peasants. Yet the regional State continued to repress many of the actors who had occupied the land until 2003 (Tribual Penal 2006).

Historical memories of this process are fragmented and usually structured on narratives addressing the repressive strategies of the State. The following narrative of

Daniel, one of the well-recognized leaders of this movement evokes particular memories on the events at Los Cañizos:

“…what happened was a very strong thing; we slept outdoors (a la intemperie). If you got caught, you were sent to another place. The guard arrived attacking70 us (…) they arrived really aggressive, they gave me twenty planazos, twenty to José Cortés and to the other one they gave five … They arrived and stole our food, they wanted to plant arms to say that we were guerrillero … Braulio was there at that time, was when the war was formed, the thing there. They told us to continue, that

70 Arremetiendo: Attack or rush forward. 179

it was fighting. They were five landowners, the brother of Serva and Rafael Serva. Those lands belonged to the other one, al big shots,71 the Azqueta. I know that they were five, we confronted them … we met; we met there in the lands of Los Cañizos at the white house. From there the struggle started ... there we started to agitate until we succeeded in forming the FATMI72 It is already consolidated, although there is contra pie73 among ourselves. The land that (now belongs to the) FATMI used to belong to Aranguren” (Daniel, Farriar May 2007).74

This fragmented memory depicts the effects of State repression on mobilized peasants and their bodies. Landlords are clearly identified by name, in contrast to the memories evoked in regard to the former Gusanillo struggle at the afrodescendant communal lands. A larger repertoire of strategies can also be sensed as peasants first engaged in direct negotiations with the State, in particular with the IAN. They also embraced legal strategic actions in order to request protection from State institutions. In addition, peasants used diverse physical strategies as they occupied the lands night and day, in order to confront the guard with their physical presence.

Furthermore, this text speaks of the alliance of the regional Yaracuyan peasant movement with the Land Committee at Los Cañizos. In particular, is evident the influence of Braulio Álvarez, who was an active member of the peasant movement at

71 Puro bicho grande. Literary, “very large insects.” This expression denotes a pejorative repudiation of the power accumulated by the Azqueta group. 72 Current agricultural cooperative located in the lands of the Central Veroes. 73 Conflict of interest. 74 “…lo que pasó fue una cosa muy fuerte, dormíamos a la intemperie. Si lo agarraban a uno lo mandaban pa´ otro lado. Allí llegó la Guardia arremetiendo contra uno…llegaron duro, a mi dieron veinte planazos, a José Cortés veinte y al otro le dieron cinco… Llegaban y nos paleaban la comida, nos querían meté armas pa‟ decí que éramos guerrillero (…) cuando eso estaba Braulio, fue que se formó la guerra, la cuestión allí. Ellos nos decían que siguiéramos, que era pelear. Eran cinco terratenientes, el hermano de Serva y Rafael Serva, esas tierras eran del otro, puro bicho grande, los Azqueta. Yo sé que habían cinco, nosotros los enfrentamos…nos reuníamos, nos reuníamos allá en las tierras en los Cañizos en la casa blanca, de ahí se inició la lucha…ahí empezamos a meternos hasta que llegamos a la FATMI, ya está consolidado, aunque hay contra pie entre nosotros mismo. La tierra que esta con la FATMI era de los Aranguren” (Daniel, Farriar, Mayo 2007).

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Chivacoa. Thus as expressed in Dario‟s narrative, Álvarez represents one of main agentive actors of this movement, as he motorized the local population to embrace concrete actions for the physical occupation of the lands.

It is important to note that this land mobilization was not exclusively afrodescendant as was the case of the struggles of Los Gusanillos. In fact, many afrodescendants at Farriar did not support this land occupation. Furthermore, a woman who participated in these land occupations, made some declarations regarding the impact of the struggles at Los Cañizos. She reveals a larger repertoire of strategies embraced by local mobilized peasants in this locality.

“Here there were meetings all the time to discuss our situation … but Braulio ended that by saying that talking was not enough and that we had to pass to action in order to recuperate the land … so we occupied this zone in 1987. The government sent the National Guard and they kicked us out. But we were back again the next day. They came to remove us, and thus successively for some time. In 1989 we decided to undertake a stronger action … we took the cathedral of San Felipe and we occupied the routes of the zone … we also took the Mexican and Spanish embassies in Caracas, and other government buildings, so that people could see the problems of the people of Yaracuy … the repression increased. On the 3rd of January 1991, the National Guard attacked us brutally, leaving various wounded and a young peasant dead. The National Guard cut off our access to water and to the rivers, but we always found a way to beat them” (Malapanis 2003).75

75 “Aquí se hacían reuniones todo el tiempo para hablar de nuestra situación. Pero Braulio puso fin a eso diciendo que hablar ya no bastaba y que teníamos que pasar a la acción para obtener el rescate de la tierra…Nos tomamos entonces toda esta zona en 1987. El gobierno envió a la Guardia Nacional y nos sacaron por la fuerza. Pero al otro día nos instalamos de nuevo. Ellos venían a sacarnos y así sucesivamente por un tiempo. En 1989 decidimos hacer una acción más fuerte … Nos tomamos la catedral de San Felipe y ocupamos las rutas de la zona …Nos tomamos también las embajadas de México y España en Caracas, y otros edificios del gobierno, para que la gente viera los problemas de la gente de Yaracuy ... La represión fue más fuerte. El 3 de enero de 1991 la Guardia Nacional nos atacó fuertemente. Dejando heridos y un joven campesino muerto. La Guardia Nacional nos cortó el acceso al agua y a los ríos. Pero siempre encontrábamos la manera de ganarles” (Malapanis 2003).

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This memory reveals a more expanded system of strategies employed by mobilized peasants in the region of Veroes. Actors attempted to globalize their cause by taking the mentioned foreign embassies. They also took control of the roads which was a strategy widely employed in Venezuela during the 1990s (Salamanca 1999). The struggle at Los Cañizos thus set the ground for a profound and complex cycle of land occupations that took place after 1999. Most contemporary leaders indicate that they had learned from the violent experiences at this controversial place. Thus it seems that this process of struggle, transformed the mobilizing habitus of local peasants in Veroes as they inscribed in their body-memory new ways of negotiating and confronting the State.

In sum, most land movements in Veroes, during decades of the 1980s and 1990s were shaped by: 1) structural inequalities involving unequal distribution of land; 2) the expansion of the sugar cane industry and cattle ranches and the consequent encroachment on State lands; and 3) the violence and political alliances among agrarian State functionaries, local politicians, landowners, the National Guard and the regional police.

In the ambiguous memories and habitus of local mobilized peasants has been inscribed the repression of the State, as well as the immunity of “protected” landowners.

Nevertheless, many peasant leaders recall with pride the importance of these events as part of their “cimarronaje heritage.” During these experiences, mobilized rural peoples have performed and learned a large repertoire of strategies in order to confront the multiple levels of opposition and violence posed by: the regional and national State, landowners, and even by the local population. 182

However, since 1999 great internal tensions have shaped most of the contemporary rural mobilizations in Veroes. The multicultural reforms of the Venezuelan neo-socialist State have set up a new political, legal and social order providing rural movements with new opportunities and new constraints. In Chapter 7 I continue exploring the specific frames and strategic action embraced by the contemporary

Afroyaracuyan movement in Veroes.

Concluding remarks

Since the early colonial period, the “mobilizing habitus” of Afroyaracuyan people has been shaped by diverse strategies involving acts of violence, subjection, spatial avoidance, interethnic and economic networking, legal negotiation, and territorial struggles. This population experienced early contacts with European colonizers, as the

Welsares brought them into the region by force in 1552. Some black slaves, such as

Negro Miguel embraced multiple strategies for escaping from the structural conditions of exploitation at the mines. They also organized overt attacks against Spanish settlements.

In the eighteen century, Andresote also escaped from his enslaved condition. He defended his commercial networks with Dutch smugglers against Spanish attacks. The actions of this afrodescendant leader reveal the existence of a collective “mobilizing habitus,” based on a wide range of economic, political and defensive strategies.

Based on the documentary evidence one can argue that some afrodescendant factions were engaged in direct confrontation with the Spanish colonial regime. In this process, they also embraced strategies of territorial avoidance as they created alternative 183

territories by establishing cumbe settlements. At these locations, they could reproduce their multiple and ever changing mobilizing habitus, in direct articulation with other colonial settlers and local indigenous populations.

However, throughout the colonial period, most rural afrodescendants were shaped by their condition as enslaved subjects on the cocoa haciendas. This legal condition not only represented an example of de-territorialization involving the forced dislocation and re-location of slaves at the haciendas. Slavery also generated a particular habitus based on long-term spatial occupations within these colonial territorial assemblages. In other words, under the legal category of slaves, afrodescendants created relationships of identification with the colonial territory in which they were exploited. They were allowed to have conucos, where they could reproduce some of their own forms of territoriality.

Yet they were intrinsically tied to the exploitative and subjugating practices imposed by the haciendas, which involved attending a specific number of cocoa trees. I argue that this territorial identity had a certain historical continuity explaining the formation of later cycles of land struggles in the region.

Data regarding the period of Independence and Civil Wars is too fragmentary to support firm conclusions. The political instability of the War years and the process of manumission affected afrodescendants. Scattered evidence suggests that many slaves were able to escape from the haciendas and join the surrounding cumbe territories.

However, many freed Afroyaracuyans sought work at the mines or in the very same haciendas in which their families had been enslaved. Others were enlisted in the various armies with the promise of receiving land in reward for their participation. Further studies 184

are required in order to unravel the strategies of this population in this early process of

State formation.

By the early twentieth century, Afroyaracuyan peoples were fully articulated to the Venezuelan export-oriented agricultural economy. The State recognized the communal lands of Afroyaracuyan people in Veroes, providing in turn a new legal status for the local afrodescendant population. During this period, Afroyaracuyans managed to effectively engage in both legal and extra-legal confrontational actions, thus expanding their repertoire of mobilizing strategies. They also incorporated within their mobilizing habitus the possibility of establishing direct and effective legal dialogues with the State, as well as a sense of empowerment for having achieved collective land titles.

From the 1940s on, Afroyaracuyan territories were transformed by the political economy of sugar cane. Some comuneros embraced the strategy of selling their lands in order to work as wage laborers in the expanding sugar cane haciendas. Foreigners began to extend their control of these lands with the arrival of the Cuban Azqueta in 1947 and of Spanish and Italian settlers during the 1950s (especially in Veroes itself). As a result, conucos were replaced by sugar cane fields and later with cattle ranches. Throughout this process, some Afroyaracuyans incorporated a sense of subjection and economic vulnerability into their mobilizing habitus. Moreover during the military dictatorship of the 1950s, Afroyaracuyans were affected not simply by the expansion of agro-business in

Veroes, but also by the violent and repressive policies of the State. State Land Reform also transformed Afroyaracuyan people as they became re-territorialized in the campesino settlements of Agua Negra and El Chino. At the time political parties also 185

played key roles in co-opting many peasant leaders and conditioning their mobilizing practices.

As the model of import substitution was gradually undermined, Afroyaracuyans actively confronted the modern State institutions and their violent repressive strategies.

While they requested legal access to land, the State deployed a great variety of violent tactics against local peasants, inflicting their bodies and memories. In turn, rural

Afroyaracuyan people in many cases embraced direct negotiations and confrontations with legal, political and repressive State institutions. Throughout this process, actors incorporated within their mobilizing habitus, ambiguous dispositions of vulnerability and empowerment, as they embraced strategies of contention against the State and local landowners.

Overall, I have tried to show that the mobilizing habitus of Afroyaracuyan people is by no means homogenous or static. Their system of strategies has been shaped by their experiences of slavery, violence, networking, proletarianization and land struggle. Across time, they have adopted a wide range of strategies, involving actions of avoidance

(cumbe formation), political alliance (with indigenous people, missionaries, Dutch smugglers, political parties), legal negotiations (requesting communal lands from the

State), subjection (as enslaved or wage laborers), direct armed confrontation (against and in favor of landlords and the State), among others. Contemporary Afroyaracuyans still embrace numerous strategies, which are primarily based on a long-term habitus of territorial struggle. Yet the new multicultural milieu since 1999 has provided a new scenario for afrodescendant rural people in the region. Chapters 5 and 7 of this 186

dissertation examine the extent to which their system of strategies has been adapted to this new political, economic and historic conjecture.

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CHAPTER 4. FROM STATE INDIGENOUS MULTICULTURALISM TO INDO- SOCIALISM (1999-2009)

The official starting point of Venezuelan modern multiculturalism takes place in

1999, when the National Constituent Assembly transformed the preamble of the previous

1961 constitution, establishing a new set of rights for indigenous people. Since then, a new set of multicultural policies have emerged in direct articulation with the government´s Bolivarian project, but many questions remain. What is the nature of this new form of State multiculturalism? In which ways has multiculturalism been co- constructed, circulated, and embraced by Venezuelan State actors and social movements.

This Chapter examines the multicultural rhetoric of the Venezuelan State regarding indigenous peoples. I discuss the formation, circulation, and transformation of multicultural discourses, as well as multicultural legal reforms and policies implemented by the Venezuelan State between 1999 and 2009. I probe some of the legal and institutional changes made by the Bolivarian government facilitating the inclusion and participation of indigenous peoples within the nation-state. I explore how early definitions of multiculturalism involving the recognition of indigenous peoples have been gradually reshaped and transformed by ideologies on “Indo-socialism.” I show how

Venezuelan State actors (president, ministers, legislators, intellectuals, and social movement leaders) gradually produced a new “ideological ecology” (Philips 2004) on

Bolivarian multiculturalism. I also examine how national indigenous leaders contest and question aspects of the Venezuelan multiculturalist project. I finally point to some of the 188

institutionalization processes of the national indigenous movement and to its process of internal fragmentation.

Venezuela has a prolonged history of sanctioning new constitutions and legal instruments that systematically erased the historical ethno-racial diversity of the nation, and downplayed the roles of indigenous peoples. A historical analysis of this process goes beyond the scope of this dissertation, yet we need to mention some of the most significant transformations of relevance that took place in the legal realm.

Legal inclusions of indigenous peoples: A brief historical overview

During the colonial period, indigenous peoples in Spanish America were incorporated under the laws of Castilla (Spain) dictated for the “miserable and paupers”

(Dougnac 1994: 315). “Indians” were legally equated with married women and minors, since they also required judicial representation (Borah 1983; Dougnac 1994).

The first legal instruments addressing Indians in Venezuela were the Ordenanzas de Nueva Segovia de Barquisimeto, elaborated in 1552 by Juan Villegas. This legal text gave the encomenderos the right to support each other in order to achieve the submission of rebel Indians; while on the other hand, it prohibited the use of Indian labor in the mines (Gabaldón-Márquez 1954). Colonial Venezuelan laws tended to regulate the amount and kinds of labor or tribute that Indians could provide, and they constantly referred to the need to enhance missionary and indoctrination practices, which tended to be unsuccessful. 189

Later on, the processes of independence in Venezuela called into question all colonial legal protections. The main aim of liberal ideologists was to eradicate colonial caste distinctions. For instance, the first Venezuelan federal constitution of 1811 reproduced the liberal-modern notion of the “Republican Citizen” which clearly effaced colonial ethno-racial distinctions according to the new homogenizing rhetoric of the nation-state. While, in the Spanish colonial period, status was defined by the overlapping of race, blood, origin, estate, and access to resources, the first modern constitution of the

Venezuelan nation State explicitly identified property, gender, marital status, and age as the natural and exclusive forms of social distinction (Perozo y Pérez 2001; Ruette 2003).

Article 200 of the 1811 constitution was the first modern legal instrument explicitly addressing the situation of “Indians” in the new nation State (Parra 1959:203-

204). This article called for the union between Indians and the rest of the citizens, aiming thus at erasing ethno-racial and caste distinctions. In addition, Indians were represented as victims of the Spanish regime, in a state of dejection and rusticity, which justified the abolition of colonial protective laws, and the redefinition of civilization in enlightenment terms (Ruette 2003).

In this context of early State formation, Indians were also represented as unproductive obstacles to progress, which justified the liberal project of abolishing their communal lands, in order to favor the expansion of commercial agriculture. The dissolution of indigenous reserves or communal lands thus became a critical concern for the Venezuelan liberal State, and many legal instruments were issued for this end

(Coppens 1971; Pérez Vila 1988; Amodio 1991, 2005). I will show later in this chapter 190

how land remained as one of the central demands shaping dialogues and conflicts between the contemporary Venezuelan State and the indigenous peoples.

Later, the Constitution of 1819 defined in Title 3, Section 1 the attributes of the new “active citizens” of the nation. This definition addressed the cultural and political characteristics of white criollo elites, thus excluding most indigenous peoples from this modern republican category of citizenship. In contrast to the so-called active citizens, this constitution defined as “passive citizens” those peoples located far away from the cities or who rejected the cultural assimilationist projects of the new nation. Indigenous peoples were implicitly made invisible under that category of passive or second class citizens

(Asamblea Nacional 2009). The Venezuelan Constitutions of 1821 and 1830 reproduced this very same strategy of erasing and marginalizing indigenous peoples, through the creation of categories of citizenship based on the economic and cultural attributes of the elites.

Once the independent movements had been stabilized, different political factions

(military dictators, regional caciques and caudillos) considered the construction of a

“national culture” as one of their main objectives, for legitimating their political power.

Within this context, Indians were considered an obstacle to national integration, as well as a threat to the political control of the elites (Stavenhagen 1988:28). After the dissolution of the “Gran Colombia,”76 the new congress of the Republic of Venezuela, in

76 The “Gran Colombia” was a unified Republican State project created by Simón Bolívar in 1821 in the city of Cúcuta. This new State aimed at integrating the territories of the Virreinato of Nueva Granada (Colombia), the Capitanía General of Venezuela, and the Free Province of Guayaquil (Ecuador). This Republic existed between 1821 and 1831 and was finally dissolved due to great political tensions among federalist and centralists ideologists.

191

1841, established special laws for indigenous peoples. This group of legal texts started assuming a protective position regarding the status of indigenous peoples by elaborating particular laws for specific areas of Venezuela (Guyana, Zulia and the Amazon)

(Armellada 1977).

After the Federal Wars, the Constitution of 1864 established in article 43 the need for the National Legislature to define which territories were unpopulated and which were inhabited by “non civilized” indigenous peoples. The latter territories would be designated and integrated as “territories under special regime.” In these territories the

State implemented the well known neo-colonial strategies of reduction and pacification in order to assimilate and control dissident indigenous groups or factions (Asamblea

Nacional 2009).

By the end of the nineteenth century, during the regime of President Guzman

Blanco, the State issued several legal instruments in order to finally dissolve indigenous territorial reserves (Armellada 1977; Coppens 1971; Amodio 1991, 2005; Hernández

1994). In 1884, a new law was passed establishing that indigenous peoples were only recognized in the following territories: Amazonas, Upper Orinoco and Guajira. Thus, in the imaginary of the State, all indigenous groups located in other areas of the nation such as the southern and eastern plains, or at the center of the national territory, were erased or considered as non-legitimate Indians. This law has had a tremendous impact; so much so that nowadays many argue that in the states of Lara, Falcón, Portuguesa and many other northern states there are no existing indigenous peoples. 192

Overall, the formation of the new nation did not leave space for the recognition of a multicultural State (composed by different ethnic groups), and in this sense considered that Indians were not an integral part of the national culture (Clavero 1994, Stavenhagen

1988). Indians could not become legal “subjects” until they abandoned their culture, community, language and costumes (Clavero 1994:37). Yrutera (1981) explains that

Indians were equated with the rest of the population only at a formal level. She states that only those who had the practical or structural possibilities of exercising their rights, as was rarely the case of indigenous people, could enjoy the benefits contemplated in the law (Yrutera 1981:35).

By the beginning of the twentieth century, the Venezuelan State established a new project for reorganizing its national territory. The Constitution of 1901, section III, article

80, number 18, proposed the reduction of indigenous peoples to Christianity through a contract with Catholic missionaries. Later on, in 1915, during the dictatorship of Juan

Vicente Gómez, the Venezuelan State passed the Mission Law, which also delegated to the Catholic Church the special duty to civilize and reduce indigenous peoples

(Armellada 1977; Asamblea Nacional 2009).

In the 1947 Constitution, for the first time the Venezuelan State explicitly referred to the notion of “incorporation” for indigenous peoples. Article 72 established that

“indigenous populations” should be regimented under a special regime according to their cultural and economic realities. Thus, as in many other countries in Latin America, this

Constitution adopted nationalistic and assimilationist perspectives, that underestimated 193

the cultural particularities of indigenous peoples and obviated any idea of territorial rights

(Bello 2005; González-Ñáñez 2009; Asamblea Nacional 2009; Kuppe 2009).

Finally, the 1961 Constitution also recognized indigenous peoples under a special regime of exception. In this regard, article 77 stated:

“The state is pledged to improve the life conditions of the peasant population. The law will establish the regime of exception required for protection of the communities of indigenous (peoples) and their progressive incorporation into national life.” 77 (CRV 1961).

In this article, indigenous and peasant populations were considered under the same social category. Thus, this legal text erroneously assumes that indigenous peoples do not have particular cultural characteristics different from those that characterize the multiple non-indigenous peasant populations of the nation. This constitution overtly expressed the interests of criollo State elites in assimilating indigenous peoples, by imposing on them the dominant national culture, and transforming them into peasants or farmers (Arvelo-Jiménez 1982; Frías 2001). This regime of exception was too ambiguous and was therefore interpreted in different ways. In certain contexts it favored indigenous peoples but in others it served to deprive them of access to land and natural resources (Caballero-Arias 2003).

Overall, with the 1961 constitution, the Venezuelan nation-state continued to impose a vision that aimed at suppressing and extinguishing indigenous people‟s rights to land, self-determination and culture (Kuppe 2009). This constitutional limitation involved

77 “Artículo 77: El estado propenderá a mejorar las condiciones de vida de la población campesina. La ley establecerá el régimen de excepción que requiera la protección de las comunidades de indígenas y su corporación progresiva a la vida de la nación.” (Constitución Nacional de Venezuela 1961.) 194

in practice the continued reduction of indigenous territories. In fact, between 1961 and

1980 indigenous lands were significantly reduced by the establishment of the National

Security and Defense Act, the allocation of communal lands by the Agrarian Reform Act, the creation of National Parks and Reserves, the enforcement of a National Plan of

Nature Conservation, and the declaration that all natural resources (surface or subsoil) are property of the State (Arvelo-Jiménez 1982:50).

During these same years, the Venezuelan State issued other legal dispositions referring to indigenous peoples, such as the Agrarian Reform Law, the Organic Law on

Education, and the Law on Tourism. At the international level, Venezuela also subscribed to the International Pact of Political and Civil Rights, to the 107th Convention of the

International Labor Organization, and to the Convention for the Protection of World,

Cultural and Natural Patrimony.

By 1998, Venezuela was considered by international organizations as one of the most “underdeveloped” nations in regard to indigenous laws, and most State functionaries, lawyers and judges were notably insensitive to indigenous demands

(Mansutti 2000; Van Cott 2002; Bello 2005; González-Ñáñez 2009). During the 1990s, before the National Constituent Assembly, Venezuela experienced a profound political and socio economic crisis and, in general, indigenous organizations were weak. Yet in spite of these difficulties, several indigenous leaders started to emerge in the national political arena and were able to create new spaces of negotiation within the State. For instance, Guillermo Guevara, a Hivi indigenous leader, gained political visibility as he strengthened the Organización Regional de Pueblos Indígenas de Amazonas (ORPIA). 195

This organization, with the support of the Human Rights Office of the Catholic Church in

Puerto Ayacucho Amazonas, managed to reform the Constitution of the Amazon State, including its recognition as a multiethnic and pluricultural entity. ORPIA also won a series of decisions before the Supreme Court that impeded the territorial division of the

Amazon state (Van Cott 2002).

Moreover, Tito Poyo and José Poyo, two Kariña brothers, also emerged as key leaders, as they strengthened the National Indian Council of Venezuela (CONIVE).

Furthermore, Noheli Pocaterra (Wayuu) and José Luis González (Pemón) also gained political leverage as a result of their involvement in international organizations.

Regarding State policies, it must be remembered that the Venezuelan government, during the 80s and 90s showed no signs of favoring indigenous peoples. The State promoted mining concessions located in indigenous territories in the Sierra of Perijá, and in the Cuchivero, Caroní and Cuyuní rivers. Government policies between the 1950s and the 1990s also facilitated the penetration of the New Tribe Missions – an American evangelical protestant religious group – allowing them to establish their communities and evangelizing practices among indigenous peoples located in the Amazon state. Moreover, during the second administration of President Rafael Caldera (1993-1998), the government granted concessions for extracting timber from the Imataca Forest Reserve and proposed an electric interconnection project between Venezuela and Brazil, as well as eco-tourism projects in many indigenous territories (Mansutti 2000).

However, in spite of the opposition of most political and economic elites, indigenous organizations and activists were inspired by the international order that 196

supported minority rights and they remained calling for a multicultural order and the respect of their cultures, territories, and forms of political organization.

“A compromise for history”: a new multicultural order for indigenous peoples?

As stated earlier, indigenous peoples have confronted great opposition and difficulties from modern political and military elites who at the time, imagined the possibility of a homogenous nation, and fiercely opposed any kind of multicultural reform or recognition favoring cultural diversity (Mansutti 2000). In 1998, Hugo Chávez

Frías, while he was presidential candidate, signed a “compromise” with the indigenous peoples of Venezuela titled “Un compromiso para la historia” (A compromise for history) that states:

“A historical commitment: Fully considering that we are in historical debt with more than a half million indigenous [peoples], grouped in 28 ethnies, I express in public, nationally and internationally, the commitment to pay this delicate debt once I occupy the presidency of the Republic, which I will reach through the decision of the th Venezuelan conglomerate in the elections of the 6 of December of 1998. This is a commitment that I acquire, based on the memory of the Liberator Fathers, which had in Simón Bolívar and Antonio José de Sucre their most significant leaders. Signature Caracas, 20 of March of 1998.” 78

This document is one of the most important texts for national and regional indigenous movements in Venezuela, since it evokes in the first place the direct “voice of

78 “Un compromiso para la historia. Considerando cabalmente que estamos en deuda histórica con el más de medio millón de indígenas, agrupados en las 28 etnias del país, hago público, nacional e internacionalmente, el compromiso de saldar tan delicado débito desde la Presidencia de la República, a la cual llegaré por la decisión del conglomerado venezolano en las elecciones del 6 de diciembre de 1998. Este es un compromiso que adquiero, fundamentándome en la memoria de los Padres Libertadores que tuvieron en Simón Bolívar y Antonio José de Sucre a sus más significativos conductores. Firma Caracas, 20 de marzo de 1998.” 197

Chávez,” establishing an emotive commitment to accord the indigenous peoples the historical right to form part of the revolutionary process. The “historical debt” is framed as a “delicate” duty assumed by Chávez in order to create an ideological articulation between Bolivarian tropes and indigenous demands. This letter is a text to which most indigenous peoples make reference in order to legitimize their claims to land.

Later on, in 1999, President Chávez called for a referendum in order to convoke a

National Constituent Assembly. 92% of the registered voters approved the proposal, and indigenous organizations started to mobilize and to organize workshops to discuss and generate proposals defining how indigenous peoples would participate in this process of constitutional reform. At the time, the National Indian Council of Venezuela (CONIVE) had the support of various allies such as the Direction of Indigenous Issues (Dirección de

Asuntos Indígenas), various national environmental and human rights NGOs, and university professors, all identifiable as pro-Chávez (Bello 2005).

In March 1999, before the referendum, President Chávez proposed the designation of three indigenous representatives to the National Assembly, to be elected according to their ancestral practices and customs. After the approval of this proposition, CONIVE called for an Extraordinary Congress in Ciudad Bolívar, in order to promote the participation of indigenous peoples in the Constituent process, and to channel the election of the three representatives. With the participation of more than 330 indigenous representatives and 60 regional and communitarian organizations, the Indigenous

Congress made several proposals for their incorporation within the new Constitution.

They recommended the recognition of: the multicultural and plurilinguistic character of 198

Venezuela, the originary rights of indigenous peoples over their ancestral territories, the autonomy and respect for indigenous socio-cultural and political forms of organization, the preservation of their natural resources, the harmonic use of biodiversity as in their traditional modes of life, and the absolute prohibition of the exploitation of indigenous people‟s natural and cultural resources (CONIVE 1999).

Regarding their autonomy and governability, indigenous organizations proposed the recognition of their own forms of government, the legitimacy of traditional authorities, the right to develop their own criteria and procedures for the election of their local political representatives, the right to have indigenous representatives at the National

Assembly, and political participation in local, regional and national government structures (CONIVE 1999).

In the Congress they also demanded rights to collective property, support of their traditional forms of production (hunting, fishing, handcrafts, etc), the guarantee of collective of intellectual property of ancestral knowledge regarding genetic resources and biological diversity, the demarcation and registration of their territories, liberty for their cults and religious beliefs, the recognition of indigenous languages, support to bilingual intercultural education programs, the creation of an indigenous university, and the legal exercise of traditional ethno-medicine (CONIVE 1999).

During this Congress, indigenous organizations elected the three representatives for the National Constituent Assembly. However, the National Electoral Council (CNE)

(still controlled by traditional parties) argued that the election made by CONIVE was illegitimate due to its limited representation. Nevertheless, leaders of CONIVE argued 199

that their elections were legitimate since they were conducted during the Indigenous

National Congress and it had the participation of more than 330 delegates from different regions.

In spite of CONIVE´s arguments, the CNE did not recognize the indigenous candidates and called for new elections. CONIVE accepted being an assessor in the new elections, and elaborated the norms for this process, which included the celebration of regional assemblies in order to elect the three indigenous delegates and thus guarantee representation for all ethnic groups, together with their participation (Bello 2005).

Finally, in July 1999, ten regional assemblies were celebrated electing a total of

600 indigenous delegates. Later on, in Caracas, the National Assembly ratified the candidates elected previously during the aforementioned Extraordinary Congress of

CONIVE. Noelí Pocaterra, a Wayuu indigenous leader, was ratified as representative of the western region, Guillermo Guevara, a Hivi leader, represented the southern region and Jose Luis González, a Pemón leader, the eastern areas of the country (Bello 2005).

The participation of CONIVE during this process was strongly questioned by other indigenous organizations aligned with the traditional parties. However, during the process CONIVE became stronger, as this organization was constantly defended by indigenous community members, and was finally recognized as the most representative and legitimate indigenous organization of Venezuela. By that time, in fact, CONIVE was the only organization with the capacity to call for national elections among the indigenous peoples (Clarac 2001). 200

This process of negotiation with the National Electoral Council (CNE) was crucial in opening up new spaces for the transformation of indigenous politics and for their relationship with the nation State. For Clarac (2001), these negotiations represent a step toward the decolonization of indigenous peoples, and were an important starting point for their incorporation into the new political transformations of the State. As I will argue further on, this process reshaped the mobilizing habitus of the Venezuelan indigenous movement and its organizations, as they engaged in new forms of dialogue with the State.

The National Constituent Assembly

In 1999, President Hugo Chávez called for the formation of a National

Constituent Assembly in order to replace the 1961 Constitution, which was considered to be representative of the 4th Republic, and its punto fijista79 ideologies. The Constituent

Assembly had the objective of reestablishing the Republic according to the “true”

Bolivarian precepts of democracy. It is important to note that, at the time, the government and its politicians made no reference to socialist ideals; instead the constituent project evoked nationalistic Bolivarian voices claiming true independence, sovereignty, internal development, popular participation and social inclusion.

79 On 31st of October of 1958, was celebrated an emblematic political pact among the Venezuelan parties of Acción Democrática (AD), Partido Social Cristiano (COPEI) and Unión Republicana Democrática (URD). This pact involved a compromise to support national elections and ensure the establishment of a democratic regime. Yet in practice, it became a hegemonic pact that excluded the participation of the Venezuelan Communist Party, and established a bi-party political system controlled by AD and COPEI. 201

One of the most important legal texts of the new Bolivarian State for defining its multicultural framework is the preamble of the 1999 Constitution

“The People of Venezuela in the exercise of its creative powers and invoking the protection of God, the historical example of our liberator Simón Bolívar and the heroism and sacrifice of our aboriginal ancestors and the precursors and forgers of a free and sovereign patria; with the supreme goal of re-founding the Republic in order to establish a democratic, participatory and protagonist, multiethnic and pluricultural society, a federal and decentralized State of justice, that will consolidate the values of liberty, independence, peace, solidarity, common good, territorial integrity, coexistence, and the rule of law for this and future generations, ensure the right to life, to work, to culture, to education, to social justice, and to equality without any kind of discrimination or subordination; promote the pacific cooperation among the nations and impulse and consolidate Latin American integration according to the principle of the non intervention and auto-determination of peoples, to the guarantee of the universal and indivisible human rights, the democratization of international society, nuclear disarmament, ecological equilibrium and the juridical ecological good as the common and irrevocable patrimony of humanity” 80 (CBV 1999).

It has been argued that, with the constituent process, Venezuelan political institutions made a “real” epistemological rupture with the integrationist and assimilationist definition of the State expressed in the previous 1961 Constitution. For the first time, indigenous peoples were no longer subjected to an exceptional regime or required to be integrated into the unitary model of the nation-state. Instead, the

80 “El pueblo de Venezuela, en ejercicio de sus poderes creadores e invocando la protección de Dios, el ejemplo histórico de nuestro Libertador Simón Bolívar y el heroísmo y sacrifico de nuestros antepasados aborígenes y de los precursores y forjadores de una patria libre y soberana; con el fin supremo de refundar la República para establecer una sociedad democrática, participativa y protagónica, multiétnica y pluricultural en un Estado de justicia, federal y descentralizado que consolide los valores de la libertad, la independencia, la paz, la solidaridad, el bien común, la integridad territorial, la convivencia y el imperio de la ley para ésta y las futuras generaciones; asegure el derecho a la vida, al trabajo, a la cultura, a la educación, a la justicia social y a la igualdad sin discriminación ni subordinación alguna; promueva la cooperación pacífica entre las naciones e impulse y consolide la integración latinoamericana de acuerdo con el principio de no intervención y autodeterminación de los pueblos, la garantía universal e indivisible de los derechos humanos, la democratización de la sociedad internacional, el desarme nuclear, el equilibrio ecológico y los bienes jurídicos ambientales como patrimonio común e irrenunciable de la humanidad; en ejercicio de su poder originario representado por la Asamblea Nacional Constituyente mediante el voto libre en referendo democrático” (CBV 1999). 202

Venezuelan State recognized the plural character of the nation, as well as the specific rights for differentiated groups. Thus, indigenous peoples in Venezuela are now recognized as subjects with full collective and specific rights. In fact, it has been argued by many political and legal scholars that the Venezuelan Constitution is one of the most advanced in Latin America in regard to indigenous rights (Mansutti 2000; Van Cott 2002;

Bello 2005; Guevara 2007) and represents a key “political opportunity” for indigenous peoples and their organizations (Giordani and Villalón 2002; Aguilar and Bustillos 2006).

Clarac (2001) argues that it is difficult to understand what this preamble means for indigenous and criollo peoples. I suggest that behind this constitutional ideological rupture in regard to indigenous people‟s incorporation, modern nationalist ideologies have been reinforced. As I will argue later, the constant emphasis on Bolivarian and

Republican tropes clearly creates a discursive framework that evokes the limits of this new pluralistic multicultural order.

A point of departure for exploring the aforementioned argument may an examination of the process by which indigenous peoples and their organizations fought for their rights during the National Constituent Assembly. In this process, the predominance and hegemonic power of the modern nation-state clearly emerges institutionalizing indigenous rights and their participation within the so-called multicultural State.

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The fight for Indigenous Rights

Once the National Constituent Assembly was established in 1999, its members created a “Commission for the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and the Relationship of the

State and Indigenous Peoples.” This Commission was in charge of framing a legal proposal based on the suggestions and contributions of indigenous communities and organizations.

The recognition of indigenous peoples in the constitution involved a complex law- making process and multiple struggles among indigenous leaders who managed to have direct participation in the construction of the proposal and in the discussion of its contents

(Giordani and Villalón 2002, Bello 2005). They did not improvise their proposals, because these were based on years of previous debate among multiple organizations.

During the entire constituent process, the Venezuelan indigenous movements remained vigilant of their demanded legal order, as they occupied the headquarters of the National

Assembly in Caracas. Every day Wayuu, Pemón, Kariña, Añu, Ye'kuana, Jiwi, Warao,

Arawako, Piaroa, Yanomami, Curripaco activists, among many other indigenous peoples visited the legislative palace in order to provide support for the indigenous representatives. They remained day after day performing dances, songs, shamanic prayers and debates until their rights were finally discussed on the 7th of September of 1999.

However, the proposal of this indigenous commission met the public opposition of State functionaries, military factions, national intellectuals, politicians and some media, who objected to the recognition of indigenous people‟s rights in the Constitution.

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The proposal of Venezuelan indigenous organizations

The main thrust of the proposal was based on the recognition of the existence of indigenous groups and their cultures before the formation of the Venezuelan State. On this basis, indigenous peoples proposed the recognition of their rights as specific and

“originary” (Bello 2005:62). The proposal also argued that indigenous peoples needed their own specific rights, on account of their particular identity, distinguishing them from other components of the Venezuelan national society. In this sense, they claimed the recognition of indigenous peoples‟ rights to their: ethnic and cultural identity, territory, languages, values, religion, education, cultural, historical and artistic patrimony, intellectual collective property and traditional knowledge (CONIVE 1999).

Moreover, in the political realm, they demanded the guarantee of their right to participate in the structures of the State, as well as the recognition of their traditional authorities, political organizations, and their consuetudinary rights. Regarding territorial rights, the proposal suggested that indigenous lands should be inalienable and indivisible.

In these geographical spaces, indigenous peoples should be able to develop their physical, political, cultural, social and spiritual life. They also proposed that the Venezuelan State and indigenous communities should demarcate these lands and guarantee them as collective property. In addition, they suggested the recognition of their rights to manage biodiversity and to access genetic resources (CONIVE 1999).

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The debate

Indigenous constituents had to confront the overt opposition of political elites and the military who favored the cultural homogeneity of the Venezuelan nation and preferred equality and mestizaje. Chapter VIII of the constitution, referring to indigenous rights, was the only proposed text that was sent to a special commission of Security and

Defense, for a previous evaluation (Mansutti 2000). During this debate, many Chavista and anti-Chavista constituents suggested that indigenous rights to their lands should not be granted and that they could not be recognized as “pueblos” (peoples). Constituent members of the Commission of Security and Defense of the Assembly indicated that indigenous peoples were manipulated by NGOs and transnational organizations. They also argued that the State should not recognize ethnic differences, since “el pueblo venezolano” (the Venezuelan people) is one alone.

For instance, General Francisco Visconti, president of the Commission of

Security and Defense of the Assembly, expressed his public opposition to the proposal of indigenous peoples. He stated that the inclusion of indigenous peoples was “...a very delicate theme, very important and dangerous in relation to the sovereignty and integrity of the Venezuelan nation” 81 (ANC 1999). The term “danger” has been a recurrent trope used by non-indigenous voices in order to dismiss indigenous demands, especially those regarding territorial rights. Images of the “fear” of a possible fragmentation of the nation,

81 “…es un tema muy delicado y de mucha consideración y peligro para lo que tiene que ver con la soberanía e integridad de la nación venezolana” (ANC 1999). 206

or exploring the notion of “nations within the nation” were, and still are, recurrent in the political imaginary of these political factions of the State.82

Furthermore, during this debate, in the public press articles backed the abovementioned oppositional-conservative arguments. Jorge Olavarría, one of the few representatives of the opposition in the Assembly, argued publicly that the recognition of indigenous people‟s rights could favor their free determination, so that they could design their own flag, write a hymn, demarcate their territory, create a government, and write a letter to the secretary of the United Nations requesting their admission as an independent nation (Bello 2005).

In sum, for these critics the unity of the nation is not negotiable. In this ideological arena lies one of the critical limits of Venezuelan multiculturalism.

Indigenous peoples may be recognized only to the extent that they are part of an indivisible nation. In other words, diversity and unity can coexist as long as indigenous peoples do not claim self-determination, autonomy and territorial rights.

Moreover, the debate also involved great discrepancies over indigenous people‟s rights to manage and use natural resources, and gave rise to the suggestion that

82 For instance, a non-indigenous politician at the National Assembly expressed during an interview held in 2009 that indigenous peoples had in reality a double agenda, since behind their demands they “really” want their political autonomy and independence from the Venezuelan state. He explained that this is happening in Colombia where indigenous peoples have requested the retirement of state troops. He claimed with fear that this could happen any time soon in Venezuela. Moreover, another functionary at the Ministry of Culture, has also expressed in meetings with indigenous groups the fear of the State towards the potential secessionism of their territories. This view has also been publicly supported by Luis Brito García (2009) a national intellectual that has claimed that indigenous demands to territorial rights must be by all means “rejected.” He argues that indigenous peoples may call for autonomy or separatism as has happened in “the half moon” of Bolivia, as well as in Ecuador and Peru.

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indigenous peoples could be manipulated by transnational companies and NGOs. For instance Visconti stated on this regard that:

“... we have been informed of some of the transnational groups that are and have been behind all this process of indigenous people‟s demands, with the idea that in [the] long run they could benefit from the good will of indigenous [peoples‟] and of the pressing needs of the indigenous peoples, and we must be careful about those things…” 83 (ANC 1999).

This statement clearly represented indigenous people as passive, “innocent” agents who are subjected to the manipulations of transnational powers.84 From this point of view, indigenous demands were considered as illegitimate, as they represented threats to the interests of the nation. In turn, indigenous peoples had to respond to these implicit accusations of not being “loyal” to the nation‟s project of unity. Thus, during the constituent process Noelí Pocaterra, Guillermo Guevara, and José Luis Gonzalez presented strong defensive arguments against these claims, as they represented the voices of the national indigenous movement. Below, I examine some of their interventions in order to appreciate the complexities of this historical debate, while at the same time, understanding the arguments of national indigenous leaders.

“CONSTITUENT GUEVARA (GUILLERMO) .- Before we vote, I want insist, that the spirit of that article should by no means undermined, because that would be an affront to the desires and demands indigenous peoples have been making

83 “…dimos cuenta de algunos grupos trasnacionales que están y han estado en algunas oportunidades tras todo este proceso de reivindicación de las naciones indígenas, con el propósito de que en el largo plazo, ellos puedan sacar beneficio de la buena voluntad de los indígenas y de las necesidades que tienen los indígenas para sus reivindicaciones y tenemos que tener cuidado sobre estas cosas…” (ANC 1999). 84 The image of manipulated indigenous peoples is crucial for structuring arguments against recognizing indigenous people‟s rights in the present. For instance, in 2009 this discourse was reproduced by members of the National Commission of Land Demarcation who in diverse occasions suggested that indigenous peoples of the Upper Río Negro were manipulated by mining transnational companies. They also argue that Yukpa indigenous peoples are subject to the interests of drug international organizations and the manipulation of international NGO´s. 208

for many years … Do not despise the desires, the demands of those indigenous peoples. They are here observing how we respond to their demands. There is no danger, or anything against the defense of the nation. In this case, the nation is all of us … Another clarification. We are not against the Armed Forces. This should remain clear for Constituent Visconti…” 85 [translation and bold are mine] (ANC 1999).

“CONSTITUENT GONZALEZ (JOSE LUIS).- …We think and have said, I don‟t know if in the imagination of commander Visconti, he wants to give us a republic, or he wants indigenous peoples to be independent. We do not propose that, dear compatriots. At no time have we said that we wanted the territories to be independent. At no time have we suggested that we are not Venezuelans. We want diversity within the republic. Or must we endure another 500 years to achieve what we want to achieve? That we get to be recognized as a people, because that is what we are. We are not communities, we are a people. I greeted you in my language, which is the language that I have, from an area where I grew up. Indigenous people have their own dresses, their own languages. But, please, if we are sincere, if we are Venezuelans, if we care about Venezuela, let’s not only care about natural resources, let’s also care about people… I have said, let us really forget Cristóbal Colon, that sometimes when we talk we blame him and the people who came, but (after) 507 years Cristóbal Colón is still with us and and all those people who came, that internal colonialism. What we want with the term “people” or the term “territory,” is within the Republic; we are Venezuelans, do not consider us strangers/foreigners?, or that by giving us the recognition over our territories, the State, the Republic will not have control over Venezuelan geography, over its territory, Where are the organisms of security that have not taken out the New Tribes? Who gave the permits? Citizen President and constituent brothers, indigenous peoples do not work at the immigration (office). I urge/demand you that there must be government and that instead of submitting a report against recognizing indigenous people‟s rights, proceed immediately to inspect those NGOs that you say that are behind us, for which you supposedly want to deny us the rights. Thank you very much” (ANC 1999).

85 “CONSTITUYENTE GUEVARA (GUILLERMO).- Quisiera dejar en claro antes de que se proceda a la votación, que el espíritu también de ese artículo no sea destrozado, porque destrozarían los deseos y las demandas que han venido haciendo los pueblos indígenas durante muchos años… No vayan a destrozar el deseo, las demandas de esos pueblos indígenas. Por eso ustedes ven allí un grupo observando qué es lo que está pasando con sus demandas. No hay nada en peligro, ni nada contra la defensa de la nación. La nación somos todos nosotros, en este caso..Otra aclaratoria. No estamos en contra de las Fuerzas Armadas. Que quede bien claro el Constituyente Visconti…” (ANC 1999). 209

Guevara and Gonzalez clearly contested Visconti´s position on the separatist or secessionist intentions of indigenous peoples by stating that those dangers were fruit of the Commanders imagination. Guevara in particular responded to the imagined threat by stating that indigenous peoples are not hostile to the national forces of defense. Instead he reframed indigenous demands in nationalistic terms by stating that indigenous peoples are Venezuelan and are part of the nation as are all other peoples. He further articulated modern multicultural ideologies by arguing that they wanted diversity within the limits of the nation.

Moreover, González evoked the powerful image of internal colonialism as a way of questioning the posture of the opposition and its military inspired apprehensions. In this manner, he legitimized indigenous people‟s voices by evoking revolutionary discourses, while at the same time strengthening alliances with left-wing factions within the Assembly. In addition, he recalled the humanistic nature of Chávez´s Bolivarian project, by arguing for the priority of people‟s rights over the State‟s rights to monopolize natural resources. This was precisely one of the critical debates shaping the indigenous movement‟s negotiations with the Venezuelan State.

Furthermore, González challenged the State‟s assimilationist and agrarian discourses that have treated indigenous peoples as simple communities. This debate between “people” and “community” or between ethnicity and territorial identity is crucial for understanding many of the limitations of Venezuelan multiculturalism. Finally,

González established a dialogue with the paranoid State spokesmen, challenging the 210

notion that indigenous people are manipulated by NGOs. In this sense, he argued that the

State was responsible for the presence of these organizations within its territory.

During this debate, Noelí Pocaterra expressed the determination not to be trodden on. The following excerpt some of the ideological dialogues framed by this emblematic leader of the national indigenous movement.

“CONSTITUYENTE POCATERRA (Noelí).- (starts speaking in the wayuu language)... We came here to demand our rights, and to urge that our historical and originary rights be taken into consideration. We come here with love and with the hope and expectation of being part of a process of change; the central problem has already been recognized, the problem is with regard to the indigenous peoples and their territories. You must also listen to us, because if not, we will feel that we are superfluous in this National Constituent Assembly, we have not come to be invited like stones, we have not come to be just folklore in this National Constituent Assembly, we came to express our word, to defend our rights, to represent our people” 86 (ANC 1999).

Pocaterra identified access to land at the core of indigenous people‟s needs. She claimed the right to have real political participation, which in her view meant to express themselves and to be “heard.” In this sense, she represented indigenous peoples as active actors who refuse to be considered as “passive stones.” Instead, she questioned the folkloric vision of the assimilationist State which has denied the real political agency of indigenous peoples. Later in this same intervention, Pocaterra addressed the President of

86 “CONSTITUYENTE POCATERRA (Noelí).-(Comienza hablando en idioma wayúu)... Hemos venido aquí a demandar nuestros derechos, a exigir nuestros derechos históricos y originarios, que sean tomados en cuenta. Nosotros venimos aquí con todo el amor y con la esperanza e ilusión de que estamos en un proceso de cambio; ya es reconocido cuál es el problema, el problema que se debate es en relación a los pueblos y territorios indígenas. Tienen que escucharnos también, porque si no nos sentimos que estamos de más en esta Asamblea Nacional Constituyente, no hemos venido a ser convidados de piedra, no hemos venido a ser sólo un folclore en esta Asamblea Nacional Constituyente, venimos a expresar nuestra palabra, a defender nuestros derechos, a representar a nuestro pueblo” (ANC 1999). 211

the Assembly in order to clarify indigenous people‟s positions regarding State sovereignty and the protection of national borders:

“We have been, mister President, the guards of our frontier, the custodians and guardians of our territories, of those territories which are of all Venezuelans. It is not possible, that if having originary rights, today we are reclaiming derived rights because we are not recognized. We are in the hands of 128 constituents. I must remind you, as it was recognized by the Liberator Simón Bolívar in his “Social Ideario” when he acknowledged the right that we had and referred to us as natural people with the right to have our territories returned to us, the right to do justice to the indigenous peoples. Never, Constituent brothers and sisters, never will we sell or alienate, or cede those territories. Many of you have turned your backs on those territories, many of you, maybe not those of you who are here, but the Venezuelan people, the Venezuelan State has turned its back on the frontier, and those spaces where there are those transnational (organizations), it is not our fault that they are there, it is the fault of the Venezuelan State authorizing them, and it is precisely because indigenous peoples have been in those territories, that we have not lost them”87 (ANC 1999).

Later, Pocaterra specifically addresses the issue of territory by stating:

“The recognition of territory, I am not going to give you an explanation of the spiritual implications, [the] cultural implications that the concept of territory has for us; I believe that in our intervention this remains clearly defined. The recognition of a territory does not affect the territorial and political unity of a State. These sisters and brothers will not endanger the governability and the territorial unity of the Venezuelan people. We, in our document, right here, it precisely says in a disposition:

87 “Hemos sido, señor Presidente, los guardianes de nuestra frontera, los custodios y guardianes de nuestros territorios, de esos territorios que son de todos los venezolanos. No es posible que de tener derechos originarios, hoy en día estemos reclamando derechos derivados porque no se nos reconoce. Estamos en manos de 128 constituyentes. Debo recordarles, tal como lo reconoció el Libertador Simón Bolívar en su “Ideario Social”, cuando él reconoció el derecho que teníamos y se refirió a nosotros como los pueblos naturales y el derecho a que se nos devolvieran nuestros territorios, el derecho a hacer justicia con los pueblos indígenas. Jamás, hermanas y hermanos constituyentes, jamás vamos a vender ni a traspasar, ni a ceder esos territorios. Muchos de ustedes han estado de espalda a esos territorios, muchos de ustedes, quizás no los que están aquí, pero el pueblo venezolano, el Estado venezolano, ha estado de espaldas a la frontera, y esos espacios donde están esas transnacionales no es por culpa nuestra que estén allí, es por culpa del propio Estado venezolano que los ha autorizado; por estar los indígenas en ese territorio es que no nos hemos quedado sin territorio” (ANC 1999). 212

“Article 129: the indigenous peoples as cultures of ancestral roots are part of the Venezuelan State, unique, sovereign and indivisible, and in conformity with this Constitution they have the duty of safeguarding its territorial integrity and the nation‟s sovereignty. What more can you want? (applauses) . We are giving a demonstration of loyalty to the integrity and sovereignty of the Venezuelan people, because we feel more Venezuelan than any other Venezuelan. We are here giving a demonstration and we are expressing it here in these proposals Constituent sisters and brothers, I request you to reflect on this and to recognize these rights. We must not beg for, we request it with dignity, that those rights be recognized to us, because not only the indigenous peoples that are here, but all the communities are anxiously waiting to see what we do. It is not possible/It cannot be that our destiny and future is in the hands of the 128 constituents that are here. I still have hope and the confidence that you will think carefully. It does not cost you anything. This is a Bolivarian sentiment. I feel that here is the spirit of Bolívar and the spirit of Guaicaipuro, of Nigales and other indigenous [peoples]. I am sure that if President Chávez were a constituent, he would defend our rights. Of this I am fully sure…”88 (ANC 1999).

88 “El reconocimiento de territorio, no voy a darle una explicación de la implicación espiritual, implicaciones culturales que tiene para nosotros el concepto territorio. Creo que en las intervenciones que hemos hecho eso ha quedado claramente definido. El reconocimiento de un territorio no tiene por qué significar la afectación de la unidad territorial y política de un estado. Ello, hermanas y hermanos, no va a poner en peligro la gobernabilidad y la unidad territorial del pueblo venezolano. Nosotros en nuestro documento, aquí mismo, en una disposición, se decía, precisamente: “Artículo 129: Los pueblos indígenas como cultura de raíces ancestrales forman parte del Estado venezolano, único, soberano e indivisible y de conformidad con esta Constitución, tienen el deber de salvaguardar la integridad territorial y la soberanía de la Nación”. ¿Qué más que eso hermanos? (Aplausos). Estamos dando una demostración de lealtad a la integridad y soberanía del pueblo venezolano, porque nos sentimos mucho más venezolanos que cualquier venezolano. Estamos dando aquí una demostración y lo estamos expresando aquí en estas propuestas. Hermanas y hermanos constituyentes, les solicito que hagan una reflexión y reconozcan esos derechos. No debemos mendigárselo, se lo solicitamos con dignidad, que nos reconozcan esos derechos, porque no sólo los pueblos indígenas que están aquí, sino todas las comunidades están pendientes de lo que nosotros hacemos. Tenemos un reto y un desafío, no sólo nosotros sino ustedes también. No es posible que el destino y el futuro de nuestros pueblos esté en manos de 128 constituyentes que se encuentran aquí. Todavía tengo la esperanza y la seguridad de que ustedes van a recapacitar. Nada les cuesta, este es un sentimiento bolivariano. Aquí siento que está el espíritu de Bolívar y el espíritu de Guaicaipuro, de Nigales y de otros indígenas. Estoy segura que si el presidente Chávez fuese constituyente, defendería nuestros derechos. De eso estoy plenamente segura” (ANC 1999).

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From the quotations it is clear how indigenous movement leaders intended to overcome the fears of nationalist military factions. Pocaterra made the identity of indigenous peoples as Venezuelans explicit, and highlighted the responsibility of the State for not protecting the nation`s borders. She also expressed an emotional voice by arguing that national identity is truly “felt” by indigenous peoples, even more so than in the case of other segments of the population. She used the term “loyalty” which expresses the subjection of indigenous peoples under the realm of the Republic and the nation. Yet she shifted to a voice of dignity and respect by calling for the final recognition of their rights as a demand made by all indigenous communities.

Pocaterra closed her discourse with the emotive articulation of indo-Bolivarian tropes. She first called on the spirit of Bolívar and later on the spirit of Guaicaipuro, in order to make clear that the indigenous constitutional project is grounded and contained within the limits of the republican-liberal project of the modern nation. The articulation of Bolívar and Guaicaipuro also evokes a symbolic spiritual alliance that has shaped subsequent interactions between the State and indigenous organizations. She finally ends her intervention with the powerful image of President Chávez, implicitly recalling the commitment made in 1998, and other internal negotiations conducted between indigenous movement leaders and the President. Overall, Pocaterra reminded the

Assembly the many alliances that indigenous organizations had built up over the years with State political actors. For instance, at the time indigenous organizations not only had the support of Chávez but also of the Minister of External Relations, José Vicente Rangel, who gave his support to the indigenous proposal by stating that the recognition of 214

indigenous peoples in no way threatened national sovereignty or the territorial unity of the nation (Van Cott 2002: 51).

After this historical debate, a full Chapter addressing indigenous rights was finally included in the new Bolivarian Constitution which involved the recognition of: indigenous languages (Art 9) and their specific rights as “peoples” (Art 119, 126), their rights to internal autonomy and the administration of justice (Art. 119, 260), to the collective property of their lands (Art 119), to the use of natural resources (Art. 120), to their cultural and education rights (Art. 121), to integral health and traditional medicine

(Art. 122), to economic and labor rights (Art.123), to intellectual collective property over indigenous knowledge (Art. 124), to political participation (Art.125, 186), and the existence of indigenous municipalities (Art 169) (CBV 1999).

We have seen how the ideological construction of Venezuelan multiculturalism, in this initial stage of the revolutionary process, involved a profound debate on the meanings and limits of the concepts of territorial sovereignty, national identity and loyalty, and the manipulation and intervention of transnational powers. Indigenous movements were active co-constructors in this law-making process as they started to circulate international definitions of multiculturalism in order to contest nationalist ideologies. It is important to notice that at this early stage of legal transformations in

Venezuela, the notion of multiculturalism was not yet linked to socialist or indo-socialist discourses.

Overall, indigenous peoples and their organizations were instrumental in attaining what is undoubtedly one of the greatest political achievements in the constitutional 215

history of the Venezuelan nation. For the first time, their voices were publicly “heard” and “seen” during a national constituent process. This process of legal struggle was inscribed in the mobilizing habitus of the Venezuelan indigenous movement and its leaders, expanding their system of effective strategies for establishing negotiations with the State. Since then, many indigenous leaders refer to this historical event as a unique precedent legitimizing their incorporation within the Venezuelan State. The emblematic

National Constituent Assembly and the approval of indigenous rights set the basis for constructing a new multicultural legal and political order. This “political opportunity” allowed for the development of new organic laws and other legal instruments expanding the rights for indigenous peoples.

The Organic Law for Indigenous Peoples (LOPCI)

In 2001 the Legislative Power and the Permanent Commission for Indigenous

Peoples initiated the discussion of the project of the Organic Law of Indigenous Peoples and Communities (LOPCI). In December of that same year, the text was consulted in many communities and in the legislative municipalities of each state. In 2003, the project was submitted, after eight sessions of discussion between the Permanent Technical Table of the Legislative Power and the Vice-presidency of the Republic. This legal project was again consulted among many indigenous communities and on December 27th of 2005 was finally approved by the National Assembly (Asamblea Nacional 2009).

The LOPCI is one of the most advanced legal instruments regarding indigenous peoples in the American continent. As an organic law it develops and expands the rights 216

of indigenous peoples established in the Bolivarian Constitution. It has a section defining a series of terms: indigenous peoples, indigenous communities, indigenous lands, indigenous habitat, their own organization, their own institutions, legitimate authorities, ancestrality, traditionality, cultural integrity and indigenous collective property. The

LOPCI also details and establishes the full procedures and regulations regarding the process of land demarcation.

In regard to the social meaning of the LOPCI, Numancia Blanco, an Indigenous

Hivi leader, of the Regional Organization of Amazon Indigenous Peoples (ORPIA) states:

“The LOPCI is the [law] that most approximates to the vision of indigenous peoples. This law was constructed with indigenous peoples, lawyers and assessors. That is why we urge the fulfillment of the LOPCI, since it recovers the true spirit of the discussion and also counts on consultation at the national level” 89 (Blanco 2008).

The LOPCI for many indigenous leaders has a particular legitimacy since it was debated among many indigenous communities during several years. Many indigenous leaders and organizations feel proud of this legal instrument as they were co-constructors of its text. Yris Aray, an indigenous Kariña activist, confounder of CONIVE and member of the Indigenous Parliament of America states:

“The LOPCI is our great book, after the Popul Vuh this is our reference. We feel fully identified with what is expressed in this law. People said no to the reform of the LOPCI. We, indigenous peoples participated in the discussion of the themes of the LOPCI. For us it is the mother book and we recognize it as such.”90 (Aray 2009).

89 “La LOPCI es la que mas se aproxima a la visión de los pueblos indígenas. Esta ley fue construida con los pueblos indígenas, abogados y asesores. Por eso exigimos que se cumpla la LOPCI, ya que esta ley recoge el verdadero espíritu de la discusión y además cuenta con la consulta a nivel nacional” (Blanco 2008). 90 “La LOPCI es nuestro gran libro, después del Popol Vuh esta es nuestra referencia. Nosotros nos sentimos plenamente identificados con lo que esta expresado en esta ley. La gente dijo no a la reforma 217

The above-mentioned statement clearly indicates how the “power of law” is not monopolized exclusively by the State and its elites. Instead the symbolic meaning of the

LOPCI is reframed by Pan-indigenist ideologies, as in the comparison of the text with the

Popul Vuh. On the other hand, it is interesting how Aray feminizes this legal text as the

“mother book” (Alonso 1994), and indicates that indigenous peoples “identify” with it since they are co-authors. This particular affective link to this legal instrument represents a significant rupture in the legal history of Venezuela, as indigenous peoples now appropriate the legal rhetoric of the State and make use of its symbolic and material power. It also reveals how national indigenous leaders have incorporated within their mobilizing habitus a new way of conceiving the legal realm and its instruments. Now

State Bolivarian laws are perceived as the result of indigenous struggles, and not as merely representing the interest of political and economic elites.

There are other legal instruments addressing indigenous rights such as the Law of

Demarcation and Guarantee of Indigenous Peoples` Habitat and Lands, 2001; the Organic

Law of the General Attorney of the Republic, 2000 (Art.9); the Law of Geography,

Cartography and National Census 2000 (Art.46); the Organic Law of Environment

2006, the Law of Indigenous Patrimony (2007), the Law of Indigenous Languages

(2007), the Organic Law of Education (2009), and the Law of Indigenous Artisans

(2010) (Guevara et al 2009). The Venezuelan State has also signed different international conventions and pacts, such as: the 169th Convention of the International Labor de la LOPCI. Nosotros los pueblos indígenas participamos en la discusión de los temas de la LOPCI. Para nosotros es el libro madre y lo reconocemos como tal” (Aray, 2009). 218

Organization, regarding indigenous and tribal peoples in independent countries; The

Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) (Adopted by the General Assembly of

UN on December 10, 1948); the III World Conference against Racism, Racial

Discrimination, Xenophobia and Related Intolerance, 2001; and the Durban Declaration and Plan of Action of 2001.

Based on this new multicultural legal order indigenous peoples have also gained numerous institutional spaces since 1999. In 2003, the legislative power created the

Permanent Commission of Indigenous Peoples of the National Assembly, which has issued many legal instruments. This legislative space is led by Noelí Pocaterra, one of the main indigenous leaders and co-founder of CONIVE. This institution also has the support of the Indigenous Parliament of America, which is currently led by Deputy José Poyo, a well-known Kariña activist.

The executive power on the other hand has created many departments attending indigenous issues at the Ministries of Health, Culture, Alimentation, and Women. There also exists a special office for indigenous peoples at the People‟s Defense (Defensoría del

Pueblo). Furthermore, in 2006 the government created the Ministry for Indigenous

Peoples (MINPI). The creation of this institution triggered an important political and leadership crisis within CONIVE – the National Indian Council of Venezuela. Many indigenous factions criticized the policies and actions of this Ministry, which has been accused of reproducing assimilationist ideologies and of not being fully “transparent” in its actions. Nevertheless, as I will explain later the formation of this Ministry represents a 219

significant multicultural reform, indexing the incorporation of indigenous peoples within the very structure of the State.

In sum, since 1999 the Venezuelan State has been involved in an accelerated law- making process involving the production of multiple legal texts with the active participation of indigenous peoples and their organizations. It is commonly said by national indigenous leaders like María Gómez, an Akawaio lawyer of the National

Assembly, that indigenous people, even in the most remote communities, know the contents of the constitution very well and also that of the new multicultural laws. Yet, as I show in subsequent sections, many leaders and intellectuals agree that the “real” impact of these new legal instruments is not altogether clear.

Overall, I have examined some of the legal and institutional transformations implemented by the Venezuela State in order to incorporate indigenous peoples into the

Bolivarian multicultural nation. It is clear that between 1998 and 2005 the national indigenous movement and the State embraced notions of multiculturalism as developed by international organizations. Venezuelan multiculturalism involved the recognition of political, cultural, economic, and territorial rights, emulating elements of the 169th

Convention of the International Labor Organization. However, after 2006, these early notions on multiculturalism were to be articulated to ideologies on “indo-socialism.”

Venezuelan Indo-socialism: A new ideological ecology

In this section I explore how Venezuelan multicultural discursive frames have been gradually transformed since 2006 by ideologies on Latin American indo-socialism. I 220

explore the formation of an ideological ecology (Philips 2004) between multicultural and indo-socialist ideologies.91 This process requires particular attention since it radically shaped the collective frames and strategies of the Venezuelan national indigenous movement and of the Ayamán-turero organization in particular.

As stated earlier, during the National Constituent Assembly the diverse multicultural discourses expressed by the State and by social movements were not associated with the term socialism. Yet after the coup and the oil strike of 2002 and the presidential referendum of 2004, the Venezuelan government started to articulate and circulate neo-socialist ideologies. In this process, revolutionary ideologists redefined the forms of incorporation of indigenous peoples within the new State project, by defining the concept of Venezuelan indo-socialism and by creating the Ministry of Indigenous

Peoples.

After the re-election of President Chávez in 2006, this leader called in his

“Discourse of Unity” for the articulation of Venezuelan indo-socialism into the Bolivarian project. During this political discourse, he proposed the formation of the Socialist United

Party of Venezuela (PSUV) as he argued for the historical need of forming a united party involving the participation of all left-wing ideological perspectives. Yet he warned against copying the bolshevist or Stalinist models. Instead, he proposed to construct a

91 Philips (2004) argues that political processes produce diverse and multiple representations of the nation-state. She suggests that modern and neo-traditional discourses on nation-state formation can coexist, creating thus an accommodation of different forms of nationalism. The author also moves beyond orthodox Marxian analysis by indicating that ideological multiplicity is not necessarily shaped by relationships of domination. Following this argument, I suggest that a similar process occurs within multicultural and indo-socialist ideologies emanated by the State in the current revolutionary process in Venezuela. I show how the formation of indo-socialist discourses is grounded on diverse ideological sources, and how this process has created an ecological relationship among multiple frames on liberal nationalism, evangelical Christianity, Marxism, Bolivarianism, feminism, and indigenism. 221

unique project which he called “Venezuelan indo-socialism.” In this regard, he first stated that socialism of the twenty-first century should be grounded on ancient biblical ideas as well as on the experience of the indigenous peoples. Chávez‟s political voices thus produced a complex “ideological ecology” combining evangelical-biblical principles and

Latin American notions on indo-socialism (mainly promulgated by José Carlos

Mariátegui in 1927).

Subsequently, Chávez indicated that Simón Bolívar, Simón Rodríguez, José

Ignacio Abreu de Lima and Jose Carlos Mariátegui are the main ideological sources of

Venezuelan indo-socialism. He identifies Bolívar as a “pro-socialist thinker” who advocated establishing and implementing equality in Venezuela, in order to have a perfect system of government (Chávez 2007a:41) Bolivarian tropes and voices in this context served as a powerful rhetorical-emotional strategy, evoking nationalist sentiments of belonging, pride, authenticity, and originality; all necessary for constructing a nationalistic anti-imperial neo-socialist project.

Later on, President Chávez cited the work of José Carlos Mariátegui, stating that this author argued against copying European socialist models. Mariátegui instead indicated: “… we must bring to life, with our own reality, in our own language, an indoamerican socialism.” (Chávez 2007a:42). Mariátegui is one of the fundamental ideological sources of the Venezuelan Bolivarian process. This Peruvian author has been an emblematic intellectual in moving beyond the mere cultural, legal and educational recognition of indigenous peoples. In his essays “The Land Problem,” (1928) and “The

Indian Problem” (1928) he categorically argued that land rights were the major problem 222

of the indigenous peoples in Latin America (Mariátegui 2008). However, Chávez seems to erase Mariátegui´s emphasis on the land problem regarding indigenous peoples, and instead focuses his attention on this author‟s anti-imperial project and the need to unite

Latin American countries under socialist precepts.

Based on this complex ideological ecology, Chavéz finally states in this discourse:

“One of the fundamental roots of our socialist project said Mariategui, and I share this because I am ever more convinced of it as time passes, is the socialism of aboriginal [peoples]. When I gave these prizes to the aboriginal brothers from there, from Capanaparo, from Tronador, from Barranco Yopal, from Delta Amacuro, where we obtained almost 100% of the votes, I thought that they were the bearers of the socialist seed of our land, of our nation, of our América. They lived in socialism during centuries and still you go visit our Kuiva brothers, there in Carabalí, in the riverbanks of the Capanaparo, in one of those many municipalities where were obtained 100%, and you see that they live in socialism ¡They live in socialism right now! … They are the holders of the originary socialism of these lands; they must form the vanguard, they are an example of resistance, of knowledge, the same with the Yukpa, the Barí, the Wayuu, there is Noelí Pocaterra; the Piaroa, the Yanomami, the Kariña, all of them. We are going to re-launch indo-Venezuelan socialism, a socialism inspired in our own roots…. We must incorporate indigenous or indo-Venezuelan socialism, re-empowering it and actualizing it. We must respect and help to strengthen these roots of our socialism. Those practices are like a seed that must expand and multiply. Pay attention, it is contrary to what most people have proposed. Many people have said: “Let’s go to the indigenous communities to help them;” instead, we should say: “let’s ask them for help so that they cooperate with us in the construction of the XXI century socialist project. Governor Rangel Gómez recently told me [in a] conversation, there in Bolívar [state], that for instance he has noticed how the communal councils work quicker and with more efficiency in indigenous communities. This is logical because that has been their culture for centuries. Ours on the contrary, is poisoned with capitalism, individualism, egoism. They maintained their traditions because they were obliged to retreat to faraway zones, up to the riverbanks of the Capanaparo, the Perijá Sierra, the Orinoco Delta, 223

the Amazonian jungles, the Paragua [river] and further, towards the frontier regions” 92 (Chávez 2007a: 44-45).

In this excerpt, Chávez reproduces classical nationalistic tropes of origin (Alonso

1994), by representing indigenous peoples as the “roots” or holders of the “seeds” of the contemporary neo-socialist project. The use of these metaphorical strategies produces the effect of distancing indigenous peoples from contemporary forms of politics. Chávez‟s discourse somehow represents indigenous people‟s practices (which he interprets as

“socialist”) as incipient or not fully developed; thus requiring the empowerment of the nation in order to become a “fruitful” political socialist system. In this sense, the neo- socialist project starts from a “seed” held by indigenous peoples, and will be actualized by the contemporary revolutionary process.

In addition, Chávez‟s discourse suggests that indigenous people have been conducting the very same “socialist” practices for centuries and that they have been

92 “Una de las raíces fundamentales de nuestro proyecto socialista, decía Mariátegui y yo lo comparto porque cada vez estoy más convencido de ello, es el socialismo de los aborígenes. Cuando le entregaba estos premios a los hermanos aborígenes de allá del Capanaparo, de Tronador, de Barranco Yopal, de Delta Amacuro, donde sacamos casi el 100% de los votos, pensaba que ellos eran portadores de la semilla socialista de nuestra tierra, de nuestra nación, de nuestra América. Ellos vivieron durante siglos, y todavía usted va a visitar a nuestros hermanos Kuivas, allá en Carabalí, en las Riveras del Capanaparo, en uno de los tantos municipios donde sacamos 100%, y ve que ellos viven en socialismo. ¡Viven en socialismo ahora mismo!…Ellos son los portadores del socialismo originario de estas tierras; ellos deben ir a la vanguardia, son ejemplo de Resistencia, de sanitaria, lo mismo que los Yukpa, los Barí, los Wayuu, ahí esta Noelí Pocaterra; los Piaroa, los Yanomami, los Kariña, todos. Vamos a relanzar el socialismo indo- venezolano, un socialismo inspirado en nuestras propias raíces. Debemos incorporarlo repontenciándolo, actualizándolo, el socialismo indígena o indo-venezolano. Tenemos que respetar y ayudar a fortalecer esas raíces de nuestro socialismo. Esas prácticas son como una semilla que debe expandirse, multiplicarse. Fíjense, es al revés de lo que mucha gente ha planteado. Mucha gente ha dicho: “Vamos hasta las comunidades indígenas para ayudarles”; más bien deberíamos decir: “Vamos a pedirle ayuda a ellos para que cooperen con nosotros en la construcción del proyecto socialista de siglo XXI”. Me decía el gobernador Rangel Gómez hace poco, allá en Bolívar, conversando, que él se ha dado cuenta de cómo los consejos comunales, por ejemplo, funcionan mucho más rápido y con mayor eficiencia en las comunidades indígenas. Eso es lógico porque es su cultura de siglos. La nuestra, por el contrario, está envenenado de capitalismo, individualismo, egoísmo. Ellos mantuvieron sus tradiciones porque los obligaron a replegarse hasta zonas alejadas, hasta las riveras del Capanaparo, la Sierra de Perijá, el Delta del Orinoco, las selvas de Amazonas, la Paragua y más allá, hacia las regiones fronterizas” (Chávez 2007a:44-45). 224

somehow isolated in the frontiers of the nation. In this sense, his romantic and primordialist voice portrays indigenous peoples as static cultures, which have not been

“poisoned” by capitalism, individualism, or egoism. Moreover, it is interesting that

Chávez first refers to the seed of “our land,” and then points to the nation and to the

American continent. I interpret this geographical progression as a way of containing or limiting indigenous political practices in line with the interests of the modern nation

State, later to be expanded to América, mirroring thus the continental Bolivarian project of emancipation. I further show how these earthly-agrarian images and static representations of indigenous peoples are circulated and re-contextualized in primordialist ideological discourses of State institutions, intellectuals and indigenous movement leaders.

Another interesting strategy articulated by Chávez can be appreciated with his reference to the percentage of votes obtained in indigenous municipalities. He repeats twice that he won 100% of the votes of indigenous peoples during the presidential elections in 2006, in order to underline the political legitimacy and acceptance that he has gained among indigenous peoples. This strategy implicitly suggests that Chávez knows how to “read” and listen to indigenous peoples‟ demands. In other presidential discourses

Chávez has stated that his grandmother was a Kuiva indigenous person, and that he has physical features reflecting his indigenous origins. Overall, this leader has aimed to create an affective and charismatic ideological relationship with indigenous peoples and their causes, based on his own ethno-racial representations. 225

In addition, the segment in which Chávez states “…let‟s ask them for help so that they cooperate with us in the construction of the twenty-first century socialist project” is constantly quoted or reported by indigenous leaders and organizations in public meetings.

This emblematic phrase represents a historical rupture with the assimilationist and assistentialist discourses of the modern Venezuelan State, by calling for the active participation of indigenous peoples in the construction of the new nation. This vision re- values the political role of indigenous peoples, by placing them not only as “inspiring seeds,” but as co-constructors of the socialist project.

Overall, this initial discourse on indo-socialism set the arena for “planting” and articulating an ecological relationship between ideologies on Bolivarianism, indigenism, socialism, and Christian evangelism. The main organizational axis binding these ideological sources is a primordialist opposition to “capitalism” and its forms of domination. Yet in the midst of this political milieu, many indigenous leaders, organizations, institutions and intellectuals have reproduced and circulated this frame on indo-socialism, while developing their own interpretations and configurations of this emergent ideological field.

The Minister and indigenous warriors: at the “service” of the socialist project

Another significant site reproducing and re-contextualizing discursive frames on

Venezuelan indigenous socialism is the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples (MINPI). This institution, created in 2006, has the responsibility to designing public policies for indigenous peoples in order to strengthen “ancestral communes” and provide responses to 226

the needs of indigenous communities. Thus, MINPI has also been the main advocate and promoter of indigenous communal councils93 and communes. MINPI has also executed around 700 development projects most of them involving the creation of fluvial transport networks, the construction of shamanic centers, the formation of communes, donation of agricultural, medical and fishing supplies, distribution of educational materials, and construction of housings projects (MINPI 2007, 2009).

An excerpt of the stated goals of this institution for instance asserts that: “…our mission is to strengthen our originary peoples and the Bolivarian, Socialist, Multiethnic and Pluricultural Venezuelan State…” (MINPI 2007:2). Thus, it is clear how MINPI reproduces the ideological mosaic proposed by President Chávez, by evoking a mechanical articulation of multicultural and neo-socialist discourses. MINPI‟s discursive framework constantly adapts itself to the government‟s agenda, according to changes required by the different political conjunctures experienced by the revolutionary process.

Thus this institution calls for the active participation of indigenous peoples in the

Bolivarian government, as can be sensed in the following statement of Minister Nicia

Maldonado:

“…indigenous peoples are already part of it, since the arrival of the revolution in 1999, because 514 years ago we did not have direct protagonism in the government, first due to the Spanish empire, later due to the empire of the oligarchy in the stage of the republican era. Thus, the arrival of the Bolivarian Revolution is a great pleasure for us, it is a great pleasure to be part of the Bolivarian Government and specially of the new Ministry that will represent the direct participation of indigenous peoples as protagonists that is very important for all Latin America where we indigenous people are [located]… All this needs an explanation. For example what is that for us? What does all this imply? It implies the rendering visible the potentialities, the greatness that we, indigenous

93 There are about 2100 indigenous communal councils registered in Venezuela (MINPI 2007). 227

peoples may have, to share with the great Venezuelan people, especially when the President of the Republic is promoting as one of his axis, the re- pontentiated socialism of indigenous peoples, of the ancestral peoples… We are making ourselves visible, then this is what we have always wanted, thus how good it is that the President has brought the entire question to the surface and we are not going to waste the opportunity” 94 [translation and emphasis are mine] (Rangel 2007).

For the Minister, indigenous socialism involves two main concepts: protagonistic participation and visibility. The former is one of the central concepts of the contemporary

Bolivarian project, as is manifested in the preamble of the 1999 Constitution. Yet in this fragment the Minister reduces the concept of participation to the process of making visible indigenous potentialities. The act of “rendering visible,” in this passage is connected to Chávez´s discourse on recognizing indigenous people‟s socialist practices.

Although “visibilization” has been an important step in the process of ethnic recognition, at the same time it represents the limits of Bolivarian multiculturalism. In other words, by equating “visibility” with protagonistic participation, the State makes invisible indigenous peoples‟ specific demands on processes of redistribution. As stated earlier,

MINPI has created its own agenda of “redistribution” of goods, services, and forms of social organization. However, indigenous people‟s demands on land are usually ignored.

94 “ los pueblos indígenas somos parte ya, desde la llegada de la revolución en 1999 porque desde hace 514 años no teníamos un protagonismo directo en el gobierno, primero por el imperio español, luego por el imperio de la oligarquía en la etapa de la era republicana. Por lo tanto, la llegada de la Revolución Bolivariana para nosotros es un gran placer, es un gran placer formar parte del Gobierno Bolivariano y muy especialmente del nuevo ministerio que va a representar la participación directa de los pueblos indígenas como protagonistas y eso es sumamente importante para toda la América Latina donde estamos los pueblos indígenas…Todo esto necesita una explicación ¿qué es eso para nosotros por ejemplo? ¿qué implica todo esto? Implica la visibilización de las potencialidades, de las grandezas que podamos tener los pueblos indígenas para compartirlo con el gran pueblo venezolano sobre todo cuando el Presidente de la República está promoviendo como uno de los ejes, el socialismo repotenciado de los pueblos indígenas, de los pueblos ancestrales…estamos visibilizándonos, entonces eso es lo que siempre hemos querido, por lo tanto qué bueno que el presidente lo saca a flote y nosotros no lo vamos a desperdiciar” (Rangel 2007). 228

It is very important to note that MINPI does not evoke the term land, in most of its institutional discourses. Territorial tropes circulated by this State institution are limited to communes and communal councils, while land demarcation projects are constantly downplayed. MINPI in fact has become aligned with political factions of the State that oppose to the demarcation of indigenous lands.

Along with the aforementioned development projects, MINPI also conducts workshops for ideological formation among indigenous communities, in order to teach these populations the basic principles of the Bolivarian socialist ethic.95 Misión

Guaicaipuro, which is now part of this Ministry has created the novel figure of

“indigenous socialist warriors96” who are defined as:

“… an indigenous [man or woman], voluntarily compromised, attending his/her solemn vocation to help indigenous and non-indigenous brothers and sisters, propitiating in a solidary manner any kind of help that they may require, without faltering, with the only purpose of providing the major possible sum of happiness. [He or she] receives permanent motivation to fulfill the assumed compromise in the school of formation of indigenous leaders in their condition as indigenous warriors against misery and imperialism” 97 (MINPI 2009).

In this view, indigenous warriors thus, have the duty of fighting against “misery and the empire.” It is clear how MINPI mechanically reproduces homogenous neo-

95 In 2007 the government promoted the constitutional reform and the third motor of the revolutionary process which consisted in the ideological education of community members in regard to the ethics and values of socialism and its differences with capitalism. 96 Mision Guaicaipuro defines three types of warriors: the “seeds” who are between 7 and 17 years old, “tassels” represented by young people between 18 and 30 years old, and “oaks” who are older that 31 years. 97 “Una o un indígena comprometida voluntariamente a atender su vocación solemne de ayudar a los hermanos y hermanas indígenas y no indígenas, propiciando cualquier tipo de ayuda que ellos y ellas requieran de manera solidaria, sin escatimar esfuerzos con el único objetivo de proporcionar la mayor suma de felicidad posible. Recibe formación y motivación permanente para cumplir el compromiso asumido en la Escuela de Formación de Líderes Indígenas, en su condición de Guerreros Indígenas contra la miseria y el imperialismo” (MINPI 2009). 229

socialist ideologies as well as primordialist “capitalist-imperial” tropes. Moreover, in

2007, MINPI gave to indigenous warriors the specific task of supporting the project of

Constitutional Reform. The minister in this regard stated that more than 400 warriors took an oath, as she claimed:

“ …we convert ourselves into the voices that must go through all those territorial geographical spaces of indigenous peoples to open the communitarian debate about the Reform…they are all formally committed to start working on the discussion of the project of Constitutional Reform” (VIVE 2007).

In practice indigenous warriors interpreted this task in their own terms. For instance

Tony Lázaro, a local intellectual and Ayamán socialist warrior, argues that they must be at the service of the Bolivarian process and the ministry. He states:

“ …rain or thunder cannot stop us from fulfilling our duty, if the Minister needs us, we shall always be there to help indigenous communities, to fight against imperialism…we are supporting the formation of communal councils, the identification of indigenous peoples, helping them in their projects” (Lázaro, April 2007).

Another Ayamán warrior instead recalls tropes of struggle by stating:

“We have always been warriors, we were given our spears to fight, we know about that, if I have to fight I will fight” (Alfonso, June 2007).

In these excerpts we can sense how the MINPI has articulated and circulated in its institutional language and among socialist warriors, ideologies on “revolutionary struggle.” President Chávez in multiple public discourses has evoked military tropes to refer to the actions and political subjects supporting the revolutionary process. An analysis of this particular rhetoric exceeds the scope of this dissertation, yet it is worth mentioning, for instance, that the United Socialist Party of Venezuela is organized in 230

battalions and patrols that are called to defend the revolutionary process. The government media machinery is constantly saturated with warlike tropes, representing the revolution in a stage of “offensive” or “battle.” President Chávez usually calls for his followers to have their knee on the ground (rodilla en tierra), simulating the position of firing guns against the enemy. Thus this military ideological domain has been incorporated by many indigenous leaders who are politically aligned with the revolutionary process, particularly those who receive institutional support from MINPI.

Beyond this mechanical ideological appropriation, MINPI‟s articulation of indigenous socialist ideologies has also involved the constant critique of neoliberalism and capitalism in Latin America. In 2007, this institution celebrated the “I Congreso

Internacional de Pueblos Indígenas Antiimperialistas de la América, Abya Yala” counting on the participation of 22 countries. In this context, indigenous warriors and invited participants discussed about the alternatives for constructing a “new socialist style of life.” During the Congress an Indigenous Anti-imperialist Continental Council was formed whose main objective is to construct indo-American socialism as part of

ALBA‟s98 agenda. Thus MINPI clearly follows the “guidelines” of Chávez by adopting the Pan-American neo-socialist ideologies of the revolutionary government.

98 ALBA stands for Alianza Bolivariana para los Pueblos de Nuestra América/ Tratado de Libre Comercio. This strategic political alliance was created in 2001 by the Bolivarian revolutionary government of Venezuela, and has the objective of uniting the capacities and strengths of the peoples and governments of Latin America and the Caribbean under the precepts of the “Patria Grande” of Bolívar. This alliance is integrated by Venezuela, Cuba, Bolivia, Nicaragua, Honduras, San Vincent and Las Granadinas, Dominica, Antigua and Barbuda, and Ecuador. This international alliance aims at producing structural transformations to reach an integrated development of these sovereign nations. ALBA has been a political instrument presented as an alternative to US Free Trade Agreements and its main ideological framework is based on the notions of the highest sum of possible happiness, social security and political stability (ALBA 2010). 231

The Minister has also articulated ecological discourses characteristic of Evo

Morales‟ administration in Bolivia, which have served as an ideological axis for building political alliances across international indigenous organizations. The formation and circulation of ecological ideologies has been critical for transcending cultural differences among contemporary indigenous movements. The planet, “mother nature” and the

Andean notion of the “pachamama99” are constantly evoked by indigenous warriors and

MINPI State functionaries. These tropes are central for the formation of a common collective frame mobilized by a complex network of contemporary Latin American indigenous movements. It is interesting that this ecological imaginary is mainly evoked in contraposition to images of transnational powers, rendering invisible the multiple anti- ecological practices of modern Latin American nation-states.

Later on, in 2009, MINPI organized the Congress on “Indo-American Young

Peoples in permanent resistance against the capitalist model.” Participants called for reinforcing the cultural identity of the ancestors of all indo-America and preserving traditional manifestations as ways of “fighting” against neoliberal cultural homogenization. Thus, for MINPI, indigenous socialism involves a sort of Pan- indigenous Cultural Revolution, based on recovering and strengthening their “traditions” and on creating national and international communication networks to support the “media battle” against the Empire. For instance, in this congress, MINPI‟s indigenous warriors

99 The Pachamama is a multi-semantic religious symbol among Aymara and Quechua peoples. This deity can represent the “mother-earth”, “land,” and the “World.” She also is associated with the concept of fertility and agricultural practices, and is invoked in diverse rituals in Peru, Bolivia, Chile and Argentina. The Pachamama has become an icon among many indigenous ecological movements in Latin America.

232

publicly repudiated the coup in Honduras and the installation of US military bases in

South America.

In sum, MINPI circulates multicultural socialist ideologies by reproducing the rhetoric of the government in line with the ever changing political strategies embraced by the executive. MINPI‟s rhetoric mimics the charismatic ideological articulations made by

President Chávez. The circulation of socialist terms and concepts represents a political strategy assuring “loyalty” towards the president and “his” revolutionary process. Most interventions of indigenous leaders, particularly those linked to State institutions; tend to organize their ideological statements around the “voice of Chávez.” In other words, their mobilized frames seek “resonance” with the rhetoric of the revolutionary government.

However, other national and regional indigenous organizations have attempted to debate and deepen on the meaning of Venezuelan indo-socialism by creating spaces of dialogue in multiple communities.

“Indigenous socialism” in the eyes of CONIVE and other State institutions

In 2007, the National Indian Council of Venezuela (CONIVE) and the Permanent

Commission of Indigenous Peoples of the National Assembly started to develop a research project called “Socialism and modes of living together among indigenous peoples in Venezuela” (CONIVE 2007).100 The first part of this project presented the synthetic conclusions of various workshops conducted with several indigenous

100 This project was developed when Chávez was calling for a national referendum in order to conduct a new Constitutional Reform in 2007. The reform among other things would recognize new forms of property, the indefinite reelection of the President, and the new State territorial and political geometry. In December of 2007 this project was rejected by popular vote during a national referendum. 233

institutions such as the Permanent Commission of Indigenous Peoples of the National

Assembly, the Indigenous Parliament of America and the “Projecto Libre Intercultural

Guaicaipuro.” These institutions and organizations were represented by national indigenous leaders such as Noelí Pocaterra and José Poyo, as well as intellectuals such as

Saúl Rivas-Rivas who have worked for many years on the topic of indo-socialism and indigenous resistance.

The project first stated:

“Socialism of the twenty-first century is based on the history and proper culture of all originary peoples… if we renounce the deep America, we will remain with a epidermic, superficial socialism, it would be without roots in the land” (CONIVE 2007:2).

The text depicted indigenous peoples as the authentic, originary and fundamental source of socialism as they are connected to some of the aforementioned earthy images such as “root,” “deep,” and “land.” In addition, this particular imaginary is also nurtured with ecological tropes, as they argue that indigenous peoples have a particular relationship with “mother nature.” In sum, in their view socialism is something to be found, or rescued as they claim in another passage: “…we must research among ourselves, within our people, so that socialism may become indo-American.” (CONIVE

2007: 3).

Moreover, the coauthors of the text also specified that socialism can be found in several domains of indigenous peoples‟ life. They argued that forms of indigenous socialism can be located in: the experience of each people, their collective and solidarity forms of production, their forms of living, their ethics, respect, conviction, spirituality, 234

respect for nature, and respect for women, elders and children (CONIVE 2007:4). The project reveals a complex juxtaposition and integration of many ideological sources which have been constructed in dialogical relationship. Furthermore, the text developed a moral voice by representing a common ethics for all indigenous peoples. The following passage defines the ethics of indigenous peoples, by articulating religious, spiritual, ecological and socialist voices:

“…the ethics of indigenous peoples is grounded on not lying, not stealing, not being lazy, being respectful, preserving and taking care of nature, understanding that we belong to part of the circle of life in which other beings participate, and we belong to part of it and that‟s why we have to share and have that collective spirit” (CONIVE 2007:6).

The notion that indigenous people‟s practices are essentially collective was one of the nodal points for claiming the existence of indo-socialist forms of life. This line of argumentation was clearly grounded on the orthodox Marxian notion of “primitive communism” which assumes that in the past the so-called “primitive people” lacked forms of individual property as well as social relations based on exploitation.

In this sense, CONIVE‟s proposal also called for the recognition of indigenous communes, which are depicted as the base or origin of the new nation. This statement clearly speaks to particular discourses of the Bolivarian revolutionary ideologies proposing the formation of communes. This form of organization was proposed in 2007 as a new form of territorial organization in the rejected constitutional reform.101 Thus, one can sense how CONIVE`s proposal on Indo-socialism was strongly shaped by the

101 The Constitutional reform proposed by the National Assembly and President Chávez in 2006 was rejected by popular vote during a national referendum in December of 2007. Today the executive power has created a Ministry of Communes, which supports the formation of Communal Councils and their articulation in larger communes across the country and in indigenous communities. 235

political conjuncture of the Constitutional Reform, as they sought to justify the existence of socialist practices within contemporary indigenous communities.

Spirituality was another ideological domain evoked in many of the fragments of this text. Some passages stated that in the most profound payers of their spirituality indigenous peoples are “truly socialists.” The image of spirituality is a key element supporting the essentialist representations of indigenous peoples as the bearers and a basic support of the socialist project. Moreover the spiritual domain infuses this indigenous proposal with a particular legitimacy, represented as a “hermetic” and sacred knowledge. In addition, voices of concern and commitment are presented in order to guarantee that socialism of the twenty-first century has the ideological input and contributions of indigenous peoples. For instance one excerpt states:

“Our grandfathers know socialism from everyday life, but young people know it very little…We must rescue the positive values, the ethic of our people…We must declare ourselves in emergency regarding this reflection on indo-socialism” (CONIVE 2007:3).

Thus, there is the recognition that the new generations may not know how to identify the socialist precepts of their people and communities; in turn the proposal makes explicit the need to “rescue” these values. Moreover, the authors of the proposal also call for the identification of regimes of domination in order to construct a new project of independence and socialist liberation. A profound critique of colonialism and development also emerges in this text. It denounces that indigenous thought has been rejected, as have their oral testimonies. In this regard, they indicate: “…we are seen as inferior stages of a past, without understanding that we are part of the present” (CONIVE

2007:5). 236

Furthermore, the proposal defines socialism as “equality, solidarity, equity, love and respect for the other” and it discusses the sources of the twenty-first century socialism as grounded on indigeneity, originary Christianity, liberation theologies, Afro-

American resistance, Bolivarian revolution, critical Marxism, multiethnicity, pluriculturality and interculturality (CONIVE 2007:4). This overt ideological diversity is clearly grounded on the work of the “Projecto Libre Intercutural Guaicaipuro” led by

Professor Saul Rivas-Rivas, who has developed in Venezuela the core discourse on originary Indo-Socialism.

Overall, CONIVE‟s proposal represents a clear example of a complex ideological ecology established on the basis of different sources and discursive domains. A mechanical articulation is constructed between indigenous peoples, notions of primitive communism, spirituality, and multiculturalism. Yet at the core of this ideological project is the reproduction of Chávez‟s essentialist and primordialist representations of indigenous peoples, who are depicted as homogenous socialist cultures within this particular multicultural project. The particularities of the 40 different indigenous peoples who dwell in the Venezuelan national territory are dissolved with the construction of a socialist indigenous imaginary that privileges collective practices. These romantic representations of indigenous peoples ironically overlook the complex forms of incorporation of indigenous peoples into the nation-state. Land Rights in particular are also reduced to an essentialist and spiritual demand, and not contextualized as a legitimate right that since 1999 is fully recognized in the Constitution, as well as in many other legal instruments of the State. 237

Indigenous leaders speak: a particular ideological ecology

Now, how are legal multicultural discourses articulated and interpreted by national indigenous movement leaders in other contexts? In this section I briefly examine how some indigenous activists articulate different notions of State multiculturalism and indo-socialism. In general, many indigenous leaders tend to evoke ecological, patrimonial and diversity tropes clearly influenced by the effects of international legislations and pacts. A discourse evoked by Yris Aray in 2009 during an interview at the Indigenous Parliament of America, reveals elements of this particular ideological ecology. In this regard she stated:

“Now indigenous resistance implies ensuring that the culture of all indigenous peoples of America will be part of the planet earth’s patrimony, under conditions of equality with other of civilizations that dwell on this planet. This is a reflection of our thinking, for us the recognition of the other is important, the strengthening of unity in the diversity of peoples, of cultures and languages, and we have been putting this into practice from the very beginning of the indigenous movement in Venezuela, and we do it because we recognize the rights of the 40 existing indigenous peoples of our country, and none should prevail over the others. Then, that recognition of the other people, of the other ethnic [group], of the other culture, also lead us to recognize the existence of the other peoples of the world, to which we also belong” 102 (Aray, 2009).

102 “Ahora, la resistencia indígena implica asegurar que la cultura de todos los pueblos indígenas de América forme parte del patrimonio del planeta tierra, en igualdad de condiciones con el resto de las civilizaciones que habitan en este planeta. Esto es un reflejo de nuestro pensamiento, para nosotros es importante el reconocimiento del otro, el afianzamiento de la unidad en la diversidad de los pueblos, de las culturas e idiomas, y eso lo estamos practicando desde el inicio mismo del movimiento indígena en Venezuela, y lo hacemos porque reconocemos los derechos de los 40 pueblos indígenas existentes en nuestro país, y ninguno debe prevalecer sobre otro. Entonces, ese reconocimiento del otro pueblo, de la otra etnia, de la otra cultura, nos lleva también a reconocer la existencia de los otros pueblos del mundo, de los cuales nosotros formamos parte” (Aray, 2009). 238

Iris Aray evokes international voices as she situates the petitions of indigenous peoples as part of a world enterprise. She also refers to the international concept of world patrimony, thus reflecting the influence of discourses emanated from the Declaration of

United Nations and the 169th Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Pact of the International

Labor Organization. Thus, Aray constructs an intertextual dialogue with fragments of the aforementioned pact, which in its introduction calls for remembering “the particular contribution of indigenous and tribal peoples to cultural diversity, to the social and ecological harmony of humanity, and to international cooperation and understanding.”

(Convenio 169 OIT:5).

Aray also reproduces international definitions of multiculturalism, when stating that the recognition of indigenous peoples involves the recognition of non-indigenous peoples, as well as the simultaneous call for unity and diversity. This particular vision of multiculturalism emerges in excerpts of the United Nations Declaration of the Rights of

Indigenous Peoples, ratified by Venezuela on the 13 of September of 2007. Thus we can see the effects of the international legal order in shaping indigenous discourses regarding multiculturalism. Yet this anticipated “harmony” between unity and diversity, seems naïve in the Venezuelan context, taking into account that we have seen the limits posed to indigenous peoples in regard to territorial rights.

However, after the abovementioned statement, Aray later re-contextualizes this international conception of multiculturalism within the political framework of Bolivarian neo-socialist discourses. In other words, she re-semantizes the international liberal notion of legal recognition by also calling for the recognition of indigenous socialist practices. 239

“…Indo-socialism is the recognition of the modes of life of indigenous peoples. Now what is pretended? There are (those) who say that such indo-socialism does not exist, because socialism as such is a western concept that responds to a proposal of a political system different from the sociopolitical and cultural system of our peoples. We assume indo-socialism as the good collective practices that indigenous peoples develop in their communities. In that sense we assume socialism, in other words, we value the collective over the individual…” 103 (Aray 2009).

In this text, Aray posed a theoretical contradiction implicit in the indo-socialist project, as she addressed some critics that have indicated that this project cannot be fully indigenous since “socialism” is the product of western thought. Yet she bypasses this contradiction by stating that indo-socialism involves the recognition of the modes of life of indigenous peoples. In this sense she adopts the essentialist discourses of “Proyecto

Guaicaipuro” by arguing that indigenous people‟s forms of collective organization are intrinsically socialist. Thus the ideological articulation of muticulturalism and indo- socialism can take place by the mere fact of recognizing the “good” collective practices of the multiple indigenous peoples that are part of the Venezuelan nation. In this act of recognition, indigenous people “assume” the socialist project. What is interesting is the use of the verb “assume,” which evokes a passive political positioning. Rather than being constructors of the socialist project, indigenous peoples only have to self-recognize their collective practices in order to become incorporated into the revolutionary process. As stated earlier, indigenous peoples are conceived by the government as passive seeds or

103 “El indosocialismo es el reconocimiento de los modos de vida de los pueblos indígenas, ahora ¿qué es lo que se pretende?, hay quienes dicen que no existe tal indosocialismo, porque el socialismo como tal es un concepto occidental que responde a una propuesta de un sistema político distinto al sistema sociopolítico y cultural de nuestros pueblos. Nosotros asumimos el indosocialismo como las buenas prácticas colectivas que desarrollan los pueblos indígenas en sus comunidades. En ese sentido, nosotros asumimos el socialismo, es decir, valoramos lo colectivo sobre lo individual” (Aray 2009). 240

originary sources that will contribute to the formation of this twenty-first century socialist project.

Ecological and spiritual tropes also emerge recontextualized and articulated with the neo-socialist indo American project in the intervention of Professor Antonio

Rodríguez, an indigenous Kariña lawyer, who in a meeting addressing land titling demands said the following:

“…we must see beyond what we are currently seeing, that is what the history of my grandfather tells us … that is socialism, socialism of the three roots. Chávez said that we were lacking a foot, that is when he launched indo American socialism. Many here see indigenous peoples as peoples who must be helped, but the president said, let us learn from them how to construct the XXI century socialism, let us learn from them how to maintain harmony with nature … For the Kariñas there are three worlds, the spiritual world, the natural and the social, that is our cosmogony, a call has been made to indigenous peoples, an emergency call, we are going to give much to socialism, for life and for good living…there is a compromise with this process, Chávez is calling us, because Chávez has social and material consciousness, because he knows that there must be social consciousness. Let them read and interpret what surround us, that is a spiritual fight, we must strengthen that vision. In the spiritual fight Venezuela is almost virgen. Guaicaipuro and our ancestors left all that knowledge in the continent. Chávez is clear…”104 (Rodríguez, May 2009)

By quoting Chávez‟ discourse on unity; Rodríguez represents indigenous peoples as the sources of the socialist project. Yet he represents indigenous peoples in a more

104 “Debemos ver mas allá de los vemos, eso es lo que la historia de mi abuelo dice, ese es el socialismo, el socialismo de las tres raíces. Chávez dijo que nos faltaba una pata, eso fue cuando lanzó el socialismo indo Americano. Muchos acá ven a los pueblos indígenas como gente que debe ser ayudada, pero el presidente dijo vamos a aprender de ellos como construir el socialismo del siglo XXI, aprendamos como mantener la armonía con la naturaleza. Para los Kariñas hay tres mundos, el mundo espiritual, el natural y el social, esa es nuestra cosmogonía … han hecho un llamado a los pueblos indígenas, un llamado de emergencia, vamos a aportar mucho al socialismo, para la vida y el buen vivir … hay un compromiso con este proceso, Chávez nos está llamando, porque Chávez tiene conciencia social y material, porque sabe que tiene que haber conciencia social. Vamos entonces a leer e interpretar lo que nos rodea, esa es la lucha espiritual, tenemos que fortalecer esa visión. Venezuela es casi virgen en la lucha espiritual. Guaicaipuro y nuestros ancestros dejaron todo ese conocimiento en el continente. Chávez está bien claro…” (Rodríguez, May de 2009) 241

active role, not only as teachers of their collective practices, but as compromised political subjects who must undertake a spiritual fight. In his view, one of the main contributions of indigenous peoples to the socialist project of the State is the ecological spiritual knowledge of their cultures. The cosmogony of K‟ariña people also contains the fundamental elements for indo American socialism, since it articulates spiritual, natural and social realms. The transcendence of Chávez´s voice is also crucial in his discourse, as he is represented as the main spiritual ally of indigenous peoples. For Rodríguez, Chávez has the necessary social vision, which may be nurtured with the spiritual and natural cosmologies of indigenous peoples. His text also reveals a symbolic spiritual struggle, which also becomes one of the obligations of indigenous peoples in their defense of the revolutionary process. The spiritual pact between Chávez and his indigenous political allies involves the government‟s support of indigenous demands, in exchange for the spiritual and religious protection for the president himself, and his socialist project. In other meetings and in the media, many indigenous leaders have made reference to this

“spiritual pact” and their duty to protect the revolutionary process. 105 In Chapter 6, I will explore how elements of this pact were also evoked by the Ayaman-turero organization as they sought ethnic recognition from the Venezuelan State.

Gladys González, a Wayuu teacher of the Bolivarian University of Venezuela, also articulated multicultural and neo-socialist discourses during another meeting over land demarcation:

105 In July of 2011, indigenous leaders conducted in the Municipality of Mara, Zulia State public collective prayers and shamanic rituals requesting the physical and spiritual recovery of President Chávez from his cancer condition. The event was televised expressing the support of indigenous peoples to this leader. 242

“ ...we are a multiethnic society, and we say patria (fatherland), socialism or death, we say get out empire, from basic education until the universitary must be against the empire and capitalism, they still impose colonial criteria on us” 106 (González June 2008).

For González, the multiethnic society can be socialist only by way of a profound critique of external and internal colonization. In this excerpt and in many other meetings at the Ministry of Culture and Education, Gonzalez has articulated overt critiques of the colonial system and its tactics of domination. Education has been one of her central themes, as she reveals the contradictions experienced by indigenous students, who must get involved in the national educational system in order to deconstruct the colonial categories that subjugate them.

The “ideological ecology” between multicultural and neo-socialist discourses is also sustained by charismatic representations of President Chávez and President Evo

Morales. Many indigenous leaders have adopted Pan-American frames regarding the rights of indigenous peoples to access to their “mother land.” Most leaders directly evoke the voice of Evo Morales and his ecological and spiritual discourses. Some indigenous activists argue that the Bolivian model is closer to indigenous demands since it transcends the interest of national power groups and liberal multiculturalism. President

Morales has even proposed the concept of multi-nationalism, which represents a dramatic rupture with most of the nation-state‟s legal orders in Latin America. Multi-nationalism over multiculturalism represents for indigenous peoples an achievement over the limits

106 “…somos una sociedad multiethnic y decimos patria socialismo or muerte, nosotros decimos fuera el imperio, la education inicial hasta la univeristaria debe estar en contra del imperio y el capitalismo, nos siguen imponeindo los criterios coloniales.” (Gonzalez June 2008). 243

imposed by the modern Latin American nation-state. The latter only recognizes one nation, one territory, and one people. Yet this vision of multi-nationalism is not accepted by most indigenous leaders in Venezuela since it involves contradictions with the current legislation that establishes that the Bolivarian Republic is one indivisible nation.

Questioning neo-socialist multiculturalism

Although most national indigenous leaders recognize the progressive achievements of the Bolivarian revolution in regard to the legal recognition of indigenous peoples, some voices have indicated the concrete limitations of these advances. For instance, Aray, who has declared herself in favor of indigenous socialism, nevertheless claims that access to land is still required in order to fulfill indigenous demands. The following statement illustrates her critique:

“Indigenous people have advanced a long way; we have acquired political experience to dialogue with non indigenous society, which allowed us to achieve the approbation of a chapter in the National Constitution, where our rights are established, and from there to the development of a juridical framework that guarantees our fundamental rights, all thanks to the Bolivarian Revolution, and specially to president Chávez, who has been consequent with our people, he is a fraternal ally. Now without doubt, while you advance you are aware that there is still a fair distance ahead of you. This means that not all our problems are resolved, we still lack the recognition of our collective ownership of the land, with the openness and the politics of inclusion developed by President Hugo Chávez Frías, this is a dream that could become a reality within the framework of the Bicentenary of the Independence of the countries of América from the Spanish yoke” 107 (Aray 2009).

107 “ Los indígenas hemos recorrido un largo camino, en el que hemos adquirido experiencia política para dialogar con la sociedad no indígena, lo que nos permitió lograr la aprobación de un capítulo de la Constitución Nacional, donde se establecen nuestros derechos, y a partir de allí el desarrollo de un marco jurídico que garantiza nuestros derechos fundamentales, todo gracias a la Revolución Bolivariana y, especialmente, al presidente Chávez, que ha sido consecuente con nuestros pueblos, él es un aliado fraterno. Ahora, indudablemente, a medida que recorres un camino te das cuenta que todavía queda mucha 244

Aray reveals the important contributions of the indigenous peoples in their struggle for achieving legal recognition and rights. She also expresses her gratitude to

President Chávez, who she describes as a “fraternal ally.” It is interesting how Chávez, in this sense, is not represented as “the father” or “commander,” as in many other subaltern discourses in Venezuela. In this particular context, Chávez is seen as a brother, in other words as a horizontal political ally.108

Furthermore, Aray‟s statement points to one of the critical limitations of the

Venezuelan multicultural project, which is the real recognition of indigenous collective lands. She expresses the clear contradiction of indigenous peoples who, have one of the most advanced legal frameworks granting them rights, while at the same time, the adjudication of collective land titles has been very limited and subject to the interests of the State. In other words, “recognition” has been achieved in the legal domain, yet

“redistribution,” is still a goal to be achieved through ongoing negotiations and struggles with the State.

This same contradiction has been publicly denounced by many other indigenous leaders in different public settings. Activists of the Indian Council of Venezuela

(CONIVE), of the Organizations of Amazonian Indigenous People (ORPIA), and of the

Federation of Indigenous People of Bolívar have publicly denounced the incapacity of the distancia por recorrer. Eso quiere decir que no todos nuestros problemas están resueltos, aún nos falta el reconocimiento de la propiedad colectiva de la tierra, que con la apertura y la política de inclusión que desarrolla el presidente Hugo Chávez Frías, esto puede ser un sueño que puede ser realidad en el marco del bicentenario de la Independencia de los países de América del yugo español (Aray 2009). 108 The use of the kinship terms “brother,” “sister,” “little brother or sister,” is widely used by indigenous activists, to publicly express or denote inclusion within their communities, ethnic group, or Pan-indigenous cause, and to evoke potential alliances.

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State to demarcate their lands. More than 81 legal petitions remain unprocessed in 2009, as has been declared by Alonso Guevara, the National Defender of Indigenous People.

Land has only been distributed among small communities (Zent and Zent 2006;

Caballero-Arias 2007). In states like Amazonas, Bolívar and Zulia, where indigenous peoples have claimed large extensions of land, the process of titling has been virtually paralyzed. Between 2005 and 2009 the State has provided 40 titles, representing a total of

1,000,516 hectares. Quispe and Tillet (2010) suggest that the State has been issuing titles to an average of 14.6 communities per year. At this rate, it would take around 150 years in order to fulfill this right for all the indigenous communities in the country.

In consequence, leaders and activists of ORPIA, CONIVE, and many other indigenous NGOs have demanded the dismissal of the president of the National

Commission of Land Demarcation of Indigenous Peoples (CONIVE 2011). They have also denounced on multiple occasions the complicity of the Ministry of Indigenous peoples, for not supporting the process of land demarcation. Kariña and Yukpa activists have expressed in the national media that the State still has great debt with their communities, since many landlords remain invading their lands and perpetuating acts of violence. In sum, nation-wide the actual demarcation of indigenous lands and territories by the Venezuelan multicultural State remains significantly limited.

María Andarza, an indigenous leader who participated in the Constituent

Assembly and in the subscription of Venezuela to the 169 ILO pact also expressed her critique towards the new multicultural order. In a public meeting, she stated:

“The people are lukewarm; do not think that Indians are incapable, or that they are enraged! when an indigenous (person) acts violently it is because he/she is 246

tired! Legal instruments are the only arm to revert these atrocities. When we indigenous peoples say inclusion, it is not to receive food, bags of mercal or that they give us notebooks. That the State is multicultural and pluri-cultural means that decision-making (processes) must pass through a period of consultation with all communities, inclusion means to respect all that”109 (Andarza, July 2009).

This leader evokes the rage and frustration over some of the limitations in the implementation of the State‟s multicultural project. She questions the practices of inclusion of the Venezuelan State, as well as institutional interpretations of what inclusion and multiculturalism mean. Thus she implicitly critiques MINPI´s food policies, since these are typical paternalist measures which have supposedly been left behind. For her, multiculturalism instead implies participation in decision-making process. Thus, she evokes the notion of “protagonist participation” which has been one of the main ideological concepts framing the politics of inclusion of the Bolivarian revolution.

Moreover, leaders have developed critiques of the high degree of institutionalization of the indigenous movement and its leaders. In spite of recognizing the multiple institutional spaces that have been opened up, some activists indicate that

MINPI has imposed neo-colonial forms of organization “from above.” For instance,

Lusbi Portillo, a controversial activist of an environmental NGO, argues that indigenous communal councils and communes are imposed by the State without taking into account the participation of indigenous communities. He also critiques the national indigenous

109 “...la gente esta tibia, no se crean que los indios son incapaces, o que les pego una ventolera, que cuando un indígena reacciona violentamente es que ya está cansado. Los instrumentos legales son la única arma para revertir estas atrocidades. Cuando los indígenas decimos inclusión no es que nos den comida, bolsas de mercal, o se nos dan cuadernos. Que estado sea multiétnico y pluricultural significa que la toma de decisiones debe pasar por un período de consulta con todas las comunidades, inclusión significa respetar eso” (Andarza July 2009).

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movement by claiming that CONIVE and the Organization of Indigenous Peoples of the

State of Zulia (ORPIZ) represent simple electoral machineries. He suggests that organizations that seek to oppose these institutionalized practices tend to be excluded from government projects. He further argues that in spite of struggling against transnational powers and capitalist interests these organizations have been criminalized by the State.

Many other indigenous leaders in the National Assembly and in the Bolivarian

University publicly argue that MINPI is implementing neo-colonial practices. Some activists suggest that Indigenous Communal Councils are in fact tools of domination that undermine the power of “traditional” authorities and exacerbate community factionalism.

By “pouring” funds to these imposed forms of organization, MINPI seems to be deviating attention from other structural issues involving land demarcation. In this regard, Quispe and Tillet (2010) suggest that MINPI‟s projects are not socially relevant, since they focus on housing, food distribution, provision of automobiles, and salaries. In their view, these practices have strengthened client relationships, mainly shaped by electoral practices. In turn, the local “traditional” leadership has been debilitated, causing many divisions and conflicts in their communities.

In general, after the establishment of MINPI in 2006, the national Venezuelan indigenous movement has been significantly fractured and dispersed, and it faces internal factionalism. In 2009, ORPIA and CONIVE publicly recognized having achieved significant spaces, but they also acknowledged having lost strength due to internal divisions. One faction of the national movement supports the Ministry of Indigenous 248

People which is led by Nicia Maldonado, while the other aligns with Noelí Pocaterra and

José Poyo who control the indigenous legislative power.

Quispe and Tillet (2010) in particular argue that indigenous organizations have lost capacity for struggle, and are currently demobilized and unarticulated. Most leaders have been co-opted by the State, as they have been appointed to institutional posts. In this process, they have uncritically assumed, as is the case of Minister Nicia Maldonado and many other activists, the direct orders of the government. In general, many indigenous leaders, in spite of supporting the revolutionary process, have publicly denounced that their lands continue to be invaded by cattle ranchers, miners and timber extractors. They also argue that their consuetudinary legal systems are not taken into account by the State.

In sum, they claim that their achieved rights remain “on paper,” while in reality they continue to be excluded from the State.

Concluding remarks

So far, I have explored some of the discursive and legal practices of the

Venezuelan State regarding multiculturalism and indigenous peoples between 1999 and

2009. Different actors (military, indigenous leaders, president Chávez, Ministers, and national intellectuals) have actively re-contextualized the meaning of multiculturalism and Indo-socialism within diverse State formation settings (Constituent process, laws, discourses, implementation of public policies). The contemporary Venezuelan revolutionary project on Indo-socialism is also characterized by a great ideological diversity. Socialist, Bolivarian, Marxian, intercultural, Christian, indigenist and 249

ecological discourses create a complex “ideological ecology” shaping the formation of the Bolivarian multicultural State.

Yet this particular ecology of ideas has re-essentialized indigenous peoples and their cultures, thus creating a primordialist ideological framework for this new neo- socialist multicultural order (Parekh 1995). The indo-socialist project, whether its version be that of Chávez, MINPI, indigenous social movements, or national intellectuals, is permeated with a profound need to homogenize indigenous peoples on the basis of a true or genuine essence that is mechanically opposed to capitalism and its “evil forces.”

Although this multicultural indo-socialist project calls for the recognition of diversity, it assumes that indigenous peoples, whether they are represented as a “seed,” “as consensual actors,” or as “deep roots,” have a primordialist way of relating to other communities and organizations, to the State, and to the rest of the world.

However, it is important to appreciate that access to land and self-determination are rarely mentioned by the State in these ideological configurations, as legitimate rights for indigenous peoples, or as a requisite for participating in the government‟s socialist project. Moreover, the national indigenous movement is now suffering great fragmentation, as some of their factions and leaders have been institutionalized in public posts. The Ministry of Indigenous Peoples has been sharply criticized by radical organizations and some leaders, for not addressing the structural problems of indigenous communities. Territorial rights still remain unfulfilled, and most land demarcation requests have been paralyzed. Moreover, indigenous communal councils have also been 250

criticized for being neo-colonial instruments that do not take into account the participation of local “traditional leadership.”

All in all, I have tried to show how Venezuelan Bolivarian multiculturalism has been grounded on the binary contraposition of indigenous vs. non-indigenous people.

Afrodescendant peoples, as well as other ethnic groups, are in general ignored in this

State project. The process of recognizing indigenous peoples, has not only led to the

“absolutization” of indigenous identities (García Canclini 2004), but also to the exclusion of other cultures or minority groups, such as afrodescendants and migrant communities

(Perozo and Pérez 2001; Hooker 2005). The subsequent Chapter explores the other side of this contradiction in regard to the exclusion of afrovenezuelans from the Bolivarian

State.

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CHAPTER 5. AT THE MARGINS OF THE REVOLUTION: AFRODESCENDANTS EXCLUSIONS FROM THE VENEZUELAN STATE (1999-2009)

En el preámbulo de la Constitución somos reconocidos como un país multiétnico y pluricultural. Vemos nada más a los indígenas. Sabemos que nuestro país tiene varios, están los indígenas, los afrodescendientes. Hay algunos que no estamos incluidos (Surbis Landínez, Farriar March 2007)

Since 1999, Venezuelan multicultural reforms and policies have been mainly focused on the legal recognition and incorporation of indigenous peoples. In contrast, afrodescendants have been ignored or excluded from this process, in spite of the actions and petitions made by social movements seeking their recognition. This Chapter examines the processes of legal exclusion and inclusion of afrodescendant peoples in

Venezuela‟s multicultural State. I first present a brief overview of the history of legal exclusion of afrodescendant peoples in Venezuela. Subsequently, I explore the ways in which contemporary afrodescendant peoples have framed legal demands and placed them before the State in their struggles for seeking incorporation within the Bolivarian project.

I also discuss some of the reactions and positions of the State related to this process of exclusion. I finally examine the creation of institutional spaces for afrodescendant peoples and the effects of institutionalization processes for the Afrovenezuelan movement.

A history of legal exclusion

Since colonial times, the Spanish regime incorporated afrodescendant populations under the legal categories of “slave,” “mulatos,” “zambos,” or “pardos.” The definition of 252

slavery was mainly reproduced from a text called Las Siete Partidas, written between

1256 and 1263 by order of Alfonso X of Castile. Legally speaking, black slaves were generally in debt to the Spaniards, obliged to them for their salvation through baptism. In the Castilian tradition, slaves lived with a doubly ambiguous condition. On the one hand, they were considered as natural human beings, thus possessing a soul. On the other hand, slaves were constantly compared with animals or objects, and were catalogued with the groups of the wretched and miserable (Dougnac 1994; Torres 1997).

The Siete Partidas illustrated the four main rights of slaves: 1) The right to life, which prohibited the owner from killing his slave; 2) Prohibition of maltreatment.

Several ordenanzas prohibited maltreatments in order to avoid slave flights and increase plantation production; 3) Right to food. Whereas owners fed urban slaves, plantation slaves had the right to cultivate small plots; 4) Clothing. Owners were obliged to dress their slaves and regulate the kind of clothes they wore (Torres 1997).

Moreover, during the colonial period slaves could attain freedom under specific circumstances. An owner could voluntarily grant liberty to a slave when he/she had saved his life, or for marrying a female slave. The King would also grant liberty when a slave denounced a betrayal to the crown, the kidnapping of a virgin woman, a murder, or the negligence of a “gentleman.” Marrying a free person with the consent of the owner provided slaves with their freedom as well (Torres 1997). Slaves also had the right to buy their freedom by paying their price to their masters through a system of deposits. This process of manumission created a large population of free blacks in Spanish America

(Gillij 1955; Lombardi 2004; Soriano 2009). By the late eighteenth century, for instance, 253

in the province of Coro-Venezuela, the free colored population was twice that of slaves, thus creating a complex web of social relations between distinct ethno-racial-legal groups

(Soriano 2009).

Pre-independent movements in Venezuela during the late colonial period called for the abolishment of caste distinctions. During the late eighteenth century, black and slave rebellions emerged in different regions claiming their freedom (Arcaya 1949; Brito

Figueroa 1973; Aizpúrua 1983; Mc Kinley 1985; Soriano 2009). In 1795, free blacks, slaves, zambos and some Indians organized a movement in the Serranía of Coro in order to demand the exoneration of taxes and tributes (Aizpúrua 1983). It has also been argued that factions of this movement sought to create a Republic according the “Frenchmen‟s

Law,” thus evoking the influence of the Haitian Revolution and their project for abolishing “caste” distinctions (Arcaya 1949; Brito Figueroa 1973). Although some scholars argue that the influence of the Haitian Revolution (as a cause of the rebellion) was in fact product of the circulating rumors and narratives of fear among local white elites (Soriano 2009), it is clear that black slaves and free colored peoples developed multiple strategies for seeking freedom from the colonial regime and a new legal status within the new imagined Republics.

Moreover, the pre-independence movement led by Gual and España110 called in

1797 for equality among whites, Indians, pardos and morenos. These leaders proposed

110 The movement of Manuel Gual y José María España started in 1797 in the port of La Guaira, with the intention of overthrowing the Spanish Monarchy and establishing a Republic according the precepts of the French Revolution. The movement called for the abolishment of castes and other colonial forms of distinction, the destitution of Spanish authorities, the establishment free trade and production, and the creation of a Republic that would unify the inland provinces of Caracas, Maracaibo, Cumaná and 254

the abolishment of slavery and the establishment of citizenship rights according to French revolutionary precepts (Perozo and Pérez 2001; Ramos 2004). Nevertheless, none of these early movements was successful in achieving changes in the colonial ethno-racial structure, nor in transforming the conditions of exploitation of slaves and free blacks.

During the nineteenth century, the process of emancipation and the wars of independence in Venezuela would reshape the legal status of black slaves and other colonial social groups. After the declaration of independence of Venezuela in 1811,

General Francisco de Miranda111 in 1812 decreed the freedom of slaves. However, it is has been argued that this political change was introduced simply in order to recruit more soldiers for the independence forces. During this process, many slaves managed to gain their freedom only after participating in the early wars of independence (Ramos 2004).

Furthermore, in 1816 Simón Bolívar initiated an abolitionist campaign and issued two decrees banning slavery. But abolition would only be applicable to those who served in the military forces. However, later in 1819 in the discourse of Angostura112 Bolívar established the eventual absolute abolition of slavery as part of the Gran Colombian

Guayana. The conspiracy was finally suppressed and many of its members were captured or sentenced to death (Grases 1959; Salcedo Bastardo 1977; Pérez Vila 1992). 111 Francisco de Miranda is considered one of the main precursors and ideologists of the processes of independence in Venezuela and in Latin America. He is one of the creators of the Gran Colombia project (a unified republican State project integrating the territories of Venezuela, Colombia and Ecuador). Miranda was directly involved in the processes of independence of United States, an in the French Revolution as well. 112 In 1819, during the wars of independence, Simón Bolivar presented an emblematic discourse at the Congress of Angostura. During this event, the Republic of the Great Colombia was created, integrating the territories of Venezuela, Nueva Granada (Colombia) and Quito (Ecuador). 255

project and in 1821 after the Carabobo battle113 he also granted liberty to his own slaves.114

After the independence wars and the formation of the third Venezuelan Republic, the government of José Antonio Páez promulgated the Law of Manumission in 1830.

This law extended the period for achieving manumission, since the descendants of slaves could become free only after reaching the age of twenty-one. Moreover, it prohibited the slave traffic and commerce among the provinces of Colombia (Ramos 2001). This new law reflects the influence of many plantation owners who were returning to the country after the independence wars, as well as the interests of patriot landowners who required slaves as labor force.

Later on, in 1840, General Páez reformed the Law of Manumission. He prolonged the period necessary for slaves to gain their freedom since, in addition, they were required to learn working skills before being granted their freedom. In 1854 the

Law of Abolition of Slavery was sanctioned by the Venezuelan Congress, during the government of José Tadeo Monagas. This law was approved due to an extended crisis of the export agricultural sector which, as a result, could no longer afford the economic costs of slavery. As the country shifted from cocoa production to coffee exploitation, producers required cheap laborers on a short term basis, and for this, “free” wage labor came to be seen as preferable. Of course the transition to the status of “free” labor was

113 The Carabobo Battle took place on the 24th of June of 1821. It represents one of the main military victories of the process of independence in Venezuela, and was a key event in achieving control of Caracas and of the rest of the territory. 114 The full legal abolition of slavery was not implemented until 1854, during the government of José Tadeo Monagas.

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not rapid. First, slaves came to be recognized as “peones” and maintained permanent links to their “masters.” Then gradually, the mutual obligations of this servile relationship gave ways to a more contractual, mercantile relationship with a free “liberated” labor force. Yet, free afrodescendant laborers tended to remain exploited under similar relationships of domination and subjection (Perozo and Pérez 2001:117).

During the twentieth century, afrodescendant peoples remained neglected and diluted under the vague categories of citizens or peasants, which evidently, totally obviated their cultural and ethno-racial characteristics. Throughout the first half of the century, the State embraced modern liberal ideologies claiming for the need to create a homogenous united nation. Cultural diversity remained subsumed under discourses of mestizaje and racial democracy that not only celebrated the racial mixing of the population, but also called for cultural homogenization and assimilation according to modern liberal precepts of “equality.” During this period, the “illustrated” liberal framework of the State was fed by positivist and evolutionary ideologies which in general ignored afrodescendant peoples or considered them as savages or inferior (Wright 1990;

Perozo y Pérez 2001; García and Arratia 2002; Ishibashi 2007).

Overall, since the formation of the modern nation-State, afrodescendant peoples in Venezuela have been rendered invisible or subsumed under the raceless modern category of citizenship. Yet with the impact of the civil rights movements over the world and the progressive formation of afrovenezuelan organizations during the 70s and 80s, afrodescendant peoples started to claim legal recognition as a distinct ethno-racial group within the Venezuelan nation. 257

Invisible Multiculturalism: afrodescendant Struggles for Legal Inclusion

In 1999, during the National Constituent Assembly, the Union of Black Women and the Afro-American Foundation of Venezuela presented the legal proposal for the recognition of the afrovenezuelan people in the new constitution. The two social movements provided a historical account of the systematic exclusion of afrodescendant peoples from the constitution of 1811 until the present. They argued that after the abolition of slavery in 1854, the population of African descent continued to experience discrimination, exclusion, and racism (García and Arratia 2002:32; García 2007). The proposal also referred to the legal achievements of afro groups in other Latin-American and Caribbean States. For instance, they commented how Brazil had created a commission against racism and how Colombia passed the law 70 on Black Communities in 1993.

In the proposal, the discrimination of women and indigenous peoples was also highlighted, as well as the need to address the situation of poverty and exclusion of contemporary afrovenezuelans. It is interesting that the proposal did not use the term

“afrodescendant.” Instead, references were made to afrovenezuelans or populations of

African origin.115

115 The term of afrovenezuelan (afrovenezolano) was first coined by Juan Pablo Sojo in the 1940s. Thus during the 1970s most black organizations tended to use this geographic-ethnic designation in order to refer to people of African descent located in Venezuelan territory. In 2000, the Afrovenezuelan movement adopted the term “afrodescendant,” after their participation in the Continental Conference against Racism celebrated in Santiago de Chile. The term refers to all those peoples that descend in one way or another from the millions of kidnapped people of Sub-Saharan Africa over four hundred years. The use of the term was also reinforced after the participation of the movement in the Third Conference of Durban - South 258

The proposal also evoked explicit multicultural discourses by stating:

“The Venezuelan State should be recognized as a multiethnic and pluricultural society, governed according to the principles of equality, equity, and respect for diversity, where the entire community must enjoy the same rights, opportunities and possibilities in all the realms that conform the society, in order to live in harmony and in correspondence with its identity, without any kind of discrimination by gender, age, race, ethnicity, skin color, social class, religion. The Venezuelan State will respect the right to diversity and equality and will sanction any kind of discrimination through legal mechanisms. The Venezuelan State will guarantee an education without sexist or racist stereotypes in the educational plans and programs and will guarantee an equal and egalitarian society with principles of solidarity, peace, and social justice. The Venezuelan State reaffirms the right of afrovenezuelan communities to territorial spaces that they have occupied in different historical stages, with their ancestral techniques in the mark of their cultural dimension”116 (García and Arratia 2000:33).

In this first proposal, one can see how afrodescendant activists articulated liberal multicultural discourses with critiques of racism and gender discrimination. In particular, the mentioning of skin color as a factor of discrimination is salient. I will later show how this somatic index was erased from the final constitutional text. The proposal also

Africa, celebrated in 2001 by the United Nations (ROA 2007a). In chapter 7, I further discuss the production and circulation of this identity frame in Venezuela, and in particualr in Yaracuy. 116 “El Estado Venezolano debe reconocerse como una sociedad multietnica y pluricultural, que se rige con principios de igualdad, equidad y respeta la diversidad, donde toda la comunidad debe disfrutar de los mismos derechos, oportunidades y posibilidades en todos los ámbitos que conforman la sociedad, para vivir en armonía y correspondencia con su identical, sin ningun tipo de discriminación por género, edad, raza, etnia, color de piel, clase social, religión. El Estado Venezolano respetará el derecho ala diversidad e igualdad y sancionará cualquier tipo de discriminación por medio de mecanismos legales. El Estado Venezolano garantizará una educación sin estereotipos sexistas o racistas en los planes y programas educativos y velará por una sociedad equitativa y igualitaria bajo los principios de solidaridad, paz, y justicia social. El Estado Venezolano reafirma el derecho de las comunidades Afrovenezolanas a la territorialidad, que han ocupado en diferentes etapas históricas con sus técnicas ancestrales en el marco de su dimensión cultural” (García and Arratia 2000:33).

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emulates elements of the North American civil rights discourses as it focuses on the need for “equal opportunities and possibilities in all realms of society.”

Moreover, the text calls for the establishment of legal mechanisms for sanctioning any kind of discrimination. This suggests a veiled allusion to the 1961

Constitution that in its article 61 condemned racial, sex, religious, and social discrimination, but without establishing any real mechanisms for the enforcement of this right. Furthermore, it is interesting that there is no use of the terms socialism or

Bolivarian revolution. One simply senses a plea for equality, solidarity and social justice, as an incipient political frame.

It is also worth mentioning how the proposal incorporates a claim for territoriality. The use of the verb “reaffirm” implies that the right to territoriality already exists. The proposal only requests the reaffirmation of this right grounded on the common historical-territorial practices of afrovenezuelan peoples. In contrast to indigenous peoples, or to Colombia‟s Law 70, this proposal seems timid and refrains from reclaiming the recognition of specific territories. Instead, it focuses on the historical territorial practices of afrovenezuelan communities, thus referring implicitly to the continuous occupation of spaces, such as plantations and mines where slavery had existed, or spaces of cimarronaje or runaway communities. In order to argue for their territorial ethno-racial specificity, they also called on the legitimacy of the “ancestral techniques” of afrodescendant cultures. Here we can identify a crucial tension with indigenous people‟s land claims, as the latter have tended to employ the primordialist concepts of “ancestrality” and originality, in order to justify their territorial demands. 260

However, in 1999, the National Assembly ignored this first proposal reclaiming the legal inclusion of afrodescendants within the new multiethnic and pluricultural nation.

Although the president of this Assembly at the time was Aristóbulo Istúriz,117 this proposal was rejected on the basis that the nation could not be fragmented into minorities.

Moreover, many constituents argued that the recognition of indigenous peoples had already been “problematic” and to recognize another group legally could imply a critical threat to the unity of the nation. In interviews with afrodescendant leaders, some of them indicated that, within the Assembly many deputies accepted the myth of mestizaje and racial democracy, and on this basis argued against the legal recognition of afrodescendant peoples. One leader pointed out that many deputies claimed that indigenous peoples were

“really” different, since they had their own culture and languages, while nobody in

Venezuela could “really” tell who is more or less afrodescendant. In other words, the deputies claimed that Venezuelans were “too mixed” for recognizing the afrodescendant population as a distinct ethnic group.118 Thus, it is clear how hegemonic discourses on mestizaje played a key role in shaping the receptivity of the afrodescendant proposal at the Assembly. Yet, beyond these ideologies on racial mixing, it is unclear if there were other structural factors shaping the State‟s resistance to recognize afrodescendant people.

What does the State fear? What can it lose by recognizing afrodescendant people?

117 Aristóbulo Istúriz, ex-Minister of Education, is one of the main left-wing leaders of the revolutionary process. During the initial phase of the Bolivarian movement he did not self-recognize afrodescendant. However, after the coup of 2002, he was the object of racist attacks from factions of the opposition. Since then, he has overtly supported the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations and its demands for visibility and recognition. 118 This information was provided in informal manner by leaders of the afrodescendant movement in 2006 and 2007.

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Juliet Hooker‟s comparative study indicates that “nowhere in Latin America have blacks received greater collective rights than indigenous people” (2005:291). It has been argued that population size, the lack of mobilization over collective rights by Afro-

Latinos and the limited organizational capacity of black movements, have determined the limited legal recognition of Afro-Latin populations. However, she suggests that these factors do not altogether explain this process of exclusion of black people. She argues that the lack of recognition of Afro-Latin people is due to the different ways in which each nation-State has historically racialized black and indigenous peoples. She states that this process has, in turn shaped the capacities of the two groups to claim cultural differences. In her words: “...whether or not blacks are seen as a distinct cultural group appears to be a crucial factor for understanding whether or not they gain collective rights”

(Hooker 2005:298). For instance in Colombia, Brazil, Ecuador, Honduras and Nicaragua black social movements have been successful, since they framed their demands according to the definitions of culture difference embraced by national elites and the public.

As we have seen, the proposals of the afrovenezuelan movement sought to articulate both cultural and anti-racist demands. However, their frames seemed to lack resonance in the face of the hegemonic national views on racial democracy, embraced by most constituents. I also believe that other factors involving historical fears inspired by black rebellions and republican projects could also help to account for the lack of receptivity for afrodescendant proposals. In other words, it is worth asking which historical, economic, social and ideological forces nurture the racist and mestizaje ideologies of Venezuelan legislators and constituent members. Why do Venezuelan 262

ideologies on mestizaje simultaneously include blacks while, at the same time, the State fears to recognize blackness as part of its ethno-racial configuration?

In spite of the overt erasure and silencing of afrodescendant voices, the

Constituent Assembly approved in 1999 two articles that implicitly included some of the afrodescendant demands related to the racial discrimination of which they were victims.

For instance, article 21 of the Bolivarian Constitution establishes:

“All people are equal before the law, in consequence: Discriminations based on race, sex, belief, social condition, or those that in general have as objective or as result annul or damage the recognition, enjoyment or exercise under conditions of equality, of rights and liberties of every person, will not be permitted”119 (CBV 1999).

Moreover, Article 23 established the recognition of international pacts and conventions sactioning the protection against racial and other forms of discrimination.

“The treaties, pacts and conventions relative to human rights, subscribed and ratified by Venezuela, have constitutional hierarchy and prevail in the internal order …”120 (CBV 1999).

Thus, during the Constituent process afrodescendant demands were only implicitly recognized to the extent that they could be interpreted as the recognition of

“non-discrimination.” Their claims on the recognition of their ethno-racial and cultural specificities were reduced to their identification as “discriminated peoples.”

119 “Artículo 21. Todas las personas son iguales ante la ley; en consecuencia:No se permitirán discriminaciones fundadas en la raza, el sexo, el credo, la condición social o aquellas que, en general, tengan por objeto o por resultado anular o menoscabar el reconocimiento, goce o ejercicio en condiciones de igualdad, de los derechos y libertades de toda persona” (CBV 1999). 120 “Los tratados, pactos y convenciones relativos a derechos humanos, suscritos y ratificados por Venezuela, tienen jerarquía constitucional y prevalecen en el orden interno, en la medida en que contengan normas sobre su goce y ejercicio más favorables a las establecidas por esta Constitución y en las leyes de la República, y son de aplicación inmediata y directa por los tribunales y demás órganos del Poder Público” (CBV 1999). 263

Based on the abovementioned articles, since 1999 the Venezuelan government created or subscribed to several international legal instruments supporting the struggle against racial discrimination and the protection of vulnerable communities, in which were implicitly included the afrodescendant population.121 In general, this international legal platform, in particular the Durban Plan of Action and the Universal Declaration of

Human Rights, represents the main juridical reference for substantiating afrodescendant demands before the Venezuelan State. Thus one can see how, ironically, afrodescendant proposals were able to gain some degree of legal and political visibility by focusing on the issue of discrimination, instead of asserting their cultural difference.

The second proposal: seeking incorporation in the constitutional reform

In March of 2007, the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations (ROA) developed another proposal for a Constitutional Reform, in order to incorporate rights for afrodescendant peoples. This proposal was made precisely when there was a Presidential project of Constitutional Reform. At the time, this particular political climate seemed be a favorable conjuncture for introducing the proposal to the National Assembly.

121 The main instruments are: The Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) (Adopted by the General Assembly of UN on December 10, 1948); the III World Conference against Racism, Racial Discrimination, Xenophobia and Related Intolerance, 2001; the Durban Declaration and Plan of Action 2001; the Discrimination (Employment and Occupation) Convention, ILO, 1958; the Convention Against Discrimination in Education, UNESCO 1960; the International Pact on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, UN 1966; the International Pact of Civic and Political Rights, UN 1966; the Convention for the Elimination of all forms of Discrimination against women, UN, 1979, the Organic Law of Children and Adolescents, the Race and Racial Prejudice Declaration, UNESCO 1978; and the Universal Convention on Cultural Diversity, UNESCO 2005. 264

Moreover, by then the ROA had managed to build strategic alliances with

Assembly deputies who agreed to receive and promote the proposal. Modesto Ruíz122and

Braulio Alvarez123 were the main deputies who supported afrodescendant causes and their legal inclusion in this context.

Presenting the proposal

On a sunny day of March, afrodescendant leaders from 13 states initiated a historical march in Caracas towards the National Assembly. Women, children, and men arrived by bus from the states of Zulia, Yaracuy, Miranda, Falcón, among others. They brought their musical groups, T shirts, hats, drums and slogans. The Afroyaracuyan movement, in particular, arrived with a long cloth sign announcing “tierras afro- comuneras” (afro communal lands). The media was present, interviewing and filming the principal leaders of the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations, as well as the two key deputies, Modesto Ruíz and Braulio Álvarez. Some indigenous leaders were there as special guests, as well as several intellectuals.

As the participants left from Plaza Miranda, they chanted slogans demanding the inclusion of afrodescendants in the legal reform of the constitution. They interrupted the traffic on one of the main streets in the center of Caracas, as they arrived at the National

122 Modesto Ruíz is one of the few deputies at the National Assembly representing the interests of afrodescendant peoples in Venezuela. He has publicly supported the demands of the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations, and has promoted the recognition of this ethno-racial group in the laws of communal councils and in the constitutional reform. He is one of the main authors of the current legal project against racial discrimination (Ley en contra de la Discriminación Racial). Ruíz is originally from Barlovento, an afrodescendant region. 123 Braulio Álvarez is a deputy at the National Assembly representing the state of Yaracuy. He is the main leader of the Frente Campesino Ezequiel Zamora and of the Movimiento Campesino Jirajara. He is well known for leading multiple land struggles in the state of Yaracuy.

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Assembly. As they entered the patio of the building, participants became more excited.

Some commented that this was the first time that they had ever entered the Assembly.

Others suggested that this was the first time that afrodescendants with their drums and music had been received by the State.

During the march, participants were provided with a pamphlet containing the proposal for a legal reform. The text was saturated with historical voices evoking the contributions of afrodescendant leaders in successive processes of emancipation and revolution. This historical-political framework is represented in the following fragment of the proposal, which was circulating:

“The contribution of (las y los)124 Africans and their descendants to the historical, social, cultural and spiritual formation of our country has been constant, characterized by happiness, traumas, and hopes. Since the first uprising of King Miguel in the mountains of Buría (1552) until the active participation against the racist and fascist coup of April 11 2002 and the oil strike (2002-2003), they have left an indelible mark in the glorious pages of the history of Venezuela. However, none of these gestures has been recognized in any of the constitutions that have legally oriented our country. Since 1811 until 1999, more than 25 Constitutions have obviated these contributions. Other countries like Nicaragua, Brazil, Colombia and Ecuador have recognized these moral, political, and spiritual contributions of the afrodescendants. Today, we are in a new transformation that the country is undergoing. Today is a non-deferrable moment in the process of constitutional Reform, for recognizing our Africanism. Since 1854, when slavery was abolished, this would be the most significant historical recognition of these contributions. This is the moment to deepen the revolution and at the same time recognize the ethnic diversity of the country in order to march toward full equality, without separatist intentions, without racism, nor racial discrimination. What is proposed is the integration, equality, and recognition in public policies of more than 30 percent of the Venezuelan population, which is constituted by the afrodescendants who suffer racism, discrimination and exclusion. Socialism of the twenty first century cannot exist without our presence; a transition towards socialism cannot exist

124 The use of these two articles will be noted to show how gendered perspectives are present in the framing ideologies of afrodescendant legal petitions.

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without considering our presence. A country as dreamed by King Miguel, Andresote, Chirino, Guillermo Rivas, Simón Bolívar, Simón Rodríguez, Pedro Camejo, Argelia Laya, among others; it cannot exist without the inclusion of the afrodescendants” 125 (ROA 2007b).

The demand for recognition in this petition is based on two concepts:

“contribution” and “presence.” The recognition of the historical contributions of afrodescendant leaders is one of the most important guidelines in most afrodescendant legal petitions. Their demands imply recognizing the historical participation in forging the imaginary nation.

Before 1999, the “fathers” of the nation were represented as white criollo men, like Simón Bolívar and Francisco de Miranda. Yet in 1999, for the first time indigenous peoples were officially recognized as heroic actors along with Simón Bolívar and other

“precursors and forgers of the free and sovereign fatherland” (CBV 1999). The symbolic and practical effect of the deliberate erasure of the participation of afrodescendant

125 “La contribución de las y los africanos y sus descendientes a la formación histórica, social cultural y espiritual a nuestro país ha sido una constante, llena de alegrías, traumas y esperanzas. Desde el primer levantamiento del Rey Miguel en las montañas de Buría (1552) hasta la participación activa contra el Golpe racista y fascista del 11 de abril del año 2002 y el paro petrolero (2002-2003), ha dejado una huella indeleble en las páginas gloriosas de la historia venezolana. Pero toda esas gestas no han sido consideradas en ningunas de las constituciones que han orientado jurídicamente a nuestro país. Más de 25 Constituciones, desde el año 1811 hasta 1999, han olvidado estos aportes. Otros países como Nicaragua, Brasil, Colombia y Ecuador han reconocido estos aportes morales, políticos y espirituales de las y los afrodescendientes. Hoy estamos en una nueva transformación que vive el país. Hoy es el momento impostergable dentro del proceso de Reforma constitucional, para reconocer nuestra africania. Desde el año 1854, cuando fue abolida la esclavitud este sería el reconocimiento histórico de mayor significación a esos aportes. Este es el momento para profundizar la revolución y al mismo tiempo reconocer la diversidad étnica del país para marchar hacia la igualdad plena, sin ánimos separatistas, sin racismo, ni discriminación racial. Lo que está planteado es la integración, la equidad, el reconocimiento en las políticas públicas de más del 30 por ciento de la población venezolana que constituimos las y los afrodescendientes que sufrimos racismo, discriminación y exclusión. No podrá existir socialismo del siglo XXI sin nuestra presencia, no podrá existir transición hacia el socialismo sin considerar nuestra presencia. No podrá existir un país como lo soñó El rey Miguel, Andresote, Chirino, Guillermo Rivas, Simón Bolívar, Simón Rodríguez, Pedro Camejo, Argelia Laya entre otros, sin la inclusión de las y los afrodescendientes” (ROA 2007b).

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peoples constitutes the departing point for most of the demands of afrovenezuelan peoples in the current revolutionary process. This silencing evidences the ethno-racial hierarchies of the nation, in which diversity can only be organized around the dichotomy of indigenous and non-indigenous peoples (Perozo and Pérez 2001).

Thus for ROA, their fundamental ideological struggle is to make visible the undeniable contributions of salient historical afrodescendants. Thus this network, as well as the indigenous movement, reproduces the nationalist model of idealizing representations of heroic figures or political leaders. These heroes represent nationalist tropes, and as stated by Smith (1986) and Alonso (1994), they contribute to the formation of myths of origin that evoke ethnicity, blood and land ties.

Moreover, it is interesting that the proposal also refers to the participation of women as dreamers of the nation. Afrodescendant proposals have focused on the incorporation of women in the imaginary pantheon of the nation. For instance, for the celebration of the Bicentenary of Independence in Venezuela, the Foreign Office‟s Vice-

Ministry for Africa, proposed the incorporation of the symbolic remains of Negra

Matea126 and Hipólita into the National Pantheon, along with the other “precursors” of the nation. In other words, the articulation of afrodescendant multiculturalism is also based on a critique of the patriarchal modern State. It is worth noting that this gender perspective is not developed as explicitly in the legal proposals of indigenous peoples.

126 Negra Hipólita is considered by official historians as the “nanny” and breast feeder of Simón Bolívar. Matea Bolívar is considered one of the substitute mothers of Simón Bolívar. Yet members of the ROA argue that although both women were slaves of the Bolívar family they had a critical role in shaping the values and feelings of the liberator. In their view both women were teachers, since they were depositaries of “traditional African codes.” In sum, both women are considered to be transmitters of cimarronaje (maroon) pedagogy.

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Furthermore, the proposal also addressed the percentage of afrodescendant peoples in Venezuela, thus claiming that without recognizing the “presence” of this population there will be no socialist process. This is a critical difference with the initial proposal presented in 1999, in which the frames addressing political inclusion were less evident. The explicit “politization” of this proposal represents a strategic turn, as the afrodescendant movement implicitly claims that with the legal recognition of afrovenezuelans, the government would have the electoral support of 30 per cent of the country‟s population in the referendum for the Constitutional Reform.127 Moreover, in contrast to indigenous peoples, this demographic argument is crucial for claiming the necessary incorporation of afrodescendants within the neo-socialist State project of the.

Overall, this proposal reclaimed the recognition of the “presence” of afrodescendants within the Venezuelan nation-state. The demand for “presence” goes beyond simple claims to visibility, since it represents some degree of “inclusion.” In the

Venezuelan case, the claim for presence involves inclusion in the legal sphere, in the historical memory of the nation, in public policies and in the contemporary socialist project. Although “presence” does not necessarily involve active participation, it implies the occupation of a space in a particular time. Thus underlying this proposal is the demand for achieving a clear and well-defined space within the nation-state.

I will continue to examine how the afrodescendant movement and its allies aimed at occupying the physical and symbolic spaces of the legislative power of the State. This

127 Unofficial estimates of the afrodescendant population suggest that they represent between 10 and 30 percent of the nation`s population (Camacho 2011). 269

will give an idea of how afrodescendant peoples sought to create new dialogic spaces within the new multicultural State.

Once inside the patio of the Assembly, participants concentrated around a platform with microphones and public TV coverage. The main leaders of the movement stood on the platform in order to formally present the proposal before the president of the

Assembly, Cilia Flores, and other deputies. Jorge Veloz, one of the main activists of

ROA in this context expressed the following:

“This is the first legal act of afrodescendant peoples; today there is a historical debt, which is transformed into public policy. In this moment of change, inclusion does not occur without the inclusion of afrodescendants, the recognition of our territories, collective property and our history ... we are searching for historical recognition, we are not begging, it is a historical recognition” 128 (Jorge Veloz, March 2007).

In the abovementioned excerpt, Veloz makes an explicit demand for “inclusion.”

This latter term has been a key concept for the Bolivarian socialist project, since it evokes a call to incorporate all “excluded peoples” in processes of recognition and redistribution.

A demand for inclusion thus also signifies the need to transform and permeate the legal and institutional structure of the State in order to become incorporated within national public policies. In other words, it is a call to be moved away from “the margins of the state” (Poole and Das 2004).

128 “Este es el primer acto legal de los afrodescendants, hoy hay una deuda histórica que se convierte en política pública. En este momento de cambio la inclusión no pasa sin la inclusión de los afrodescendientes, que nos reconozcan los territorios, la propiedad colectiva, nuestra historia…estamos buscando el reconocimiento histórico, no estamos mendigando, es un reconocimiento histórico” (Jorge Veloz, March 2007).

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Furthermore, Veloz said that this proposal for “inclusion” had been debated, written and promoted by afrodescendants, and not by other ethno-racial subjects on their behalf. In other words, this act represented a crucial political opportunity in which afrodescendant voices were publicly presented in legal terms before the State and its legislative powers. This legal petition also responds to the erasure of afrodescendant peoples from the historical project of the nation. The focus on historical memory is linked to the need to be incorporated within the preamble of the constitution and to fight for a symbolic place alongside criollo or indigenous heroes.

In this same act, Nirva Camacho, one of the most emblematic leaders of ROA and of the Cumbe de Mujeres Afrovenezolanas, also evoked the need for the historical visibility of afrodescendants. She claimed:

“This is not a movement from the past; we want to expose the myth of a society of equals, product of the three mixes.129 The afrodescendant population is also here, we have the indigenous [peoples] who were recognized with dignity, but the afrodescendants have not been recognized. 1999 was a historical moment in the Constituent Assembly, the Afro-American population presented itself with the support of the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations, the Union of Black Women, we made a proposal that was not incorporated, the contributions of (las and los) Africans do not appear. Our history is little known. Andrés López del Rosario, José Leonardo Chirinos, all those afrodescendant movements that precede the process of independence in Venezuela. Revolutionaries (men and women) we have a heritage, today the Network and other social movements have been promoting this struggle for decades. The National Assembly is open to dialog, the Assembly has that commitment. Directives of the deputies, Cilia Flores, we leave in your hands this proposal. The uprisings of King Miguel, Andresote, Ribas, José Leonardo Chirino, until Argelia Laya, have supported revolutionary changes, history will judge you.

129 The myth of mestizaje in Venezuela is based on representations addressing the ethno-racial historical mixing of indigenous, European and afrodescendant peoples. 271

Signed by the operative Cumbe of the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations in Caracas, 23 of March of 2007...” 130 (Nirva Camacho March, 2007).

In this public petition, one can see how afrodescendant claims were articulated in terms of a contrast with indigenous rights. As stated by Hooker (2005), in Latin America there is an important tension between indigenous and afrodescendant rights and their legal achievements. The latter have been forced to reproduce some of the discursive strategies of the indigenous movements, which have tended to focus on cultural rights. In the case of this particular legal petition, we see how issues of racial discrimination were displaced from the arena of negotiation. Instead, the requests were mainly structured in terms of the achievement of historical representation.

This fragment also reveals the role of social movements in articulating and

“representing” the afrodescendant population, as they call for dialog with the State.

Furthermore, by evoking revolutionary and historical voices, Camacho also calls for the commitment of the State to take the proposal into account. She challenges the legislative

130 “Buenos días, Gracias a los diputados y diputadas que se encargaron de recibir esta mobilización, gracias a los y las afrodescendientes que han viajado desde Falcón, Zulia, Miranda, Yaracuy, representantes de los trece estados que conforman la Red de Organizaciones Afrodescendientes, esto no es un moviemiento de ayer, queremos romper con el mito de la sociedad igual, producto de las tres mezclas. Aqui también hay una población afrodescendiente, tenemos a los indígenas que fueron reconocidos dignamente, los afrodescendientes no hemos sido reconocidos. 1999 fue un momento histórico en la Asamblea Constituyente, la población afroamericana se presentó con el apoyo de la Red de Organizaciones Afrodescendientes, la Union de Mujeres Negras, hicimos una propuesta que no fue recibida, los aportes de los africanos y africanas no aparecen. Nuestra historia poco se conococe. Andrés López del Rosario, José Leonardo Chirinos todos esos movimientos de afrodescendientes anteceden el proceso de independencia de Venezuela. Revolucionarias y revolucionarios tenemos una herencia, hoy la Red y otros moviemientos sociales venimos desde décadas haciendo esta lucha. La Asamblea Nacional está abierta al diálogo, la Asamblea tiene ese compromiso … Dirigentes de los diputados, Cilia Flores dejamos en sus manos esta propuesta … Los levantamientos del Rey Miguel, Andresote, Ribas, José Leonardo Chirinos hasta Argelia Laya, han apoyado los cambios revolucionarios, la historia los juzgará. Firma el cumbe operativo de esta gran Red de organizaciones Afrodescencientes en Caracas 23 ded Marzo de 2007...” (Camacho, March 2007).

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power by declaring that the deputies will be judged by history. Historical afrodescendant leaders, such as King Miguel and José Leonardo Chirino, are again evoked to legitimize the contribution and participation of afro-Americans in the process of independence and the formation of the nation. Camacho also reaffirms the contribution of afrodescendant women, by highlighting the role of Argelia Laya, a guerilla leader and feminist activist in the sixties. Laya, in this context, is a multi-semantic symbol, as she indexes the power of black women as pillars of afrodescendant families and as political leaders within their community kinship networks. Moreover, the image of Laya expresses the crucial political articulation of revolutionary and feminist struggles.

Once the petition was received by the deputies, different musical groups started to play their drums. Many participants danced, and a participant declared that: “We afrodescendants will be heard with our drums.” The drums in this context have represented in the imaginary of the nation a folkloric index of “africanness” and

“blackness.” Although many afrodescendant leaders have criticized the folklorization of their music as a simplistic and reductionist symbol of their cultural identity, the drum beats, the dancing bodies, and the voices of afrodescendant leaders in this context symbolically represented their “first entrance” into the nation-state. This historical occupation of the building of the Assembly was also accompanied by their crucial appearance in the public media. That night one of the most important state-sponsored shows interviewed leaders of the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations and the news programs also registered the event. 273

Overall, we have seen how contemporary afrodescendant legal petitions are mainly framed by the need to achieve historical recognition within the Venezuelan State formation process. In other words, these petitions mainly focus on the “redistribution” of symbolic capital. Yet this emphasis on historical visibility is not mechanically adopted or reproduced by all afrodescendant leaders. For instance an Afroyaracuyan leader, during an open-ended interview at his home in Farriar, offered the following critical statement:

“The philosophical thinkers of the constitution are Bolívar, Zamora, they forget about Ribas, about José Leonardo Chirino, about Andresote they forget. Bolívar betrayed afrodescendants, after he started structuring what he had achieved in the battle of 1824, he forgets about the afrodescendants. It is evident, in other words, that Bolívar offered freedom to the Africans, to the slaves, and later forgot about them … In this government, Bolivarian thinking also forgets afrodescendants. In the first [constitution] they recognize indigenous [peoples], they did not recognize (las and los) afrodescendants. But their contribution must be recognized. The first call for freedom was given on the 22nd of December of 1552 with King Miguel de Buría. No, here they say Guaicaipuro, first was Miguel. But history says Guaicaipuro. We hope that the recognition won’t just be for the musical part, but also the historical contribution. Because we arrived to the network [ROA] with this struggle, we must be incorporated in the sacred book that is the constitution”131 (Germán Farriar, May 2007).

This excerpt clearly criticizes Bolívar‟s actions, for not being fully committed to the incorporation of afrodescendants into the liberal modern-state project. Germán implicitly juxtaposes the treason of Bolívar with the actions of non-recognition and

131 “Los pensadores filosóficos de la Constitución son Bolívar, Zamora, se olvidan de Ribas, de José Leonardo Chirinos, de Andresote se olvidan. Bolívar traicionó a los Afrodescendientes, después de que el comienza a estructurar lo que había logrado en la batalla de 1824 se olvida de los afrodescendants. Está a la vista, es decir Bolívar le ofrece la libertad a los africanos a los esclavizados y después se olvida de ellos... Este gobierno, el pensamiento Bolivariano también se olvida de los Afrodescendientes. En la primera reconocen a los indígenas, no reconcen a los y las Afrodescendientes. Pero se tiene que reconocer los aportes. El primer grito de libertad se dió el 22 de diciembre de 1552 con el Rey Miguel de Buria. No, aquí dicen Guaicaipuro, primero fue Miguel. Pero la historia dice Guaicaipuro. Esperamos que el reconocimento no sea la parte musical, sino también su aporte histórico. Porque llegamos a la red con esta lucha, debemos ser incorporados al libro sagrado que es la Constitución” (Germán, Mayo 2007).

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erasure of the contemporary Bolivarian project. In this sense, he questions the

“emancipatory” capacity of the revolutionary process to include afrodescendants peoples.

He also points to the State‟s strategy of erasing afrodescendant historical contributions, and recognizing instead indigenous leaders such as Guaicaipuro,132 as precursors of the

Independence movements.

Finally, he refers to the folklorist vision of the State that has tended to reduce afrodescendant contributions to the sphere of culture and music. In this sense, he argues that historical recognition is a more legitimate and transcendental demand for

“inclusion.” This critical vision of Bolivarian ideologies is also shared by other afrodescendant leaders, who have also questioned the political commitment of Francisco de Miranda to the freedom of slaves during the early process of independence. Other activists mention Bolivars‟ betrayal of the Haitian cause, as an indication of his racist ideologies. In sum, many afrodescendant leaders have developed critiques of the

“founding fathers” of the Venezuelan modern State for representing and acting on behalf of the interests of white criollo elites and thus creating mechanisms supporting the historical exclusion of afrodescendant peoples.

132 In 2001 the symbolic rests of Guaicaipuro were incorporated into the national Pantheon, as part of the commemoration of the day of Indigenous Resistance. Guaicaipuro is a complex symbolic indigenous figure, since he is recognized as an indigenous “Caribe” warrior who fought against the Spanish conquerors. In addition, this indigenous symbol has a significant hierarchy in the religious pantheon of “espiritista” practices.

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The State takes a stand on the afrodescendant legal proposals

The afrodescendant proposal was finally received by the National Assembly on the 23rd of March, 2007. Four months later, in August, the legislative organ publicly announced the definite version of the proposed constitutional reform, which involved the creation or modification of more than sixty articles. This proposal, which was later rejected in the national referendum in December 2007, only included the term afrodescendant in article 100. On the 15th of August of 2007 President Chávez formally presented the final proposal stating, in regard to afrodescendant peoples, the following:

“172. Then, this article is very beautiful, very profound, very ideological, of much consciousness. 173. The Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela is the historical product of the confluence of various cultures, thus the State recognizes the diversity of expressions and values of the indigenous, European and afrodescendant roots that gave origin to our great South American nation. … Our people must bear the flag, conscious that we are not various nations, that we are not the Venezuelan nation, or the Brazilian nation, or the Argentinian nation … we are fundamentally Afro-Americans, South Americans. We are a single nation … 175. Well, “ the popular culture of indigenous peoples and the afrodescendants,” see that that hardly appears here, the afrodescendants, [for] the first time ¿right? 176. The afrodescendants, the indigenous peoples, constitutive of venezolanity, enjoy special attention, recognizing and respecting interculturality in accordance with the principles of cultural equality. The Law will establish incentives and stimuli for people, institutions and communities that promote, support, develop and finance plans, cultural activity programs in the country, as well as abroad” 133

133 “172. Entonces, este artículo es muy bonito, muy profundo, muy ideológico, de mucha conciencia: 173. “La República Bolivariana de Venezuelan es el producto histórico de la confluencia de varias culturas, por ello el Estado reconoce la diversidad de sus expresiones y valora las raíces indígenas, europeas y afrodescendientes que dieron orígen a nuestra gran nación suramericana”.…nuestros pueblos deben portar la bandera, la consciencia de que nosotros no somos varias naciones, de que nosotros no somos que si la nación venezolana, que si la nación brasileña, que si la nación argentina…somos fundamentalmente afroamericanos, suramericanos. Somos una sola nación… 175. Bien, “la cultura popular de los pueblos indígenas y de los afrodescendants,” fíjense que eso casi no aparece aquí, los Afrodescendientes, primera vez ¿verdad? 176. Los afrodescendientes, los pueblos indígenas constituitivos de la venezolanidad gozan de atención especial, reconociéndose y respetándose la interculturalidad bajo el prinicipio de igualdad de las culturas. La Ley establecerá incentivos y estímulos para las personas, 276

[italics are original in the text; translation and bold are mine] (Chávez 2007b:88- 89).

The word afrodescendant was for the “first time” included in a proposal emanated by the legislative and executive powers, yet the entire group of articles suggested by the

Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations had been completely erased and ignored. It is significant that afrodescendants, together with indigenous and European peoples were depicted as “originary roots.” Moreover, Chávez framed his nationalist discourse with

Pan-American Bolivarian ideologies. He particularly evoked the notion of a supra unique

South American nation, in this case articulated by an Afro-American identity. I believe that he sought to establish an implicit dialogue with the afrodescendant movement in reply to their proposal. By projecting afrodescendant identities beyond the boundaries of the nation in some way he aimed at displacing the responsibility of each State for incorporating and attending this ethno-racial group.

Furthermore, this official text adopted a clear affirmative position in relation to afrodescendant and indigenous peoples. It is interesting that migrants or other “ethnic minorities” were not included in this particular legal proposal. What pervaded was a discourse of origin, formation, and constitution of the nation, which involves a historical vision. Yet by evoking the verb “constitutive,” Chávez thus recognized and included for

“the first time” a critical legal space for afrodescendant peoples vis-à-vis indigenous peoples.

instituticiones y comunidades que promuevan, apoyen, desarrollen o financien planes, programas de actividades culturales en el país, así como la cultura venezolana en el exterior” (Chávez 2007b:88-89).

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However, in December of 2007, this presidential proposal of constitutional reform was rejected by popular vote. Thus, the aforementioned attempt to include the term “afrodescendant” in the constitution did not prosper. In spite of embracing new strategies of mobilization, most afrovenezuelan activists reproduce a mobilizing habitus based on experiences of legal exclusion. This sense of marginalization from the State has even been reinforced since 1999, as indigenous peoples were recognized and included in the Bolivarian project. This legal exclusion is also perpetuated by the hegemonic reproduction of the myths of racial democracy and mestizaje, and by their supposition that afrovenezuelans lack any cultural distinctiveness. However, contemporary afrodescendant social organizations continue adopting strategies for achieving institutional spaces, where their demands can be articulated and incorporated into State public policies.

Afrovenezuelan institutional spaces

As stated in the introduction institutionalization is a normal process shaping social movements‟ relationship with the State (Della Porta and Diani 1999). State institutions in fact are spaces for “micromobilization” (Foweraker 1995). From this view point, institutions can be targets and at the same time provide resources for mobilization. Yet institutionalization also involves processes of fragmentation and competition between movement factions and organizations. Thus, while some groups become pacified or absorbed by the State, others seek radicalization (Tarrow 1998; Della Porta and Diani

1999; Koopmans 2004). 278

The afrodescendant movement in Venezuela has sought to achieve institutional spaces, in order to continue their struggles within the State. Leaders of the Network of

Afrovenezuelan Organizations (ROA) have even called for a “Cimarronaje institucional.” This strategy involves placing key activists within State institutions in order to gradually pursue the main objectives of: recognizing afrodescendant people in all realms of society, ensuring their specific incorporation within State public policies, and struggling against racist structures.

For instance, in 2005 the executive power issued the Presidential Decree No

3.645, creating the formation of the “Presidential Commission for the Prevention and

Elimination of all forms of Racial Discrimination and other Distinctions in the

Venezuelan Educational System.” The main objective of this commission is to elaborate, formulate, coordinate, and evaluate programs, methods and public policies relative to the educational system that will guarantee equal possibilities for all peoples. This presidential commission is also integrated by representatives of the Ministries of Education, Culture,

Communication, and by the People‟s Defender, the General Attorney of the Republic, the

Direction of Intercultural Education, the National Institute of Women, The Vice-ministry of Africa and Representatives of the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations (ROA).

Most members representing the aforementioned institutions are activists of ROA.

Although the State has not allocated funds for the functioning of this commission, it represents one of the most important institutional spaces for articulating the political agendas of afrodescendant peoples in Venezuela. 279

In addition, in 2005 the Ministry of Culture created the Office of Articulation with Afrodescendant Communities, responsible for designing, implementing and overseeing cultural policies oriented towards the population of African origin. Yet, this office has confronted serious opposition within its own institutional spaces, as many functionaries oppose the use of the term “afrodescendant” and any cultural programs designed specifically for this population. Moreover, many State agents deny the existence of racist practices in Venezuela, and they defend the existence of a racial democracy sustained in the historical legacy of mestizaje. The funds for this office have also been limited or even withdrawn, suggesting a lack of interest on the part of the government in developing public policies for afrodescendant peoples, and “including” them in the revolutionary process.

Furthermore, in August of 2007, the National Institute of Statistics (INE) created a

Sub-commission for the Afrodescendant Population. This institutional space has the objective of guaranteeing the identification of the afrodescendant population in national census, questionnaires, administrative registries and research studies promoted by the

INE. The Sub-commission has performed several pilot tests to incorporate a new question in the national census to be carried out in 2011. The new question should increase the visibility of the afrodescendant population in Venezuela, so that the State will have available statistical data in order to design and implement specific public policies for this population.

Moreover, in April 2008, the National Assembly created the “Sub-commission of

Legislation, Participation, Guarantees, Duties and Rights of Afrodescendant Peoples” 280

within the Permanent Commission of Indigenous Peoples. This new institutional space is designed to promote, issue and evaluate law projects to guarantee the participation and rights of afrodescendant peoples. This legal space represents the formation of new strategic alliances among the afrodescendants. Its creation symbolizes a possibility for the afrodescendant peoples to overcome their legal exclusion and promote new laws favoring their recognition and demands. In fact, this Sub-commission, with the special support of

Deputy Modesto Ruíz and with the collaboration of the Presidential Commission for the

Prevention and Elimination of all forms of Racial Discrimination and other Distinctions in the Venezuelan Educational System, as well as other social movements, has introduced before the National Assembly the first legal project against racial discrimination.

Later on, at the Ministry of Women, the Cumbe de Mujeres Afrovenezolanas also managed to create an Office for Afrodescendant Women. In fact one of the main leaders of this organization was appointed as Vice-minister of this Ministry. They also created strong links with the Banco de la Mujer (Womens Bank), in order to ensure that micro- credit programs would target afrodescendant women.

These institutional spaces certainly represent historical achievements for the afrodescendant movement, as they constitute a step forward in securing visibility, participation, and inclusion. These spaces represent arenas of negotiation, encounter and confrontation involving the State, social movements and intellectuals. However in general afrodescendant institutional spaces are limited in number and short of money, thus indicating the lack of interest of the government and the State in fully “recognizing” and including this population within the new multicultural nation, and in “redistributing” 281

symbolic, political and economic capital among specific ethno-racial groups. For instance, in the National Simón Bolívar Plan (2007-2021) there still is no mention of the afrodescendant population (García 2007), while in contrast indigenous peoples are fully included as a population that must be incorporated in all State public policies.

As stated by Camacho (2011), policies addressing afrodescendant issues usually depend on the permanence of afrodescendant leaders within these institutions. As soon as these activists are removed from these positions, most projects and programs for afrodescendant men and women are eliminated. In other words, Camacho points to the significant fragility of these achieved institutional spaces, as they depend on the permanence of specific actors within particular State positions. In this regard, she calls for the concrete inscription and stabilization of afrodescendant demands within State public policies, so that they will not depend on the political contingencies of bureaucratic changes (Camacho 2011).

Beyond these fragile and limited achievements, the afrovenezuelan movement is also facing great internal fragmentation. In 2010, the Network of Afrovenezuelan

Organizations (ROA) divided. A new network called Red de Afrodescendientes de

Venezuela (RAV) has emerged in response to the degree of institutionalization of members of the ROA. This new movement self-identifies as more radical, as it also calls for struggling against “institutional racism.” Before 2010, ROA in general self-defined itself as a horizontal movement that tended to frame its demands in terms of all forms of racial discrimination. Yet, since 2006, ROA activists have begun to debate institutionalization as problematic. Some leaders pointed out that some afrodescendant 282

State functionaries reproduced processes of exclusion towards their own communities.

Some even suggested that they had been co-opted as a result of their economic dependence on State salaries. For instance in 2010, one of the factions of ROA asked the

Ministry of Culture for 300 million of bolívares for cultural projects. Although this amount had been previously approved, it was later negated and the program had to be cut back. Low-level State functionaries were blamed for this decision, despite the fact that the order had come from higher up. In turn, this faction protested with drums at the

Ministry calling on the Minister to provide an explication. Finally, the funds were withheld, and this group of afrovenezuelan organizations publicly denounced this decision as an example of institutional racism. Moreover, at this time, some of the principal leaders of ROA were appointed to African embassies. Radicalized activists argued that their leaders had been co-opted by the State, leaving the national network without clear direction and objectives.

In sum, today there are two networks of afrodescendant organizations in

Venezuela. Although the division took place while maintaining relatively cordial relations, the overall cause has inevitably been affected. The new radicalized network

(RAV) must struggle not to become ostracized and isolated by the State, while ROA on the other hand, must bolster its legitimacy as an organization struggling against all forms of racism. It is still too soon to gauge the effects of this rupture, but I believe that it will increase tensions and competition, especially considering the limited spaces and funds assigned by the State to afrodescendant organizations and communities.

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Concluding remarks

Overall, this Chapter has shown how afrodescendant peoples, in contrast to indigenous populations, have been excluded from the process of multicultural recognition of the new Bolivarian State. They presented two proposals for the incorporation of afrodescendant peoples within the Constitution; one was rejected by the National

Constituent Assembly in 1999, and the other was reduced and finally rejected by popular vote in 2007. The pervasiveness of the myths of mestizaje and racial democracy have reproduced ideological barriers between legislators, State functionaries and some intellectuals, who systematically avoid recognizing the inclusion “afrodescendant” people within the nation. They also seek to overlook the multiple practices of racism that take place within the institutions and in everyday contexts. It is possible that underlying the reproduction of these racist ideologies are memories of fear, maybe associated with the myth of “pardocracy,” that imagined a nation controlled by colored people during the process of independence. It is even probable, although further research is required, that memories of fear associated with the Haitian revolution still remain in the imaginaries of

State representatives. If this were not the case, what else could explain that the

Venezuelan multicultural nation still remains represented as a bi-ethnic nation based on the recognition of indigenous and non-indigenous people (Perozo and Pérez 2001).

However, more research should be conducted in order to deconstruct the structural and discursive forces shaping the pervasiveness of these racial democratic imaginaries in

Venezuela. 284

In spite of these barriers, there is no doubt that afrodescendant peoples have gained some legal spaces. In the first place, they have actively participated in overt legal negotiations with the State. Although many of their attempts have been unsuccessful, their proposals have reached the State, and claimed for their historical presence and contributions to the nation.

In the institutional realm, afrodescendants have also gained some spaces. Yet, within these institutions, they still have to struggle for their visibility and inscription, as the legitimacy of the term “afrodescendant” is constantly questioned or ignored by the

State. Moreover, in response to their gradual process of institutionalization the afrodescendant movement is now facing processes of fragmentation, radicalization and demobilization. Currently, there are two networks that must compete for the recognition and the limited resources provided by the Venezuelan State. As stated by Della Porta and

Diani, the institutionalization of one organization comes along with the radicalization of another (1999:151).

Comparative Remarks: Indigenous and afrodescendant forms of incorporation within the modern multicultural Venezuelan State.

Indigenous and afrodescendant peoples have been incorporated in different ways within the multicultural project of the Bolivarian Venezuelan State. Since 1999, indigenous social movements have struggled for, produced and achieved the implementation of a wide range of legal instruments, representing many of their demands on cultural, political, economic, religious and social rights. Overall, they have gained 285

“legal recognition” with their incorporation within the Bolivarian Constitution, and the sanctioning of an Organic Law and 5 derivative laws, addressing their ethno-racial specificity. In this sense, as stated by Engle (2010), indigenous movements have been active co-constructors of the new multicultural legal order. They have transformed the legal contours of the Venezuelan State, by developing and negotiating multicultural proposals.

Based on this legal platform, Venezuelan indigenous movements have achieved numerous institutional spaces such as the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples, the Permanent

Commission of Indigenous Peoples at the National Assembly, the Office of Indigenous

Communities at the Ministry of Culture, among others. Thus, one can argue that indigenous movements have also reshaped the institutional configuration of the multicultural State. However, throughout this process they have experienced significant institutionalization processes. Many leaders and activists hold important positions within the State. Some are deputies, ministers, and office directors. It has been argued by radicalized indigenous organizations and by many leaders that some of these indigenous

State agents have been co-opted by the State. Some of these demobilized leaders; in particular those supporting the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples, do not support the most basic demands of the indigenous movement in Venezuela, which are the demarcation of their lands and the implementation of their consuetudinary legal systems.

Moreover, since the establishment of the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples in 2006, the national indigenous movement has experienced significant fractures. Some factions support the Ministry and its mechanical interpretations of the Indo-socialist project. Other 286

factions are controlled by the leadership of Noelí Pocaterra at the National Assembly, and by José Poyo of the Indigenous Parliament of America.

However, access to land and self-determination are rarely mentioned by the State in its ideological configurations. Indigenous claims for territorial rights have been significantly constrained and questioned by factions of the State, invaded by fears of separatism and “balkanization.” In turn, land demarcation processes have been almost totally paralyzed. Moreover, indigenous communal councils and communes have also been criticized for representing “top down” policies that do not consider the opinions nor favor the participation “traditional” of indigenous leaders.

In the ideological realm, the contemporary revolutionary project on Indo- socialism has also been characterized by a great ideological diversity. Socialist,

Bolivarian, Christian, indigenist, Marxian, and ecological discourses constitute a complex

“ideological ecology.” This particular ecology of ideas has re-essentialized and homogeneized indigenous peoples and their cultures, thus creating a primordialist ideological framework.

So far, Venezuelan multicultural State rhetoric has been limited to the legal

“recognition” of indigenous rights. Concrete processes of “redistribution” (Fraser 2000,

2003) remain incipient and mainly oriented to populist practices of providing sporadic food supplies, unsustainable health assistance, and some infrastructural assistance in indigenous communities. Multiculturalism and its politics of recognition in Venezuela have tended to dismiss issues of structural redistribution for indigenous people, especially those regarding land and self-determination. However, in spite of these contradictions, 287

the Bolivarian project and in particular the voice of Chávez remains as an organizing political force shaping many of the “collective frames of action” and strategies of indigenous movements and their leaders, who still see in this charismatic figure the possibility of a different future.

Afrodescendant peoples in contrast are largely excluded from this process of multicultural recognition. They presented two proposals for the incorporation of afrodescendant peoples within the Constitution; one was rejected by the National

Constituent Assembly in 1999, and the other was finally excluded by popular vote in

2007. In the institutional realm, afrodescendants have gained very limited spaces.

Furthermore, within the institutions where they have managed to project their presence, they still have to remain struggling in order to maintain it, and highlight the racist barriers existing within the State and in civil society. The myths of racial democracy and mestizaje, as in many other Latin American nation-states (Hanchard 1994; Wade 1995,

Telles 2004; Hooker 2005, 2009; Covin 2006; Paschel and Sawyer 2008) remain as the main obstacles for afrodescendant peoples and organizations in Venezuela.

In conclusion, Venezuela‟s State multicultural rhetoric and policies are grounded on a national bi-ethno-racial model. It recognizes, with important limitations, the rights of indigenous peoples, while ignoring other peoples such as afrodescendants, migrants of different ethnicities, among others. This multicultural project on the one hand represents in the discursive realm a significant rupture with other Latin American neoliberal multiculturalist projects (i.e. México, Sierra 2005) as it advocates an “indo-socialism” as a new form for incorporating indigenous peoples within its anti-neoliberal project. 288

Inspired in Bolivar‟s and Mariatigui´s ideologies, this project questions the neo colonial practices of transnational powers and western empires. However, in the arena of

“redistribution,” this project continues to be characterized by practices of State co-option, similar to those of the neoliberals (Hale 2002, 2005). By denying the effective and real titling of indigenous lands, and the participation of indigenous people in implementing

State public policies, and by ignoring afrodescendant peoples and other ethno-racial groups, the new Venezuelan multicultural order reproduces internal colonization practices favoring homogenizing ideologies of territorial sovereignty, unity and mestizaje. 289

CHAPTER 6. THE AYAMÁN-TURERO ORGANIZATION: RITUAL AND POLITICAL MOBILIZATION

This Chapter examines the framing and strategic actions of the Ayamán indigenous turero organization of Moroturo, Lara State. I analyze how this religious organization has been gradually shaped by the multicultural Venezuelan State. In the first part, I describe the structure of the organization and the roles and settings of its members.

I also pay attention to its internal multiplicity, where diverse ideologies and frames are produced, transformed, circulated and performed. I examine how this process has involved the gradual ethnicization of this religious organization, and the production of new discursive frames on indigenous identity, State manipulation, land loss and authenticity.

In the second part of this Chapter, I describe the strategic actions of this organization. I suggest that Turero ritual practices represent important strategies for negotiating political and leadership power within their communities and with the

Venezuelan nation-state. By exploring the interconnections between ritual, performance and social mobilization (Benford and Hunt 1992; Taylor and Whitter 1995), I focus on how ritualization and ethnicization processes are embodied and negotiated within the mobilizing habitus of Ayaman people. In relation to the territorial strategies of this organization, I specifically examine why mobilization for land is relatively marginal among Ayamán peoples (in contrast to Afroyaracuyans organizations). Finally, I explore other strategic actions that involve seeking legal recognition, building networks and alliances with other turero organizations and local intellectuals, petitioning State 290

institutions for resources, assisting at national indigenous meetings, and creating an indigenous communal council. Overall, I show how the Ayamán organization simultaneously performs collective frames and actions for pursuing State recognition, redistribution of resources, and political autonomy.

The Ayamán turero organization: roles, settings and transformations

The contemporary Ayamán-turero organization of Moroturo is composed by twenty-four active members; who self-identify as tureros134 or believers (devotos) of the

Tura135 spirits. The main objective of this religious organization is to perform every year three major rituals: the Tura grande, the Tura pequeña and the reencounter of tureros.136

The structure of this organization resembles religious cofradías.137 Each member has a specific role during the rituals, which range from requesting funds, cooking, cleaning, lighting candles, dancing, praying, serving food, and providing offerings to the spirits, among other actions.

134 Turero is term that identifies men and women who are devotees of or believers in the Tura spirits and who participate in annual dancing rites. 135 Tura is a multi-semantic term that refers to: a) tender corn cobs, b) the flutes of carrizo (Bambusa Guadua) used during ritual dances, and c) the spirits of the ancestors. Tureros also use the verb turear, in order to indicate that the corn is starting to ripen (Domínguez 1984:30-32). 136 There are other ritual practices that also take place during the year that involve the consultation with the spirits at the altar, interpretations of dreams, purification practices in streams, the gathering of medicinal plants, and other everyday healing performances. 137 Spanish American cofradías were brotherhoods or congregations authorized by the Catholic Church, which had the objective of congregating members and undertaking pious actions. They tended to have hierarchies positions and established roles, which were supervised by the local authorities. In colonial times, religious cofradías had great power and managed to accumulate significant resources. Their main tasks were to promote the devotion of patron Saints and Virgins and collect contributions in order to maintain their cult. They were also in charge of organizing festivities and rituals for the dead. In Venezuela the cofradías tended to be closed religious organizations made up exclusively of members of one of the ethno-racial groups: blacks, Indians and Whites (Troconis 1997:852).

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Most members of the Ayamán-turero organization dwell in the cerro Moroturo, located in the municipality of Urdaneta, in the northeast region of the state of Lara, Venezuela

(Figure 7). This cerro (hill) is inhabited by a total of forty two families who are surrounded by a mosaic of cattle ranches, land reform plots, and conucos (subsistence plots). The community has one bodega (small store), a primary school, a community radio station, a small basketball court, and a plaza where the Tura dances are performed every year. Members usually purchase food supplies in the nearby town of Moroturo or in the commercial town of Santa Inés, which is located 10 km away.

Almost all members of this organization self-identify as Ayamán or as descendants of indigenous peoples. However, most devotes also recognize long histories of intermarriage among Ayamán and criollo families. Some tureros have small conucos, where they cultivate a great diversity of crops such as corn, pumpkin, beans, manioc, papaya, and pineapple among others. A few families raise animals, such as small herds of sheep, chickens and pigs. Yet in general agricultural production and animal rising in

Moroturo is not the main source of income for most families. Nearly all male members work as daily laborers in local cattle ranches, cleaning stables and stringing wire fences.

Women work at home taking care of their children, and feeding animals. Yet some of them earn money as daily domestic workers in the nearby commercial town of Santa

Inés.

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Sta Ines

Cerro MOROTURO MOROTURO

400 Palmar

1:100.000

Figure 7. Cerro Moroturo. Ayamán Community

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Scripted roles: cargos in the Ayamán-turero organization

The contemporary Ayamán-turero organization of Moroturo is composed of different members who hold established positions (cargos) that have scripted roles.

Rather than being static roles, each actor reshapes and transforms their performative

“characters” according to their particular kinship, leadership, and individual status. This organization has the following roles: two Capataces (foremen), one Reina (Queen), two

Mayordomos (male and female butlers), a piache or Shamán, five musicians, various

Cazadores (hunters), and several Ayudantes (helpers). I will describe the main duties associated with these roles in order to analyze how actors enact distinct collective actions frames and strategic actions.

The Reina

The current Reina (Queen) of Moroturo is Mariana Perozo, who inherited this position from her mother Anastasia Perozo.138 The Reina enacts multiple roles before, during, and after the ritual. Mariana is one of the owners of the patio of Moroturo, and she is usually in charge of receiving visitors, providing the food, and preparing the logistics for the ritual. She has the duty of organizing the preparation of the chicha (fermented corn beverage), and of serving a meat soup during the intermissions of the ritual. She also

138 There is a special ritual for the selection of the Reina. This practice occurs during a secret Tura ritual that takes place somewhere in the mountains. In this event, that Shamán calls for the spirits to point out who will be the next Reina. Several young girl candidates stand one next to each other. During the ritual, a golden crown appears over the head of one of them, indicating who will be the next Queen (Domínguez 1984). Although I did not witness this ritual, it was widely known that in Moroturo one of the granddaughters of Mariana had the potential to be the next Queen. This girl was constantly trained in the altar and she was actively involved in many rituals. 294

manages and oversees the cleaning of the patio, as she works on the construction of the altar (where the offerings will be displayed).

During the ritual, the Reina has the specific task of lighting the candles on the altar and making sure that they are lit during the performance.139 She smokes and blows cigar smoke over the Shamán, and may even pour alcoholic beverages over this leader in order to protect him during his spiritual trances. Domínguez (1984) argues that the Reina in general acts as the main butler of the rite and she may or may not hold a waxed manatín,140 as a symbol of order and power.

The Reina also uses special garments during the performance. She wears a crown made out of bean seeds and other plants.141 She also carries necklaces and feathers, which are gifts collected during encounters with tureros or Shamans from other regions. In recent times, she has used necklaces provided by Amazonian Shamans that were given to her during a Pan indigenous anti-imperialist encounter in Bolívar state.

The position of the Reina, as I will discuss later, is constantly challenged by other tureros. Some leaders of the Tura dances of San Pedro (in the state of Falcón), for

139 The lighting of the candles is one of the main indexes that the ritual has started and that it is “real.” on one occasion, I witnessed the performance of a Tura dance at the Institute of Culture in the city of Coro, Falcón state. During this event, the candles of the constructed dancing patio were not turned-on, thus indicating that this was a “fake” Tura dance, which did not involve the participation of the spirits. Candles and cigars are key elements of the material culture that is set into action during the rituals. Ruette and López (2010) argue that the materiality of these objects, as well as the vessels are necessary elements for these performances and for distributing political and symbolic capital among the members of this organization. 140 The manatín is a cord that has three knots covered with wax. This cord can be held by the Reina or the Capataz and represents the position of maximum spiritual and political authority during the dances. In Moroturo, I witnessed Reina Mariana holding this manatín on several occasions. She said she had used it to punish visitors and members that misbehave during the dances. 141 Domínguez (1984:63) reports that the crowns of the Reinas are made with bejucos de batatilla (Ipomoea batatilla) and with stems of pira negra (black beans). 295

instance, argue that she has incorporated elements of espiritista142 practices from

Yaracuy, and that she uses the altar for healing purposes that do not correspond with the

“real” Tura dances. In spite of these criticisms, the Reina makes no attempt to conceal her connections with spiritual cohorts of the María Lionza cult, and with national and international Shamans. I will later discuss how depending on the context, the Reina tends to shift from her espiritista role to a more “traditional” turero leadership role.

In addition, the Reina’s performances are also questioned by male turero participants, who argue that men should lead the Tura dances. The leadership of the

Reina tends to be questioned by the male Capataces, serving to control the production of these rituals.143 As I will later discuss, the Reina is one of the key characters that engages in face-to-face interactions with the State, requesting resources in different institutions, receiving visitors, and distributing food. Moreover since she is one of the owners of the

Moroturo patio, she has the legitimate power to decide who will enter or not into this ritual space.

Furthermore, she has become the “public face” of the Ayamán organization. Her photograph appears in banners and bumper stickers promoting the formation of the

Ayamán Municipality. In newspapers and in regional and national meetings her name is

142 Espiritista practices in Venezuela are mainly associated with the Cult of María Lionza. This religious figure also receives the names of Yara, Reina (queen), or diosa (goddess), and she evokes multiple representations such as: indigenous princess, European queen, or catholic virgin. Her followers perform diverse kinds of rituals and practices to request from her and other cortes (groups of spirits that have specific ) different favors. Spiritual possession is in one of the most emblematic rituals of this cult, that have the objective of providing therapeutic treatment, as well as economic and affective favors (Fernández 2008). 143 Some participants indicate that in Cerro Colorado, in the state of Falcón, there used to exist a group of tureros that were led only by women. This example was mentioned by a male Capataz who asserted the need to have male leaders within these rituals.

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mentioned, as a representative figure of the “surviving ancestral” indigenous people of the state of Lara. Her height (which is described as short) as well as her everyday indumenta (wooden cane, hat and necklaces) are usually regarded by State functionaries as indexes of the authentic indigenous identity of this ritual organization. In subsequent sections, I discuss how the Reina has become an icon of “indigenous authenticity” for the

Ayamán-turero organization, as well as a controversial leader who has the capacity to access and negotiate with the State at multiple levels.

The Capataz

The Capataz of Moroturo is Alfonso Perozo, who is the brother of Mariana. This leader inherited this charge from his uncle Crisóstomo Perozo, locally known as Choto

Perozo. The Capataz was directly appointed by the spirits of his ancestors. His initiation involved long and complex rituals, in which he had to remain during many days with his eyes closed and shaking his maraca144 (rattle) in an altar located in the mountains.

His scripted role is to determine the date of the ritual, request permission from the spirits, invite other tureros from nearby regions, and seek resources for purchasing food and supplies (candles, cigars, alcoholic beverages). In this regard, Alfonso states:

“The Capataz is in charge of organizing everything that is spent during the week, the food, the wood, water, electricity, he organizes everything one week earlier”145 (Alfonso, Moroturo, October 2007).

144 The maraca is made with a tapara fruit (Crescentia cucurbitita). This fruit is emptied and filled with pieces of small stones and seeds of capacho (C.edulis). The maracas are in some cases decorated with small perforations or figures representing circles, rectangles or triangles (Domínguez 1984:41-42). 145 “…el Capataz se encarga de organizar todo lo que se gasta en la semana, la comida, la leña, agua, luz, organiza todo una semana antes” (Alfonso, Moroturo October 2006). 297

Moreover, Alfonso has the duty of teaching young musicians how to play the instruments. He regularly meets with kids between eight and fifteen years old, and instructs them on playing the sacred deer horns146 and the wooden flutes.147 However, the role and leadership of Alfonso is not static. It has been transformed as he engages in direct negotiations with the State in order to seek resources for the Tura dances. In this regard, he categorically argues:

“I am the Capataz of the Turas, but now I am the Captain of the Ayamán etnia (ethnic group), I am the representative of all. The other [things] are for the Reina, she is the one who has the right, she is the owner [of the plaza where the dances are performed], with the mayordomo. They represent the plaza, they are the owners of the plaza”148 (Alfonso, Moroturo September 2007).

This excerpt expresses how new forms of leadership are emerging around the notion of ethnic representation. Alfonso has gradually established a distance with his former identity as Capataz of the Turas, displacing his “traditional” authority to his sister the Reina of the Turas and her husband the Mayordomo. In another conversation, he again reasserted, “... now we are not Capataz, we are Captain” (ya no somos Capataz, somos Capitán).

This ritual leader also has the specific role of engaging in face-to-face negotiations with the State. Some of his duties are to speak on behalf of the turero organizations of the region and of the community of Moroturo. As I will later discuss, he

146 The horns are elaborated with the skull and antlers of local matacán (Mazama rufa) or deer (venado Cervus rufus). The bone structure is covered with the wax of black wasps and three holes are left open in order to blow through them and produce flute-like rhythmic sounds. 147 The flutes are fabricated with carrizo or guasdua (Bambusa guada). 148 “Yo soy el Capataz de las Turas, mas ahora soy el Capitán de la etnia Ayamán. Soy el representante de todos. Las otras cosas son para la Reina, ella es la que tiene derecho, ella la dueña con el mayordomo. Ellos representan la plaza, son los dueños de la plaza.” (Alfonso, Moroturo, September 2007). 298

and the Reina in some contexts act as a kinship-leadership performance team (Goffman

1959), that has access to particular “stages” produced by the State in national and regional events. In fact, both characters have been invited on multiple occasions to assist at regional meetings, encounters, and assemblies organized by different State institutions.

In other words, their roles involve representing of the public face of the Ayamán organization.

The second Capataz of the Tura dances, is Gregorio. This leader is much less visible and rarely engages in public interactions with visitors. However, he holds the particular role of coordinating and orchestrating the salves and rosaries to be performed during the ritual, and on other religious occasions. This leader has the legitimate religious responsibility of conducting these complex catholic songs. Although Gregorio is from a small town near Aguada Grande, and does not overtly self- recognize as Ayamán, he is married to the eldest daughter of the Reina. He is also well respected for being compadre

(godfather) of the former Capataz, el finado (the deceased) Choto Perozo. I will later discuss how kinship relationships represent a source of indigenous identity in Moroturo.

The Mayordomos

The male Mayordormo of Moroturo is Mr. Modesto, who is the husband of

Mariana, the Reina. His main role is to receive the promises and offerings of the visitors and spectators. He registers the contributions of each visitor or participant (candles, food, drinks) and then places them in the altar. This character has the role of mediating the multiple ritual exchanges that take place with the visitors (tourists, State functionaries, 299

filmmakers, anthropologists, teachers, students among others), the tureros of Moroturo, the Shamán, and the ancestors. He is also in charge of building the altar at the dancing patio, and with the Reina he makes sure to place candles and offerings in the appropriate manner. This figure also supervises the behavior of the participants during the ritual.

Throughout the performances he wears a crown made out of bean seeds and organic fibers, and he holds a wooden cane. On some occasions, he also uses necklaces and usually paints his face with bariquí – body paint made with almagre (red ocher).149

The Mayordomo woman of Moroturo is the daughter of the Queen. Her name is

Antonia, and she lives in the city of Barquisimeto. It is said that she will inherit the role of the Reina. However, since she lives in the city, some members have suggested that one of the eldest granddaughters of the Reina might take her place.

The Shamán

The Shamán used be called piache. Julián Carmen Baldayo originally performed this role in Moroturo. Today this character is enacted by his son Juan de Dios Baldayo, who lives in the state of Portuguesa, near the city of Guanare. The Shamán is of great importance in the Tura dances, since he has the knowledge and legitimate power to communicate with the spirits of the turero ancestors. In other words, he serves as the medium who embodies different kinds of spirits during the rituals. During specific ritual practices, such as the reencounter of the tureros or the llora, the Shamán also performs

149 Domínguez argues that the act of embariquizamiento is usually performed by the Capataz mayor, who paints red dots on his face that symbolize the center of the World and the beginning of the winter solstice (1984:104).

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espiritista healing sessions and consultations at the altar. Thus, he directly engages with visitors who seek his spiritual assistance. During these performances he usually dresses with pants and no shirt. Around his waist, he may wear a tricolor string holding a small golden sword, characteristic of espiritista garments.

On some occasions, the Shamán brings students who are initiated during the rituals. They have a small room, right next to the altar, where they remain before the official performance starts. In general visitors are not allowed to enter this particular backstage setting.

The Músicos

There are six musicians in the Ayamán-turero organization of Moroturo. Two cacheros mayores, play the large deer horns, and two chacheros menores play the matacán horns (a small deer). The two-remaining musicians play the carrizo flutes. Some of these musicians also hold a maraca that they shake in order to establish the pace of the music. Domínguez (1984) suggests that the musicians and their sounds have the role of keeping away evil spirits, as they purify the environment. These musicians rarely engage in direct conversations with the public. They have a backstage location in a small bahareque150 structure near the altar, where they wait to be called in order to start the dance. The two capataces and the mayordomo play the music and dance along with this group of musicians during the ritual.

150 Bahareque is mixture of mud with organic fibers that is used to build walls for housing structures. This constructive technology is mainly employed in rural areas.

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The Imaginario

The Imaginario is in charge of taking care of the altar. Patricio has held this position for more than fourteen years in Moroturo. He used to help the owners of the patio until Choto Perozo appointed him for this particular role. He reports this leader as saying: “…put him as imaginario, because he is a person who does not drink or fail (to show up)” (métanlo a imaginario, porque es persona que no bebe ni falta). He states that his duty is to “to take charge of the drinks that are brought from outside” (ver los brindis que traigan de afuera). Thus, the condition of not drinking alcohol is fundamental for performing this role. He is also in charge of arranging the objects and “images” of the altar. Usually this practice is performed back stage, and he rarely engages in direct conversions with the visitors.

The Cazadores

The Cazadores (hunters) or guardianes constitute a performance “team” that is usually made up of thirteen men. This group used to have their own altar, located in the forest underneath specific trees. In these sites, they requested special permits from the spirits of the forest and the water, in order to initiate hunting practices. This role as a hunter has been transformed, since spaces for hunting have been radically reduced after the expansion of cattle ranching since the 1990s. In this regard, the Reina states:

“Before the cazadores were the ones in charge of bringing the food. They departed three days before the Tura (dance) to hunt and bring that game, and they danced. Everyone danced their game, they take it home and eat it. Because before, that was the food. We left that (practice) when the cattle ranchers came, they even offered 302

them gun shots. Here, they killed the hunter‟s dogs. Before, that was the food that was cut up, they added vegetables and it was given to all those who stayed up all night (amanecían). Corn, the carato, the chicha, that was the food. Now those hunters are the guardians, because they receive (the people) from 5 to 8 the next morning. They are in charge of checking on who is drunk, echa broma,151 or is enamorando152 ” 153(Mariana, Moroturo October 2007).

About this new role, one of the guardianes states: “we check to see who brings alcohol, that there is no guy enamorando” (estamos pendientes del que lleva aguardiente, que no haya un guaro enamorando.” Another guardian indicated that his task is to watch out during the night, and make sure that there is no kissing going on. Thus, the cazadores have shifted from being a provider of food to a moral role, since they are no longer able to bring game to the ritual. Today, most of the meat consumed is bought at the local butchery in Santa Inés. This radical change in the source of the food to be distributed during the Tura dances, has involved, on the other hand the active participation of the

Reina and the Capataz in seeking funds for purchasing the meat.

There is also tension between the team of the Reina and the group of cazadores.

There have been open conflicts, with each questioning the legitimacy of the other‟s performance. The Reina argues that the Cazadores have tended to abuse in the consumption of alcohol, which represents a serious violation of their prescribed role. The

151 Echar broma literally refers to the act of having fun or playing. But also implies misbehavior or not acting according to established rules. 152 Enamorando means “falling in love,” yet in this context refers to acts involving amorous interplay of couples (kissing, sexual foreplay, etc.). 153 “Antes eran los cazadores que se encargaban de traer la comida. Salían tres días antes de la Tura a cazar para traer esa cacería y bailaban, cada quien baila su cacería, se la lleva a su casa y se la come. Porque antes eso era la comida. Eso lo dejamos cuando vinieron los ganaderos, le ofrecieron hasta tiros. Aquí mataron los perros de los cazadores. Antes esa era la comida, eso se picaba se le echaba verdura y se daba a todos los que amanecían allí. Maíz, el carato, la chicha esa era la comida. Ahora esos cazadores son los guardianes, porque ellos reciben a las 5pm hasta las 8am del otro día. Ellos se encargan de revisar quien anda borracho, echa broma, se está enamorando” (Mariana, Moroturo October 2007). 303

hunters, on the other hand, challenge the leadership of the Reina by stating that she does not serve the food in the proper manner, and has thus violated her scripted role. One of the leaders of the guardians and former cazador states in this regard:

“Now they put us as the guardians. We had to wait to kill pigs, iguana, armadillo, palomita (small wild doves). They had to ask for permission from the owners of the finca (ranch). For the Turas that has ended. Anastasia used to go there, she gave us food. Como le rendía la comida.154 She gave food to everyone. She did not keep anything (for herself)”155 (William, Moroturo November 2007).

In sum, the performative roles of the Reina, the Capataz and the Cazadores are in constant tension. Their scripted characters involve particular expectations that must be fulfilled. Ideologies on the moral economy of food consumption and distribution surface in the enactment of each role. Thus, the production, consumption and distribution of alcohol and food not only structure the actions of this ritual organization, but also shape moral references for evaluating each performance.

The Ayudantes

The Ayudantes or helpers are several community members who self-identify as tureros or believers of the Tura spirits. They perform backstage assisting the Reina, the

Mayordomo and the Capataz in preparing the patio, the altar, the food and many other accessories necessary for conducting the ritual performances. The Reina for instance

154 This expression conveys that Anastasia had the capacity to distribute the food in equal manner for all. 155 “Ahora nos pusieron los guardianes. Teníamos que esperar para matar marrano, iguana, cachicamo, palomita, piden permiso al dueño de la finca. Pa‟ las turas eso se acabó. La finada Anastasia pasaba por allá, nos daba comida, como le rendía la comida. A toda la gente le daba la comida. No guardaba nada. (William, November, 2007).

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states: “The helpers are female and male, they bring the wood, are in charge of grinding the corn to make the chicha (fermented corn beverage).”156

Most of the male ayudantes that I interviewed remarked that they were in charge of seeking wood, cleaning the patio, and collecting and bringing the corn for the performance. Female ayudantes commented that they were in charge of sweeping the patio and preparing the chicha and the food. Maritza, one of the daughter-in-laws of the

Reina, indicates that she and her daughters are in charge of making sure that food is served to everyone. This responsibility is quite demanding since at least three days before the rituals, women spend hours peeling vegetables, cutting the meat, and preparing the corn. In sum, the role of the helpers is key for producing the ritual performance, especially during the Tura pequeña that attracts a large number of visitors.

The dancers

The dancers of the Tura, are usually community members that self-identify as tureros, or annual visitors that seek their promises at this specific patio. Newcomers are invited to dance, and after dancing, they are requested to assist at these rituals for seven continuous years. The Reina and other turero leaders of Falcón argue that this dance is not a game. They suggest that it is a sacred ritual, which requires much respect and commitment. The dancers usually bring some of their promises or requests before the altar. They give sugar cane, corn, candles or tabacco to the Mayordomo. Committed

156 “Los ayudantes son hembra y varón ellos traen la leña, se encargan de moler el maíz hacer la chicha” (Mariana, Moroturo October 2007).

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dancers usually fulfill the dancing process that takes place all night long until sunrise, and some of them participate in the espiritista rituals that take place at the altar.

The audience

The audience of the Tura rituals is composed of multiple spectators. Some of them are community members, who bring their promises and offerings to the altar, but who do not engage in the process of dancing. For instance, Marina indicates, “my son plays the Tura and dances it, we like it but we do not dance. When there are (dances) we go (to the patio).”157

Other spectators come from nearby towns, or even from other states such as

Falcón and Portuguesa. Aracely, a woman that recently arrived at Moroturo and who does not self-identify as an Ayamán, indicates that she goes to the dance only to “see” it.

In this regard, she states: “People arrive from all over looking for work; they send them to the plaza.”158 Thus, many visitors also come in order to engage in the espiritista practices. These visitors usually give offerings to the spirits in order to request work opportunities or health for family members.

Other spectators are State functionaries. Some of them bring food or what is known as bolsas de comida (bags of food). These commodities are given as offerings and as forms of expressing their political support to the Reina and her team. During my fieldwork experience, I witnessed the presence of regional deputies of the state of Lara,

157 “Mi hijo toca Tura y la baila, nos gusta pero no bailamos, cuando hay vamos” (Marina, Moroturo, June 2007). 158 “Llega gente de todas partes para solicitar trabajo, los mandan para la plaza” (Aracely Moroturo, September 2007).

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functionaries from the Alcadía of Siquisique and State agents from the Ministry of

Indigenous Peoples and the Ministry of Culture. Throughout the ritual, most of these visitors sit or stand beside to the wooden benches surrounding the patio, and they consume the soup and the chicha.

Overall, we have seen that the Ayamán organization has established scripted roles, which in general are oriented to ensure the production and continuity of the Tura dances in this ritual patio. These roles have been gradually embodied and inscribed in the mobilizing habitus of each actor, defining the range of strategies that can be enacted by each subject. Yet these roles are not necessarily static. Some, such as those of the guardians, the Reina and the audience have been transformed as they adapt to new political and ecological changes. Now let us examine the settings in which this indigenous organization displays and enacts its rituals and everyday actions.

Ritual and political settings of the organization

The Ayamán-turero organization of Moroturo, as well as other turero groups in the

Lara and Falcón states, is linked to specific spatial settings called patios. This ritual space is made up of locations that have different functions and meanings that change according to the type of performances that are enacted. The patios are usually located in the plot of the household of a turero leader. It usually has a dancing stage or plaza which is a circular space surrounded by wooden benches. At the center of this location is a permanent altar built with tree-branches that form a sort of arch, where fruit, candles, images, and offerings are placed during the rituals. This dancing altar has two crosses 307

placed at its center. Around this structure, the dancers and musicians perform their movements.

Near the dancing plaza is a brick structure called the altar, which I will later describe in more detail when analyzing the performative strategies of this turero organization. There are also two bahareque huts on the edges of the plaza. One is a sort of museum of the Tura dances; which has books, photographs, and objects that are used during the ritual (ceramic vessels, weaved baskets among others objects). The other is for the musicians, where the instruments are placed and where the Shamán conducts private rituals. Surrounding the dancing patio, there is a large wooden structure covered with a zinc roof and no walls. This is a sort of camping-site for visitors and tureros who hang up their hammocks during the night of the ritual. In ordinary contexts, this place is used by the leaders of the Tura dance in order to conduct meetings with community members.

Children also do their homework and play under this roofed structure.

In the opposite extreme of the patio, is a chicken house where the owners of the patio keep around fifteen chickens and hens. This space is transformed into a large kitchen during the ritual. The ayudantes clean up this space and place a fire pit and some tables where the food will be prepared. The patio of Moroturo has another place called the palacio. This is an altar located near a source of water that is down hill; about a 100 meters away from the dancing plaza. At this site, the leaders of the movement request permission from the Tura spirits in order to perform the dances. Espiritista practices are also conducted in this religious site. Moreover, at the end of the Tura dances, all visitors go down to this palacio, where they throw (botan) their offerings as they drink chicha. 308

The patio of Moroturo is the number one in the parish of Moroturo and is linked to four other patios of less hierarchy. According to the leaders of this organization the patio of Moroturo commands all those patios (comanda todo esos patios), since it has the

Reina and a Mayor Capataz. The second patio is located downhill, in the Moroturo town near the river. The third is situated in one of the agrarian parcels of Moroturo. The forth patio is near Santa Inés, the main commercial center of this micro-region, while the fifth is near the Limón river (Figure 8).

Each of these patios has its respective owner (amo), who usually perform as ayudantes (helpers) in the Tura Dances. The reason for this hierarchical order is not so clear. Apparently, it has to do with the moment in which these patios were created.

Usually, the number one is where the Reina or the Capataz are located. These leaders, as

I will later explain in more detail, are in charge of coordinating and orchestrating the ritual practices of these five patios. The Reina and the Capataz have the religious and historical authority to determine when and where the Tura dances are going to take place.

In this sense, the notion of “command” clearly involves the recognition of the spiritual and organizational power of the leaders of the Moroturo patio.

In some regions of Falcón, particularly in the communities of San Pedro, El Jusal,

El Tigre, and Santa Cruz de Bucaral, there are other clusters of hierarchical patios that have their own Reinas and Capatacez. Each of these patios has its own history of formation, decline and transformation. This network of turero settings constitutes a particular ritual landscape that has multiple integrated layers. On one hand, it is shaped by the political ecological conditions of the region, as each patio is located near sources 309

San Pedro Las Ojo de Agua Colinas Los Rolones La Cruz de El Torito El Tigrito Churuguara Bucaral

Maparari El Pirital La Florida El Tural Duvisi La Garza San Jose La Chara Pararille El Jusal Río Tocuyo

Río Tuy

La Catalina Aguada Grande Sta Ines Copey Siquisique

San Cerro Miguel de MOROTURO Ayamanes MOROTURO

Patios de Turas Reportados en la Bibliografia 1:100.000 400 Palmar

Figure 8. Turero Patios in Lara and Falcón State (Source Rivas 1987, Ruette and López 2010) 310

of water, where the Tura spirits are invoked in order to control and manage the rains and local agricultural production. Moreover, each of these sub-groups of hierarchical patios is linked to particular political factions of the regional turero organization. These groups have their own histories of mobility, migration and engagement within this region. As I will later indicate, great tensions and rivalry exist between these groups of tureros. Now let us explore how the structure of this religious organization has been reconfigured and transformed after the establishment of the new Bolivarian multicultural constitution in

1999.

Unsuccessful transformations of the turero organization

In 2002, functionaries of the Institute of Culture of Lara state invited local

Ayamán leaders to perform Tura dances in several cities of northwestern Venezuela and in regional festivals. This group of State functionaries proposed to Ayamán leaders the formation of a Cultural Association. This organization would officially represent the tureros of Moroturo before the regional state of Lara. The objective of this association was to promote and support the Tura dances of Moroturo and to have a legal figure that could manage State funds for their cultural activities. Yet, most members indicate that they were manipulated by these State agents who made them dance in many places without giving them direct access to these funds.

Later, after the formation of Misión Guaicaipuro in 2004, leaders of the county

(alcaldía) of Urdaneta in Siquisique, proposed the formation of a Consejo de Ancianos 311

(Elder‟s Council) in Moroturo.159 The objective of this council was to serve as an ethnic- political organization that would represent Ayamán people and their dances before the national State. The organization would also have the legal capacity to receive funds directly from the Misión Guaicaipuro. Although the membership of this council, in theory, involved all Ayamán members of the Tura dances, only two members knew about their affiliation to this organization. The organization was in fact headed by the Reina, and by two well-known regional State functionaries. One of them, called Alberto García, is constantly labeled by community members as a “corrupt” and “opportunistic” functionary. The other State agent calls himself “El Indio,” who self-recognizes as the main Ayamán leader of the Council of Elders. However, the remaining Ayamán-turero community members did not participate in the formation of this organization, and were not fully aware of its existence or about its goals and projects. In this regard, the Capataz of the Tura dances stated:

“They (the functionaries) organized a meeting, on the fifth of July, they placed us first and we started with the Tura Son. Then they told us that we had a meeting of the Council of Elders. Who is the president? Alfonso Perozo and Gerardo Chirino. As for me, this is the first time that I had heard about (the Council) and my compadre as well. No señor! we do not know what this (organization) was, because in order appoint someone, first they have to consult”160 (Alfonso, Moroturo September 2007).

159 At the time Misión Guaicaipuro only provided funds to indigenous communities with a Council of Elders or a legitimate form of political organization. 160 “Hicieron una reunión el cinco de Julio, nos pusieron de primero y arrancamos con el Son de Tura. Nos dijeron tenemos reunión de Consejo de Anciano, quién es el Presidente? Alfonso Pablo y Gerardo Chirino. Por mi parte, primera vez que oigo nombrar ese y el compadre también. No señor nosotros no sabemos qué es esto, porque para nombrar primero tienen que consultar si es por votación” (Alfonso, Moroturo, September 2007).

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It is clear how State functionaries manipulated Ayamán leaders to conform the

Council of Elders without even consulting them. Therefore, one can see how, after the establishment of the multicultural order, State functionaries of Lara aimed at co-opting the Ayamán-turero organization, and in particular its “ethnic” capital. These regional functionaries sought to engage Ayamán people in the politics of cultural performance, in order to legitimize their projects and justify requested regional State funds. This process has generated tensions with other Ayamán and criollo community members who have been constantly excluded from participating in these new organizational structures.

Today the Elders‟s Council seems to have no local political legitimacy.

So far, one can see how in a short period of time, Ayamán leaders sought to embrace alternative organizational structures in order to achieve more visibility and access to State resources. Yet, beyond the Cultural Association and the Elders‟s Council, the Ayamán- turero organization continues performing the Tura dances every year. The tureros have in some way rejected these new State forms of organization. Instead they continued to reproduce the colonial cofradía structure, in which most members have well defined hierarchical and scripted roles. Thus, kinship and space seem to be pervasive dimensions shaping the membership of the organization. All members are in one way or another linked by kinship relationships, as their charges are inherited by their connections with the ancestors. The organization is also based on the memories and use of the web of patios, where the Tura dances are conducted every year. Throughout these attempts of organizational change, I have been able to identify the production and circulation of 313

diverse frames that are linked to new processes of identity formation as well as to different strategic actions for seeking State resources.

Framing processes of the Ayamán-turero organization

In this section, I examine how Ayamán members produce, transform, and circulate different mobilizing collective frames (Gamson 1992; Snow and Benford 1992;

Benford and Snow 2000; Johnston and Noakes 2005). Framing processes consist in the production of orientations, meanings and interpretations about events, targets, members, strategies, and problems. Frames are interpretative packages condensing a movement‟s identity markers, values, beliefs, goals, rhetoric and ideological discourses (Johnston and

Noakes 2005).

I particularly focus on framing processes addressing shifts in Ayamán identity, since the establishment of the Venezuelan multicultural order. I explore how these members evoke different forms of being Ayamán or indigenous in Moroturo.

Subsequently, I analyze the production and circulation of frames on territoriality, housing, seeking resources, and State manipulation. I pay attention to the degrees of resonance and amplification of these circulating frames, in order to evaluate the effects of these discursive strategies.

Ayamán Identity Frames

Los de Moroturo nos dicen indios, nosotros no somos indios. Indios es una cosa, Ayamán es otra, que no se les entiende el habla, nosotros hablamos claro (Carmen, Moroturo, November 2007)

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As stated in the introduction, identity is an important dimension of all social organizations (Gamson 1992; Melucci 1995; Álvarez et al. 1998; Einwohner et al. 2008;

Vallochi 2010). Many scholars have explored how “identity frames” shape the formation and emergence of particular movements, their forms of participation and strategic choices. Yet, recently scholars have argued that mobilized identities are problematic since they are not necessarily easily produced, and the boundaries between “we” and

“they” not are clear-cut. Einwohner et al. (2008:2) suggests that “…identity processes in social movements can be fraught with contradiction and controversy. Constructing and maintaining identity therefore requires a great deal of work.” These authors propose to examine the internal struggles experienced by activists and movement factions as they seek to present themselves in processes of mobilization. They aim to move beyond analyzing the mere construction of sameness and difference within movements. They argue that “identity work” within social movements is not structured on simple oppositions. Activists may instead simultaneously assert sameness and difference. In other words, mobilized subjects produce “intersectional identities” as they engage in processes of collective actions (Einwohner et al. 2008).

Social movements‟ scholars and anthropologists also conceive mobilized actors as cultural subjects, with fragmented identities (Laclau 1985; Calderón 1992; Alvarez et al.

1998; Kearney 1998; Warren 1998; Nash 2005; Earle and Simonelli 2005; Stephen

2005a). Some focus on how participants constantly negotiate differences within movements in order to create common symbols, goals and unified terms (Kearney 1998;

Warren 1998; Warren and Jackson 2002; Gow and Rappaport 2002; Rubin 2004; 315

Restrepo 2004; Stephen 2005a; French 2006). From this perspective, movements tend to construct unified or essentialized identities in order to achieve recognition and negotiate with State institutions.

The ethnitization and politization of identities has been a clear strategy of many indigenous movements in Latin America (Warren and Jackson 2002:22). In this light, the production of frames on ethnicity and indigeneity has demonstrated to be a form of symbolic capital, as well as a strategic weapon for movements that require resources, political leverage, formal institutions and party support. In other words, the process of mobilization can involve the “projection of sameness,” the production and redistribution of cultural capital, and the construction of collective action frames (Snow and Benford

1992; Kearney 1998; Warren 1998; Stephen 2005).

The identity formation processes of Ayamán people have been shaped by long- term historical, territorial and political-ecological transformations. A full discussion on this topic exceeds the scope of this dissertation. However, it is important to mention that during the second half of the twentieth century Ayamán people in Moroturo tended to self-recognize in multiple overlapping ways: as tureros, campesinos (peasants), jornaleros or peones (daily workers), criollos and/or as venezolanos (Venezuelans).

Some members indicated that the people of the cerro Moroturo were called Indios

(Indians), due to their dances, dress, way of carrying water, and their physical strength for cutting down trees.

Domínguez (1984:19) indicates that in 1958 some tureros of Aguada Grande recognized themselves as Ayamanes. However, very little data exists about the forms of 316

self-identification of Ayamán people during this period. The national census of 1992, indicates that in Lara and Falcón states there was no indigenous population. Before 1999, the local intellectual Ramón Querales was the only person who publicly self-recognized as Ayamán, as he aimed to reconstruct the history of this indigenous population. Pedro

Pablo Linares (2009) who also conducted fieldwork activities in the region of Moroturo indicates that in the 1970s local people did not recognize their Ayamán origins or any specific connection with this indigenous group.

After the establishment of the new multicultural order in 1999, the Ayamán organization has started to produce and circulate new frames on indigenous self- identification. This process has involved the re-semantization of former turero, campesino, criollo, and Indian identities embraced by the people of Moroturo. Moreover, since 2005, members of the Turero organization have been involved in the process of requesting from the Venezuelan State their ethnic recognition as Ayamán peoples.

Regional leaders, members of cultural cooperatives, local intellectuals have supported and shaped this process of ethnic recognition. This group of intellectuals argues that there are many indigenous groups in the Lara state who do not self-recognize as such due to their sense of ethnic shame (vergüenza étnica).

In the midst of these strategic actions seeking the visibility of Ayamán people, one can sense the gradual formation of new forms of self-identification in Moroturo. Thus, people who tended to not use ethno-racial indigenous designations at least in public, are now calling themselves Ayamans or indígenas. In other words, there is a sort of Ayamán 317

ethnic “resurgence” in the region, clearly influenced by the new “political and legal opportunity structures” established by the Venezuelan multicultural State.

Based on focus groups discussions and semi-structured interviews conducted in

2007, I understand that the identity frames of Ayamán-turero members were mainly articulated along four intersectional axes: space, kinship, religious affiliation, and State recognition. During the initial stage of focus group discussions with Ayamán leaders and members, most participants indicated that they were Ayamán because they lived in the community. When, I asked how they could distinguish between Ayamán and non-

Ayamán people most of them stated that in Moroturo there are three main Ayamán families that have intermarried for many years: the Perozo, the Medina and the Timaure.

Therefore, kinship and space seemed to be clear local markers of indigenous identity.

However, many tureros and local community members stated that Ayamán members have married with other non-Ayamán people. Their descendants can decide if they want to be Ayamán or not. For instance, Domingo Adjuntas, an Ayamán chronicler of Moroturo, pointed out cases in which people with Ayamán parents have denied their indigenous identity. He stated that being Ayamán is a choice and not an obligation.

However, many tureros argue that no one can pretend to be Ayamán since local community members know everyone‟s lineage and last names and where they come from. Moreover, geographical location and origin are other identity markers as some members recognized that particular families coming from San Miguel de Ayamán,

Aguada Grande, and Cerro La Venta are undoubtedly Ayamán. 318

Members who recognize themselves as Ayamán also tended to self-identify as tureros. Initially, it seemed clear that turero and Ayamán identities were closely related, and linked to the earlier occupations of the community and the formation of the patio.

However, the category of turero, which is a specific identity frame of the Ayamán organization of Moroturo is ambiguous. There are tureros who indicate that they are not indigenous, while others tend to assert their Ayamán identity. In other words, being turero is not linked exclusively to the process of indigenous self-identification. In fact, some tureros from other regions, such as Mapararí and San Pedro de Mapararí in Falcón, tended to deny their indigenous background. For instance, in Mapararí some tureros explicitly argued that devotes and followers of the Tura dance can have different ethnic origins and that this ritual is not exclusively indigenous.161

Moreover, when conducting in-depth household interviews I found that members had different ways of asserting or enunciating Ayamán or indigenous forms of self- identification. Members were not so much concerned about affirming sameness or difference, but about incorporating, mobilizing, and re-framing new ethno-racial identity frames.

Framing different forms of being Ayamán

Social movement scholars have argued that self-transformation processes take place through participation in social movements (Kiecolt 2000). Depending on the type of movement, new identities may emerge and motivate their members. Thus, many

161 This statement was made by one of the leaders of the Tura dance in the town of Mapararí.

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organizations seek to internalize or incorporate within the self-definitions of their participants, novel collective identities (Gamson 1992). Mobilized identities are organized hierarchically according to their subjective importance and their salience according to the situation (Stryker 1987). Structural changes on self-definition take place when identities are added or discarded. There are also changes in the rank or value of an identity role. Other categories of self-change involve shifts in the meaning of a particular identity.

Ayamán mobilized identity frames reveal both structural and meaning changes in their identities. Participants reveal different stages of this transformation process. Some have incorporated the term “Ayamán” as one of their main forms of self-identification, while others express doubts about identifying with this particular ethno-racial category. I argue that indigenous identity frames in Moroturo are internalized, contested and/or reworked in multiple degrees as they represent particular subjective locations and index process of self-transformation. In turn, I further suggest that these identities have different degrees of embodiment within the mobilizing habitus of Ayamán actors.

To back my argument, I present a small sample of conversations conducted during open-ended interviews with several members of the Ayamán organization. Some of these conversations were tape-recorded and others are based on in-situ notes. First, I present a brief contextualization of the household of each person in which I identify, elements of their material conditions as well as their links to local organizations. This is what in the social movement literature are called the micro and meso settings in which activists display, articulate, and strategically “workout” their identities. Subsequently, I focus on 320

the micro-level production of their identity frames. I seek to illustrate how a movement‟s actors are not only determined by their political and cultural environments or

“opportunity structures,” but also by their internal perceptions on the intersections of race, ethnicity, kinship and space.

“I am indígena”

Alberto was born in Moroturo. He works as a day laborer in nearby cattle ranches, cleaning stables and agricultural plots. On average, his daily income is about US$ 5.00.

He is the father of six children who live in a two-bedroom house made of baharaque (a mixture of mud and organic materials). He does not own any land, but he has 2 sheep and

4 chickens for consumption purposes. Alberto is a member of the local non-indigenous

Communal Council, and he works in the fiscal commission of this organization. He is strongly linked to the turero organization, as his stepfather is the Capataz of the Tura dances. His role in this organization is as an assistant for the hunters. Since they do not hunt anymore, he mainly cuts wood and cleans the public settings where the Tura dances take place. His mother‟s last name is Medina, thus he can claim to be a legitimate member of one of the indigenous families of the community. Now let us explore a fragment of a conversation with Alberto from which I sought to learn about his forms of self-identification. His wife and children were also present during this event.

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1. K- What was your mother and father or your grandparents? How did they refer to themselves? Indians, indigenous, blacks, criollos, mestizos, whites?162 2. A- My mother criollo and my father criollo 3. K- And what are you? 4. A- I am indígena, here we are indígena 5. K- How do you know that someone is indígena? 6 A-Because of the beliefs, we believe in the spirits, well 7. K-Some of you are Ayamán? 8. A-Ayamán, the costumes that we all have here, all of this is Ayamán Territory.

This conversation shows a clear disjuncture between identities across generations. Alberto indicates that his parents were criollo (line 2). Yet, later he self- identifies with no doubt as indígena, as he states that the community as whole is indigenous. There seems to be no tension in this shift or transformation of identity between his parents and himself. He implicitly recognizes that his indigeneity is something recently articulated. In this conversation, we can also observe that local indigenous identity is based on the recognition of common religious practices and beliefs.

As stated earlier, the Tura dances have been recognized as the main index of indigeneity for Ayamán people. In fact, State functionaries and local intellectuals have identified the dances as a “survival” of the original inhabitants of the region. As I will later explain, the performances of these dances were crucial for achieving in 2005 the official recognition

162 K - Qué eran su mamá y su papá o sus abuelos? cómo se llamaban? indios, indígenas, negros, afrodescendientes, criollos, mestizos, blancos? A- mi mamá criollo, y mi papá criollo K-y usted qué es? A- yo indígena, aquí somos es indígena K- y cómo se sabe que alguien es indígena? A- por las creencias, creemos en los espíritus pués K- y alguno de ustedes son Ayamanes? A- Ayamán, las costumbres que tenemos todos los de aquí, todo éste es territorio Ayamán

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of Ayamán people within the Organic Law of Indigenous Peoples and Communities

(LOPCI).

Furthermore, Alberto frames his indigenous identity in articulation with his spatial identity, as he expresses in line 4 “...here we are indígena.” He also addresses the notion of a common Ayamán Territory, which has been a discourse circulated also by regional intellectuals. Thus, indigeneity in this context is clearly spatialized and linked with notions of ethnic territoriality.

“I must or I might be indígena”

Other members of the Ayamán organization evoked their indigenous identities by producing doubtful voices, that reveal the strategic internalization of these forms of self- identification. Federico is a 76-year-old man, who lives with his daughter Graciela and two grandchildren Emilio y Maribel in the cerro Moroturo. Federico used to have four hectares of land on which he cultivated corn and beans. He sold the land to “rich people”

(los ricos) and now his grandchildren grow corn and beans in a small plot (0,5 hectares) adjacent to his house, where they also raise some chickens. Emilio who earns US$5 per day working in nearby cattle ranches provides the main source of income for this household. Maribel also works as a house-cleaner in Santa Inés, earning US$100 per month. Both, Graciela and Federico, consider themselves tureros. Although they do not have specific roles in this organization, they always assist at the annual dances.

Graciela‟s grandmother, Anastasia Perozo, was the former Reina of the Tura Dances. The following conversation with Federico and Graciela indicates how Ayamán identity is 323

framed with notions of common space, kinship and historical occupation. Yet new indexes of indigenous identity, such as having an Ayamán State identification card (ID) emerge as another identity marker.

1. K- What were your mother and father or your grandparents, how did they refer to themselves, Indians, indigenous, blacks, criollos, mestizos, whites?163 2. F- My father did not have much of Indian, [he] might [have been] criollo, father was (an) agriculturalist. 3. K- And what are you? 3. F- I am already a resident here, I must pass as indígena. My lady [wife] was the eldest daughter of the Reina of the Turas. 4. K-And you Sra. Graciela? 5. G-[I] might also [be] indígena, in the ID I am indígena 6. K- Do any of you consider yourselves Ayamán? 7. G- well, since that is mentioned here 8. K- How do you know that someone is Ayamán? 9. G- because we live here in the community of the cerro

In this conversation, one observes how Federico recognizes with a doubtful voice that his parents were criollo; however he also clarifies that his father was agriculturalist.

This shift towards an occupational category is relevant since other people who did not self-identify as Indian or indigenous, also tended to declared this category of occupation.

Further studies are required in order to understand how this de-racialized identification of

“agriculturalist” has been internalized by non-indigenous peoples as a local rural identity.

163 K - Qué eran su mamá y su papá o sus abuelos? cómo se llamaban? indios, indígenas, negros, afrodescendientes, criollos, mestizos, blancos? F- Mi papá no tenía mucho de indio, será como criollo, papá era agricultor. K- y usted qué es? F- ya estoy residenciado aquí, tengo que pasar por indígena. La señora mía era la hija mayor de la Reina de las Turas. K- y usted señora Gladys? G- será indígena también, en la cédula soy indígena K- algunos de ustedes se considera Ayamán? G- bueno, como aquí mientan eso. K- Cómo se sabe que alguien es Ayamán? G- porque vivimos aquí en la comunidad del cerro.

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Furthermore, in line 3, Federico enunciates his condition as resident of the community. He subsequently claims with a commanding voice that he “must” pass as an indigenous person. The use of the verb tengo (must) denotes tensions regarding who may or may not have the legitimate right to claim indigenous identity in Moroturo. In previous interviews with members of the Ayamán-turero organization, some of them expressed that the “real indígenas” were those who belonged to the Perozo, Medina, and Timaure families. Thus, Federico implicitly evokes his kinship ties with the Perozo family, by stating that his wife was the eldest daughter of the Reina of the Turas, Anastasia Perozo.

On one level, kinship ties are enunciated in order to claim the articulation of both turero and indigenous identity. On another level, Federico also refers to a former and more legitimate source of turero identity. He evokes his kinship tie with Anastasia Perozo, the mother of the current Reina of the Turas, Mariana Perozo. In the community many turero members indicate that Anastasia was the first turera who knew how to conduct the dances, how to distribute the food properly, and did not request any money. In sum,

Federico articulates both his long-term residency in the community as well as his kinship ties with one of the most important turero leaders. This strategy serves as a way of claiming his legitimate indigenous identity and he therefore “passes as indigenous.”

Moreover, Graciela uses the modal auxiliary verb “might” to evoke doubts regarding her indigenous identity (line 5). She locates the source of her indigenous identity in the ID and not in herself. The doubt created by the use of this verb expresses the possibility that she may have other identities. Moreover, instead of recalling her direct kinship relationships with Tura leaders (since she is the granddaughter of Anastasia 325

Perozo) she refers rather to the national identification card (cédula de identidad), as the legitimate source of indigenous identity. The ID in itself is linked to many sources of political authority. On one hand, the possession of the ID indexes positive political relationships with the Capataz of the Tura dances, since the latter was in charge of mobilizing and controlling this project of identification in the community. On the other hand, the ID evokes new forms of disciplinary inclusion, inscription and visibility within the Venezuelan multicultural State.

In line 7 Graciela again locates the source of her indigenous Ayamán identity in the “mentioning” of other peoples. Thus, she implicitly refers to the political process that has occurred since 2005 in which leaders of the Tura dances, local intellectuals, and State functionaries have circulated the term Ayamán in the community. The use of a generic

“that,” in the same line, expresses her lack of intention in articulating the meaning of the term Ayamán. However, in line 9, Graciela later recalls her spatial identity as an inhabitant of the cerro (hill). Thus “living” in the hill becomes a territorial index for framing Ayamán forms of self-identification, vis-a vis other criollo or non-indigenous inhabitants that dwell in the lower town of Moroturo.164 In sum, Graciela in contrast to her father displaces the sources of her indigenous identity to locations outside of her own subjectivity. These ambiguous and generic voices evoke doubts about a “full” internalization of this Ayamán indigenous identity within the mobilizing habitus of

Graciela. In other words, the modality associated with this form of self-identification, as

164 In many interviews, the cerro (hill) is evoked as a landscape marker defining the limits of the Ayamán community. Although some criollos live in the cerro, many historical narratives indicate that this hill has been mainly inhabited by “Indians.”

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well as the possession of the ID (a state disciplinary technology) reflect a strategic framing of Ayamán identity. However, this strategy is not a mere “invention,” since it is rather grounded on local historical views of indigenous identity based on kinship relationships, religious affiliations and territoriality.

“I was named indígena”

Other members of the Ayamán organization, in contrast, were of the opinion that their indigenous identity was imposed or given by others (the State, the Capataz, or local intellectuals). Toribia is a 78-year-old widow who lives with her son Wilmer, her daughter in-law and three grandchildren. Her son has half a hectare where he cultivates corn and sweet potatoes. He also has a small herd of eight sheep and twelve chickens.

Wilmer works on cattle ranches, cleaning stables, earning in average of US$ 5 per day.

Marina works three days a week washing clothes in Moroturo, she earns about US$ 7 per day. Another of Toribia‟s sons sends US$15 per week to this household. Toribia does not participate in the local Communal Council. Yet she is member of a local Command of

Socialist Women. The following structured conversation was initially conducted with

Toribia; later on her son Antonio, who lives in another house in the community, joined this interaction. Antonio was the chief of the hunters of the Tura dances and is now one of guardians of the dances.

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1. K- What were your mother and father or your grandparents, how did they called themselves, Indians, indigenous, blacks, criollos, mestizos, whites?165 2. T- That did not exist, father had a small merchant shop, he was not Indian, he used to go to Churuguara. 3- K- And your mother? 4. T- Mother the same, she raised many animal[s] 5. K- And what was your husband? 6. T- agriculturalist 7. K- thus, there were no Indian, indígenas around here? 8. T- None of that is here 9. K- Do you or someone of your family considers yourselves as Ayamán? 10. Antonio- I was named as Ayamán. Alfonso said this no and this no. My wife was not given [an ID] because she said that she was not [Ayamán]. 11. K- How do you know that someone is Ayamán? 12 T- laughter 13. What happened here, this is Ayamán, the cerro (hill) is all Ayamán, and Moroturo is practically a single town.

In this structured conversation Toribia recognizes that her parents were non-

Indians (lines 2 and 4). She identifies them through their occupational identities, as merchants or animal raisers. Her husband also is identified as agriculturalist. Later in line

8, Toribia denies the existence of indigenous peoples in the region. It is notorious that in

165 K - Qué eran su mamá y su papá o sus abuelos,? cómo se llamaban? indios, indígenas, negros, afrodescendientes, criollos, mestizos, blancos? T- no había eso, papá tenía una bodega, no era indio, él iba a Churuguara. K- Y su mamá? T- Mamá igual, criaba mucho animal K- y su esposo que era? T- agricultor K- entonces no había indios, indígenas por aquí? T- Aquí no hay eso K- Usted o alguien de su familia se considera Ayamán? Antonio- a mí me pusieron como Ayamán. Alfonso dijo este no y este no. La esposa mía no le sacaron porque dijo que no era K- Cómo se sabe que alguien es Ayamán? T- risa A- lo que pasó aquí, esto es Ayamán, los del cerro, todo el cerro es Ayamán y prácticamente Moroturo es un solo pueblo

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the same line she uses the term “that” to refer to indigenous people. This generic index implicitly refers to a circulating discourse on indigeneity.

After asking Toribia in line 9 if someone in her family considered themselves as

Ayamán, she remained silent and tense as she looked at her son Antonio who was sitting nearby. Consequently, her son took control of the conversation (line 10), by indicating that he was given or named as Ayamán by Alfonso (the Capataz of the Tura dances) during the process of identification. Antonio thus evoked a critical voice that questioned

Alfonso‟s power to control the decision of who is Ayamán or not. He specifically criticized the exclusion of his wife from this State official identification process.

Later on, when asking how do you know that someone is Ayamán (line 11),

Toribia laughs with irony. I interpret this act of laughter as indexing the strategic dimensions of this indigenous category of self-identification. In other words, Toribia seems to evoke that “Ayamaness” is not a legitimate identity in the community. After this turn in the conversation, there were a few seconds of silence, and Antonio explained that the cerro is Ayamán, including Moroturo. This spatial statement can also be interpreted as a critique of Alfonso´s decision making process, which was mainly based on kinship and factional-political criteria. Antonio intends to express that everybody in

Moroturo and in the cerro should be considered Ayamán. The use of this spatial marker opens the possibility that anyone inhabiting the community can be considered Ayamán, and therefore has equal access to the same political and economic resources that have been monopolized by the leaders of the Tura dances, in particular by the Reina and the 329

Capataz. In sum, one can sense how space is a key axis for producing indigenous identity frames in the community and for contesting kinship leadership.

“They call us indígenas, I might be second Indian, that is a new thing”

In Moroturo, some members explicitly recognize the strategic imposition of indigenous forms of self-identification by local leaders and intellectuals. Nicolasa is 50- year-old woman who lives on top of the cerro Moroturo. She is married to a criollo man who is the second Capataz. She and her husband have eight children. Five of them and three grandchildren live with her in a small two-bedroom house made of bahareque.

They have one hectare of land in a nearby village, where they grow corn and beans. In their household plot, the younger sons raise a small herd of eight sheep that they usually sell to an intermediary from Churuguara. Nicolasa is the eldest daughter of the current

Reina of the Tura Dances and one of the main helpers (ayudantes) in these rituals. She was born and raised in Moroturo and claims to have been turera all her life. One of her sons is also a musician for the Tura dances.

1. K-What were your mother and father or your grandparents? How did they called themselves? Indians, indigenous, blacks, criollos, mestizos, whites? 166 2. N- We are all supposedly part Indian. We, those of Moroturo are called indígenas and they came to give us the cédula (ID) as indígena (laughter) 3. K- If your parents and grandparents were Indian, what are you?

166 K - Qué eran su mamá y su papá o sus abuelos, como se llamaban? indios, indígenas, negros, afrodescendientes, criollos, mestizos, blancos? N- Todos que tenemos una parte de indios. A los de Moroturo nos dicen que somos indígenas y nos vinieron a sacar la cédula como indígenas (risa) K- Si sus padres y abuelos eran indios, usted de que es? N- Será Segundo indio ya (risa), yo no sé por qué vino eso ahora, eso es de poco años para acá que uno es indio. Que el que es turero es indio.

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4. N- I might be second Indian (laughter), I don’t know why that came now, it’s during the last few years that one has become Indian. That (anyone) who is turero is (also an) Indian.

In these fragments, Nicolasa reproduces elements of the “myth” of mestizaje of the nation (line 2) when stating that “We are all supposedly part Indian.” Since the 1940s,

Venezuelans have been conceived by the State as the result of the mestizaje among

“whites, Indians and blacks” (Wright 1990; Pérez y Perozo 2003). Yet the authority of this assertion is questioned as she employs the term “que” (that), which connotes a sense of supposition. In other words, the authority of the statement is displaced to an omnipresent voice, which I believe makes reference to the voice of the State that has promulgated and circulated notions on modern ethno-racial mixing.

Moreover, her interventions show a significant contrast between the term indio and indígena. When she was asked about the identity of her parents she refers to them as indios in a generic form. Yet, she later uses the term indígena as an identity that is named or given by others in recent times. This statement clearly shows the lack of internalization of the notion of indígena and a sort of criticism of using this form of self-identification.

Her laughter also adds a tone of irony and questions the legitimacy of being recognized as indigenous by others and having an ID. It is interesting that many responses regarding forms of self-identification and identity involved some kind of laughter. I believe that in some contexts this emotional discursive marker evokes the discomfort or nervousness of the enunciator. As stated by Glenn (2003) laughter can be produced in situations of anxiety, discomfort or embarrassment. Yet in other contexts, it may convey a form of irony or challenge. 331

Furthermore, in line 4, Nicolasa contests the assumption that all tureros are indigenous peoples. After that statement, she narrated a long story of how she had learned about the Tura dances, way before her mother became Reina. She said that the

Turas started with a promise made to the spirits, but that this event was not related to the

Indians. Nicolasa thus questions the discourses of the State and some local intellectuals, who have tended to produced essentialist equations among turero and indigenous identities. Moreover, she is questioning her mother‟s monopolization of the Tura dances and her ethniticized performances. It is interesting that she has this challenging position, even when she has direct kinship relationships with leaders of the Tura dances, such as her mother and uncle. This position might be shaped by the fact that Nicolasa´s husband is an important musician of the Tura dances and a famous singer of catholic rosaries, who does not consider himself indigenous.

Overall, one can sense how members of the Ayamán-turero organization are aware of the importance of performing ethniticized identities. The multiplicity of these identity frames is evident. Some are very specific, as they evoke the ethnic indigenous

Ayamán category. Others instead respond to this identity frame with laughter, irony, doubt and direct challenge. They indicate that “being Ayamán” is an imposed identity that has been circulated, produced, and even monopolized by the Capataz and other leaders of the organization. The variety of Ayamán identity frames shows how this process of ethnitization has a limited resonance among members of this religious organization. Moreover, it illustrates that “becoming Ayamán” in Moroturo has not been a unified or homogenous process of collective identification. 332

In contrast, the turero identity frame seems to be more pervasive and collectively shared among the members of the organization and the people of Moroturo. This identity is annually enacted, internalized, routinized and transformed during the practices of the

Tura dances. One may even suggest that identity frames that are produced and reproduced through ritual practices are more likely to be internalized and stabilized, as they become incorporated into the habitus of the organization and its subjects. As I will later discuss, Ayamán identity is performed by the leaders of the Tura dances in other contexts, such as in interactions with State institutions. This process has been strongly mediated by local intellectuals and State functionaries who constantly request the assertion and performance of this bounded ethnic identity.

Frames on land loss and territoriality

As Ayamán leaders and turero members assert different forms of indigenous identity, they also produce and circulate frames on land loss and territoriality. Most contemporary Ayamán members describe themselves as landless victims. They narrate their processes of land loss using passive voices enunciating that they have always been poor, and that landlords have been gradually purchasing their land.167 For instance, one member stated that the rich always win at the expense of the poor; therefore they never have enough cash to buy or recover their lands. At least five activists indicate that the

167 One of the main landlords of the community is a former Alcalde (mayor), who bought most of the lands of the early Ayamán families. Today many male heads of households work as wage laborers on these lands.

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former mayor of the Municipality has become the main owner of most of the lands in

Moroturo (See Chapter 2).

Narratives on land loss are specifically linked to the expansion of cattle ranching and its consequent reduction of the demand for labor. For instance, in this regard

Federico commented:

“Here work is needed. Before, there were crops everywhere; there was sorghum, now there are only cattle ranchers, now they do not need as many workers. More work is needed so that (younger generations) will not be raised as slackers”168 (Federico, Moroturo, August, 2007).

However, this process of land loss is not necessarily limited to the region of

Moroturo, since it has also affected other communities of tureros. A turero mayordomo of El Turagual, from patio number 5 located near Aguada Grande, also speaks of this regional process of cattle ranch encroachment. In this sense, she states:

“This is all cattle; we are surrounded, before this was all conuco (household subsistence plots). All sold their conucos, the cattle ranchers gave a toletazo. It‟s the rich who are responsible for the plight of the poor”169 (Rosa, Moroturo, October 2007).

This fragment implicitly places the responsibility of land loss on local people, since they sold their plots to cattle ranchers. Some members indicate that when their families have had medical emergencies they have been forced to sell their land in order to obtain cash. Others explain that landlords managed to get them into debt, and that they had to

168 “Hace falta trabajo aquí. Antes había puro sembradío, había sorgo, ahorita es puro ganadero, ya no necesitan tanto trabajadores. Hace falta más trabajo para que no se críen vagos” (Federico, Moroturo August, 2007). 169 “...esto es puro ganado estamos rodeados esto antes era puro conuco. Todos vendieron sus conucos, los ganaderos le dieron el toletazo, el rico esto es lo que está quebrando al pobre” (Rosa, Moroturo, October 2007).

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give their land as payment. In all these cases, activists and members used a passive voice depicting themselves as “poor people” who are subjected to the power and strategies of local landowners and politicians.

Other members produced critiquing frames on this process of land sale. In this regard, José states:

“Here, no one can say that they took his land away, here people sold (it). Then they say that they have taken it away, and they sell it. William Ereu bought, and the other. They sold it (the land) to buy a car, to go to el llano (the plains). All of those plots have been sold to the cattle ranchers, all cattle. Before, there was corn, now there is no corn in the village. There are no plots, thus there is no corn. Now there are few people who cultivate”170 (José, Moroturo, October 2007).

Beyond these complaining and victimizing frames, some leaders of the Ayamán- turero organization explicitly frame the need to access land. In this regard, the Capataz states: “we need land for the devotion (of the Tura Spirits) we have, some have, but the majority do not have land.”171 Similar statements are repeated by the Reina during informal conversations. She also articulates frames on land loss with anxieties on local migration and household fragmentation. In this sense, the Reina indicates that young people have migrated to Barquisimeto and to Los Llanos (to the state of Portuguesa), since there is no more available land to cultivate or to build new houses. She argues, “... we are surrounded by cattle ranchers, we are already fenced in with wire.”172 She also

170 “Aquí nadie puede decir que me quitaron tierra, aquí la gente vendió. Después dicen que se la han quitado y que lo venden. William Ereu compró, y el otro. Lo vendieron por comprar un carro, para irse para el llano. Toda esas parcelas las han vendido para lo ganadero, puro ganado. Antes sí había maíz, no hay maíz en el caserío. No hay parcela por eso no hay maíz. Ahorita es poca la gente que siembra” (José, Moroturo, October 2007). 171 “... necesitamos tierra para la devoción que tenemos, algunos tienen pero la mayoría no tiene tierra” (Alfonso, Moroturo August 2007). 172 “...estamos rodeados por ganaderos, ya estamos cercados con el alambre” (Mariana, Moroturo 335

points to the irony of having to request funds to State institutions, in order to buy corn in the city of Barquisimeto for the Tura dances. This particular contradiction is salient since these rituals are performed in order to celebrate and commemorate the spirits who assisted and fostered the production of agricultural crops and the harvest process, especially of corn.

Frames on land loss have also emerged during Ayamán legal mobilizations. For instance, in 2005 the Capataz and the Reina proposed before the National Assembly:

“...the demarcation of the habitat and the lands that belonged to their people and later passed into the hands of ranchers.”173 During this legal interaction with the State, they also requested indigenous land demarcation for Ayamán the people (Asamblea Nacional

2005a). However, as I will later discuss, this proposal of State land demarcation did not circulate among other Ayamán members of the organization. In subsequent sections, I will examine in more depth how the Ayaman-turero organization produced limited territorial strategies.

Overall, Ayamán leaders and members have passive ways of articulating their need for access land. From twenty-six structured interviews with household members, twenty-two participants did not report land as their main need. Some exceptions indicated that they would like to have land, in order to have access to credit for animal rising. Other members like Sra Elba who does not have land, stated:

October 2006).

173 “…lo relativo a la demarcación del habitat y tierras que pertenecieron a su pueblo y después pasaron a manos de hacendados (Asamblea Nacional 2005a). 336

“...well, it would be good to have a little piece of land, at least my husband likes to work, but he does not find where to”174 (Elba Moroturo Abajo, November 2007).

Later, when I asked her if they had joined peasant organizations in order to request abandoned lands in the community, she answered: “no, we have never done that, that is frightening, no one likes (someone) to come and take away their things.”175

When I asked other participants if they had thought about requesting unproductive lands, most remained in silence. Two activists briefly commented on the violent acts performed by the National Guard against those who had invaded lands in the region.

Nicolasa in particular remembers:

“When CAP (Carlos Andrés Pérez) governed, land committee members organized us, “let‟s invade.” Do not let them; they are going to give them planazos. The majority of the women built shacks (in the invaded lands). They gave them a good beating on the head, no one took land. Now no one wants to invade, now there is no organization”176 (Nicolasa, Moroturo, November 2007).

Other members spoke of land invasions as distant events. For instance, Hermes indicated that he was aware of land invasions from seeing them on television. It is very interesting how this statement evokes a significant distance from current land mobilizations and organizations. Specially, considering that in Lara state there are

174 “…bueno sería bueno tener un pedacito de tierra, por lo menos el esposo mío le gusta mucho trabajar, pero como no consigue donde” (Elba, Moroturo Abajo, November 2007). 175 “…no nunca hemos hecho eso, eso da miedo a nadie le gusta que le vengan a quitar lo de ello” (Elba, Moroturo Abajo, November 2007). 176 “Cuando mandaba CAP, los miembros de los comités de tierra nos organizaron, vamos a invadir. No dejen, a esos le van a echar planazos. La mayoría de las mujeres hicieron ranchos (en las tierras), las batieron palos por la cabeza, ninguno agarró tierra. Ahorita nadie quiere invadir, ahorita no hay la organización” (Nicolasa, Moroturo, November 2007).

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multiple peasant organizations that have managed to recover large extension of land since

2004. Moreover, few members knew about the existence of the new Law of Land (2001).

Although Ayamán members circulate frames on losing lands in order to represent themselves as “poor people” before State agents and functionaries, they do not produce modern frames on land recovery (i.e. invasions, tomas, occupations). In other words, there is reduced resonance for land recovery frames, maybe due to aforementioned experiences of violence, and to the fact that the Ayamans have been blamed for selling their lands.

So far, it seems clear that the Ayamán-turero organization critically avoids producing frames that evoke direct engagements with modern peasant organizations.

They seem even less comfortable with articulating agentive discourses calling for land distribution, invasion or recovery. These silences are contradictory, considering that members have had very little access to this territorial asset. One might suppose that historical processes of proletarianization and experiences of violence with landowners and State repressive institutions would have shaped this lack of agency toward recovering land in “modern” ways. As I discuss in subsequent Chapters, the limited production of land recovery frames among Ayamán people contrasts significantly with the framing processes of the Afroyaracuyan movement.

Housing frames

In Moroturo, nineteen Ayamán turero members explicitly produced frames on seeking vivienda (housing) for their families. These mobilized discourses evoke modern 338

ideologies on poverty, as well as emotions of suffering. In this regard, the Capataz of the

Tura dances indicated:

“We need a house, where we can live. Not to continue living the way we are, we need help. We have lived with little. That they give us a hand in this. A dignified house for one. Look, here. Here the Almaus have housing, but we never (have). I will tell you clearly, you know what is painful? I used to sleep worried thinking that I would find my family without a house; at times one has to think before leaving”177 (Alfonso, Moroturo August 2007).

Other members repeatedly indicated that they need a house, since often two or three families tend to live in a single small structure. Some argue that their houses of bahareque get wet during the rainy season, and this has been linked to conditions of poor health and poverty in general. In this sense, Carmen who lives with her six children and her brother‟s family in an old bahareque house of the community argues:

“…we need a house, when it rains; inside it gets more wet than outside. There are six kids, they get sick; (money) is not available, even to buy a pencil. Sometimes it is the wind, the charalitos (small pots) get wet, they (the children) get sick”178 (Carmen Moroturo November 2007).

One can see how Ayamán members have internalized modern State discourses on housing development. Since the 1940s, state housing projects had as their main objective to eliminate rural structures that would resemble indigenous houses. In their view, rural and indigenous dwellings were the main locus of epidemics, such as the Chagas disease.

177 “Necesitamos una casa, que vivamos. No seguir viviendo de la manera que estamos, una ayuda Hemos vivido de lo poco. Que nos metan la mano en esto. Una casa digna para uno. Mire aquí una cosa. Aquí tienen vivienda los Almau. Pero nosotros nunca. Le voy a decir claramente, sabe que es doloroso? yo dormía preocupado pensando que jaye a mi familia sin casa, en veces piensa uno pa´ salí (Alfonso, Moroturo, August 2007). 178 “…necesitamos una vivienda, cuando llueve se moja más adentro que afuera. Hay seis niños, se enferman, no se jaya como comprar un lápiz, a veces es viento, los charalitos se mojan, se enferman” (Carmen Moroturo November 2007)

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Rural houses in Venezuela were described in 1947 by the Conference of Tropical

Housing as the site where a “powerful fauna slowly killed the people that inhabit them”

(Betancourt 2007:490). Since then, the Venezuelan State has implemented numerous development policies oriented to replace roofs made out of palm trees with zinc or asbestos laminas. Walls built with bahareque were also systematically replaced with cement bricks or non-organic materials.

A discussion on the politics of housing exceeds the scope of this dissertation, yet it seems clear that Ayamán-turero members have appropriated some of these modern ideologies on housing “development.” Moreover, contemporary Bolivarian development projects continue to reproduce these very same ideologies on modern housing, by stressing that the full incorporation of the so-called “excluded people” cannot be achieved without ensuring proper and “dignified” houses for the population. The Ministry of

Indigenous Peoples in particular has embraced the task of providing at least 10 houses for each indigenous community in the nation. Moreover, State functionaries and politicians in the past and today have promised housing in exchange for votes. Thus, houses are seen, not only as a legitimate right for gaining social inclusion, but also as a political debt of national, regional and local politicians.

However, it is not clear why Ayamán members actively circulate frames on seeking housing, when their historical territoriality has been shaped by accentuated spatial mobility. Why are housing frames much more commonly produced and mobilized than land rescue ideologies? Why are Ayamans fully engaged in the process of negotiating housing with the Venezuelan State, instead of seeking access to land? In the 340

section on strategic actions, I will examine some of their specific actions oriented to getting houses from the State. I will further discuss how small portions of land have been specifically requested for housing projects and not for agricultural production.

Una Ayudita para las Turas: frames on resource distribution

Social movements in the “developing world” usually depend on external financial resources (Makino and Shigetomi 2009: 228). NGOs have proliferated as one of the main instruments for seeking resources for indigenous movements. These funding organizations are presented and viewed by the public as more efficient, locally based, and less corrupt and bureaucratic, than the government (Postero 2007:169). However, in

Venezuela the local, regional, and national State remains the main target and source of resources for indigenous organizations and social movements in general.

A common frame produced and circulated by Ayamán-turero members is linked to the request for ayudas (financial assistance or material culture) from the State. These discourses usually emerge during or after interactions with local State functionaries.

These frames are mainly circulated by the principal leaders of the organization, such as the Reina, and the Capataz, as well as by their critics. For instance, the Capataz of

Moroturo remembers an occasion on which he went to the headquarters of the Siquisique municipality in order to request funds for purchasing food and implements for the Tura dances. In this regard, he said:

“Why do they (state functionaries) have to deny help to the Tura? Look David! things have to be done right away, I won‟t repeat it twice. First you tell me yes or 341

no, but this is not for fifteen days away, this is for now!”179 (Alfonso, Moroturo August 2007).

The representation of this interaction reveals a significant voice shift. Instead of evoking aforementioned frames on victimization and poverty, the Capataz enacts a commanding voice by first expressing with rage the legitimacy of his claim. Between lines, one can sense how this leader considers his request of financial support as a “right” that cannot be denied. This is a common representation of the imagined role of the

Venezuelan State, which is usually perceived as a “paternalist” provider and distributor.

Subsequently, the Capataz reports his dialogue with the State functionary (David) and he established conditions, while at the same time giving him a specific timeline for providing the requested help. In this case, the Capataz seems aware of the impediments surrounding the bureaucratic time lines of the local State. In general, most of the requests of the Ayamán-turero organization to regional and local State institutions tend to remain unattended or diluted in complex bureaucratic procedures.

However, the ayudas are not only limited to financial resources, as Caps and T- shirts are also considered as useful supplies. These commodities, have been interpreted as recruitment instruments of the political parties, sites for the circulation of cultural icons and sign values, and even as expressions of passive globalization (Ahluwalia 2001:129).

In Moroturo, instead, T-shirts and caps are conceived of as ayudas or State commodities that must be distributed among community members. These items of contemporary

179 “vino mucha ayuda, aquí no han llegado gorras, franelas y todo. A nosotros no nos ha llegado, las repartió y era para todos los ayudantes de la tura yo soy guardián” (Hernán, Moroturo, November 2007).

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clothing also index political networks with the State and some political parties. In this regard, Hermes, one of the former turero hunters and a current guardian of the dances states:

“…much help came, but nothing arrived here, caps, T-shirts and everything. For us nothing has arrived. (The leaders of the Tura dances) distributed them, and it was all for the helpers of the Tura, I am guardian”180 (Hernán, Moroturo, November 2007).

Again, one can sense how members frame ideologies on local moral economy and equal redistribution of the ayudas. However, some turero members question this practice of requesting ayudas for the Tura dances. Some suggest that the leaders of the

Tura dancers have become beggars. They indicated that begging money from State institutions is not an appropriate practice for the organization.

Others even argue that the Tura ritual has become a business. They suggest that this practice is now fully dependent on State resources which, furthermore, are accumulated by its main leaders. The following fragment reveals a critical frame against the practice of seeking ayudas:

“I am turero, I used to work in Turén (Portuguesa state) and I used to come from the llanos (plains). I left at 11 midday; I had to arrive by evening to the Turas. Not now, I do not feel, the tradition is not a tradition, it is business. Now money is needed. Before everyone brought bananas, plantain, pumpkins. People made chicha (fermented corn beverage) with much care, because everyone planted corn. Before eating a broiled corn, chicha was made for the spirits. Before people even came up (to the Cerro) from Moroturo, with candles and aguardiente (hard liquor). Not now, you are in a hurry with that, because it is a business for you” 181 (Ayamán member, Moroturo November 2007).

180 “vino mucha ayuda, aquí no han llegado gorras, franelas y todo. A nosotros no nos ha llegado, las repartió y era para todos los ayudantes de la tura yo soy guardián” (Hernán, Moroturo, November 2007). 181 “Yo soy turero, trabajaba en Turén y venía de allá del llano. me venía a las 11 de mediodía, tenía que llegar al amanecer con las Turas. Ahorita no, no siento, ya la tradición no es tradición es negocio. 343

This text shows how some turero members criticize their leader‟s forms of engagement with the State, and how this process has involved abandoning the former productive practice of cultivating corn. This fragment also suggests that the organization is being shaped by the individual interests of their leaders, thus involving greater dependency on the local State. From this viewpoint, the past was characterized by greater autonomy, as well as by the participation of more turero groups.

In sum, Ayamán members produce multiple frames on seeking financial assistance from State institutions. Members of the organization expect their leaders to request community resources, but also to distribute them equally among its participants and factions. However, frames on resource request also are articulated with discourses on

State manipulation, as I discuss in the subsequent section.

“Fuimos Usados:” State Manipulation frames

Ayamán members and leaders do not passively seek the paternalistic “help” or assistance of the State. They constantly produce frames on “being used” (fuimos usados) by State functionaries and institutions. As they criticize the negligent, corrupt, and clientelistic actions of local State agents, they depict themselves as vulnerable to political manipulation.

Ahora se necesita plata. Antes todo el mundo llevaba cambures, plátano, auyama. La gente hacia chicha con mucho cariño porque todo el mundo sembraba maíz. Antes de comerse un jojoto asado, se hacía un chicha para los espíritus. Incluso antes subía gente de Moroturo con vela, aguardiente. Ahora no, ustedes están apurado con esto, porque esto es un negocio para ustedes” (Ayamán member, Moroturo November 2007).

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Many members of the turero organization for instance argue that functionaries

“used” the Council of Elders in order to collect the signatures of Ayamán community members and request state resources for their personal interests. Some members explain that the Council secretly received 200 million of bolívares (at the time US$100,000) which was later stolen by these local State agents. Ayamán members of the community also indicate that these functionaries promised them money in exchange for electoral votes and for participating in regional cultural events. Some of these members expressed resentment towards these personnel and they are still waiting for the money. In this regard, one Ayamán member stated:

“Here came Alberto García, they wanted life certificates, they collected signatures, and they promised a monthly bonus of 100,000 Bs. as an incentive. “We will give it in December,” one gets excited. It did not arrive; an alboroto182 takes place at Alfonso‟s house. “They are going to give the bonus, I am going there” 183 (Ayamán member, Moroturo, October 2007).

This fragment illustrates the well-recognized strategies of government factions seeking to exchange promises for electoral and political support. The request for

“certificates” and “signatures” and the promise of money has been an extended and widely known manipulating strategy of State and government agents in Venezuela.

Ayamán people constantly indicate that State functionaries from different institutions collected lists with their names, signatures, and ID numbers. They expressed rage since

182 Alboroto refers to disorderly behavior among a group of people. 183 “Aquí vinieron Alberto García, quieren fe de vida, recoger firma, que te van a dar un bono estímulo de 100.000 Bs. mensuales. Te lo vamos a dar en Diciembre, uno se emociona. No llegó, se forma un alboroto en casa de Alfonso, van a dar el bono voy pa‟ yá… que no ha llegado” (Ayamán member, Moroturo August 2007). 345

none of the promises on housing, credit, bonus, scholarships, among other “offerings” have been kept by these politicians.

Members of the community also claimed that the Reina and her family has monopolized State resources for their own benefit. They represent this leader as a powerful agent who has built secret economic and spiritual agreements with local functionaries. Some members even argue that she uses witchcraft to seal her political alliances with State agents and politicians and conceal her acts of corruption. These critics also indicate that this is the reason why the Reina has three cows while most

Ayamán families are significantly poor and only possess small sheep herds or chickens.

The Reina, on the other hand, argues that these functionaries have deceived her and that she has not received any of these funds. In this regard, she contends:

“They used us, they apparently sent us something but it did not arrive. They take advantage of us when they come to the dances, they supposedly sent cakes, cotillones184 but they never arrive.”185

In this comment, the Reina refers to an implicit process of exchange that underlies her interactions with State functionaries. She expresses that these agents take advantage of the religious and spiritual benefits offered during the ritual (for instance the fulfillment of personal requests for health, wealth, work, love). In exchange, she requested festive commodities to enhance the ritual, and to demonstrate before the community her networks and powerful alliances with local State agents. She suggests that the festive items were sent, but got lost within the corruptive network of political intermediaries.

184 Cotillones in the modern sense refers to small bags filled with candies, sweets and toys. These bags are distributed by some institutions to children. 185 “a nosotros no utilizaron, nos enviaron algo y no llegó. Se llevan de uno cuando viene el baile de las turas, ellos mandaban tortas, cotillones, y no llegaron” (Mariana, Moroturo, August 2007). 346

This image is very important and recurrent, since it still depicts the State as the provider of resources, that are later deviated to other destinies. In sum, the sense of “being used” is expressed by the unfulfilled exchange on the part of the State.

I registered this frame on State manipulation in almost every initial face-to-face interaction with Ayamán members.186 Repeatedly, Ayamán people in Moroturo told me that they have been manipulated by State agents, and that their promises have been unfulfilled. This discourse represents a denouncing strategy that produces a victimizing representation of their forms of engagement with the State. Yet, this frame also serves to highlight internal factional tensions and differences, and to reassert the “distributive” role of the Tura dances.

All in all, the collective action frames of the Ayamán-turero organization tend to be local, as they mainly target internal community factions and teams within the organization. They express the direct need for distributing resources (money and State commodities) among Ayamán households and preserving the moral economy of the organization. Some members also focus on enacting multiple identities frames in order to ensure spaces of political and ethno-legal recognition. Frames on requesting ayudas and

State manipulation serve to critique and assess their degrees of autonomy and dependency with the local and regional State. Overall, Ayamans produce few mobilizing discourses that seek to target the central State apparatus.

186 Since I was perceived by local members as a State agent, this could have been a factor explaining why they produced this frame in high frequency during the interviews. In some ways, they were denouncing the lack of assistance of other state functionaries.

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Thus, in general, this turero organization contrasts with many other indigenous movements in Venezuela and Latin America, that instead tend to produce and circulate transnational frames on: intercultural education, territoriality, legal pluralism, Pan- indigenism, indo-socialism, gender equality, ecological justice, among other ideological domains. In other words, the resonance and targets of Ayamán „collective action frames‟ is restricted to local and regional political settings. In the subsequent section, I intend to show how some of these frames are enacted, circulated, and articulated through particular strategic actions: ritual practices, legal petitions, networking, among others.

Ayamán strategic actions: from ritual encounters to legal petitions

In this section, I examine the multiple strategic actions of the Ayamán-turero movement. As stated in the introduction, social movements tend to embrace different strategies for gaining visibility, state recognition, contesting established orders, and seeking supporters, allies, and resources (Munck 1990; Ganz 2004). Strategic actions are intentional, distributed and relational and engage multiple actors seeking different goals

(Munck 1990; Ganz 2004; Goodwin and Jasper 2004; Krinsky and Barker 2009). Social movement‟s strategic actions are not only produced during internal decision making processes, but are also shaped by the expectations of other players, such as the State, potential allies, local intellectuals, the media, bystanders, among others (Goodwin and

Jasper 2004:16). Rather than focusing on the effectiveness of strategies, in this section I show how the Ayamán-turero organization has developed a variety of strategic repertoires. Some of these actions have been historically enacted by leaders of the 348

organization, yet other practices have been shaped by their interactions with local intellectuals and State agents.187

In 2007, the Ayamán organization of Moroturo produced and enacted different types of strategies: ritual performances, requests for State legal recognition, identification processes, demands of State funds and housing, and networking and articulation with other turero organizations, local intellectuals, and State institutions (Table 1).

Ritual strategies

Some social movement scholars have emphasized the role of ritual practices in processes of mobilization (Kertzer 1988; Collins 2004; Taylor and Whitter 1995;

Goodwin et al. 2001).They argue that rituals remain as pervasive elements in contemporary forms of mobilizations (Taylor and Whitter 1995). From a Durkheimian approach, David Kertzer (1988) stressed the importance of rituals for sustaining movement solidarity based on common values, sentiments and morality. In his view, rituals convert the obligatory in desirable during social mobilization (1988:40). He argues that rituals have the capacity to contain and transcend ambiguity as they channel and discipline members.

Della Porta and Diani (1999) also highlight the importance of ritual practices in the reinforcement of identity and collective feelings of belonging among social movements‟ members. They suggest that religious rituals and celebrations create

187 I describe these strategic actions, bearing in mind that framing processes are also strategies. Only for analytical purposes, I decided to separate discursive actions from other types of agentive practices. I am aware that all strategies described here involve both discursive and bodily enactments.

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Table 1 Strategies of the Ayamán-turero organization

Strategizing domains Strategic actions Effects The Tura Dance Negotiation with State institutions Seeking resources Cultural and political visibility Receiving visitors Access to resources Ritual Practices Encounter among tureros Accumulation and exchange of Ritual fights local political capital Political and symbolic alliances State Recognition Ethnic Visibility Legal petitions Recognition by the National Legal Reaching the President Indigenous Movement Inviting State functionaries Representation within legal instruments Circulation of Ayamán identity frames New indexes of Ayaman identity Household census Recognition by State agents and State Identification Issuing Indigenous ID cards institutions Sense of pride Exacerbation of local rivalries Visibility of the Ayamán territory Land demarcation request Prevent fragmentation and Territorialization Request of plots for housing migration of young households Interpreting dreams Keeping the land of the ancestors Purchase of land Ensure spaces for raising small animal herds Articulation with social Participating in regional turero Regional visibility movements meetings Circulation of identity frames Competition on authenticity

Networking and Alliances with chronicler, Circulation of projects on land alliances with local cultural activators, and local demarcation and Ayamán intellectuals politicians municipalization. Linguistic “recovery” projects. Politics of authenticity

Articulation with State Seeking funds and resources Circulation of identity and State institutions Formation of Indigenous manipulation frames Communal Council Exchange of ritual objects Participation in national New settings of cultural indigenous meetings performance 350

“opportunities for collective gatherings, and therefore for the strengthening and the discussion of alternative messages in repressive regimes” (1999:110). For these authors, all acts of protest have ritual dimensions, which tend to assume dramatic and spectacular expressions, in the form of slogans, discourses, banners and bodily movements.

Taylor and Whitter (1995) also show the importance of ritual and performance in women‟s movements. They suggest that challenging groups perform rituals to define the terms of conflict and communication (1995:176). They examine how marches, rallies, riots, styles of dress, are rituals for mobilizing groups that communicate emotions and solidarity. In their view, ritual is involved in the process of women‟s self-transformation during processes of mobilization. Csordas‟ (1997) study on Charismatic religious organizations also shows how ritual performances shape the constitution and reconstitution of the self, as they also aid the transformation of interpersonal, domestic, civic, and geographical spaces (1997:70-71).

However, until now most of these studies on ritual and social movements tend to focus, from a Durkheimian perspective, on their solidarity effects. As stated by Comaroff and Comaroff (1995:xv), on the basis of these approaches, ritual has been conceived of as the main expression of customs, as the source of solidarity, and as the mediator of conflicts. They instead argue that rituals cannot be reduced to sacred practices, transcendent traditions, communicative actions, or symbolic processes seeking to ensure the continuity of social systems. In their view, ritual may be understood as historical, demystified, creative, signifying practices. They further suggest overcoming the binary 351

opposition between sacred and profane practices and to rather see “the ritual in all politics, and the politics in [all] ritual.” (Comaroff and Comaroff 1995:xviii)

Following this latter approach, some scholars have examined how indigenous social movements in Latin America embrace ritual dimensions as political strategies for negotiating with nation-states and redefining their identities. Contemporary Pan- indigenous movements and popular intellectuals have incorporated ritual practices in their processes of mobilization (Rappaport 2004; Coor 2007). In Colombia, for instance, indigenous cultural activists, producing discourses on cultural revitalization and intercultural education have re-appropriated different Shamanic rituals and knowledge in order to implement political strategies (Rappaport 2004:121). Activists also enact

Shamanic rituals in order to orient legal procedures, as they tend to evoke notions of

“political and cultural harmony.” In this case, ritual and healing practices are re- authenticated as legitimate indigenous life ways and as political strategies.

In Ecuador and Bolivia, indigenous movements have also incorporated ritual practices associated with native Andean spirituality and religion. Coor (2007) in particular shows how indigenous festivals in Salasaca Ecuador, as well as Aymara coca divination rituals in Bolivia, have incorporated innovations in order to express indigenous identities in processes of mobilization. She shows how these Andean religious movements have transformed their discourses, renamed their festivals, created cultural and educational programs and performed new organized rituals. Indigenous intellectuals have actively supported the formation of what she defines as “neonative” spirituality by emphasizing intercultural education and ritual performance (Corr 2007:176). 352

In this section I explore how the ritual practices of the Ayamán organization during the Tura dances, not only serves to reassert solidarity among community factions, or to communicate symbolic actions and messages among its members, but also to display multiple layers of political negotiation with the Venezuelan State and among local and regional political factions. In the subsequent section, I show how these ritual practices constitute spaces for political mobilization, for reorganizing leadership, and shaping interactions and engagements with the State. I further argue that ritual strategies are strongly embodied within the mobilizing habitus of Ayaman actors.

The Tura dance: a strategic performance

Now let us explore some of the strategic actions involved in the Tura dances of

Moroturo, Lara state. It is important to mention previously some earlier interpretations of the function of this ritual, since this practice has been described by numerous ethnographers since 1911. Alfredo Jahn (1973), based on his ethnographic work in San

Miguel de Ayamán (between 1911 and 1916), argued that this dance was a “religious cult” that through offerings seeks to favor and greet the spirits that are in charge of the

“fructification of plants” (1973:52). He sees this ritual as a response to the scarcity of water in the region (Jahn 1973:52-53).

Luis Arturo Dominguez (1984) documented the Tura dances of the region of

Mapararí, Falcón state in 1969. He indicated that this ritual has the function of seeking the protection of Mother Nature, in order to ensure physical and mental health, productive harvests, good hunting, and access to medicinal plants, honey, and fertility 353

(Domínguez 1984:90). In the 1990s, Natividad Barroso (2004) conducted extensive fieldwork in different sites on the sierra of Parupano. She also suggests that the Tura dances are magic rites that seek the favors of Mother Nature, and are linked to the vital cycles of the earth (Barroso 2004:159). She reports the existence of “contaminated” Tura dances in Moroturo, since the figure of María Lionza is present in these rituals.

Recent studies conducted by professors Chirinos and Rojas in 1999 and 2005 indicate that the Tura dances are a mystical religious agrarian act that has the objective of expressing gratitude for the earth‟s fertility (Chirinos and Rojas 2009:285). Rojas and

Urbano (2006,) also argue that this ritual is performed in order to pay tribute to the gods and spirits that provide food. They suggest that the artistic manifestation of the dance seeks the unity of the group. These authors vaguely focus on the facial expressions of the participants as they also highlight the multiple emotions evoked during these practices.

In spite of the ethnographic and historical value of all these interpretations, I believe that they overlook the multiple political negotiations and tensions that emerge among participants during these Tura dances. Instead, all of these works focus on the meaning and cultural values of the ritual, overlooking what happens between actors and its effects on “more mundane modes of action”(Comarroff and Comarroff 1995:xxi). Miguel

Acosta-Saignes who conducted fieldwork in Aguada Grande in 1949 has been one of the few authors who addressed the political dimensions of the Tura dances (1985). Beyond suggesting that this practice is a surviving agrarian rite and a dance of fertility, he reported the existence of an old document known as the Reglamento de las Turas de

Quebrada Honda. This text, written by Juan Bautista Perera in 1890, and curiously 354

published in the city of Coro, reveals some of the complex historical political dimensions of this performance.188 Apparently this document was written by a Jefe Civil (Civic local authority), a local priest, and some landowners. It aimed at modifying and moderating the behavior of the turero dancers, recommending them correcciones and comedimiento

(correction and restraint) during the rituals. This intriguing document clearly expresses the need for local authorities to control and “discipline” these ritual practices. Acosta-

Saignes cites the second article of this text:

“In the second article, it is established that it was a ceremony of a political - religious character, which was performed to elect capataces and obtain good harvests. Marriages were confirmed during (the ceremony)”189 (Acosta Saignes 1985:87).

Acosta Saignes (1985) thus suggests that it is likely that indigenous functionaries were elected during the dances and that marriages were also performed. This data is important since its reveals the need for local authorities to control (through the reglamento) the appointment of indigenous leaders during the dances. It also suggests that the dance was a site for organizing and negotiating political hierarchies among turero leaders. Moreover, since marriages were conducted in this context, it is likely that these performances also served as spaces for establishing alliances among turero factions or groups of different regions. This ethnographer also indicates that the existence of the

188 I have been unable to locate a full copy of this Reglamento. As I will later discuss, fragments of this text were read by local intellectuals in the first encounter of Turero organizations held in 2000 in the town of Mapararí, Falcón state. 189 “En el Segundo artículo se establece que fue una ceremonia de carácter político religioso, la cual se realizaba para elegir capataces y obtener buenas cosechas. Durante ella se verificaban los matrimonios…” (Acosta Saignes 1985:87).

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capataces and mayordomos is reminiscent of ancient forms of tribal organization (Acosta

Saignes 1985).

This argument is also supported by Pedro Rivas (1989), who suggests that the ritual cargos (roles) of the Tura dances reflect a former hierarchical organization among

Ayamán people. He indicates that the main Capataz of a group of tureros tends to have a higher hierarchical position vis-a-vis other community leaders (Rivas 1989:320). Thus, he argues that the structure of the Tura dances may indicate the possible existence of chiefdoms in the region. In his view, the marriages celebrated also served to consolidate inter-communal linkages and alliances among Ayamán and Jirajara people Rivas

1989:321).

From these texts and ethnographic interpretations, one can infer that the Tura dances were not only symbolic rituals or agrarian rites, condensing or communicating sacred meanings. These performances have also been spaces for political negotiation and leadership configuration, not necessarily seeking solidarity or harmony. I will subsequently present three ritual scenes in order to examine some of the political strategies that are enacted by the Ayamán-turero organization during the Tura dances in

Moroturo. Most of the aforementioned ethnographic studies have focused on the performance of the Tura pequeña. My data will focus instead on the ritual of the llora, a

Tura dance that has the objective of commemorating the death or birth of turero ancestors.190

190 During my fieldwork activities in 2006 and 2007, I was able to witness three Tura dances. Two in Moroturo and one in Mapararí, Falcón state. The llora ritual was observed in November of 2007.

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The llora -Tura dance, Moroturo, November 2007

The llora-Tura dance is an annual ritual conducted in order to commemorate the spirits of turero ancestors. This ritual is open, as all kinds of visitors can arrive and participate by providing offerings, making promises to the spirits, dancing and consuming chicha (fermented corn beverage) and food. The llora, has a particular performative plot, that starts with: the preparation of the event, the elaboration of the chicha, the cleaning and preparation of the dancing patio, the arrangement of the altar, requesting permission at the palacio in a nearby source of water, offering prayers and calling the spirits at the altar, performing sones (music with flutes and deer horns) while dancing around the patio, and consuming chicha and food. In some interludes, the

Shamán may conduct espiritista practices at the altar where visitors make their personal promises and spiritual consultations. The next day the altar and its offerings are dismounted and all participants walk and dance towards the palacio or árbol de basura

(waste tree), where they continue dancing, drinking chicha, and performing more espiritista sessions. Finally, the rest of the chicha is poured over the tree, and participants then return to the dancing patio in order to depart. As follows, I will describe three performative scenes of this ritual where different political negotiations among turero performers and State agents take place.

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The preparation, seeking resources

Every early November, the Capataz and the Reina of Moroturo start consulting the spirits before performing the llora ritual. At the altar, while smoking cigars and lighting candles, they ask their ancestors what will be the exact date of the next llora.

Once the date is set, these leaders invite the owners of other patios, in order to honor their former Capataz, Choto Perozo. As part of their scripted role, these leaders engage in the task of seeking resources to buy corn, meat, candles, alcoholic, beverages, cigars and candies. In the 1990s, Barroso (2004) reports that the tureros of Moroturo sought these offering from their field plots. Yet in 2007, I registered that they traveled to Siquisique with the objective of requesting ayudas or funds from the municipality in order to buy corn. They also travel to Barquisimeto (capital of the Lara state) and talked to local State functionaries at the regional Institute of Culture and to the deputies of the Legislative

Municipal Camera of the state of Lara. The latter usually provided them with money for purchasing meat and vegetables for preparing a large soup to be served to the visitors during the ritual. Throughout these interactions, State functionaries are invited to participative in the ritual, and their monetary contributions are in some way conceived of as offerings to the spirits. The functionaries in some cases provide checks that must later be cashed by these leaders on other trips, especially if they are issued on behalf of the

Council of Elders. Later on, the Capataz and the Reina purchase the corn, meat and vegetables in Barquisimeto or in Santa Inés, the closest commercial town, located some

10 km from Moroturo. 358

These actions of visiting State institutions, establishing dialogues of request, and receiving a check, create a particular and implicit political pact with these institutions and their agents. State functionaries provide funds, expecting in exchange the political support of the turero community during regional elections. They also seek to enhance their local charismatic power as they represent themselves as supporters of “poor” indigenous peoples. Some State agents also expect protection, orientation, and support from the spirits of the turero ancestors. As I will later register, many functionaries engaged in cleansing, as well as in espiritista rituals during the dances.

Ayamáns leaders in turn, when receiving these funds, manage to accumulate symbolic and political power. They can assert before their local adversary factions their

“traditional” corporate legitimacy for conducting and leading these rituals. With these funds, they also can manage to invite and receive larger number of visitors and thus further legitimate their status as leaders and owners of the patio number one.

Nevertheless, the political capital accumulated during these interactions with State agents needs to be reasserted during other ritual stages.

Receiving the visitors: negotiating alliances and offerings

“The performances do not have an independent life: they are related to the audience that hears them, the spectator who see them. The force of the performance is in the very specific relationship between performer and those for-whom-the performer exist” (Schechner 1985:5)

The ritual practice of receiving the visitors during the llora-Tura dances in

Moroturo involves a complex process of establishing alliances with other turero groups 359

or devotes, as well as with State functionaries, national guard officials, local intellectuals, non-native agents, NGO leaders, filmmakers, anthropologists, historians and teachers, among others.

It is 5 o‟clock in the evening. The patio has already been swept clean by the ayudantes (helpers). The chicken house has been converted into the kitchen, where the large soup is still boiling over an improvised fogón (fire pit). The ayudantes are tired of peeling manioc, yams, and potatoes. A wooden table with benches has been set in front of the kitchen in order to serve the food later at night. The small museum of the Tura dance

(a bahareque structure located right next to the altar) has become the house of the musicians and the Shamán students. These actors pass in and out of this backstage setting.

The dancing patio is already set, consisting of a circle of stones (cantos rodados) that has a small wooden structure. On top, there is a large arch of sugar cane where offerings such as corn, beans, and fruits are placed. Underneath the structure there are two white crosses. On one of these, is engraved the name of the deceased Shamán Julián

Baldayo. Right next to these crosses, three stones are placed with several candles.

The patio is also surrounded by wooden benches and in each corner there are four little crosses that have candles lit at their base. Thus, the “region” and “boundaries” of the dancing stage have been set, as the entrance of the patio gradually becomes as filled with the trucks and cars of the vistors.

Inside the altar (located in a brick structure right next to the dancing patio), the imaginario is placing and arranging the figurines of Las Tres Potencias, the cacique 360

Yaracuy, Don Juan de las Aguas, the Virgen of La Candeleria, the Virgin La Milagrosa, among others. The chicha is poured into a wooden canoe and placed in front of the altar.

Ceramic vessels called niñas (girls) are also filled with this fermented corn beverage. The

Reina María Lionza is dressed with a fine red satin dress. Sweets and alcoholic drinks are placed before these religious figures.

The Reina of Moroturo, is already bathed and wearing some of her special indumenta; crowns made out of beans, feathers and necklaces. In general, most members are anxious about the outcome of the ritual. Who will arrive? Will the tureros of

Mapararí come? Is the food enough to feed the visitors properly? Where are the guardians, are they drinking? All of these comments circulate sporadically between some of the ayudantes.

People start to arrive. Pickup trucks are parked as the grandsons of the Reina drop off. They are still waiting for Antonia the main mayordoma “que viene en camino”(who is on her way) from Barquisimeto. A large fancy pickup truck, with the deputy for the state of Lara and his assistant arrives. They get out of the truck with two large bags filled with food (corn flour, pasta, tuna cans, coffee, sugar). They publicly give the bags to the

Reina and the mayordomo, who are the owners of the patio. Later about six national guards arrive in a non-official car. They were invited to assure the safety of the dances and to make their own promises. They bring their offerings, which are given to the mayordomo.

Two filmmakers also appear with cameras and a laptop in order to project an old movie on these very same rituals. They belong to an NGO from Caracas that seeks to 361

register cultural manifestations all over the country. Leaders of a local NGO also arrive bringing a big cake and some candies. Another local intellectual from the state of

Portuguesa appears with a group of students who claim to be Gayones, an indigenous group self-recognized in northwestern Venezuela since 1999. This group showed up with an interest in learning how to conduct their own Tura dances in the region of

Chabasquen, Portuguesa state.

Later on, a folklorist scholar showed up just before the dance started. She had been conducting interviews with some turero leaders. Later, at night, two lawyers and the main assistant of the Vice-minister of Indigenous Peoples of Urban Zones showed up.

They also brought some of the expected offerings: cigars, candles, and drinks.

Each of these visitors, was received by the mayordomo, who took their offerings or one might say “gifts.” This leader later wrote down in a piece of paper the names of the “givers” and each of the offerings. Thus, this Ayamán mayordomo, in this case explicitly seeks to register the identity of the givers and the gifts in the memory of the organization. This act of inscription will later allow the spirits to reciprocate the givers with protections or by fulfilling their promises and requests.

From a Maussian perspective, one could argue that the Tura ritual is a clear example of an exchange ritual, of giving and receiving offerings, and of establishing bonds between the givers, the gifts and the recipients (Mauss 1990). Many religious rituals in general involve making offerings with the expectation of receiving (Bell 2009).

Yet beyond establishing a binary relationship of reciprocity between the turero leaders and the visitors, these exchanges also seemed to have multilayered political purposes. 362

The gifts (State funds and offerings), as inalienable objects, are “ceded” to Ayamán leaders, who later transfer them to the spirits. Yet, as suggested by Bourdieu (1997), the act of giving and receiving gifts is also shaped by complex strategies of domination and challenge. In his view, gift exchanges (in our case offerings and spiritual protection or support) produce the accumulation and redistribution of social capital, in the form of obligations and debts. For this author gift-giving practices mask and transform embedded symbolic violence.

In these terms, the ritual strategy of exchanging offerings between State functionaries and Tura leaders during this llora ritual, on the one hand shapes the distribution and accumulation of political capital among these actors (in the form of political alliances and degrees of mutual dependency). Yet, on the other hand, these exchanges assert the relationship of political dominance of the Reina, the Mayordomo and the Capataz, vis-a-vis other turero or „ritual teams.‟ As stated by Commaroff and

Commaroff (1995) ritual practices exercise particular forms of power. In this sense, this initial strategy of ritual exchange mediates complex interactions of Ayamán people with the Venezuelan State, in which both interacting teams seek ways for controlling processes of distribution. However, as the ritual increase in intensity, other scenes are performed where internal political negotiations among tureros are displayed, and the

State functionaries remain as mere spectators.

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The encounter among tureros

“While watching the deer dance of the Arizona Yaqui in November 1981, I wondered if the figure I saw was a man and the deer simultaneously …or whether putting on the deer mask made the man “not a man” and “not a deer” but something in between” (Schechner 1985:4).

While the visitors arrive to the llora, the Shamán and the Capataz request permission from the spirits in the palacio, a small altar located downhill near a source of water. The flow of the performance in this scene intentionally excludes the visitors, who must remain in the dancing plaza. However, once permission is given, these leaders go up to the main altar in order to ask permission for other things. Inside the altar the tureros start dancing and make some invocations of the spirits. Subsequently, they come out with sugar cane stems, playing the musical instruments (deer horns, wooden flutes and maracas). They walk out of the patio dancing, in order to receive the invited tureros who come from other locations. This performance scene is known as the encounter or the encuentro de las matas. During this specific event, members are anxious since there is a great expectation about who will arrive in what conditions and with what attitudes.

The tureros, along with some of the visitors, walked about 100 meters away from the main patio, where they encountered the guests from the other five patios. As both teams approached each other, a great tension was evident. They were waiting for the arrival of one of the invited musicians, who was delayed. In this location, the tureros played their instruments, with solemn facial expressions, as they dragged their feet on the cement road. The deer horns in this context were both masks and sources of music. They produced repetitive sounds, synchronized with bodily movements. The horns mimic the fighting body parts of the deer, while leaving fully exposed the body of the human 364

performer. This is what Schechner identifies as intentionally incomplete transformations.

(1985:8). One of the arriving tureros held a wooden sculpted figure of the former

Capataz Choto, which was a gift to be placed on the altar in order to honor this spiritual leader. Suddenly, the missing turero musician arrived very drunk. The Reina said that he was unwelcome since he was drunk, and that his state represented an act of disrespect towards the spirits. At this very moment, the Capataz of Moroturo started dancing in a challenging position, following the invited leaders. The drunken musician claimed that he had been a turero all his life and that the Reina did not have the right to prevent him from dancing. This act was interpreted as a public challenge to the charismatic authority of the

Reina and her performance team. After this dialogue, they continued dancing as they returned to the patio in order to continue the ritual.

This performative sketch reveals different ritual strategies enacted by Ayamán leaders to publicly assert, contest, and negotiate internal power relations among its members and their performative teams. First, the arrival of some tureros visitors legitimates the recognition of the dance and their leaders. Second, the state in which these invited guests arrive also expresses the degree of respect and legitimacy of the turero hosts. The dance allows for a momentary assessment of their performative roles. Yet, the challenge between the Reina and the drunken visitor during this encounter remains unresolved. They were waiting for a final ritual fight to take place in the dancing patio.

The fight

Late at night, around 11 o‟clock, the tureros were finishing one of their set of sones (a dancing sequence). The tension of the previous encounter remained, as the 365

visitor continued to challenge the hosts by stating in a loud drunken-like voice that the

Reina was not the real leader of the dances. The Shamán had already incorporated the spirit of Choto Perozo into his body and he walked on to the public stage in order to join the other dancers. He imitated the corporality of Choto by dragging his left leg and walking slowly like an elderly person. A turero assistant murmured: “See, he walks just as the finado (Choto) did.” This comment, as I will later explain shows how performers reject complete conversions. Only some gestures and parts of the body of the Shamán intended to mimic the incorporated spirit of the ancestor. As stated by Schechner (1985) transformations are intentionally incomplete. In this case, the Shamán performs a double transformation. He simultaneously enacts the role of the former turero ancestor (Choto), and at the same time he mimics deer features.

When the music of the flutes and the maracas stopped, suddenly the Reina and the Mayordomo, and other tureros called for absolute silence. They requested everyone to turn off their cameras and filming equipments. A symbolic fight between the turero visitor and the Shamán then started. Both actors started stepping hard on the earth floor of the dancing stage, dragging dust into the air. They bent their bodies as they clashed, simulating a deer fight. The Reina bathed their bodies with alcoholic drinks, in order to maintain their state of trance and provide them with strength. She also blew smoke on their heads as they fought. Great tension was perceived among the audience. A turero participant said with anxiety “the musician will die.”

They continued dancing showing signs of exhaustion. Their movements were gradually slower while their feet seemed very heavy. After several clashes, with their 366

bodies bent, the turero visitor dramatically collapsed on the dirt floor. He remained lying down for several minutes, and the Shamán returned to the altar. The fight was over.

This scene represents a high intensity ritual phase. The focus of the performance in this moment becomes the Shamán (embracing the character of the main spiritual leader of the tureros) and the visitor (acting as the challenger of the leadership team of the

Reina). The victory of Choto, makes evident the efficacy of the ritual before the audience. For many days, members of the Ayamán-turero organization recalled how

Choto had taken possession (bajó) of the body of the Shamán. Pablo in this regard stated:

“The Shamán walked and talked the same as finado Choto” (El Shamán caminaba y hablaba igualito al finado Choto). Moreover, this ritual act of embodiment also reasserts the effective articulation of espiritista and turero ritual practices.

Furthermore, the fight also legitimates the political authority of the leadership team of Choto-Capataz-Reina. As stated earlier, the Reina in particular has been constantly criticized for not distributing resources (food, money and prestige) in the proper way. Thus, the incarnation of Choto and his victory served to defend and legitimate the very status of his leadership heirs. In sum, through this ritual process the dancing patio becomes a space of political negotiation in which the spiritual power of the leaders are demostrated, witnessed and judged by the audience. The Shamán and this kinship team not only accumulate more symbolic power in this event, but the patio and the altar also are affirmed as legitimate ritual settings.

Overall, we have seen how members of the Ayamán-turero organization produce and articulate ritual strategies for negotiating with the Venezuelan State and with other turero 367

factions. The enactment of the ritual practices involves constant and direct engagements with State agents and intellectuals who provide funds (gifts) in exchange for votes, protection, and local political legitimacy. Turero factions also make use of this performative setting in order to assess and contest their leadership authorities.

Legal strategies: seeking ethnic recognition

In Venezuela, indigenous organizations have actively participated in multiple law- making processes since the late 1990s. As stated in Chapter 4, the National Indian

Council of Venezuela (CONIVE) embraced numerous legal strategies in order to be included within the constituent process of 1999. This process resulted in the inclusion of a complete Chapter on indigenous rights within the new Bolivarian Constitution.

Venezuelan indigenous movements also managed to win three indigenous deputies in the

National Assembly, and participated in the construction of various multicultural legal instruments in order to recognize their rights. While drafting the Organic Law of

Indigenous Peoples and Communities (LOPCI) in 2005, the Presidential Commission of

Indigenous Peoples of the National Assembly requested the explicit recognition of the multiple indigenous peoples that belonged to CONIVE. This legal institution also called on other groups to solicit their recognition before the National Assembly.

In response to this call, in July of 2005, (months before approving the LOPCI) a group of Ayamán-turero members traveled to Caracas in order to request their legal recognition as “indigenous people” of the multicultural Bolivarian nation. This group was mainly motivated by Eric Jimeno, a deputy of the National Assembly representing Lara 368

state, and by other local intellectuals that claimed to be supporters of indigenous peoples in the region. Right before the trip, the Reina recalled that most members were afraid of traveling to the capital. One member even said: “if we go to Caracas, we will die (Si vamos a Caracas moriremos).191 In contrast, this turero leader categorically stated: “We do not know how we are going to die, thus we shall go to Caracas tomorrow” (Nosotros no sabemos de qué vamos a morir, así que nos vamos mañana para Caracas).

Visiting the National Assembly

In July of 2005 the Reina and the Capataz (in the company of deputy Eric Jimeno, the Ayamán chronicler Ramón Querales, and the concejal Antonio Rumbos) requested an audience at the Permanent Commission for Indigenous Peoples of the National

Assembly. There is very little official documentation in regard to the details of this procedure. The functionaries that were involved in this process indicated during open- ended interviews that they received these Ayamán leaders, who presented a bulky body of documents proving their legitimate claim to be indigenous peoples. One State functionary indicated that this indigenous group did not have an indigenous language, which was one of the main problems of their request. However, he argued that they had other elements such as the Tura dances, and physical characteristics that clearly proved their indigenous origin. He explicitly stated that they were “very indigenous,” since they had small stature among other somatic features.

191 This dialogue is reported in a newspaper article written by Félix Gutiérrez (2005c).

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There is only a short official report of this act of legal petition in the archives of the Commission. The first record indicates that the Ayamans of Moroturo were received by deputy Noelí Pocaterra (Conive/Zulia state), vicepresident Miguel Ángel Moyetones

(Conive/Guárico state) and the parliamentarians Jesús Alcántara (Un Nuevo

Tiempo/Zulia state), Edis Gómez (MVR/Aragua state) and Noé Bracamonte

(MVR/Portuguesa state) (Asamblea Nacional 2005a).

The report also states that Ramón Querales (the official chronicler of Ayamán indigenous people) first spoke about the need of rescuing the language, the lands and traditions of their “aboriginal ancestors” (Asamblea Nacional 2005a). From this record, one infers that the petitions were verbally dominated by Querales. He argued that the indigenous populations of the Lara state have been reduced to a situation of misery and abandonment, since their lands had been taken away. He also added that one of the central proposals of Ayamán people was the demarcation of their habitat and lands, so that they could be included in the projects of the State (Asamblea Nacional 2005a). Thus, one can sense how this Ayamán intellectual, articulated territorial claims, as he also evoked the law of indigenous land demarcation that had already been approved in 2001.

The official report also shows that the Reina and the Capataz ratified the proposal of land demarcation. They stated that these lands belonged to their ancestors, and had passed into the hands of hacendados. The text explicitly states: 370

“They requested help in the demarcation of their territory, in order to have where to sow; in the same manner they exposed their problems in regards to health, education and the lack of ways of communication.”192

Finally, the document reports the intervention of Eric Jimeno, the deputy of the

Lara state. He pointed out that through the “legislative power” Ayamán people tried to seek the status of “indigenous ethnic” group. He further alleged that this process would imply recognizing that they have been millenarian possessors of their territories, and that they have been displaced from their lands. In this case one can see how the deputy also calls for the recognition of a continuous historical Ayamán territory.

This non-indigenous deputy also requested that the State recognize the identity of their ancestors, which had been lost. He recalls this act of recognition as important since

Ayamans have “survived” Venezuelan colonial history. In this particular context, it is clear how this leader articulated frames on colonization, in order to explain why

Ayamans are claiming in the present their existence as an indigenous group within a particular territory.

This legal interaction was later closed by Noelí Pocaterra, the President of the

Permanent Commission of Indigenous Peoples of the National Assembly. She said:

“ This is the first time that Ayamán brothers have come to the Parliament to expose their problems and request help so that their autochthonous rights are recognized, because they exist since immemorial times”193 (Asamblea Nacional 2005a).

192 “… solicitaron que los ayuden en la demarcación de su territorio, para poder tener un espacio donde sembrar, al igual que expusieron la problemática que presentan en materia de salud, educación y falta de vías de comunicación” (Asamblea Nacional 2005a). 193 “…por primera vez hermanos Ayamanes acuden al Parlamento a exponer sus problemas y solicitar que los ayuden para que les reconozcan sus derechos autóctonos, porque existen desde tiempos inmemoriales (Asamblea Nacional 2005a).

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Finally, the report indicates that deputies Moyetones and Alcántara suggested that the Commission would analyze the proposal in order to provide a final response to the

“descendants of the first inhabitants” of this region. In sum, it is clear that during this legal petition, discourses on “ancestral origin” and long-term spatial-territorial occupation were articulated in order to reclaim for recognition of this indigenous group. It is also evident that the deputies and local intellectuals who backed this legal procedure were also responsible for producing these frames. I by no means want to suggest that Ayamans were passive actors in this process. Yet it is important to bear in mind that Ayamans in

Moroturo did not produce or circulate discourses or frames on State territorial demarcation. I will later show how this proposal for land demarcation has not been internalized or reproduced by Ayamán leaders or members in Moroturo. This project is rather part of the goals and agendas of particular local intellectuals and their organizations.

Reaching President Chávez

After this first legal petition was made to the National Assembly, Ayamán members were invited to participate in a political encounter. Written and oral references of this event do not explicit the date or setting of this meeting. However, this interaction is portrayed as one of the key steps shaping the process of ethnic recognition of the

Ayamán people.

The Reina remembers that Eric Jimeno and his team invited them to Caracas in order to hear President Chávez, and seek an opportunity to give him their legal petition in 372

person. Gutiérrez (2005a) indicates in a newspaper article that the Deputies of the

National Assembly helped Ayamán leaders to colarse (sneak) into an activity in which

Chávez was going to be present. Thus, it is clear how national and Ayamán leaders were aware of the need of achieving direct contact with this charismatic State leader.

The Reina recalls in different versions this event stating that she managed to talk in person with the President and tell him about their needs. Local intellectuals of Misión

Cultura also remember this event, stating that the Reina used her powers in order to reach the President. One of them said that he was looking for the Reina among the multitude of participants, and suddenly he saw her hugging and speaking with Chávez on the distant and inaccessible public stage. He expressed great amazement and indicated that she had invoked the power of the Tura spirits in order to become invisible or unnoticed by the presidential guards. The newspaper article of Gutiérrez states:

“…it was impossible to reach the Head of State. The tight security rings around the President impeded it, in addition to the bunch of people who wished to talk with the Bolivarian leader. Mariana narrates that she took in her hands the Ayamán encomienda for the President, the same one that they had brought to the parliamentarians. The wise Reina invoked the gods and the spirits of her people; she squeezed into her hands the encomienda and walked towards the President. She penetrated the security rings, without any guard of the Casa Militar (presidential security guards) seeing her or stopping her. Chávez hugged her, kissed her and requested her blessing. Mariana blessed him, and talked to him about the encomienda. Chávez assented with his head. The Ayamáns had won the battle for their recognition as people”194 (Gutiérrez 2005a).

194 “Llegar al Jefe de Estado era prácticamente imposible. Los férreos anillos de seguridad del Presidente lo impedían, además del puñado de gente del pueblo que deseaba hablar con el líder bolivariano. Cuenta Mariana que tomó en sus manos la encomienda ayamán para el Presidente, la misma que le trajeron a los parlamentarios. La sabia Reina invocó a los dioses y a los espíritus de su pueblo, apretó en sus manos la encomienda y caminó hasta el Presidente. Penetró los anillos de seguridad sin que ningún guardia de la Casa Militar la viera y la detuviera, y logró depositar en las manos del Primer Mandatario la encomienda de la comunidad ayamán. Chávez la abrazó, la besó y le pidió la bendición. Mariana lo bendijo y le habló de la encomienda. Chávez asintió con la cabeza. Los Ayamanes habían triunfado en una batalla por su reconocimiento como pueblo” (Gutiérrez 2005a). 373

These memories of the Reina’s interactions with President Chávez evoke many important representations of empowerment. In the first place, the Reina is fully legitimized as having great ritual power for accessing the highest-level of State authority.195 She performed scripted bodily gestures indexing that the message or petition was being received by this leader (the hug, the kiss, nodding the head). Yet this narration also reveals a ritual interaction between the Reina and the President, as the later requested her bendición (blessing), and in turn, she in fact blessed him.

The memory of this act also adds to the symbolic capital of the Reina, as a spiritual leader. This interaction shows her power to protect the State in religious terms.

This religious role is evoked by many national indigenous leaders, who suggest that

Chávez is protected by the spiritual deities of indigenous peoples, and in particular by

Guaicaipuro. The representation of this interaction in turn shows how the Bolivarian revolution, reproduces the historical-spiritual pact established in 1998, between President

Chávez (when he was still candidate) and the various indigenous organizations that provided him with political support (See Chapter 4).

This particular event was also recalled on many occasions in Moroturo, especially by local intellectuals. Overall, the power of the Reina for “reaching the State” was

195 In almost all public events in which Chávez is present, a great part of the audience is seeking an opportunity to talk to him, or give him their written requests in face-to face interactions. Public events are conceived of as scenarios where political barriers may be overcome and as unique opportunities for receiving direct help and favors from this charismatic leader.

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certainly reaffirmed among community members, non-native actors, and regional and national indigenous leaders.

The State goes to Moroturo: signing the project of recognition

After the interaction between the Reina and President Chávez, this Ayamán- turero group was contacted by the Permanent Commission of Indigenous Peoples of the

National Assembly. The latter designated a sub-commission led by Deputy José Poyo

(Kariña) that would travel to Moroturo in order to assess and verify their indigenous identity. The main objective of this visit was to sign a project in order to elevate the official request of Ayamán peoples to the National Assembly (Gutiérrez 2005a).

Thus, on the 23 of July of 2005, Guillermo Guevara (Conive/Amazonas state),

Rafael Suárez (Conive/Zulia state), Carlos Pérez (Conive/Apure state) and Henry

Baldayo (MVR/Falcón state) arrived at the community of Moroturo (Asamblea Nacional

2005b). Deputy Víctor Martínez, Vice-president of the Legislative Council of the State of

Lara, was also present. An anthropologist of Misión Guaicaipuro also assisted in order to provide his ethnographic assessment of the community and its inhabitants. The local historian, Ramón Querales, the legislator Eric Jimeno and the concejal Antonio Rumbos also arrived. Other local and regional intellectuals and non-native leaders, as well as historians and local researchers were part of the audience (Gutiérrez 2005b).

Deputy Rafael Suárez indicated that the project would be read at the National

Assembly, the maximum legislative organ of the country in order to request the official recognition of Ayamán people (Gutiérrez 2005a). The National Institute of Statistics 375

would later conduct a census, once the recognition was approved. He argued that this process would allow Ayamans to “count” on the existing rights contained in the National

Constitution and with the new rights to be approved in the Organic Law project. He also evoked the Law of Habitat and Land Demarcation of Indigenous Peoples (2001) that would ensure this group with territorial rights in the lands that they have “ancestrally” occupied (Asamblea Nacional 2005b).

Hence, from the written documentation of this event it is clear that the power of law was invoked by state functionaries as a channel for seeking participation and inclusion within the Bolivarian neo-socialist State. However, it is interesting that there are no reports of Ayamans circulating these legal texts or frames in their petitions. As discussed in the previous section, legal frames are relatively marginal among Ayamán- turero members in Moroturo.

Newspaper reports of this event indicate that the local historian Ramón Querales spoke on behalf of the Ayamán leaders of Moroturo. His interventions circulated historical narratives seeking to legitimize and prove the continuity of Ayamán people in this territory since the early colonial period. He spoke about the Tura dance arguing that it was an ancient ritual conducted every year in order to favor the Gods and thank them for the harvests. He also mentioned Ayamán production of cocuy and their weaving practices with local fibers (Gutiérrez 2005b).

Querales further argued that Ayamans had lost their language due to the colonial process. He exposed the notion of ethnic shame, as the main the cause of this process of linguistic and cultural “loss.” This local intellectual specifically stated: “I could say that I 376

am not Indian, and you would believe it” (Yo podría decir que no soy indio y me lo creerían) (Gutiérrez 2005b). In general, he argued for the reversion of “ethnic shame” in the states of Lara and Falcón.

Overall, one can sense the role of this local intellectual in having the authority for representing Ayamán peoples before the State. He evoked a complex constellation of historical, ethnographic and linguistic discourses that sought to explain how Ayamans had “lost” their ethnic and linguistic identities as the result of the colonial process.

Moreover, it is clear how he also considers the Ayamán indigenous language, as a key identity marker to be asserted before the State.

Subsequently, the Ayamán leaders of Moroturo performed the Tura dances in front of the State functionaries. I do not have information on the characteristics of this cultural performance, and how it might have been different from other rituals that take place in ordinary contexts. State functionaries that I interviewed at the National

Assembly indicated that they were impressed with the dance, since it was a clear example of their indigenous ancestry. Others such the anthropologist Pedro Alvarez indicated that the settlement pattern (the setting) of this community was clearly indigenous. He explicitly referred to the patio as a large extension where several households or extended families dwelled. Another lawyer highlighted the physical features of the Ayamans. He indicated that the height of this people revealed their indigenous origin. Thus, it is clear how Federmann‟s colonial representations of Ayamán people as short, also circulated among State functionaries 377

Two lawyers indicated that unfortunately this group had lost their ancestral language. They suggested that this was one of the most important markers of indigenous identity. Yet for them the Tura Dance was enough prove of the indigenous origin of this group.196

With these ethnographic impressions, participants and State functionaries finally signed the project for requesting the official legal recognition of Ayamán people. The project was brought to Caracas by Deputy Poyo, who subsequently resented it to the parliament. He stated:

“… this etnia is located in the larense entity and at the south of Falcón, they are originarias communities, in other words, they were there before the arrival of the conquerors and colonizers, surviving with their costumes, forms of life and that they still practice their cultural traditions… In this sense they still cultivate the famous aboriginal chants and the ceremonial dance of the “Turas,” that is an ancestral dance”197 (Asamblea Nacional 2005b).

This national deputy claimed territorial continuity as one of the main indexes of

Ayamán indigeneity. In this case, the concept of “originario” refers to the occupation of this territory before the colonial process. He further highlights the Tura dance as another

“authentic” index of indigenous identity in this region. Finally, he indicated that these indigenous peoples have been seeking land demarcation and inclusion within State

196 It is important to note that in northwestern Venezuela, Gayones and Jirajara indigenous peoples have requested their ethnic recognition as well as their land demarcation process. However, State functionaries pointed that these groups did not have a language and not even distinctive dances as the Ayamán people have. It is also important to recall that not all turero groups have requested ethnic recognition. For instance, tureros from Mapararí in the state of Falcón do not claim to be indigenous. Some indicate that they are descendants of indigenous groups, but they do not self-identify as Ayamans. 197 “…etnia está ubicada al norte de la entidad larense y sur de Falcón, son comunidades originarias, es decir, que estaban ahí antes de la llegada de los conquistadores y colonizadores, sobreviviendo con sus costumbres, formas de vida y que aún practican tradiciones culturales… En ese sentido, todavía cultivan los famosos cantos aborígenes y el baile ceremonial de las “Turas”, que es una danza ancestral” (Asamblea Nacional 2005b).

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projects. He concluded that more attention should be paid to them in order to ensure their political and electoral participation, as is the case with other indigenous peoples in

Venezuela (Asamblea Nacional 2005b).

After this sequence of interactions with State legislative institutions, Ayamans were finally recognized in the Organic Law for Indigenous People and Communities

(LOPCI) of 2005, as the ethnic group number 35. This act of State recognition established a significant landmark for Ayamán people of the Lara state. Since then the

LOPCI has been recalled in many public events legitimizing the new legal status of this indigenous group vis-a-vis other peoples in the region.

Overall, one can see how the Ayamán organization has engaged in multiple legal interactions with the Venezuelan State. They have approached one of the maximum instances of the legislative power in order to request their ethnic recognition and their inclusion within official legal instruments. This legal petition was also given to the

President as an alternative strategy for securing their inclusion within the State. In response to these interactions, the legal State also reached the community of Moroturo in order to evaluate their degrees of “indigeneity.” In spite of the historical erasure of indigenous peoples in the Lara state, local intellectuals and their organization managed to articulate discourses of historical visibility and territorial continuity. The group of non- native agents also presented legal demands for territorial demarcation. However,

Ayamán-turero members have not fully embraced this particular project. In other words legal strategies involving territorial demands seem to not be embedded within Ayamán mobilizing habitus. These indigenous actors are rather focused on the potential visibility 379

and cultural capital given by their new status as indigenous peoples.

Cedulación: state identification process

Identification is one of the main governmentality and surveillance strategies of modern nation-states (Lyon 2010). ID cards have become key markers for inscribing subjects within modern citizenship regimes. Many nations have embraced the task of providing ID cards for indigenous peoples, not only for assimilating this population, but also for controlling their movements across national borders (Harbitz and King 2010).

Since 2005 the Venezuelan State has embraced the task of providing new identity cards for indigenous peoples. Instead of merely recognizing these populations as

Venezuelan citizens for electoral purposes, these new multicultural IDs also provide ethnic information. Now the State inscribes indigenous peoples into the collective imaginary of the nation, specifying the ethnicity and the name of the indigenous community where they were born.

After the official recognition of Ayamán people through the LOPCI, local intellectuals and State agents requested the identification and provision of IDs for

Ayamán people. Thus, in April of 2007, State functionaries of the Ministry of Indigenous

Peoples brought a group of agents of Misión Identidad in order to provide indigenous IDs cards to Ayamán members in the community of Moroturo. The Capataz of the Tura dances was called to lead this process; as he claimed that he knew who was propio indígena (real indígena) in the community. He indicated that he could identify each family and their last names, and thus could tell who was merely passing as indigenous. 380

During the event of identification, the Capataz provided a list with the names of the families who would receive the ID cards. Many members of the community received their legal IDs as Ayamán indigenous peoples, while others indicated that they did not want to have this form of identification. Instead, they argued that they would rather remain as Venezuelans, keeping the standard ID card.

In consequence, tensions arose among community factions, since this leader monopolized the identification process. Some indicated that the Capataz denied them the right to have an ID, on the basis of being non-indigenous. Many community members manifested on numerous occasions that they felt excluded. Thus, it is clear how this strategy of seeking State identification produced processes of exclusion and inclusion on the basis of indigenous identity.

The impact of this process of identification has been notorious and rapid. By late

October of 2007, many members indicated that they had received special treatment from regional and local State functionaries. One member commented that he was not stopped and searched by the National Guard, once he showed his Ayamán ID card. Another member indicated that he was well treated by a Cuban doctor, who could not believe that there were Indians in Lara state. In general, most members showed me their IDs with great pride.

Moreover, the ID as stated earlier has become in itself a marker of Ayamán or indigenous identity. For instance, at least six members in the community of Moroturo suggested that they were indigenous, as they pointed to their new ID cards. Marina argued: “Now I am Ayamán, they issued me the Ayamán ID because I live here” (Ahora 381

soy Ayamán, me sacaron una cédula Ayamán porque vivo aquí). In this case, it is clear that the ID served to ratify the spatial identity of this member. By stating “now,” she implies that before she possibly held other identities. Thus, in some way, the ID serves to explicitly articulate a unified identity before the State, and in turn claims inclusion within public policies oriented to indigenous peoples in the region.

Furthermore, Tomás indicated with pride: “Now we are Ayamán, I am not ashamed of showing the ID” (Ahorita somos Ayamán, a mi no me da pena sacar la cédula). Overall, one can sense how these new ethniticezed ID cards, not only served as disciplinary instruments of the State, but also as a source of identity, indexing incorporation within the multicultural nation.

Territorial strategies

Indigenous social movements in the Americas have historically embraced multiple strategic actions for preserving, recovering or transforming their lands and territories (Plant 2002; Gustafson 2002; Yashar 2005; Dietz 2005; Postrero and Zamosc

2006; Becker 2008; Kent 2008; Rappaport 2009). In Venezuela, indigenous movements have also mobilized for their land recognition. Since the 1960s, with the support of political and intellectual allies, indigenous organizations requested before the National

Agrarian Institute (IAN) the titling of collective lands (Heinen and Coppens 1981; Clarac

1983; Coppens 1971). Between 1972 and 1993, this institute provided 142 provisional titles in seven states, representing a total of 1,497,614.75 hectares (Caballero-Arias

2007:194). 382

In the 1980s, the Wothuja (Piaroa) indigenous people of the Guanay Valley engaged in direct confrontations with cattle ranchers in order to recover invaded lands in the Amazon state (Clarac 1986). During the 1990s the Ye´kuana of the Upper Orinoco and Caura Rivers demarcated their territories in order to request their recognition

(Arvelo-Jiménez y Jiménez 2000). The Cumanagoto indigenous people of the

Community of Caigua (in eastern Venezuela) in the 1990s also claimed the recovery of the lands that once were granted to them by the Spanish crown (Biord 2006:146).

Since 1999, indigenous peoples in Venezuela have been experiencing an exceptional moment of political and legal opportunities for recovering and claiming their lands and territories (Bello 2005; Caballero-Arias 2007). After the establishment of the

Law of Demarcation and Guarantee of Indigenous Habitat and Land (2001), numerous indigenous organizations and communities have started requesting the official demarcation of their habitat (Caballero and Zent 2006; González and Zent 2006;

Caballero-Arias 2007). Since 2001, Hoti indigenous people of the Amazon and Bolívar states (Zent and Zent 2006), the Yanomami of the Upper Orinoco River (Caballero and

Cardozo 2006), the Ye´kuana of the Upper Caura river, the Pemón of Bolívar state, the

Yukpa of the Sierra of Perijá and many other indigenous communities and peoples have self-demarcated their territories in order to request their state recognition.

This process has been notably slow, as many state functionaries and politicians consider the demarcation of indigenous lands as an overt threat to the nation-state‟s sovereignty and unity. Under the new multicultural legal order, the state has only issued collective titles for small communities (Zent and Zent 2006; Caballero-Arias 2007). In 383

2009, 81 petitions for land demarcation had not been processed (Guevara 2009). As stated earlier, in 2005, Ayamán leaders requested before the National Assembly the legal demarcation of their territory. However, this demand has not been processed since there is no Regional Commission of Land Demarcation in the Lara state.198 In legal terms this regional commission should elaborate socio-anthropological, juridical and geographical reports that will prove the ancestral occupation of this territory. These reports would also define the ownership history of the lands, their extension, physical characteristics, and the cultural and social elements of the communities to be demarcated.

In 2006, I visited the community of Moroturo on behalf of the National

Commission of Indigenous Land Demarcation in order to circulate the Law of Land

Demarcation and explain the process of demarcation in this community. I also conducted focus group discussions that could foster this process of territorial recognition. However, among Ayamán community members very little interest was shown concerning this process of State land demarcation. As stated earlier, Ayamán members articulated frames on land loss, yet almost all members seemed uninterested in mobilizing in order to seek or recover these lands.

What seems more intriguing is the fact that Ayamán members have limited access to land, considering that the average size of landholdings in the community is 1.95 hectares. Of a sample of 26 households located in Moroturo, 2 households reported having no access to land, while 12 families have less than half a hectare. In these very

198 The state of Lara has not been officially recognized as a state with indigenous population according to the census of 2001. This is why no Regional Commission of Demarcation has been established in this state.

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small plots, they tend to grow family gardens where they sow some manioc or fruit trees.

And in most cases, they use this space for raising chickens or pigs.

Another 6 households have between one and three hectares, while 4 families have plots that range from three to five hectares. In these portions of land, some members grow corn, manioc, beans, and papaya. However, most of these household members indicated that they have gradually abandoned their agricultural practices since the production costs are high and market prices have been regulated by the State.199 In light of these difficulties, many Ayamán members indicate that they have been forced to abandon their plots, since they lack the necessary resources for cultivating their crops.

Some of these households in turn, have adopted the strategy of shifting to animal raising practices. Several members have focused on raising sheep in rented plots in the surrounding cattle ranches.

Only two households of the sample, have access to the ten hectares of land which were adjudicated to these families through agrarian reform policies. Ironically, these two families did not recognize themselves as Ayamán or indigenous people. Yet one of them did actively participate in the Tura dances.

This limited access to land, seemed to have fostered processes of local proletarialization. Most men seek their sources of income as daily workers in nearby cattle ranches or in seasonal plantations in the plains of Portuguesa state; while women

199 Preparing two hectares of land for cultivation exceeds the monthly income of an average Ayamán household, which is about 200,000 Bs (100$). Thus, very little money is available for seed or labor. Moreover, Ayamán members do not have direct access to regional markets. They sell their small production to intermediaries that visit the community. Therefore, profit from agricultural production is minimal.

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tend to work as domestics in the town of Santa Inés. The majority of these families also produces and circulates frames on land loss. As stated earlier, most of them sold their family plots during times of vulnerability or economic crisis. However, in spite of the limited access to land, community members and Ayamán leaders in general have not engaged in direct negotiations or struggles for recovering land, except for the petition of land demarcation conducted in 2005, or for requesting plots for housing purposes.

Moreover, they have not organized land committees or cooperatives that could foster this process of demanding land. In addition, very few members know about the current land reform program and its new land laws. This again reflects their lack of articulation with regional land movements and with state institutions such as the National Institute of Land

(INTI).

In sum, land is not perceived as a possible resource to be pursued through collective Ayaman mobilizations. Land is only requested in order to access housing, which is seen as the main need of community members. In one occasion, the Capataz called me in order to talk with the Reina about a message that he had received from his ancestors. Fragments of the dialogue indicated:

“Alfonso (Capataz)- Last night there was a commission of Capataces, Reina, mayordomo, musicians and all of my family. I do not know why they visited me, making me a proposition, that I should find the way to rescue the land of Crisóstomo Perozo, as chief and mayordomo of the etnia Ayamán. They told me that in a hectare and a half, 20 families can be located, 20 young families, more than 18. Include only young (people). The problem is that they want to sell it to other people that are not from the community. The proposition is the following, Mariana, if we recover the land, there we can place 20 families, all young. There is Pedro, Tina, Neida, all who have children. Including those who do not have a house. There are people who are grouped, but they need somewhere to stay, that land is (good) for that. When they did that for the land a commission arrived and told me: “Alfonso make an effort and we will make 386

this easy for you.” I went to the Alcaldía four times and I already have 100 Bs. (US$ 25) in (traveling) tickets. What did I do? I jumped up and went straight to talk to William Peña (the mayor). What did he do? He bought the land, he is going clean up the terrain and is going to donate it to the community. The documents are going to be given to the community. If it is for an indigenous community, it is for the indigenous chiefs, if it is for the etnia, it is for the etnia, that is very easy. That (land) does not cost more than 10 million. Mariana - I have understood that it was 16, 10 million (to be deposited) in cash. Alfonso - 20 families do fit, it must be measured and the streets prepared” 200 (Moroturo February 2007).

This dialogue shows how processes of land negotiation with State institutions are conducted in order to ensure housing for younger Ayamán generations. It is interesting to note how these leaders were involved in the process of visiting State institutions such as the Alcaldía. One can also sense great dependency of Ayamán leaders on their clientelistc networks with local politicians. It is ironic that they request this land to be purchased by

William Peña, a local politician who had bought some of the very same plots that once belonged to Ayamán families. Thus, one can observe how this local politician continues to control the distribution and access to land in this community.

200 “Alfonso - Anoche, hubo una comisión entre capataces, Reina, mayordomos, músicos y toda mi familia, no sé por qué me visitaría haciéndome una proposición. Que busque unas maneras como rescatar el terreno de Crisóstomo Pablo, él como jefe y mayordomo de la etnia Ayamán. Me dijeron que en una hectárea y media se pueden colocar 20 familias, 20 familias jóvenes de 18 en adelante. Incluir puro mozo. El problema es que lo quieren vender a otras personas que no son de la comunidad La proposición es esta Mariana, si rescatamos terreno ahí se pueden colocar 20 familias todos mozos. Ahí está Pedrito, Tina, Neida, todos que tenga hijo, incluir a los que no tienen vivienda. Hay personas que están agrupao pero ellos necesitan donde estar, ese terreno si da para eso. Cuando se hizo esto para el terreno me llegó la comisión y me dijeron: “Alfonso haga empeño y nosotros le hacemos esto fácil.” Fui a la alcaldía cuatro veces y ya llevo más de 100 Bs. en pasaje. Que hice, brincá y me fui de una vez y hablé con William Pena. Que fué lo que hizo? Compró el terreno, le va a pasar máquina y se lo va a donar para la comunidad. Los documentos se los va a entregar a la comunidad. Si es para una comunidad indígena es para los jefes indígenas, si es para la etnia es para la etnia, eso está facilito. Eso no llega a los 10 millones Mariana - yo tengo entendido que es 16, chinchin 10 millones Alfonso- si caben 20 familias, eso se mide y se le hace calle Krisna- Quién era el dueño de esa tierra? Mariana- ese era el solar del Capataz mayor” (Moroturo, February 2007).

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Moreover, it is noteworthy how Alfonso expresses tensions over who will be entitled to this piece of land. In this regard, he stated “the documents are going to be given to the community. If it is for an indigenous community, it is for the indigenous chiefs, if it is for the etnia it is for the etnia, that is very easy.” Thus, in this context one can perceive how the Capataz implicitly calls for ethniticizing this land grant in order to assert the control of Ayamán leaders over this plot. He is implicitly seeking to ensure that other non-indigenous factions of the community, represented by the family of the

Almaus, could not claim control over the requested plot.

Another territorial strategy of Ayamán people has been purchasing individual plots. On two different occasions in 2007, I received phone calls from the son of the

Reina. On her behalf, he told me that they needed funds in order to buy a small plot of land of about 2 hectares. He indicated that this land was going to be sold to a rich man, and if so they would lose the opportunity to purchase it. He asked to me if I could request money in order to buy the land from the Ministry of Indigenous People. He further told me that he had already set up an altar on this plot in order to claim the land with the support of the spirits. Thus it is interesting that Ayamans do not seek access to land in the

Regional National Institute of Land (INTI) of Lara state. Requesting state lands as

“peasants,” does not constitute an alternative, or a possible strategic action to be enacted by Ayamán members in general. It is important to note that INTI in Lara has tended to deny the presence of indigenous people in this state. Even functionaries of the Ministry of

Indigenous Peoples, commented on the explicit resistance of INTI-Lara functionaries to process the requests of other indigenous peoples in the region. 388

In sum, in contrast to many indigenous organizations of Latin America and

Venezuela, the Ayamán-turero organization has developed very few strategic actions for accessing land; in spite of producing and circulating discourses on land loss. As explained in Chapter 8, Afroyaracuyan organizations on the contrary have strong connections and alliances with State land institutions such as INTI, CRAU, FONDAFA,

INDER. Activists of these organizations circulate frames evoking land laws and territorial rights. They have also have developed a wide range of strategic actions for occupying, recovering and distributing land among some of their community members.

In spite of current legal frames recognizing land rights for indigenous peoples in

Venezuela, Ayamán territorial strategies remain limited to face-to-face requests for small plots with local politicians and State “emissaries.” These modest petitions tend to be mediated by ritual practices involving the orientations of the spirits of their ancestors.

Although they have very little access to land, they do not seek larger plots for agricultural purposes. Instead, they remain seeking other resources, such as housing and financial assistance for purchasing corn and meat for the Tura dances. The petition for State land demarcation, as is the case for many indigenous communities in Venezuela, remains an abstract and unfulfilled promise of the Bolivarian multicultural neo-socialist State.

Articulation and networking with local and regional organizations

Indigenous movements in Latin America have built large national and transnational networks, linking distinct organizations across multiple geographical locations (Foweraker 1995; Warren 1998, 2003; Yashar 2005; Van Cott 2005; Becker 389

2008). The Ayamán turero organization has embraced different strategic actions to transform and/or create networks with the regional turero fraternity, with local intellectuals and their cultural organizations, and with regional and national State institutions and movements.

Regional networks: The turero fraternity

The Ayamán organization of Moroturo is linked to a large network of turero organizations located in the south of the state of Falcón and in the north of Lara state.

Each of these groups has their own set of hierarchical patios, organized and orchestrated by particular leaders. Groups of tureros tend to invite each other to their respective rituals. In fact, it can be argued that these organizations constitute a sort of religious fraternity. In other words, they articulate a regional network of devotos (believers) of the

Tura spirits, who are in charge of conducting the annual ritual of the Tura Dance. The main nodes of this network are clusters of about 5 or 6 patios that are led by a mayor

Capataz and a Reina.

In 1992 Professor Chirinos, a local intellectual from the Casa Cultural of Mapararí in the state of Falcón, proposed conducting a regional encounter of tureros, in order to strengthen this existing network of the patios. On the 10th and 11th of December of 1999, the First Encounter of the Turero Fraternity was celebrated in Mapararí. This event was promoted by the Casa de la Cultura “Florentino Triana” of this town. In this encounter participated tureros from Moroturo, El Tigre, El Jusal, La Duquesa, and the Mapararí

River. For Chirinos the main objective of this regional celebration was to consolidate the 390

ritual so that it can resist “the effects of transculturization.” He argues that the ritual of

Mapararí is preserved almost intact, as was practiced by Ayamán “aboriginal people” in the past.

Later, in 2001, the second encounter of tureros in the Community of El Tigre was celebrated. At this event assisted tureros from San Pedro de Mapararí, the town of

Mapararí, Moroturo, La Pastora, Los Tanques, and Santa Cruz de Turén. During this celebration, Chirinos reports that the “Reglamento de las Turas” (1890) was presented with a view to homogenizing the existing Tura ritual practices. One can sense how local intellectuals aimed at identifying authentic markers for the Tura dances in order to foster the integration of the distinct frames and actions of turero groups.

However, particular rivalry exists between the tureros of Moroturo and of San

Pedro de Mapararí-Falcón. Since 1999, both organizations have created cultural associations in order to claim State resources for promoting their rituals. While the organization of Moroturo has tended to assert its indigenous identity as Ayamán people, the tureros of Mapararí, although they recognize the indigenous origins of their dances, argue that the turero movement is for all people, and that it is not exclusively indigenous.

On the other hand, the organization of Mapararí claims to be more authentic in their practices. For instance, the Capataz of Mapararí once told me during an informal conversation that the people of Moroturo were involved in witchcraft (brujería), and that they had contaminated their dances with espiritista practices. He argued that these practices have diminished the power of their dances. In other words, he de-legitimized their authority as “authentic” tureros. Chirinos also pointed out that the Turas of 391

Moroturo had alien elements, such María Lionza, and a great deal of indigenous indumenta, a consequence of their encounters with other indigenous peoples. With an essentialist voice, he argued that the Turas of Maparari were almost intact and more

“pure.” He asserted that actions should be taken in order to prevent the “contamination” of the Tura dances in the region.

In general, local intellectuals from Mapararí seemed anxious about the public introduction of espiritista (witchcraft) practices within the Tura dances. They rejected the incorporation of these religious expressions within these rituals, due to their strong links with the local Catholic Church. It is important to note that in Mapararí, the turero groups must dance in front of the Church in order to honor the Virgin of Las Mercedes, every

23rd of September. Moreover, this same group of tureros has strong connections with local caudillo powers, as the dance is conducted in the patio of Belarmino Vasquez, an important merchant of this town. In sum, the tureros of this region of Falcón seemed more institutionalized and even co-opted by local powers.

However, in spite of these rivalries over “performative authenticity,” it is important to note that turero leaders of Moroturo seek to foster network alliances during these regional encounters with other turero groups, in order to achieve greater cultural visibility. In addition, their participation in this larger network has also enabled both teams to reclaim, before the Institute of Cultural Heritage (IPC) of the Ministry of

Culture, the recognition of the Tura dances as heritage of the nation and of humanity.

Local intellectuals: chroniclers and cultural activators 392

Local non-indigenous intellectuals, or non-native agents, have critical roles in shaping indigenous social movements strategies (Warren and Jackson 2002; Gow and

Rappaport 2002; Rappaport 2005). Rappaport (2005) argues that indigenous social movements cannot be studied without analyzing the role of “outsiders.” Traditional intellectuals tend to be local priests (usually linked to mainstream politics), grassroots lawyers, local power-holders reproducing clientelistic politics, schoolteachers, NGO leaders, university professors, among others (Rappaport 2005:13). There are also collaborators (colaboradores) that provide full time support to ethnic organizations and articulate their own agendas through indigenous organizations. They serve as interlocutors between the State and local communities, and with political factions. These intellectuals tend to have an ambiguous status within the organizations that they assist.

On the one hand they are “outsiders” and on the other “they are becoming organic” to the very formation of these organizations and movements (Rappaport 2005:14).

In this sense, Rappaport proposes exploring the overlooked diversity and multiplicity of these actors. She argues that their ideological and political diversity in fact shapes the configurations of mobilized “native political ideology.” In this regard, she sustains that “it is within the dynamic that unfolds between regional and local indigenous intellectuals that ethnic projects are constituted, not with the imposition of one sector over another” (Rappaport 2005:15).

One of the main strategies of the Ayamán organization has been to establish strong links with local and regional intellectuals and non-native collaborators. These

“outsiders” are highly diverse and have different ideological and political frames. They 393

have produced and circulated written texts, articles, blogs, web pages, proposals, legal petitions, radio programs, events, and meetings. They all have in common the need to visibilize the recognition of Ayamán people in the Lara and Falcón states. In this section,

I will briefly describe some of the strategies adopted by these intellectuals on behalf of the Ayamán people of Moroturo.

The local historian

Let us start with the poet201 Ramón Querales, the official local historian of the

Ayamán people. He has produced numerous texts, articles and books on the history of this indigenous population, mainly those in the state of Lara (Querales 1995, 1998, 2006,

2009). He is currently the Official Chronicler of the Iribarren Municipality and he self- recognized as Ayamán long before 1999.

The main agenda of this intellectual is to promote the recognition of the Ayamán territory. He suggests that the existing historical, archaeological, and linguistic documentation will provide a sufficient base for reclaiming the recognition of the

Ayamán territory in the present (Querales 2006, 2009). This intellectual has been an active producer of historical-territorial ideologies and frames, which have been circulated in public events, texts and legal petitions.

As previously discussed in the sections on legal strategies, this intellectual actively participated in the legal petition made by the Ayamán people before the National

201 It is interesting to note that many local intellectuals in northwestern Venezuela are poets. In public events they are usually identified as such as a sign of respect for their position and cultural engagement with their communities.

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Assembly, as well as in the encounter with members of this institution that took place in the community of Moroturo. In both events, Querales proposed the demarcation of the

Habitat and Land of Ayamán people according to what has been established in the Law of Demarcation and Guarantee of Indigenous Habitat and Lands (2001). In other meetings and events, this local historian has also requested a) the census of the Ayamán villages and towns, b) state identification (ID) of Ayamán indigenous people, c)

Formation of the Communal Ayamán Territory, and d) the naming of an Ayamán Vice- minister (at the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples).

In sum, one can also see how this intellectual seeks overt inclusion of Ayamán people within the Venezuelan State and their public policies. However, this particular spatial-political project is not necessarily shared or reproduced by Ayamán leaders or community members in Moroturo. Yet in spite of these divergences, without doubt

Querales has had a significant role in mediating Ayamán interactions with State institutions. He has produced the necessary historical and essentialist ethnic discourses that have enabled Ayamán people to be “heard” and be “seen” by the Venezuelan State.

Nevertheless, as in the case of many other local intellectuals, in this process he has also imposed his own historical and cultural representations of Ayamán people.

Misión Cultura: cultural activators of the revolution

Another group of local intellectuals are the activadores culturales (cultural activators) of Misión Cultura. Some are also members of a cultural cooperative located in the city of Barquisimeto that is linked to the Gayón Movement of the Lara state. Anthony 395

Lázaro, one of the leaders of this cooperative also works with the Vice-ministry of

Indigenous Urban Peoples, at the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples. He is the main representative of Socialist Indigenous Warriors in Lara, and he self-recognizes as descendant of both Ayamán and Wayúu indigenous people.

Most of these activadores argue that Ayamán, Gayón and Jirajara people need more cultural and political visibility and incorporation within State institutions. They suggest that these indigenous populations must recover their language in order to be considered “real” indigenous peoples by the State. These “cultural activators” also reproduce indo-socialist notions of primitive communism, as they suggest that Ayamán tureros must return to their “original” practices of agriculture and redistribution of natural resources. This group of intellectuals also seeks to “rescue” and promote the Tura dances, which in their view is the main indigenous marker of Ayamán people and of regional indigenous identity.

While I was staying in the community Moroturo, four students of “Misión

Cultura” who belonged to this cooperative arrived, with the idea of conducting a census of Ayamán families. These students evoked and performed clear indigenista ideologies, as they constantly referred to the importance of recovering lost indigenous practices. One of them suggested to the Reina that they should use feathers in their hats, and use indigenous names. They also told the Reina and the Capataz that they should go back to their conuco practices, instead of seeking money in order to buy corn. They called for recovering the collective practices of production in order to guarantee the continuity of the Tura dances. 396

As these activists conducted the census, they also promoted the self-recognition of

Ayamán people. One student told an interviewed man, who claimed to be criollo, that he could not deny his Ayamán ancestry, because his face and eyes were clearly indigenous.

In general, this group of non-native activists produced and circulated classical indigenista frames, nurtured with notions of primitive communism. They also had close connections with the leaders of the Tura dances as they engaged in ritual practices of consultation and healing at the altar.

Ayamán municipality

There is another group of intellectuals who seek to promote the formation of an

Ayamán Municipality, separated from the Municipality of Urdaneta. They argue that the

Ayamán region, in particular the parishes of San Miguel and Moroturo have the highest levels of agricultural production in the municipality, but that local state resources are monopolized by the mayor (alcalde) who is based in Siquisique.

The leader of this team of intellectuals is criollo and is publicly opposed to the mayor of the Urdaneta Municipality, who is aligned with the MVR political party (Movimiento V

República). This leader is instead aligned with the PPT (Patria para Todos) party, which has been competing for local power in this region for many years. The formation of the

Ayamán Municipality in his view constitutes an opportunity for capturing many resources that are used by the mayor in others regions of the Municipality. José, one of the intellectuals of this team indicated:

“They had us like Cinderella. For the government, everything goes to the municipality of Siquisique. The housing plans arrived to Siquisique. We continue 397

struggling; we want an alliance with the parish of San Miguel. We arrived at the conclusion that we want the name Ayamán municipality. President Chávez talks about redefining the geography. Let us do it to the territory, here we could establish a comuna. We make the proposal of delimitating the Ayamán territory. The map, what constitutes the proposal of the Ayamán ethnic (group) is 5,000 square kilometers. Eight municipalities in this territory, origin of the Ayamán tribe...”202

Thus, it is clear how this group of intellectuals seeks to re-territorialize the parish of Moroturo in ethnic terms. They have invited Ayamán leaders of Moroturo to participate in many of their meetings and assemblies. This group has made public signs, bumper stickers and caps calling for the formation of the Ayamán municipality.

However, Ayamán leaders of Moroturo and of the community expressed frustration in regard to this project. They feel manipulated by these local political leaders whohave only made promises in order seek their own personal interests. Many Ayamán members also indicated that did not feel confident with this proposal. Thus, it is clear that

Ayamáns have been the ethnic face of this project of municipalization, and their degree of participation in this new ethiniticized territorial-political entity is still not clear.

Overall, Ayamán strategic alliances with local intellectuals are ambiguous and involve critical tensions. On one hand, the projects and visions of these intellectuals are not necessarily reproduced or internalized by members of the Ayamán organization of

Moroturo. In other words, they have little resonance within the mobilizing habitus of this

202 “...a nosotros nos tenían como Cenicienta. Para el gobierno todo iba para el municipio Siquisique, los planes de vivienda llegaban a Siquisique. Seguimos con la lucha, queremos alianza con la parroquia San Miguel. Llegamos a la conclusión que queremos el nombre de Municipio Ayamán. El Presidente Chávez habla de redefinir la geografía, vamos con el territorio, aquí sale una comuna. Se hace una propuesta de delimitar el territorio Ayamán. El mapa, lo que constituye la propuesta de la etnia Ayamán es de 5,000 kilómetros cuadrados. Ocho municipios en este territorio, origen de la tribu Ayamán.. .” (José Moroturo, August 2007).

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indigenous organization. Thus, the multiple projects of territorialization proposed for the

Ayamán people, at the local level, are seldom recognized as significant and their implications are not of immediate interest to community members. Moreover, community members and Ayamán leaders usually indicate that they have been manipulated by some of these intellectuals, especially those who have political aspirations at the municipal level. In other words, a great distance remains between the goals of these intellectuals and those of the Ayamán organization. In this sense, Ayamán participation within these projects is relatively limited, to the production of ethnic-exotic-multicultural representations.

However, on the other hand, these alliances with local intellectuals constitute a strategic action for building larger mobilizing networks, and for gaining regional cultural and political visibility. Ayamán leaders, in particular the Reina and the Capataz are constantly invited to participate in the cultural events and performances of these NGOs, and State missions. With their horns, crowns and music they serve to ethniticize these outsider projects (land demarcation, ethnic municipality, and recognition of regional indigeneity). In this sense, Ayamán members provide local intellectuals with the cultural indumenta in order to be “seen” by the multicultural State. Through these performances,

Ayamans have gained their own visibility in order to be “considered” (tomados en cuenta) by the State. Because of these alliances, national State institutions have in turn decided to visit and suggest specific projects to be conducted in the community of

Moroturo. In sum, within this complex process of political maneuvers, Ayamán members 399

and local intellectuals have co-constructed and enacted common strategies of visibility, each for their own ends and needs.

Articulations and networking with national state institutions

The Ayamán organization has established direct negotiations and articulations with national State institutions. In most cases, as stated earlier, these interactions have been mediated or shaped by the active role of local intellectuals mainly linked to Misión

Cultura and to the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples.

Strategic networks with the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples

The Ministry of Indigenous Peoples (MINPI), created in 2006, has designed and implemented numerous strategies for the “incorporation” of indigenous peoples into the nation-state. One of its first actions was to re-territorialize the political geography of indigenous peoples within the new multicultural nation. In this process, Ayamán people have become directly subject to the Vice-ministry of Indigenous Peoples of Urban Zones.

Moreover, this Ministry has established as its main priority the conformation and constitution of Indigenous Communal Councils (ICC). These organizations are in fact considered a requisite for providing resources and supporting any kind of development projects in indigenous communities nationwide. Yet on the other hand, the Ministry expresses its concern regarding the complexities involved in the distribution of State resources to these new organizations. The Minister and other functionaries that I have interviewed indicate that not all indigenous peoples are “ready” to manage State 400

resources. For instance, a lawyer of this institution indicated that there were many cases where Indigenous Communal Councils requested funds for purposes other than those approved by the community. In spite of these critical problems, the Ministry reported as one of its main achievements the formation of more than 2,100 Indigenous Communal

Councils in 2009.

In response to these executive guidelines, Anthony Lazaro, (as representative of

MINPI, and of the Socialist Indigenous Warriors of Lara state) has promoted the formation of several Indigenous Communal Councils in the region. In the following section, I will explore how Ayamán-turero members from Moroturo engaged in the process of constituting an Indigenous Communal Council.

Formation of the communal council: indigenous or criollo

In February 2007, members of the community of Moroturo started the process of forming a local Communal Council (CC).203 Territorial dilemmas emerged at the moment of defining which families would belong to this new community organization. The

Communal Council Law of 2006, established that in indigenous communities these forms of organization should be composed by at least 10 indigenous families inhabiting a continuous space. Several assemblies were conducted with community members,

203 The Community of Moroturo, as well as most communities in Venezuela is currently engaged in the process of forming Communal Councils. This novel form of organization has been created to ensure the participation, articulation and integration of diverse communitarian organizations, social groups, and citizens. The main objective of the CC is to allow “the people” the direct administration of public policies and of their local projects. This form of organization has been created to ensure the direct distribution of state resources among local communities. Some argue that the formation of CC is part of the centralizing project of the state, as the regional state and the municipalities do not participate in project of the CCs.

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concluding that it was necessary to clarify which members were indigenous and which were not. The group of intellectuals lead by Lázaro carried out a household census in order to determine the official number of indigenous inhabitants in the community. A great variety of responses emerged in this context. As stated earlier, some families indicated that they were descendants of the indigenous people of the region, other expressed doubts over their forms of self-identification (we might be indigenous). Others, in particular the families of the Reina and the Capataz recognized themselves as Ayamán or members of the Ayamán etnia (ethnic group). Finally, another group regarded themselves as Venezuelans or criollos. In sum, the ethno-racial identification of the community was fragmented.

In response to this dilemma, community members decided to create two different

Communal Councils, an indigenous one and criollo one. However, a legal contradiction emerged since by law two Communal Councils cannot exist in the same space. In other words, from the perspective of the State, a Communal Council must correspond with a continuous territory, which should also be ethnically homogenous.

Furthermore, this process created significant leadership tensions. In the case of

Moroturo, as in many other indigenous communities nation-wide, local leadership factions started to struggle for the control of this organization. On one hand, the faction of criollo members organized their own Communal Council in order to receive State funds. Their main projects were oriented to recover the bathrooms of the school, to build a community water tank, and an ambulatory. This faction argues that an Indigenous

Communal Council should not be established, because Ayamán leaders would control it. 402

For the criollos these indigenous authorities would impose their own religious and family interests, over the needs of the community as a whole. A member of this criollo faction stated in this regard:

“With the Communal Council, it is not that a person can rule more than another, Alfonso (the Capataz), he cannot be the chief of the junta communal... “no, that I am president because I am Capataz of the Tura,” it‟s not like that. That is why he (Alfonso) does not like to go to those meetings”204 (member of the community of Moroturo, September 2007).

On the other hand, a faction of Ayaman members decided to create an Indigenous

Communal Council. The Capataz in particular argued that Ayamans required their own

Communal Council because criollo people have always ruled, excluding them from participating in community projects. In this regard, he stated:

“I tell you, that Communal Council (the criollo) will not get anywhere. They had that Communal Council for mercal, buses, roads and it collapsed. It failed because this is an indigenous community, this is (the work) of the spirits, they do not want something and they (do not let it work)” 205 (Alfonso, Moroturo October 2007).

Thus, great factional and leadership tensions emerged. Both Ayamán and criollo leaders struggled to control spaces of leadership within these new forms of organization.

This very same process has occurred in many other indigenous communities where younger leaders seek to displace older Capitanes or caciques.

204 “Con el Consejo Comunal, no es que una persona puede regir más que otra, Alfonso (Capataz Ayamán), él no puede ser el jefe de la junta comunal … no que yo soy presidente porque soy Capataz de la tura, eso no es así. Por eso no le gusta dil a esas reuniones” (member of the community of Moroturo, September 2007). 205 “Yo les digo ese Consejo Comunal (refiriéndose al criollo) no va a llegar a ninguna parte. Ellos tenían un consejo comunal para mercal, autobuses, carretera y se les cayó. Eso se les cae porque esto es comunidad indígena, eso es de los espíritus, ellos no quieren una cosa y la tumban de una vez” (Alfonso, Moroturo October 2007).

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In spite of these difficulties, the Indigenous Communal Council of Moroturo

(ICC) was constituted with 20 families, yet they are still completing the necessary census and procedures for registering the financial commission and the bank of the ICC. For the indigenous leaders, this process has been difficult because many of their members do not know how to read and write.206 Furthermore, some Ayamán members of the community refuse to participate in this ICC, since they also believe that it will be controlled by the family of the Reina and the Capataz. In other words, the ICC serves as a way of reifying and re-negotiating the already existing processes of factionalism within the community.

Overall, the Ayamán-turero organization has embraced the strategy of creating an

ICC in order to achieve inclusion within State public policies and thus obtain resources.

Over and over again, the Ayamán community and many indigenous peoples have been told that they must have ICCs in order to receive resources or credit. This is a clear homogeneizing State strategy that not only imposes new forms of organization upon indigenous peoples, but also shapes their forms of interaction and their dialogues with the

State.207

206 Due to these difficulties, the new Organic Law of Communal Councils (Ley Orgánica de Consejos Comunales 2010) modified the requirements for the formation of indigenous CCs. It was established that indigenous voceras and voceros can be related and that they can also conform committees for land demarcation, traditional medicine, environmental protection, and intercultural education. In addition, the reformed law seeks to simplify the bureaucratic paperwork involved in the formation of the bank. 207 State imposition of forms of organization in indigenous communities is not new. In the 1970s the State implemented indigenous communitarian enterprises, which were part of agrarian development programs. These enterprises served to continue integrating the indigenous population to the capitalist market. This process exacerbated the disarticulation of “traditional” indigenous leadership, de-legitimizing their political systems and intensifying local factionalism. Similar processes also occurred with the Juntas de Vecinos (Neighborhood Associations) during the decade of the 1980s (Arvelo-Jiménez and Perozo 1983).

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Performing in national meetings: as Ayamán or socialist warriors

After President Chávez introduced his proposal of Constitutional Reform on the

15th of August 2007, the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples convoked 400 indigenous leaders to take an oath as “indigenous socialist warriors” (See Chapter 4). In this context, the Ministry also organized the 1st Inter-American Congress of Anti-imperialist

Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, Abya Yala (I Congreso Internacional de Pueblos

Indígenas Antiimperialistas de la América, Abya Yala). Indigenous peoples of about 20 countries were invited to discuss the new Indo-American socialist project, envisioned as an alternative offering them integration and freedom. Ayamán members were invited to participate in this Congress by the Ministry, together with many other Venezuelan indigenous leaders and organizations. I was not able to assist at this event, which took place in Bolívar state, near the frontier with Brazil. Yet I registered commentaries and interviewed Ayamán members about it. I also had access to photographs and videos of the event.

From this documentary record, I learned that Ayamán members performed the

Tura dances and, together with other indigenous peoples, they took an oath to become

“indigenous socialist warriors.” They brought signs stating: “Chávez en el Corazón

Ayamán Moroturaye.” Many of them wore red shirts as they held wooden spears. They shouted: “fatherland, socialism or death” (patria, socialismo o muerte), as musicians played military trumpets. 405

The Capataz commented “...we are launched, they have to hear us, because we are warriors¨ (nos lanzamos, nos tienen que oir porque somos guerreros). Although most participants in the event reaffirmed their condition as indigenous warriors, I was struck by the lack of comments regarding the socialist project of the State or any kind of anti- imperial debates. There was even less mention of the Constitutional Reform, which at the time was the main political campaign of the revolutionary government. Instead, those who traveled referred to the natural beauties and sceneries that they visited, as well as the rare foods that they had eaten. Only one Ayamán member, referred to debates involving the Reform and its socialist precepts.

Regardless of their lack of State political rhetoric, most Ayamans indicated that they felt proud of presenting their dances in front of other indigenous peoples. Many commented about their lack of an indigenous language, in contrast to other indigenous groups. The Reina expressed the need to talk to the spirits, so that they could teach them the Ayamán language.

Some members also remembered their lack of indigenous dress in this performative context. The Reina, in turn, brought from this trip female and male indigenous dresses as memoirs, but also as iconic references in order to make their own costumes. During the event, the Reina and the Mayordomo were also given headdresses made of feathers, which she has also displayed on the altar of the Tura spirits.

In sum, as Ayamans engage in the new politics of State cultural performance they have been inclined to mimic what is seen as “authentic.” They perceive the potential of becoming “real Indians” by using the main indexes of indigenity, as defined by the State 406

and by local intellectuals: language and dress. Thus instead of focusing on the

Constitutional Reform and national political debates, or on land struggles, Ayamán actors prefer to secure their political location within the hierarchies of authenticity that exists among indigenous peoples in Venezuela. Thus, by participating in national indigenous

State institutions, Ayamán members seek to enhance their possibilities of gaining political visibility as “real” indigenous peoples. They strategically play the game of becoming “socialist warriors,” as a way of participating in this event and maintaining their alliances with the revolutionary government. Yet, I believe that Ayamán members and leaders have not internalized this new “socialist” political identity within their mobilizing habitus.

In general, this indigenous organization has very few articulations with other local social organizations. Most Ayamán-turero members rarely participate in local cooperatives or associations located in the town of Moroturo or Santa Inés. By way of contrast, they are closely related to the regional turero network, and to the Indigenous

Communal Council promoted by the National State.

Concluding remarks

Overall, one can see how the contemporary Ayamán-turero organization is based on a cofradía religious structure, in which each member has particular scripted roles and established settings. However this organization is not static. After the establishment of the new multicultural order, in 1999, the organization has been gradually transformed into a Cultural Association and a Council of Elders, in order to achieve access to regional 407

State funds. In turn, significant changes in leadership authority, internal factionalism, and identity framing have also emerged. This organization is now circulating multiple frames on Ayamán and indigenous identity, which express different degrees of internalization and self-transformation of this ethno-racial category. They also circulate local frames addressing their need to access State resources for conducting their annual rituals and for ensuring housing for younger generations. Moreover, they produce frames depicting their sense of being manipulated by local State institutions and some intellectuals. Although most of these mobilizing frames target the State, they have little regional, national or international resonance since the goals of the Ayamán organization are overwhelmingly local.

Ayamán members have also enacted multiple strategic actions. Ritual practices are one of the main settings where Ayamáns perform political negotiations with State institutions. By exchanging spiritual protection and offerings, the Ayamán organization and the local State establish symbolic and political alliances, as they accumulate and distribute social and political capital. This ritual context also serves to legitimize the ritual authority of Ayamán leaders and to reassert their hierarchical positions as owners and members of the patio number “one.” Internal factionalism and tensions among leaders are also negotiated through symbolic encounters and mock fights. In sum, the

Tura dances are the main source of income for the organization, as well as a site for negotiating cultural visibility, political authority, and for constructing and reproducing

Ayamán-turero identity. 408

The Ayamán organization has also enacted legal strategies. Before the National

Assembly, they requested their legal recognition as indigenous peoples of the multicultural nation-state in 2005. This same petition was given to President Chávez in a face-to face interaction. They also invited the legislative power to visit Moroturo in order to assess the authenticity of their indigeneity. In contrast to other indigenous peoples in northwestern Venezuela, Ayamán people were finally recognized as the number 35, on the indigenous peoples‟ list, in the Organic Law of Indigenous Peoples and Communities

(LOPCI). This process has in turn fostered the circulation of Ayamán identity frames, their national visibility, and their recognition by State indigenous institutions.

After achieving their legal recognition, Ayamán members have also requested their State identification and ID cards. This process has exacerbated previous rivalries and factionalism among criollos and tureros who do not fully identify as Ayamans. On the other hand, State ID cards have become in themselves indexes of local indigenous identity, as well as a source of pride for some members.

The territorial strategies of the Ayamán-turero organization are relatively marginal. Although they requested the official demarcation of their lands and habitat to the National Assembly, this process has been mainly orchestrated and conducted by local intellectuals and State agents. Ayamán members in Moroturo are not interested in seeking land for productive purposes or in defining the limits of their ancestral territory. In spite of articulating frames on land loss, most members are interested in accessing land for housing purposes, possibly in order to mitigate household fragmentation and the migration of younger generations. 409

Furthermore, the Ayamán-turero organization has developed multiple strategies for building alliances with local intellectuals, teachers, regional and national state agents and cultural activators. These strategic networking actions allow the Ayamán organization to gain regional visibility, circulate identity frames and build common cultural and political projects. This engagement has in turn exacerbated the politics of authenticity and State cultural performances among Ayamán regional factions or groups.

Some teams and leaders also feel manipulated and co-opted by some of these external

“collaborators” who in some cases use Ayamán members as the “ethnic” or folkclorized

“face” of their own organizations.

The Ayamán organization does not seek political positions or representatives within State institutions. Much less do their members explicitly align with national or regional political parties. However, Ayamán members have embraced the project of establishing an Indigenous Communal Council, as part of the political directives of the

Ministry of Indigenous Peoples. This process has created great factionalism among

Ayamán leaders, tureros, and criollos who seek to control these new spaces of “popular participation” and ensure direct access to State resources. Moreover, some members have been invited to national and international meetings, where they exchange symbolic knowledge and objects with other indigenous leaders. In consequence, some Ayamán leaders have self-recognized as “indigenous socialist warriors,” in order to comply with the political “lines” of the Minister of Indigenous People.

Overall, the Ayamán-turero organization has mainly focused on achieving cultural and ethnic recognition. Its system of strategies and frames for seeking State 410

resources is mainly oriented to guarantee the continuity of the Tura dances and, in turn, for re-legitimizing the symbolic and political authority of their leaders. In other words, the new multicultural legal order has mainly served as a “political opportunity” for achieving recognition. Limited redistribution is achieved through local clientelistic face- to-face interactions and negotiations among non-indigenous political leaders, local State agents, and intellectuals. In spite of their dependency on local State institutional levels,

Ayamán members have managed to maintain their relative political autonomy as long as they continue to reproduce and enact their Tura dances every year.

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CHAPTER 7. THE AFROYARACUYAN MOVEMENT: ARTICULATING LAND AND SOCIO-CULTURAL ORGANIZATIONS.

“Soy Afro mi gente, soy Afro, Afrodescendiente” (Sandra‟s answering phone message 2007).

“ Aquí el movimiento era cultural, y de comité de tierra, de grupos de tambores, y poetas” (Leopoldo, Palmarejo March 2007)

This Chapter examines the discursive and strategic actions of the Afroyaracuyan movement in Veroes, Yaracuy State. First, I explore the formation of the movement and some of its leadership transformations. I describe some of the organizations that make up this movement. Particular attention is paid to the role of framing processes and the circulation of ideologies across these organizations. I finally analyze the specific strategies of the Afroyaracuyan movement, in order to discover how activists construct negotiating spaces with the Venezuelan local, regional and national State. I draw attention to the everyday articulation of this movement with other social organizations and political parties in the region. I pay particular attention to the ongoing processes of ethnicization and territorialization that takes place among ethno-racial and land organizations in Veroes, as they integrate the Afroyaracuyan movement.

Formation of the Afroyaracuyan Movement

The Afroyaracuyan movement is located in the fertile Valley of the Yaracuy

River. The organizations that make up this movement are established in Farriar,

Palmarejo, Agua Negra, El Chino and Taría (Figure 9). These communities mainly 412

Agua Negra

Palmarejo

Palo Quemado Farriar

Hacienda La Rosita

Río Marcano El Chino

LOS CAÑIZOS Taria

Macagua

Río Yaracuy

San Felipe

0 2000 4000 6000 8000 mt

Figure 9. Afroyaracuyan contemporary communities

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surrounded by sugarcane and banana fields, are recognized as part of the afrodescendant region of the Veroes Municipality. The semi-urban town of Farriar has about 2000 inhabitants, and it is the capital of the municipality. The towns of Agua Negra, and

Palmarejo are smaller in size and they are located within the communal lands granted by the State in 1925. Most of these towns have schools, ambulatories, bakeries, merchant shops, catholic churches, evangelical temples, liquor shops, and phone centers. Nearly all families are linked to agricultural activities. Some have between 5 and 20 hectares of land, on which they grow sugar, which they sell to the nearby sugar-processing industry.

Yet some families still grow a great diversity of products in their conucos or family plots, such as plantain, pumpkin, papaya, beans, and fruits. Others do not have land. Both men and women work on large sugarcane or banana plantations, while others work in schools, in the local health system, in diverse commercial posts, or as State functionaries at the local alcaldía. Most people in the region are in one way or another involved in some kind of collective organization: cooperatives, land committees, cultural organizations, State missions, Communal Councils, housing organizations, among others.

The Afroyaracuyan Movement of the Veroes Municipality was formed after the election of President Chávez in 1999. That year the Network of Afrovenezuelan

Organizations (ROA) invited some afrodescendant local leaders of Farriar, Palmarejo,

Agua Negra, and Taría to participate in a national meeting. These Afroyaracuyan leaders with another 154 cultural and artistic organizations assisted at this national encounter in order to develop a proposal for the inclusion of Afrodescendant peoples in the new constituent process (See Chapter 5). Thus, from its inception the formation of the 414

Afroyaracuyan movement was clearly shaped by its articulation with the Afrovenezuelan national network.

Most of thes leaders invited had previously worked in cultural, political and land organizations in Veroes. Germán, one of the early activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement remembers in this regard:

“…we were invited to see how we could be included in order to make the constitution of the Republic… the network was something new, although the struggle of las and los afrodescendants had always existed” 208 (Germán, Farriar May 2007).

Another activist of the Afroyaracuyan movement indicates: “… land groups were invited in order to create a socio-cultural group, named the Red Afroyaracuyana

(Afroyaracuyan Network)209 (Mateo, Palmarejo March 2007). Thus, the formation of this movement from its very beginning was strongly linked to the historical legacy of local land organizations, specifically the land committees of Agua Negra and Palmarejo. In consequence, the configuration of this afrodescendant movement involved the integration and adaptation of territorial agendas, within the realm of ethnic and cultural based forms of mobilization.

After participating in that national meeting, Afroyaracuyan leaders embraced the task of articulating the many different cultural, political, educational and land organizations of the municipality. However, during this early formation process integration was fragile and unstable. In fact, seven leaders monopolized the movement,

208 “... fuimos llamados para ver cómo podíamos ser incluidos para hacer la Constitución de la República ... la Red era algo nuevo, aunque la lucha de las y los Afrodescendientes siempre ha existido” (Germán, Farriar May 2007). 209 “... las agrupaciones de tierra fueron llamadas para crear una agrupación sociocultural, llamada la Red Afroyaracuyan” (Mateo, Palmarejo March 2007). 415

and they had problems managing funds and projects as they excluded other local organizations and activists. As a result, during the initial stage of 2001-2002, the network of Afroyaracuyan organizations was seriously fractured. One of the current leaders of the

Afroyaracuyan movement states in this regard:

“… the network had valuable individuals, if they could have organized themselves, they would not have failed. They had problems of leadership. That is why, at the beginning, the network collapsed. Now people with desires for justice have assumed the leadership”210 (Leopoldo, Palmarejo, March 2007).

Mateo also comments that this initial leadership failed to consolidate the movement due to its lack of clear orientations. In his words, this early Afroyaracuyan network was unable to channel the individualistic practices and interests of their leaders.

Yet, he states that many activists and local organizations continued to support the process of mobilization in the region. In fact, in 2001, the Escuela Práctica de Liderazgo

(Practical School of Leadership) and The Cultural Institute of Veroes were created. These spaces absorbed one faction of the original leadership of the Afroyaracuyan network. An activist of this faction states in this regard:

“… we fought each other, we were too hungry for anything. With that division, we made the following equation: we are separated, because we are devouring each other”211 (Germán Farriar, May 2007).

In 2002, a new group of activists, mostly of younger generations, decided to create a Civil Association named Espacio Cultural Comunitario Andresote. These young

210 “… la red tenía individuos valiosos, si se hubieran organizado, no hubiesen fallado. Tenían problemas de liderazgo. Es por eso que al principio la red se cayó. Ahora estamos liderizando gente que tiene ansias de justicia” (Leopoldo Palmarejo, March 2007). 211 “… peleamos entre nosotros, estamos demasiado hambrientos por cualquier cosa. Con esa división hicimos la siguiente ecuación: estamos separados porque nos estamos comiendo los unos a los otros” (Germán Farriar, May 2007). 416

leaders proposed a new management structure that permitted the integration and participation of other organizations of the region. They also promoted new projects and activities leading to the recruitment of new members from local afrodescendant communities.

A crucial step for this organization was the construction of the Cultural Complex

Andresote.212 This edification was built in 2001 by the Ministry of Culture and constitutes one of the most important achievements of the original network. The space was constructed on the lands of Los Gusanillos,213 and thus represented a memorial for those who had died in previous land struggles during the late 1980s. The building structure also houses a communitarian radio station, an Inforcentro (computer-internet center), five classrooms, and a large conference space.

In January 2004, President Chávez finally inaugurated the complex. During this event, the President conducted his weekly radio-TV show “Aló Presidente.”214 This occasion has been inscribed in the memory of many local activists, who say: por primera vez fuimos tomados en cuenta (for the first time we were taken into consideration). For local afrodescendant people, it was the first time that the President of the Republic had visited the region of Veroes. Moreover, the media coverage of this program is also recalled as a unique experience for achieving national visibility.

212 Andresote or Andrés López del Rosario was a runaway slave who established cumbe settlements in the region of Veroes during the late eighteenth century (For details see Chapter 3). 213 Los Gusanillos was a hacienda recovered by afrodescendant land movements in 1989. In this space, violent encounters took place between comunero land movements and the National Guard, resulting in the murder of a young Afrodescendant from Palmarejo (See Chapter 3 for details). 214 This TV-radio show is conducted every Sunday and is broadcasted by Venezolana de Televisión, a national state sponsored TV station. 417

During the program, President Chávez evoked Andresote and his historical achievements, and invited Afroyaracuyan people to articulate with the international organization Trans-Africa. By remembering the achievements of Martin Luther King and other Afro-American leaders, he called for building transnational alliances with other organizations. Thus, one can sense how the government also supported the formation of the Afroyaracuyan movement fostering its integration with national and international organizations. As I will later document, many activists of the Afroyaracuyan network have indeed been linked to transnational organizations and have participated in multiple international events.

However, by the end of 2004, one faction of the initial leadership of the movement decided to confront the headquarters of the Espacio Cultural. This group claimed political ownership of this space, and called for new elections of the directive board. Finally, in 2006, the movement conducted general elections, and a new faction of young leaders won during a large assembly in which members of the communities of El

Chino, Farriar, Palmarejo and Agua Negra all participated.

In sum, the formation of this movement has been shaped not only by its association with the National Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations (ROA), but also by tensions among political factions who sought to control this space of mobilization.

Moreover, the structure of this movement is also remarkably malleable, since different types of organizations, with diverse goals, targets and strategies, integrate it. This articulation in itself is unstable and ever changing. Over time, new organizations have 418

joined the movement, while others seek autonomy or more radicalized spaces of mobilization.

Structure of the movement: bridging cultural, land and political Afro organizations

The Afroyaracuyan movement is integrated by different kinds of organizations.

Although there is no official network, this movement brings together cultural, musical, political, and land organizations (Table 2). All of these organizations identify with the

Afro prefix, which serves not only as an ethno-racial identity marker, but also as a networking umbrella integrating organizations with different histories, goals, frames, and strategies. These organizations also identify as belonging to the Afro or black territory of the municipality of Veroes. In other words, this movement simultaneously represents territorial, cultural, ethno-racial and political interests. In the subsequent section, I will briefly describe the structure and goals of some of these organizations.

Socio-cultural organizations

The current Afroyaracuyan movement is made up of several socio-cultural organizations (See Table 2). The Espacio Cultural Comunitario Andresote is one of the main organizations of the region and it serves as the headquarters of the entire movement.

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Table 2. Afroyaracuyan Organizations in Veroes Municipality (Palmarejo, Agua Negra, Taría and Farriar)

Organization Location Activities-Achievements

Socio-Cultural Organizations Espacio Cultural Comunitario Palmarejo Education, music, radio, library, Andresote historical research, productive projects Los Hijos del Rey Miguel Farriar Music, drum education Son de la Costa Palmarejo, Music Agua Negra Luango de Veroes Taría Music Los Descendientes Palmarejo Music drum Instituto de Cultura Farriar Music, Cultural Heritage, History Escuela Práctica de Liderazgo Farriar Political self-recognition and cooperatives workshops Red Juvenil (Instituto Veroes History, self-recognition workshops Nacional de la Juventud) Casa de Atención al Jóven Farriar Education, self-recognition Afrodescendiente workshops

Land-Agricultural Organizations Movimiento Comunero Agua Negra, 39 Agricultural cooperatives. Afrodescendiente Palmarejo Recovered 2000 hectares of land Unión de Cooperativas Farriar 40 agricultural cooperatives. Afrodescendientes Recovered 7000 hectares of land José Leonardo Chirino Cumbe Reina Giomar Farriar Women Land cooperative. Recovered 39 hectares of land

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This cultural space is located in Palmarejo and has an executive board composed of nine core activists. This association also has eight coordinations: the General coordination, the direction of the Radio Station, the Red Juvenil (Juvenile Network), and the coordinations of security and management, of inter-institutional relations, education and information. Beyond its nine core activists about thirty people constantly participate or support the different activities of this cultural space.

Musical organizations have significant power within the movement. As stated by

Roy (2010) music can play key roles in social movements since it is not a mere cultural object but an embedded activity shaping social relations among its members. Musical organizations order the pace, the feeling and the energy of the activities and events of social movements. They constitute important instruments of a social movement‟s visibility.

The main political and cultural factions of the Afroyaracuyan movement are represented by two distinct musical organizations: Son de la Costa, from Palmarejo and

Agua Negra; and Los Hijos del Rey Miguel from Farriar. These organizations conduct performances in local, regional and national events. They tend to capitalize the visibility of the movement as they perform specific drum rhythms of Veroes. These musical organizations also conduct educational activities with young people and children, who are trained in the use of instruments and vocal techniques.

The Red Afro Juvenile is another key organization articulated to the

Afroyaracuyan movement. One of its main objetives is to foster local historical research in afrodescendant communities. It has also promoted the formation of “operative” 421

cumbes, which are organizational units that support activities oriented to the recognition of afrodescendant peoples. These contemporary cumbes are in charge of the

“sensibilization” of young people concerning their historical origins and identities. In this sense, Diana a young activist woman of the current Afroyaracuyan movement states:

“… we vindicate local history, before no one talked about the Afro. Now we start from sensibilization, to inform about what the Afro-ancestral culture is” 215 (Diana, Palmarejo March 2007).

The Escuela Práctica de Liderazgo (Practical Leadership School) is another organization that emerged in 2002 as a result of the early division of the Afroyaracuyan network. This organization is in charge of training young communitarian leaders in participatory methods for conducting local development projects. The main goal of this organization is to carry out workshops on self-recognition, local history, and cooperativism. This School performs most of its activities at the Institute of Culture of

Farriar. Guillermo, one of the main activists of this organization states: “…we see the potential of the chamos (young people) so that they can replace us in the future.”216 This leader argues that this School has sought to incorporate Afro-Colombian217 young people, which tend to be marginalized or excluded from other organizations. He also indicates that they work closely with young evangelical hip-hop musical groups, even if they do not embrace afrodescendant religious values.

215 “… reivindicamos la historia local, antes no se hablaba de lo Afro. Ahora partimos de la sensibilización, dar a conocer que es la cultura Afro-ancestral” (Diana, Palmarejo March 2007). 216 “…vemos el potencial de los chamos, para que sean los relevos que necesitamos en el futuro” (Guillermo Farriar, November 2007). 217 Some sectors of the communities of Farriar and San Juan de las Rosas, are inhabited by Afro- Colombians that come mainly from the Atlantic Coast. This population engages in commercial and agricultural activities. However further research is required in order to understand the structural dimensions of this process of migration. 422

The Casa de Atención Integral Afrodescendiente (Afrodescendant House of

Integral Attention) was inaugurated in July of 2006. This space is located in Farriar and represents in some ways a space competing with that of the Espacio Cultural Andresote, which is located in Palmarejo. This House initially targeted young people between 18 and

28 years of age, as it received direct funds from the National Juvenile Network. Yet leaders of this organization have sought to incorporate younger people between 13 and

16. In this space, specific workshops are provided for musical education, mainly for learning percussion techniques. Overall, many organizations of the Afroyaracuyan movement have targeted adolescents. Activists argue that process of self-identification must start with teenagers, since they are vulnerable to drug consumption, violence, and teenage pregnancy.

The Instituto de Cultura (Institute of Culture) is another organization that emerged after the leadership crisis of 2002. This institute is financed by the Veroes

Municipality, and has as its main objective to promote and make visible afrodescendant culture and heritage. Activists are in charge of registering local cultural expressions such as music, songs, musical instruments, poetry, and local history. This organization also proposed to recognize, before the Ministry of Culture, several afrodescendant elders as patrimonios vivientes (living heritages). Thus, their leaders tend to work closely with local elders, with the objective of “rescuing” and reconstructing aspects of afrodescendant culture in Veroes.

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Land-agriculture organizations

Land organizations in Veroes have different degrees of articulation with the

Afroayaracuyan movement. Although territorial movements have long histories of struggle in the region, it is clear that the Afroyaracuyan movement has played a key role in making visible and ethnicizing land-agricultural organizations. The process of integrating land and afrodescendant cultural organizations really started in 1999, after the multicultural order was established in Venezuelan. Since then, older land movements have gradually adopted frames on afrodescendant self-recognition, and have supported part of the agenda of ROA, in seeking the inclusion of afrovenezuelans within public policies. However many land committees, unions, and cooperatives are also linked to large national peasant movements such as the Frente Campesino Ezequiel Zamora, or the

Movimiento Campesino Jirajara (a regional peasant movement covering northwestern

Venezuela). In other words, since the multicultural regime was implemented, land movements have been experiencing ambiguous transformations in their identity frames and in the strategies deployed. On one hand, they have adopted ethno-racial frames of self-identification, based on their recognition as Afro-movements. On the other hand,

State discourses and laws pursuing the visibility and rights of rural people have reasserted their peasant identity. In subsequent sections, I will explore in detail these identity articulations and transformations. As follows I will describe some of the land organizations that have been articulated to the Afroyaracuyan movement in Veroes.

The Movimiento Comunero Afrodescendiente is made up by thirty nine agricultural cooperatives located on the communal lands of Agua Negra and Palmarejo. 424

Between 2002 and 2006, this movement recovered a total of 2,000 hectares corresponding to the haciendas known as Don Pepe, Tibisay and Paraiso (INTI 2005). In order to secure resources and integrate small family cooperatives the movement redistributed these communal lands among its members.

Leaders of these organizations self-identify primarily as comuneros. Most of them have participated in long-term land struggles in the region, and have only recently adopted the frame of afrodescendant self-recognition. Within this larger movement, there are some agricultural cooperatives that specifically promote frames and ideologies on anti-racism, cimarronaje and afro-socialism, which I will further examine in succeeding sections of this Chapter. These cooperatives have developed ecological projects that seek to eliminate sugar cane production in order to replace it with conuco crops such as plantain, beans, corn, squash, among other minor seasonal products.

The other land organization that identifies itself as part of the Afroyaracuyan movement is the Cooperativa de Mujeres Afrodescendientes Cumbe Giomar. They selected this name in order to evoke the agency and symbolic power encoded in the image of Queen Giomar, the wife of Rey Miguel, a runaway slave who rebelled against the Spanish regime in 1552. The participants of this organization are mainly women from

Farriar who in their majority self-identify as afrodescendants. They organized themsleves in 2007 as a land-agricultural cooperative in order to support women who had been excluded from previous land organizations and mobilizations. For instance, four women from this cooperative indicate that they had participated in previous land occupations, but did not receive any land. They have proposed establishing an agro-ecological education 425

center at the old sugar-processing plant in Veroes. They also mobilized to occupy 39 hectares of State lands for the production of subsistence crops. In 2008, they were finally adjudicated this plot, and received State credit for agricultural production.

The other larger land-agricultural organization called Unión de Cooperativas

Afrodescendientes José Leonardo Chirino is also located in Farriar, outside of the communal lands. This union is composed of forty agricultural-land cooperatives. It has strategically adopted some of the identity frames of the Afroyaracuyan movement. One of its leaders for instance states that they selected the name of José Leonardo Chirino because he was the first “black” who spoke about ideologies of land struggle. Three core activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement belong to this organization. They actively circulate discourses on afrodescendant self-recognition during the periodic meetings of this union. Nevertheless, most members of this larger organization also self-identify as peasants, blacks or morenos, and have been linked to the multiethnic land struggles of the

1990s at Los Cañizos, in Veroes (See Chapter 3).

Most of the lands assigned to these cooperatives are located within the recovered lands of Palo-Quemao-Los Cañizos. The largest cooperative called Río Marcano has about 103 members who share around 300 hectares for agricultural production. Other smaller family cooperatives tend to have between five and eight members and produce on plots that range from five to thirty hectares. While some cooperatives still do not have land, others have developed projects for raising cachama (a type of fish), cattle, pigs, sheep, and chicken. They also seek to diversify agricultural products including subsistence crops and citric trees. 426

Overall, these land-agricultural cooperatives recognize themselves as part of the

Afroyaracuyan movement. Some cooperatives that originated from former class-based land committees are now producing and circulating frames on afrodescendant self- recognition, anti-racism, gender equality, cimarronaje, and afro-socialism. Cultural organizations in turn are now adopting territorial-productive frames on comunero agricultural practices, land distribution, and peasant rights. Thus as cultural and agricultural-land organizations come together, a two-pronged process of ethnicization and territorialization emerges, as they seek both recognition and redistribution from the

Venezuelan State. In the following section, I examine the multiple framing process of the

Afroyaracuyan movement. I pay attention to how they circulate territorial and ethno- racial ideologies as well as identity representations.

Afroyaracuyan mobilized frames and identities:

Se ven, se sienten, los afrodescendientes! (Afroyaracuyan leader at ROA meeting, Caracas, December 2006)

As discussed in the introduction, collective frames are key elements of social movements. They tend to produce, in condensed and synthetic terms, interpretative packages explaining multiple problems, events, identity markers, values, beliefs, goals, and ideological elements (Gamson 1992; Snow and Benford 1992; Benford and Snow

2000; Johnston and Noakes 2005; Miethe 2010; Benford 2011). Frames also assign meaning to experiences of mobilization, as they evoke symbols that can serve for recruiting new members (Snow and Benford 1988:198; Vallochi 2005). 427

In the following section, I will explore some of the framing processes of the

Afroyaracuyan movement. I will first discuss how activists and members engage in the production and circulation of the master identity frame on Afro self-recognition. I also show how framing processes are key discursive strategies for mobilizing, producing and transforming local ethno-racial, political and territorial identities. Subsequently, I discuss how Afroyaracuyan activists articulate, amplify and circulate other frames that have different degrees of resonance within their mobilizing habitus.

Afroyaracuyan activists in Veroes produce a wide variety of collective action frames that circulate in multiple settings. Some of these frames have been produced by the National Network of Afrodescendant Organizations (ROA), others have been re- entextualized from State legal and political discourses. Others are instead the result of local historical processes of territorialization. The movement has mainly sought to produce identity frames, some of which are based on ideologies of afrodescendant self- recognition and historical cimarronaje. Some framing discourses seek to highlight social, racial and gender inequalities, while others evoke ideologies on Afro-comunero production and land distribution. In the succeeding section, I will describe each of these frames, and their articulated ideologies.

“Soy Afrodescendiente: a master identity frame

Social movements tend to produce identity frames in order to negotiate differences and create common symbols, strategies and goals (Warren 1998; Pineda

2001; French 2002; Pardo 2002; Restrepo 2004; Rubin 2004; Stephen 2005a; Einwohner 428

et al. 2008). Master frames tend to be flexible and inclusive. They must have cultural, historical, and emotional resonance among participants, as they evoke powerful symbols

(Snow and Benford 1992; Goodwin et al. 2001; Wood 2001; Gould 2004; Benford 2011).

The master frame of Afrodescendant auto-reconocimiento (self-recognition) was originally created and circulated in Venezuela, by the National Network of

Afrovenezuelan Organizations (ROA), the Unión de Mujeres Negras, and the Civil

Association for Personal Development, Family and Youth (ASOFAJ). These organizations called for the cultural recognition and self-affirmation of Afro people.

However, this early project on self-recognition was gradually transformed as these organizations engaged in international meetings and finally adopted the term

Afrodescendant in 2002.

For instance, in the Second Afrovenezuelan encounter of 2008 leaders of the movement publicly stated in a collective document:

“ from the perspective of those who inhabit afro communities we started to deconstruct and elaborate concepts that were more akin to our own historical processes, to our subjectivities. We established alliances and connections with many organizations in the entire continent including sister and anti-imperial organizations from United States and the Caribbean, and from Africa. And that is how, in the Continental Conference Against Racism, in Santiago de Chile, year 2000, with the support of the ONU, we decided to call ourselves AFRODESCENDIENTES, understood as all those people that descend in one way or another from the ancient millions of kidnapped (people) of sub-Saharan Africa during four hundred years, and the process of resistance that has been sustained and our transcendental contributions to the global construction of this continent”218 (ROA 2008:5).

218 Emphasis and translation are mine. 429

This collective statement reveals many of the fundamental ideological components of ROA. First, the text highlights historical processes as significant and necessary identity references for achieving Afro recognition. In other words, Afro subjective identities must be recognized as based on a common history. I will later discuss how the production of historical narratives becomes one of the main framing practices of ROA and the Afroyaracuyan movement in Veroes. Secondly, this text makes clear that processes of Afrovenezuelan self-recognition are linked to transnational master frames on anti-racism and human rights. Thus, the recognition of an Afro identity must transcend the boundaries of the nation-state in order to mobilize across the Pan geography of the Diaspora.

Furthermore, this discourse is permeated by tropes that target emotions of injustice such as “kidnapping.” Thus, the notion of Afro self-recognition also calls for the identification of common emotional structures that symbolically persist across time and space. This definition of “afrodescendancy” also highlights political ideological elements of anti-imperialist resistance. In this sense, this frame is strongly articulated to political projects of emancipation and decolonization, similar to those developed by the US Civil

Right Movements in the 1960s and by the South African Black Consciousness Movement in the 1970s.

Overall, the frame of Afro self-recognition is based on the construction of a collective identity, based on historical tropes of African ethnic descent. This identity frame aims to move away from racially based indexes, and instead stresses ideologies and representations on African origins. A specific definition circulated by Nirva Camacho, 430

leader and founder of the Afrovenezuelan Network and the Cumbe of Afrovenezuelan

Women indicates:

“Being Afrodescendant in our country has many implications, it means in the collective unconscious a historical past associated with slavery, a culture fundamentally identified by music, dance and drum play, having physical characteristics seldom accepted, and belonging to a social class of limited economic resources, as if these conditions were inherent to this population group …” (Nirva Camacho 2008).

This fragment shows that the concept of afrodescendancy is linked to historical, cultural, racial, and class representations. Camacho indicates that it was after the Third

World Conference against Racism in Durban, South Africa in 2001 that the United

Nations accepted the concept of Afrodescendant. Since then ROA started to use this concept, gradually replacing the nation-like notion of Afrovenezuelan. They started to actively circulate this concept of African origin not only in their own organizations, but also in State institutions and public policies.219

In sum, it is clear that the process of self-recognition is strongly linked to the historical project of ROA, which involves rendering visible the multiple contributions of people of African origin in the formation of the colonial and postcolonial states. Now, let us explore how this identity frame has been circulated, internalized or contested by members and activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement in Veroes.

219 In Venezuela, this complex identity frame on Afro self-recognition has been produced, circulated, amplified and embodied during multiple events (meetings, congresses, encounters) and workshops promoted by the National Network of Afro-Venezuelan Organizations. The social psychologist and teacher Nirva Camacho, who is one of the main activists of the ROA and of the Cumbe de Mujeres Afrovenezolanas designed a complex set of programs and workshops oriented to the self-recognition of Afrodescendant peoples, which have been implemented in different regional states, including Yaracuy.

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Afrodescendant self-recognition in Veroes

All core activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement self-identify as afrodescendant.

Some members indicate that the first step in the process of lucha (struggle) is to recognize and value their own African origins or “roots.” In fact, some young members indicate that they were first involved in the movement after assisting at the encounters of

ROA. One young leader of the movement for instance states:

“…the ideal is that people know what is the meaning of the term, it is not only skin pigmentation, there is much endoracism. I learned about that theme with the network, in the international encounters, with books, people came from Barbados, from Guinea to explain us what is afrodescendant. For instance, we learned that the traffic light is an afrodescendant invention”220 (Raúl, Farriar November 2007).

A local state functionary that participated in these workshops also stated:

“ I have gone to the Afro workshops, they want to change their self-recognition, to say bad hair. One get used to say bad hair, but one must recognize our origin and one needs more training, many workshops ... In the workshops, they speak of the Afro, of racism, of antiracism. To overcome racism, there is much to be discovered.” 221 (Irene, Farriar May 2007)

In consequence, one can sense how ROA created multiple spaces in which the identity frame of afrodescendant self-recognition has circulated. Workshops and encounters were oriented toward the deconstruction of ethno-racial categories and bodily constructions. Moreover, it is clear how the frame of self-recognition is also linked to

220 “…lo ideal es que la gente sepa que significa el termino, no es nada más que la pigmentación de la piel hay mucho endoracismo. Aprendí de ese tema con la red, en los encuentros internacionales, con los libros, vino gente de Barbados, de Guinea a explicarnos que es afrodescendiente; por ejemplo aprendimos que el semáforo es un invento afrodescendiente” (Raúl Farriar, November 2007) . 221 “ He ido a los talleres en la parte Afro, quieren cambiar el auto-reconocimiento, por decir pelo malo, como uno se acostumbra a decir pelo malo, pero tenemos que conocer el origen de uno y uno necesita más capacitación, mucho talleres. En los talleres hablan de los Afro, del racismo, el antirracismo. Superar el racismo hay mucho por hallar” (Irene Farriar, May 2007). 432

ideologies on anti-racism. I will later explore in detail how activists have produced and evoke antiracist frames.

Today members of the Afroyaracuyan movement propose that this process of self- recognition should permeate other local organizations in order to ensure more political participation and support for afrodescendant peoples. The strategic use of local media to mobilize the frame of self-recognition has been widespread among local participants. For instance, Guillermo, one of the earliest activists of the movement states:

“ … here it was Germán and myself who started to use the term (afrodescendant). We must continue to work on self-recognition. After having been called black or negrito (little black) all your life, people cannot assume it so easy. Through the press, the radio, the band, we are carrying this message through our songs, our ancestor‟s values, José Joaquín Veroes, Andresote. There are many people who use black, there is the poet Diego Rojas, he uses the term black, but now little by little (the term afrodescendant) is used. It is being used on the TV, the radio; there is some sensibilization with the term. At least, with some facilitators of the missions, with popularity of local history, we have been able to insert the term. People from Misión Vuelvan Caras, socio-political compatriots come seeking Gustavo or me so that we can explain it to them (Guillermo, Farriar March 2007).222

One can see how the frame of afrodescendant self-recognition has been strategically circulated by way of the movement‟s media system. Guillermo speaks of sensibilization, which is both a cognitive and an affective process. He is also aware of the difficulties of circulating this identity frame and the resistance that people might have

222 “Aquí fue Germán y yo quienes empezamos a usar el término (afrodescendiente). Hay que seguir trabajando el autoreconocimiento, después que vienen toda la vida te dicen negro, negrito, la gente no lo asume tan fácil. Por la prensa, la radio, la banda; estamos llevando el mensaje a través de las canciones, los valores de nuestros ancestros, José Joaquín Veroes, Andresote. Hay mucha gente que todavía usa el negro, hay un poeta Diego Rojas, el utiliza el término negro, pero ahorita poco a poco se usa afrodescendiente. Se empieza a usar en la TV, la radio; hay cierta sensibilización con el término. Por lo menos con algunos facilitadores de las misiones, con la onda de la historia local hemos podido insertar el término. Gente de Misión Vuelvan Caracas compatriotas socio-políticos vienen buscando a Gustavo o a mi para que les expliquemos” (Guillermo, Farriar March 2007). 433

against its anti-racist ideologies. Thus, he makes clear that the mobilization and internalization of this frame is a gradual process.

Moreover, the production of the term and its meaning is associated with specific activists, who are perceived as having more knowledge in this regard. In fact, community members usually indicate that Afroyaracuyan activists are the ones who know the meaning of the term. For instance a women who self-identifies as campesina (peasant woman) in Farriar stated: “With Guillermo, I have heard it (the term) por encimita

(superficially); that Andresote was a fighter who helped to struggle for those who lost.”223

In sum, the frame of self-recognition is not only a key vehicle for shaping new identities and circulating anti-racist ideologies, but also has become in itself a form of cultural capital embraced by afrodescendant activists.

Internalization and resonance of the identity self-recognition frame

There are different degrees of internationalization and resonance of the frame of

Afro self-recognition, which are clearly linked to a participant‟s degree of involvement in the movement. For instance, all core activists of the organization verbalize and enact this frame in public and private arenas. These leaders use the term in meetings of other organizations such as communal councils, land committees, housing organizations and cooperatives.

Activists also circulate frames on Afro self-recognition in everyday locations such as restaurants, bus stops, bakeries, telephone centers, ambulatory, family parties, and

223 “…con Guillermo yo lo he escuchado por encimita, que Andresote era un luchador, que ayudaba a lucha por los que perdían” (community member of Farriar, June 2007). 434

church sessions. During family gatherings, they explain to their children the meaning of the afrodescendant term. In many cases, they criticize family members or friends when using the term “black,” or other adjectives that can be interpreted as racist. Many woman leaders corrected their children and nephews when they referred to the shape of their noses or hair, as bad or ugly. This frame seems to have permeated the process of socialization of some activist‟s households and extended families. Even among couples and very close friends, one can see the circulation of the term. For instance, the boyfriend of an Afroyaracuyan woman leader told me during an informal conversation: “She is always talking about being afrodescendiente, she wants to convince me about the term.”

In sum, the identity frame on self-recognition circulates in many everyday activities of local activists, surpassing the planned and strategic activities of the Afroyaracuyan movement.

This frame is also a significant component of the individual identity of some core activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement. One of the earliest woman leaders of the movement has the following phone-answering message: “I am Afro, my people, I am

Afro Afrodescendant, at the tone please leave your message...” This message is a clear frame that not only seeks to point, condense and target one of the main projects of the movement. It also articulates and evokes a particular subjective position (Li 2000). This telephonic enactment is also aided by music since this message is sung imitating local

Afrodescendant melodies.

However, identity-framing processes are not restricted to verbal acts, but may be also evoked by body ware or clothing. For instance, many Afroyaracuyan activists have 435

adopted particular forms of dressing. Some use red T- Shirts that have the term afrodescendant written on their backs. These red shirts are key icons of the current political culture in Venezuela. They evoke political affiliation to the revolutionary process and connections with State institutions.224 In this case, the T-shirts tend to serve as bridging signs indexing the articulation of Afro self-recognition and revolutionary ideologies on social inclusion. In addition, some activists use these T-shirts with necklaces made out of seeds or wood, while some wear woven hats that are identified as

Afro-markers.

There are also body positions and gestures that are recognizable as Afro identity markers and that index emotions of pride and assertiveness. Usually women place their hand on their hips and push their shoulders back when talking. I have observed and registered some conversations and mocking about this particular corporality. Some of them indicate that this particular position is part of the Afro way of talking. For instance an activist woman states: “I went to the Alcaldía to request some resources, I entered barefoot, cimarroneando” (yo fui para la Alcaldía a pedir unos recursos, y entre descalza, cimarroneando). She made this statement with great pride, placing her arm on her hip.

She argued that if people in San Felipe believed that they were savage she would show them that she was a cimarrona (runaway woman). I will later explore how this agentive concept of cimarronaje has been articulated to this self-recognition frame. Overall, more

224 It is important to observe for instance that the shirts of the Afro-falconian network are beige and have the face of José Leonardo Chirino. This movement rather seeks to distance itself from revolutionary politics. However, the use of clothing as a bodily framing device must be further examined, since there are people who use these indumenta and do not necessarily consider themselves Chavistas or supporters of the revolution. The same happens the other way around, with people who do not wear revolutionary clothing and accessories. 436

detailed research is required on the embodiment of afrodescendant identity markers and how specific forms of corporality may be linked to members‟ mobilizing habitus.

Beyond the core activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement, many other participants and community members use the term afrodescendant. Some Communal

Councils and land organizations have adopted this identity frame on self- recognition in order to name their movements. For example, in 2007 the Afrodescendant Communal

Council of Farriar was created. Yet only two leaders of this new organization self- recognize as afrodescendants. A young activist of this Communal Council indicated in this regard:

“… afrodescendiente, that is what people are now using everywhere, there are many who use it, but I don‟t know want it means, but then I think, that I am Afrodescendant”225 (Lily, Farriar, February 2007).

This self-recognition frame seems to be strategically used by some social organizations in the region. This activist even implies that the term is a sort of mode that is being used widely. Other community members also evoke the frame of self-recognition in vague manner, and rarely can explain its expanded meaning. This strategic use of the term is of great concern for the core activists of the Afroyaracuyan. In this regard, Miguel states:

“Before we were called blacks, the blacks of Veroes, we still need to work, but this movement took the term Afrodescendant to the streets. Many people use it and they do not know the sense of being Afro. We have the self-recognition workshop, people use the term but very few know its sense. You saw the recognition in the constitution? All should know what an afrodescendant is, it is

225 “afrodescendiente eso es lo que se está usando ahora en todas partes, hay muchos quienes lo usan pero no sé qué significa, pero creo que entonces yo soy afrodescendiente” (Lily Farriar, February 2007). 437

an achievement that the term is in the street. Many will tell you that they are (afrodescendant), but without going into details, yet they will link it to Africa” 226 (Mateo Palmarejo March 2007).

This fragment evokes the achievement of the movement in circulating the frame

“in the streets.” This image indexes the resonance of this identity frame outside the contours of the movement. Yet this narrative points to tensions involving the strategic use of the frame, leaving aside its multilayered ideological contents. Another activist in this same regard indicated:

“... many (people) self-recognize, but do not know what is Afro. The concept must be elaborated and introduced into the schools, teach who Andresote was, the roots, if not they will be lost”227 (Raúl Farriar November 2007).

Again one can sense that many community members may use the term or even self-recognize as afrodescendants, but without any familiarity with the ideological references linked to this particular frame. In other words, a master frame may be circulated, and even have resonance, even when its content may be limited to a small group of core of activists who monopolize its symbolic and cultural meaning.

But then, why are local social movements embracing this frame in Veroes?

Beyond the strategic use of the term, it is clear that this frame on self-recognition has wide political resonance. In other words, this discursive strategy fosters the political

226 “Antes nos decían los negros, los negros de Veroes, todavía falta trabajo, pero este movimiento sacó el término afrodescendiente a la calle. Mucha gente lo maneja y no conocen el sentido de ser Afro. Tenemos el taller de auto-reconocimiento, la gente maneja el término pero muy poco maneja el sentido ¿Tu viste el reconocimiento en la constitución? Todos deben saber qué es un Afrodescendiente, es un logro que el término esté en la calle.” Muchos te van a decir que son, pero no van a profundizar, más te lo van a vincular con África” (Mateo Palmarejo, March 2007). 227 “…muchos se reconocen pero no manejan que es Afro, hay que elaborar el concepto y meterlo en las escuelas, enseñar quién fue Andresote, las raíces, sino van ha estar perdidos (Raul, Farriar November 2007).

438

visibility of local organizations vis-a-vis other movements. It also amplifies the alignment of local social movements with the multicultural rhetoric of the State. I believe that this discursive strategy allows social organizations to gain political and symbolic capital, which can be later transformed into economic capital, once State funds are assigned.

However, the frame of self-recognition has been contested and critiqued by some local community members. There are participants that belong to land movements who oppose to the use of the term. One participant during a land occupation stated in this regard:

“ That of Afro stuff, I do not believe very much in that, it is to make people go and vote, that is, to vote for that” (Juan, Farriar 2007).

This statement criticizes the political use of this frame by activists, but also by some local politicians. The mayor of the Veroes municipality for instance self-recognizes as afrodescendant, as do two municipal council members. Yet one activist told me during an informal conversation that these politicians claim to be afrodescendants de la boca pa’fuera (just to create an impression). This bodily metaphor, illustrates how politicians may use this form of self-identification in order to gain local legitimacy and recruit votes.

Moreover it is clear how „afrodescendancy‟ has not been fully internalized as an identity marker, even by people who enact this frame. In other words, the use of the term is seen rather as a discursive strategy of politicians who seek alignment with revolutionary forces.

Another woman, who is member of a local afrodescendant land movement even expressed rage against the use of the term: 439

“…all that stuff about being afrodescendant enrages me, afrodescendant (people) were the people of before. We are civilized, let‟s leave it (back) there. Those are not strugglers like those people (of the past). There we are, we are struggling with firmness, I do not identify myself (as such)” 228 (Ramona Farriar, November 2007).

This fragment reveals how this identity frame can mobilize unintended emotions among potential participants. In her view, frames and ideologies of rural modernity seem to clash with the possibility of ethno-racial visibility in the present. In other words, from her perspective afrodescendants must also be denied their coevalness (Fabian 1983) as well as indigenous people. Moreover, her final statement also suggests that mobilization can still take place on class-based terms. It is relevant to note that this participant indicated during informal conversations that she is considered by the local population as amarilla (yellow). Thus, it is likely that her rage reflects personal experiences of racial discrimination in the region.

In sum, the identity frame on self-recognition has been articulated to ideologies on anti-racism, and historical origin back to Africa. It is widely circulated not only among activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement, but also among their families and other social movements in the region. This frame has been strategically amplified by many leaders who consider self-identification as a necessary step for mobilization and as a source for accessing symbolic and political power.

However, this master frame of self-recognition is usually produced and articulated with historical representations. In many cases, these become frames in their own sight,

228 “...me da rabia lo de Afrodescendiente, Afrodescendientes eran la gente de antes, nosotros somos civilizados vamos a dejarlo allá. Esos no son luchadores como aquella gente. Ahí estamos, estamos luchando con firmeza, yo no me identifico” (Ramona, Farriar November 2007).

440

when the words of Andresote, Cimarronaje, Miguel and/or Giomar are enunciated. These terms condense and index historical ideologies addressing the silenced past of afrodescendant peoples in the region.

Historical framing: Rey Miguel, Andresote and cimarronaje

The production of historical frames is a common strategy of social movements

(Popular Memory Group 1982; Alonso 1988; Portelli 1991, 1997; Gould 1998;

Rappaport 1990, 1994; Bal et al 1999; Hoffman 2002; French 2006; Park 2008). Political activity always involves historical definition, as history is in constant struggle for hegemony (Popular Memory Group 1982). Social movements selectively interrogate, produce and appropriate collective memories and historical representations in order to mobilize people in the present. Activists construct memories by transforming “clusters” of imaginary reconstructions, symbols, legends and tales (Portelli 1991). Mobilized local historians produce multilayered, ambiguous and fragmentary memories. They transform historical documents and narratives into images, convert time into space, condense chronologies, as they simultaneously call for militant action (Rappaport 1994).

Memory fragments represent iterational elements as they refer to past actors and actions (Emirbayer and Mische 1998). These elements of the past are routinely incorporated into social practices during processes of mobilization. The enactment of these historical frames allows the construction of alignments with powerful symbols of the past that have the affective and symbolic resonance for being evoked in the present. 441

Black rural communities and Afro-Latin movements in Latin American have embraced the task of producing multiple historical representations of their African past and experiences of slavery (Wade 1995; Hoffman 2002; Linhares 2004; French 2006;

Antón 2007). In Venezuela, the National Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations

(ROA) and the Afroyaracuyan movement have enacted the strategy of constructing and circulating multiple historical frames on afrodescendant history. The territorial and ethnic components of the concept of “afrodescendancy” require the reconstruction of the silenced pasts of this population. In other words, the production of this concept involves the active examination of multiple historical representations of people of African origin in the Americas, and the deconstruction of the various silencing practices of modern historians (Trouillot 1995).

Cimarronaje is one of the main ideological components shaping the production of afrodescendant historical frames. This notion has been produced and mobilized by the

Fundación Afroamérica since the 1980s. Chucho García, one of the main leaders of the afrodescendant movement in Venezuela, has published several works on this theme

(García 1989, 1996, 2001). From his perspective, cimarronaje not only evokes the historical process of the escape of black enslaved people from their state of exploitation and subordination. It also represents a transversal historical political project that involves multiple forms of confrontation and negotiation with colonial and postcolonial State powers. Cimarronaje, therefore, resumes a particular form of political engagement with the State, as well as historical form of territoriality previously discussed in Chapter 3. 442

The historical frame of cimarronaje is constantly evoked by national afrodescendant activists in their encounters, legal petitions, and negotiations with the

State. In 2006, the ROA created a political branch of their movement called Cimarrones por la Revolución. During this inaugural event, national afrodescendant leaders called for implementing cimarronaje practices within all domains of the Venezuelan State. They evoked the achievements of historical cimarrones such as Miguel (in Barquisimeto

1552), Juan Andrés López del Rosario or Andresote (in Yaracuy 1732), Guillermo Ribas and Miguel Gerónimo Guacamaya (in Barlovento 1790), and José Leonardo Chirino (in

Falcón 1795). They proposed to “deepen the revolution with our historical flow, towards the construction of a new anti-imperial, inclusive and non-racist society”229 (Parque

Central, Caracas November 2006). This historical frame not only produces historical ideologies, but also seeks future transformations.

The notion of cimarronaje is not a monolithic concept; it refers rather to a wide variety of strategies and tactics. It can involve direct confrontation with State powers, as well as defensive or juridical strategic actions. ROA has even called for an institutional cimarronaje which entails occupying positions within State institutions such as: Ministry of Education, Culture, International Affairs, among others. The Cimarronaje frame also celebrates everyday forms of resistance or covert strategies against any racial form of discrimination. In fact, activists use the term as a verb by stating: vamos a cimarronear

(let us cimarronear), or estamos cimarroneando (we are cimarroneando). The use of this verb represents a key historical frame shaping the mobilizing habitus of activists and

229 “Profundizar la Revolución con nuestra corriente histórica hacia la construcción de una nueva sociedad antiimperialista, inclusiva y No racista” (Parque Central, November 2006). 443

participants. A call to cimmarronear, not only articulates past and present forms of political engagement, but also brings to the present the symbolic power of cimarrones like Andresote, Guillermo Ribas, Miguel de Buría and many others.

Making Afrodescendant historical frames in Veroes

Three members of the Afroyaracuyan movement are active local historians. In fact, they explicitly argue that their main task is to make visible the “historical contributions” of afrodescendant woman and men of Yaracuy. These activists indicate that this historical vision was adopted after their involvement with the ROA. Gilberto, a local historian states that Chucho García promoted critical thinking among young members of the Afroyaracuyan movement, as he asked them to research about their origins and their past as cimarrones. In fact, in 2001 William Sequera and Gustavo

Suárez published a book on the history of Veroes, with the support of ROA and the

Ministry of Culture.

Let us explore some of the historical representations that circulate among

Afroyaracuyan activists. Germán one of the early activists of this movement constantly evokes historical frames in his narratives:

“... some feel Afro because of the word, but they do not know what t means from a historical and political perspective. Afrodescendant (people) struggled and fought, they even preferred to commit suicide before being enslaved. Others were cimarrones, and others were in the independence struggles. Today we are re- vindicating Andresote, José Leonardo Chirino, Miguel, they are vindicated and their people were vindicated together with the Jirajara, in the political and historical (realms)230 (Germán, March, Farriar).

230 “...algunos se sienten Afro por la palabra, pero no saben que significa desde el punto de vista histórico y político. Los Afrodescendientes lucharon y pelearon, hasta prefirieron suicidarse antes de ser 444

This fragment evokes two critical tropes of the historical imagination of the movement. On one hand, the traumatic memory of slavery is ambiguously connected to agency tropes on strength and struggle. Suicide is even presented as the extreme image of cultural resistance and dignity. Yet the trope of cimarronaje and independence surfaces as an agentive alternative. In this sense, Germán explains that their task is to vindicate the main symbols of cimarronaje and of the afrodescendant in emancipation.

This fragment also portrays Andresote and Miguel, as key Cimarrón icons. While on the other hand, José Leonardo Chirino is considered a leader and precursor of independence processes, and one of the most emblematic afrodescendant leaders of the late eighteenth century. Overall, the construction of this narrative serves to re-organize and re-semantize official histories of slavery that have tended to reduce black slaves to images of exploitation and passivity. One can thus see how historical representations are key ideological sources for constructing agentive frames that connect past and present forms of symbolic power. In the following section, I explore in detail how Miguel and

Andresote, become themselves historical frames that call for action in the present.

Miguel and Andresote: spiritual and political historical frames

Miguel and Andresote, are not just powerful historical symbols, they are also frames that emerge in the mobilizing discourses of the Afroyaracuyan movement. For instance, in the introduction to many public events (legal petitions, national and regional

esclavizados. Otros fueron cimarrones, y otros estuvieron en las luchas de independencia. Hoy estamos reivindicando a Andresote, José Leonardo Chirino, Miguel, se reivindica y reivindicó a su gente conjuntamente con los Jirajara en lo político y lo histórico” (Germán Farriar, Marzo 2007). 445

meetings, inaugurations of public spaces, elections of Communal Councils, TV shows, land occupations, dialogues with State functionaries, and other settings) activists tend to open their discourses by mentioning Miguel and Andresote. Thus, both names function as opening frames, indexing their articulation with a complex constellation of ideologies on racism, anti-discrimination, and self-recognition.

The evocation of Miguel as a historical frame has great resonance among local community members, since he is both a spiritual and political symbol. Miguel de Buría was the first Black slave to rebel against the Welsares in 1552. This figure is a complex multi-semantic symbol, which is constantly evoked by many Afroyaracuyan activists in distinct public contexts. On the one hand, he represents the first historical example of cimarronaje and struggle against colonial forms of oppression and exploitation. On the other hand, he is associated with espiritista practices, since his cumbe settlement named

Curduvaré was located in Sorte – the sacred mountain of Queen María Lionza. Miguel´s wife, Giomar, is also considered one of the many facets of María Lionza. Let us explore a narrative on Miguel told by Gilberto, a young local historian from Agua Negra:

“... from each country a group of Africans came to Yaracuy, they did not know each other. They were strong, indomitable. In 1552, Miguel de Buría of San Juan de Puerto Rico, King in Africa, arrives to America. The colonizer take away his crown, he is brought to work at the mine of Buría … the King of Buría convoked clandestine meetings with groups compromised with the process. He conducted meetings with the Africans and pronounces that cimarronaje, that rebellion against the Spanish crown. They start sabotaging the mine. They start sabotaging the mine, they did not want to work, they repudiate the way in which the African women were violated, they repudiate physical mistreatment. They lived in the basement, when seeing all that infrahuman form (of treatment), they rebel and confront them. The indigenous, jirajara, caquetió join them. It was a militant conglomerate, vanguard for respect, dignity and liberty. He stepped up on his throne, and proclaimed himself King and the Giomar Queen. For us, the 446

afrodescendants, Queen María Lionza can be Queen Giomar”231 (Gilberto, Agua Negra May 2007).

In this fragment, Gilberto constructed and selected symbols and emotions that have local cultural resonance. The trope of Diaspora surfaces in the introduction of this narrative, suggesting images of cultural dismemberment and despair. The power adjectives of strength and indomitability, and the verbs sabotage and repudiate, index representations of an agentive mobilizing habitus. Moreover, monarchical tropes like

King, Queen, throne, and crown also evoke images of inherited power and State hierarchy. In other words, the capacity to confront oppressive structures is projected into the past, and brought to the present by recognizing this attribute as an inherited feature of afrodescendants. Miguel is simultaneously a symbol of trauma and pride, condensing and conflating experiences of suffering and agency. The text is finally closed with the image of Giomar, racializing and appropriating the symbolic power of María Lionza for afrodescendant people.232

A contemporary political voice also surfaces calling for collective action in the present. For instance the phrase “groups committed to the process,” is a common and

231 “de cada país vino un grupo de Africanos a Yaracuy, se desconocían. Eran africanos fuertes, indomables. En 1552 Miguel de Buría, de San Juan de Puerto Rico, Rey en África, llega a América. El colonizador le quita su corona, lo traen a trabajar a la mina de Buría… el Rey de Buría hacía reuniones clandestinas con el grupo comprometido con el proceso. El se reúne con los africanos y pronuncia ese cimarronaje, esa rebelión contra la corona española. Empiezan a sabotearle la mina. Empiezan a sabotearle la mina, no quería trabajar, repudiaban la forma como eran violadas las africanas, repudiaban el maltrato físico. Vivían en el sótano, al ver toda esa forma infrahumana, se rebelan y se enfrentan contra ellos. Se suman los indígena, jirajara, caquetío. Era un conglomerado de militancia, vanguardia por el respeto, la dignidad y la libertad. Se monta en su trono y se proclama Rey y Reina Giomar. Para nosotros los afrodescendientes, la Reina María Lionza puede ser la Reina Giomar” (Gilberto, Agua Negra May 2007). 232 The interpretation of this symbolic parallel exceeds the scope of this dissertation and my knowledge of the espiritista religion. Yet it is important to observe that María Lionza is one of the most important religious figures in Venezuela and in the state of Yaracuy. She is an emblematic icon of mestizaje, as she is believed to represent symbols of indigeneity, afrodescendancy and whiteness. 447

widely circulated frame of Bolivarian revolutionary organizations and programs.

Revolutionary activists and supporters are requested to be fully committed with the

Bolivarian process. In addition, the terms “militant conglomerate” and “vanguard” also belong to the contemporary revolutionary discursive repertoire.233 Furthermore, this narrative also presents a call for interethnic alliances as Gilberto points to the support of

Jirajara and Caquetío indigenous people. This historical alliance in fact is one of the grounding frames of the contemporary Jirajara Land Movement in northwestern

Venezuela.

Usually after enunciating Miguel, Afroyaracuyan activists also tend refer to

Andresote. This other cimarrón leader represents one of the most important historical symbols of the Veroes municipality. Historical data suggests that some of the cumbes of

Andresote were possibly located in the territory of the contemporary communal lands.

The territorizalization of this historical symbol in Veroes has been a point of departure for circulating this frame. For example, Guillermo has proposed to map the route of

Andresote in the region. By examining historical documentation and archaeological data he seeks to locate the cumbes and trace their connecting trails. Thus, as was the case in

Brazil with the recognition process of Kilombos (Linhares 2004); Afroyaracuyan activists seek to construct territorial continuities between their contemporary communities and former colonial cumbes. Andresote in this case serves as a territorial index of Yaracuyan

233 The articulation of Afrodescendant and revolutionary frames requires more discussion and cannot be generalized to all Afrovenezuelan movements. In fact, there are Afrodescendant organizations in northwestern Venezuela that deriberately do not employ these revolutionary frames in the evocation of their discourses. 448

cimarronaje, while, to take another case, Guillermo Ribas has been appropriated as the main Cimarrón of Barlovento in the Miranda state.

Let us explore some of the representations of Andresote during a meeting among three activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement at the Institute of Culture in Farriar:

“Guillermo- on the part of Veroes, there is a historical legacy, due to the transcendence of Andresote. Official historians like to hide that, erase the presence of Andresote. Many people spoke of his shrewdness, they prefer to erase that ideological part. One of the principles was equity; our ancestors had an ideological part. Before, there was solidarity, we had comunas.234 I believe that at the beginning, everything was equal; we have to make the Andresoteana ideology resurge. Speak about its political part, his military strategy and as a social man. If he had gathered cumbes, that society had (the ways) to recreate cultural, political and economic aspects. There we have a great legacy. Juan Manuel López del Rosario used to go to Tucacas, Morón, Yaracuy, Barquisimeto, and he managed to make sales with the Dutch. There is an organizational structure, he was never captured and he was not sold, I think that we have to enter in that way. Germán- we have to talk without fear, with pride about the heroic gest, that was more than that of Miguel due to his ability, a real Cimarrón, cimarroneaba. Leopoldo-we can make an encounter, remember to clarify, there is where we can say that this is the path, the path is the Afro part. I am here because my ideology is clear” 235 (Guillermo, Germán and Leopoldo, Farriar March 2007).

234 Comunas are neo-socialist organizational structures proposed by the Bolivarian Revolution since 2006. Although they were part of the packed of reforms rejected in the national referendum of 2007, they aim to foster the construction of socialist forms of production and social relations. These organizations represent new forms of State territorialisation, as they can channel and finance large projects that integrate communities, municipalities and even regional states. The comunas are integrated by the different Communal Councils of a given region. These macro forms of organization are coordinated by the Sala de Batalla Social, a social decision-making space which is led by community members, voceros and activists of the Frente Francisco Miranda. 235 “Guillermo-por la parte de Veroes hay un legado histórico por lo trascendental de Andresote. Los historiadores oficiales les gusta ocultar eso, borrar lo de Andresote. Mucha gente hablaba de la astucia que tenía, esa parte ideológica de Andresote prefieren borrarla. Uno de los principios era la equidad, nuestros ancestros tenían una parte ideológica, antes había solidaridad, teníamos comunas. Yo creo que en el inicio todo era igual, tenemos que hacer resurgir la ideología Andresoteana. Hablar de la parte política, su estrategia militar, y como hombre social. Si tenía cumbes reunidos, esa sociedad tenía como recrear los aspectos culturales, políticos y económicos. Allí tenemos un gran legado. Juan Manuel López del Rosario iba a Tucaras, Morón, Yaracuy, Barquisimeto, y lograba hacer las ventas con los holandeses. Ahí hay una estructura organizativa, no lograron capturarlo y no lo vendieron, creo que por ahí tenemos que entrarle. Germán-tenemos que hablar sin miedo, con orgullo sobre la gesta heroica, que fue mas que la de Miguel, por su habilidad, un verdadero cimarrón, cimarroneaba… Leopoldo-podemos hacer una convivencia, acuérdate para aclarar, ahí es donde podemos decir que el camino es este, el camino es la parte Afro, yo estoy aquí porque mi ideología está clara… (Farriar, March 2007). 449

This conversation is a clear example of frame-making processes. This meeting took place days before afrodescendant movements requested their legal inclusion at the

National Assembly. In this gathering, the three participants made explicit the need to frame the ideological orientations of the Afroyaracuyan movement. In this setting, representations of Andresote are constructed as the main historical identity marker of this regional movement.

In the intervention of Guillermo one can also appreciate how Andresote is the historical anchor for building and recognizing the afrodescendant ideological legacy in the region. This local historian contests the official historiographies of Felice-Cardot

(1957), Perera (1964) and Páez (1998) who have argued that Andresote was just a smuggler, who did not have specific political projects. Thus, Guillermo points to the historical erasures that have been constructed around the figure of Andresote. He seeks to demonstrate that this historical leader was “astute” and “strategic” as he had coherent ideological projects entailing political, cultural, and organizational tactics.

Furthermore, he describes the presence of an Andresoteana ideology, that is based on the principles of solidarity and equality. Andresote is depicted as being able to articulate cumbes and to integrate larger territories from the coast of Tucacas in Falcón to the inland territories of Lara in Barquisimeto. In this sense, Guillermo depicts Andresote has having the agency to gain and secure spatial control within colonial territories. This image is in dialogue with the contemporary notion of comunas, as he implies that his

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afrodescendant ancestors had similar forms of organization. The comunas, are large territorial forms of organization, integrated by Communal Councils. Thus, his parallel with these contemporary neo-socialist organizations on the one hand evokes early communist forms of resource distribution. On the other hand, he implicitly dialogues with the indigenous movement that has articulated frames on indo-socialism, which are also based on ideologies of “primitive communism.”236 In sum, Andresote‟s cumbes are depicted as inherited territorial, political and economic organizations that will provide backing for the formation of contemporary revolutionary comunas.

Moreover, the intervention of Germán evokes emotional frames pointing to ambiguous feelings of fear and pride. He, as well as Guillermo, constructs Andresote as the main Cimarrón icon of northwestern Venezuela, since he was never captured, as were

Miguel and José Leonardo, or betrayed as the latter case. Finally Leopoldo, calls for direct action in the present and ideological clarification. He underlines the need to assert the identity of the Afroyaracuyan movement based on Andresote, vis-a-vis other regional organizations that have other historical figures. He also sets a clear ground for action by stating, “…the path is the Afro part.”

Historical frames are produced in many other locations. One can sense their gendered dimensions, since most historical figures are male actors, as are most contemporary local historians. Many woman leaders indicate that they are aware of the multiple silencing strategies for invisibilizing the historical contributions of afrodescendant woman in the region. Some activists seek to reassert the role of Queen

236 See Chapter 4 for a discussion on how indo-socialism is linked to reified ideologies on primitive communism. 451

Giomar, who was the partner of Miguel. Others highlight the achievements of Ana

Gutiérrez, an afrodescendant woman who struggled against the Banana Company of

Venezuela in Agua Negra during the 1950s. I will further discuss this topic when explaining the emergence and circulation of the gender frame.

Overall, the enactment of historical frames is not only a fundamental instrument for social mobilization, it also allows for the ongoing production of identities based on ideologies of cimarronaje, antiracism, and resource distribution. After talking about land struggles in the community of Agua Negra, Gilberto, told me “… people here have always made cimarronaje, those land struggles are acts of cimarronaje…”

Framing racism

The politics of racism in Venezuela has been widely debated since the 1990s

(Ascencio 1984; Wright 1990; Montañéz 1993; Mijares 2003; Ishibashi 2003, 2007;

Herrera 2004, 2007; Bolívar et al. 2007). The pervasiveness of racism in Venezuela has been linked to the historical experiences of slavery and colonization, to the myth of racial democracy, and the preponderance of discourses on mestizaje. It also emerges in veiled forms such as jokes, games, stereotypes, and everyday talk; or in endoracist expressions

(Montañéz 1993). Racism also pervades the Venezuelan media, as TV shows, commercial signs, movies, beauty contests and soap operas tend to render invisible, erase or diminish people who are perceived as “black” (Ishibashi 2003). Racism is also produced in processes of social confrontation among contemporary political factions

(Herrera 2004; Bolívar et al. 2007, Ishibashi 2007). Bolívar et al. 2007 argues that in 452

Venezuela racism emerges in public media associated with metaphors addressing physical appearance and chromatic aspects of mestizaje. Racial discrimination is also reproduced by politicians and the media through metaphors of color and inheritance.

Racism in Venezuela also has been associated to the symbolic domains of war, political confrontation, perversion, transgression, threat, and violence (Herrera 2003; Ishibashi

2007; Bolívar et al. 2007).

In contemporary Venezuela, anti-racist discourses have been mostly associated to the new multicultural rhetoric of the State and the Bolivarian revolution. Chávez and many State functionaries have been targets of racist discourses, especially during times of high political confrontation (Herrera 2004:121; Ishibashi 2007:33). As I will later indicate, this manifestation of racism has in fact exacerbated the frame alignment of

Afro-Venezuelan organizations with Bolivarian revolutionary discourses.

However, Venezuelan social movements and revolutionary organizations have overtly contested racism (Ishibashi 2003; Mijares 2003; Herrera 2007; Bolívar et al.

2007). Since the 1990s, the Organización de Mujeres Negras and the ROA articulated demands against racial discrimination, as they denounced institutional and everyday forms of racism (Mijares 2003:68). In this process, these organizations produced numerous frames evoking anti-racist ideologies. After their participation in international encounters in Durban and Chile in 2001, ROA explicitly engaged in the struggle against any form of racial discrimination in Venezuela. Activists of ROA, of the Cumbe de

Mujeres Afrovenezolanas and the Red Juvenil promoted in 2005 the formation of a

Presidential Commission for the Prevention of any form of Discrimination in the 453

Education System. This commission integrated by numerous State institutions, has as its main function, denouncing and eliminating all forms of discrimination in the Venezuelan education system. As discussed in Chapter 3, the National Assembly also issued a new

Law project against racial discrimination with the support of social movements, State institutions, politicians, anthropologists, lawyers, among many other law-making actors.

Some factions of ROA, who since 2010 organized a separate movement called Red

Afrovenezolana (RAV) have also developed a profound critique of institutional racism.

This movement seeks to highlight how racism is reproduced and masked by revolutionary

State functionaries, and even by some institutionalized afrodescendant leaders.

In Veroes, activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement indicate that they developed a critical view of racism, as they engaged in ROA‟s international and national encounters and meetings. Germán in this regard states that in Chile they learned about the different forms of racial discrimination. In this sense, he argued:

“The term black is pejorative, the term black is used (to depict) something bad, black is bad, death. The dominant system of two colors defined the positive and the negative. In the stamp of Archangel San Miguel, the devil is black. In the revocatory referendum (of President Chávez), the guy representing the devil was black”237 (Germán Farriar, March 2007).

For this activist, racism is focused on color, or as suggested by Bolívar et al.

(2007) on chromatic constructions. Germán reproduces part of the frames of ROA that constantly seek to deconstruct colonial racial-color categories, and demonstrate how they

237 “El término negro es peyorativo, el termino negro se usa como lo malo, lo negro lo malo, la muerte. El sistema dominante de dos colores definió los positivo y negativo. En la estampa de San Miguel Arcángel, el diablo es negro. En el referéndum revocatorio el señor que era el diablo era negro” (Germán Farriar March 2007). 454

are mere cultural constructions. As stated earlier, the frame of racism is strongly articulated with the master frame of self-recognition. Mateo in this regard suggests:

“...the term black is part of that racism, and part of everything that we have dragged with the colonial past. There are no blacks in Africa, in Africa there are Africans, Africans were called blacks. Always the black color is (associated) with bad (things). If we continue to use the term black, we continue anchored to the colonizing heritage. We have to eliminate racism, skin color does not divide us. Afrodescendant is to have genealogical roots in Africa. The term black divides us, does not consolidate us as (a) culture, it is a social falseness. (The term) afrodescendant encompasses all African values, it allow us to unite as culture, you with that color and me. That is the struggle”238 (Mateo, Palmarejo May 2007).

In this fragment emerges the articulation of frames on self-recognition, historical heritage and anti-racism. Racism is identified as a historical legacy from the colonial past that was imposed on Africans. A solution voice surfaces as he calls for embracing afrodescendant self-recognition. From this identity location, he calls for action in the present in order to eliminate racism and achieve “cultural union.”

Other Afroyaracuyan activists point to the present as they tend to deconstruct contemporary notions on racial democracy and its veiled forms of racism. Gilberto in this regard states:

“In the country it has been said that there is no racism, that more subtle racism. Dr Jung (Ishibashi)239 tells us that in the United States racism is more frontal. They say: “we do not want you here.” But some have achieved what they want, they have movies, radio. Racism there is frontal and declared. In the revolutionary process,

238 “…el término negro es parte de ese racismo y parte de todo lo que hemos arrastrado con el pasado colonial. En África no existen negros en Afrecha hay africanos, a los africanos los llamaron negros. Siempre el color negro esta con lo malo. Si seguimos usando el término negro seguimos anclados a la herencia colonizadora. Tenemos que eliminar el racismo, no nos divide el color de piel. Afrodescendiente es tener arraigo genealógico en África El término negro nos divide, no nos recoge como cultura es una falsedad social. Afrodescendiente recoge a todos los valores africanos, nos permite unirnos como cultura, tu con ese color y yo, esa es la lucha” (Mateo Palmarejo, May 2007). 239 Jun Ishibashi, conducted workshops in Palmarejo with local activists and community members. His main objective was to analyze participant‟s perceptions on racial representations within the national media (Ishibashi 2003). 455

we are revising and we see that everything has a racist charge. A moment will come in which the Network will be felt240 (Gilberto, Agua Negra, May 2007).

One can see how this activist circulates the work of Ishibashi on racism. He also makes visible the alignment of anti-racist and revolutionary frames. Ishibashi, in this regard, has argued that factions of the opposition explicitly asserted the absence of racism in the country. These political factions circulate the argument that the revolutionary government has in fact polarized civil society and exacerbated class and status discrimination. While, on the other hand, Chávez and some State functionaries such as

Aristóbulo Isturiz have publicly embraced anti-racist discourses as part of the multicultural frame of the Bolivarian neo-socialist state. Overall, great tension remains concerning the circulation of anti-racist ideologies within the everyday forms of political contention in Venezuela.

However, some activists are also aware of their own endoracist representations. A women leader of the Afroyaracuyan movement told me that she was anxious about knowing the color and hair characteristics of their children when they were born. In this regard, she said:

“ I was worried, I hoped that their hair would be straight, like their father‟s, and that they would have fairer skin than mine. That was the first thing I saw when they were born. Can you imagine before people would bring a brown bag in order to assess the color of the child … you know, it is very hard to say but if you have darker skin or have a broad nose life is much more hard, I did not want that for my

240 “En el país se ha dicho que no hay racismo, ese racismo solapado. El Dr. Jung nos dice que en Estados Unidos el racismo es más frontal. Dicen: aquí no te queremos, pero ya algunos han logrado lo que quieren, tienen cine, tienen radio. El racismo allí es frontal y declarado. En el proceso revolucionario, estamos revisando y vemos que todo tiene una carga racista. Va ha llegar el momento en que la Red se hará sentir” (Gilberto Agua Negra, May 2007). 456

children … here people are racist, people have told me “but you are a beautiful black woman”241 (a 30 year old afrodescendant woman, Farriar, November 2007).

This intimate narrative exposes the complexities of endoracism, which means to internalize and reproduce racist discourses and categories (Montañéz 1993; Mijares

1994). This process also involves rejecting one‟s own physical characteristics, that have been stereotyped as negative by the prevalent racism. In this fragment, this activist makes clear how racial discrimination pervades the very intimate sphere of motherhood and reproduction, inscribing and stigmatizing children on the colonial chromatic scales of the

“brown bag.” Moreover, aesthetic elements surface critically in the construction of this form of racism. Racism, as linked to beauty constructions, has been a key instrument in devaluing afrodescendant self-esteem. In sum, discourses on racial discrimination not only pervade Afroyaracuyan collective frames, but also their everyday practices and intimate selves.

Further research is required in order to explore the subjective and intersubjective effects of the politics of racism in Veroes. In general, most people evoke mestizo tropes when speaking about race. For instance, a leader of a land organization identified himself as mestizo, as he explained that he had “dark skin” but was bald, like most white people.

He indicated that most people in the region were the result of the ¨mixture of black people with “bad hair,” of Indians with “regular hair,” and white European peoples.

241 “Yo estaba preocupada, Yo esperaba que salieran con el pelo liso, como el de su padre, y que fueran más claritos que yo. Eso fue lo primero que vi cuando nacieron. Te puedes imaginar que antes la gente traía una bolsa de papel marrón para medir el color del niño… sabes es difícil decirlo pero si tienes la piel bien oscura o tienes la nariz chata la vida se te hace más difícil y yo no quería eso para mis hijos…aquí hay gente racista, la gente me ha dicho, pero tú eres una negra bella” (a 30 year old woman, Farriar November 2007).

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Another member of a land organization self-identified as criolla of Andean descent. She explained that she was not black, but that the family of her husband was black as they had

“bad hair,” “thick noses,” and “flat faces.” She also indicated that she was not as violent and aggressive as most black women were. She constantly pointed to the differences in character and the aggressive ways in which “blacks” interacted and solved conflicts. In sum, some Afroyaracuyan members still embrace racialized notions of blackness. Hair and nose shapes are key visual indexes of race. Aggression and violent practices also seem associated with blackness.

Although the frame of anti-racism has great resonance among Afroyaracuyan leaders, it tends to diminish its empathic power on the fringes of the movement. Of the group of non-members that I interviewed, very few people recognized the existence of racism or explicit discriminatory practices addressing somatic constructions. Local community members tended to speak more about cultural discrimination. Although this discussion exceeds the scope of this dissertation it is worth mentioning that many community members indicated that the people of Veroes are stereotyped as “savages,” and have the reputation of being violent. A woman of Farriar for example stated: “we, the people of Veroes are considered savages. People from San Felipe say, “there come the savages of Veroes” 242 (María, Farriar June 2007).

During informal conversations with people in San Felipe (capital of the Yaracuy

State), I too encountered discriminatory representations of the population of Veroes. For

242 “Nosotros la gente de Veroes somos vistos como salvajes. La gente de San Felipe dice ahí vienen los salvajes de Veroes” (María Farriar, June 2007).

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instance, a taxi driver told me once, that he was afraid of the people of Veroes because they were “savages.” Overall, the trope of “savagery” and violence was a very common image associated with afrodescendant people of Veroes. I believe that this representation is reproduced to obscure regional and local forms of racial discrimination. Future research is required in order to underscore how community members and outsiders experience racism. Yet it is clear that anti-racism is a key mobilizing frame for the activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement, as has been the case for many other afrodescendant movements in Latin America.

Mujeres Afrodescendientes: a gender frame

The frame on gender equality has been transversally circulated across

Afrovenezuelan organizations. This frame was originally developed in Venezuela by the

Unión de Mujeres Negras. This organization, funded in 1990, focused on preventing the exclusion of women from the educational and health systems. This movement served as a space for communicating and denouncing the gendered and racial experiences of discrimination of “black” women in their social and working contexts (Mijares 2003).

The Unión de Mujeres Negras was also one of the most active organizations in framing the petition for the inclusion of Afrodescendant people in the Bolivarian constitution in

1999.

In 2002, they also organized a National encounter in Ocumare de la Costa

(Aragua state) where they proposed strategic actions for the inclusion and visibility of

Afrodescendant women. One of the central topics of this national meeting was promoting 459

self-recognition as afrodescendant women, by focusing on the intersection of racial and gendered forms of exclusion. Later on, in 2004, this organization adopted the name of

Cumbe de Mujeres Afrovenezolanas in order to reassert an autonomous space for fostering specific actions for Afrodescendant women (Camacho 2008). Since then, this movement has embraced the frame of cimarronaje by having defined itself as a Cumbe. It has organized four national meetings as well as an International Encounter of

Afrodescendant Families and Women (Camacho 2008). It is also articulated to the

International Network of Afro-Latinamerican and Afro-Caribbean Woman. In a recent encounter held in Brasilia, they defined as their main recommendations: the elimination of racial and gendered forms of discrimination, the elaboration of ethno-racial censuses and indicators, the defense of non-religious States, the promotion of economic rights, among other rights (Rivera-Lassén 2010). Overall, the current agenda of the Cumbe of de

Mujeres Afrovenezolanas has centered on education and on the need to promote productive activities and the inclusion of afrovenezuelan women in State public policies.

In fact, the Cumbe of Mujeres Afrodescendientes has gained significant institutional spaces. In 2008, Reina Arratia, one of the founders of the Unión de Mujeres

Negras was named ambassador of Venezuela in the Republic of Togo. Later in 2009, another of the main activists of the Cumbe, Norma Romero, was appointed Viceministra para la Afrodescendencia y Etnicidad at the Ministry of Popular Participation for Women and Gender Equality. Furthermore, the Cumbe of Women has managed to incorporate the variable “afrodescendancy” within the Plan of Equality for Women developed by the

National Institute of Women (Inamujer) (Camacho 2008). The organization has also 460

established strategic alliances with the Bank of Development for Women, by constituting an inter-institutional round-table that will design specific policies for Afrodescendant

Woman. The Cumbe has trained the personnel and the promoters of the Bank in the process of providing productive credits, in accordance to the cultural specificities of

Afrovenezuelan communities.

Moreover, Nirva Camacho and Silvia Arratia were elected as coordinators of the

Presidential Commission for the Elimination of all forms of Discrimination in the

Venezuelan Educational System. In this Commission, many activists of the Cumbe have gained leadership and strong visibility. They also work closely with the Juvenile

Afrovenezuelan Network. They incorporated young afrodescendant women to circulate this gendered frame in State institutions and national media. For instance, one young leader of the Cumbe was proposed as deputy candidate to the National Assembly in the elections of September 2010. Another young leader is the conductor of an alternative feminist TV show at Ávila TV, a State sponsored channel.

This frame on Afrodescendant women also intersects with national revolutionary discourses on gender equality. The Plan Simón Bolivar 2007-2013 in fact established that gender is a transversal axis of all development programs of the Bolivarian nation. This plan is constantly circulated within State institutions and social organizations in order to legitimize and amplify the resonance of frames on gender equality.

Moreover, in the participatory realm, the revolution has in many cases been portrayed as la revolución de las mujeres (the revolution of women). Women tend to have higher levels of participation as volunteers in many State missions like Barrio 461

Adentro (a preventive health care), and Mission Ribas and Mission Sucre (primary and high School level educational programs) (Espina and Rakowski 2010:189-190). It has been argued that Chávez‟s gendered rhetoric has symbolically engaged women as

“mothers and nurtures” of the revolutionary process, as they have been actively projected into the public sphere (Fernández 2010:218).243 Almost all State functionaries that I interviewed in Yaracuy in 2007 affirmed categorically that women have greater levels of participation in Communal Councils, cooperatives, and State missions in Veroes. For instance, a State functionary of INDER (Instituto de Desarrollo Rural) in Farriar stated:

“women are very active, there are many women, women work more than men, especially here in the municipality.” 244

Although the Cumbe of Mujeres Afrovenezolanas has organized several activities in Yaracuy, it is interesting that this gender frame has had a limited resonance. There is no explicit opposition to producing discourses on gender equality, however in many activities, cultural events, and encounters, the theme remains relatively ignored. The gendered frame mainly emerges in the use of inclusive language markers, as most activists use both the female and male articles las and los when referring to afrodescendants. I believe that the argument of transversalizing the inclusion of

243 Espina and Rakowski (2010) and Fernández (2010) interpret the active participation of women as an expression of the populist effects of the charismatic power of Chávez. I believe that these studies overlook the subjective and intersubjective transformations experienced by women who participate in State mission programs. These studies focus on portraying the negative stereotypes of populist regimes and its intersections with gender. Yet they tend to mechanically understate the effects of discourses on inclusion and redistribution in fostering processes of subjective empowerment. 244 “Las mujeres son muy activas, hay muchas mujeres, las mujeres trabajan más que los hombres, sobre todo aquí en el municipio” (regional state functionary from INDER, Farriar November 2007).

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afrovenezuelan women has rendered this gender frame invisible and has affected its potential resonance among other organizations.

In spite of these limitations, there are five activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement who have been directly involved in the Cumbe de Mujeres Afrovenezolanas.

Since 2006, they have promoted in the region the formation of land organizations, women cooperatives and communitarian housing organizations (OCVs). Within these organizations, women tend to circulate and intersect frames on afrodescendant self- recognition and gender equality.

Legal and public policy frames

Afroyaracuyan leaders also produce frames on legal recognition. Beyond their need for historical recognition, they articulate demands for having political participation within State institutions. For instance, Mateo, an afrodescendant leader of the community of Palmarejo- Yaracuy, stated during an open-ended interview:

“The law will allow them to open the door at all levels of public policies; it is the mother law, the constitution. From the carta magna merges all the other laws and decrees are derived. Where there is no sanction in the constitution, there can be no decrees. An example, the law of communal councils establishes the specificity of the indigenous population, we as afrodescendants must have (the same) specificity. We will be treated as the rest [of the population], once incorporated into in the constitution, it is the law. Communal councils must have a special characteristics for afrodescendants, a special treatment for afrodescendants, for that struggle. The other laws will appear once that definition is achieved in the educational (sphere), the working [realm]; indigenous [peoples] even in the political aspect, they elect representatives that know their own reality. There are indigenous ministries. We need representatives that know their reality. The 463

President recognizes himself as afrodescendant, he also recognizes his indigenous part” 245 (Mateo, May 2007).

In this fragment, Mateo evokes the powerful representation of law, as a “door,” in other words as a political opportunity for gaining inclusion within State public policies.246

The constitution in particular is depicted as a “mother,” alluding in this way to its productive and reproductive power to generate derivative laws. In his view, the law is an opportunity for social movements and communities to participate within the State. In other words, he argues for the importance of incorporating afrodescendant peoples in the constitution, not only as a matter of historical representation, but also as way of achieving specific legal instruments for this population. In particular, he expresses the analogy with indigenous peoples, who have not only been incorporated into the constitution but who are also recognized in legal instruments that have direct impact upon the formation of communal councils. The concept of specificity is crucial in this context because it claims for adjusting the law and its instruments to the ethno-racial “realities” of afrodescendant communities. In other words, afrodescendant demands do not simply remain circumscribed to the abstract nationalist realm of historical representation but also to the need to participate in processes of redistributing political capital.

245 “La ley les va ha permitir abrir la puerta en todos los estratos de las políticas públicas, es la ley madre, la constitución. De la carta magna surgen las demas leyes, los decretos. Al no estar en la constitución no sale en los decretos. Un ejemplo, la ley de consejos comunales estipula la especificidad para la población indígena, nosotros como afrodescendants debemos tener especificidad. Seremos tratados como el resto, al lograrse en la constitución es la ley. Los consejos comunales deben tener un carácter especial para los afrodescendientes, un trato especial para los afrodescendants por esa lucha. Las demas leyes salen con esa definicion en lo educativo, lo laboral, incluso los indígena en la parte política, ellos eligen representantes que conocen la realidad. Hay ministerios indigenas. Nosotros necesitamos representantes que conozcan la realidad afrodescendant. Tenemos diputados que no nos representan, no porque no quieran, sino porque no conocen su realidad. El presidente se reconoce como afrodescendant, tambien reconoce su parte indígena” (Mateo, March 2007). 246 In 2004 the Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations promoted a series of meetings and encounters to discuss the need for incorporating peoples of African origin within state public policies. 464

Moreover, it is interesting that Mateo closes his discourse with the powerful ethno-racial representation of Chávez. He implicitly cites the voice of Chávez who, in one of his presidential TV shows (Aló Presidente 2004, No 177), publicly claimed that he was part afrodescendant and part indigenous. For Mateo, the symbolic ethno-racial identity of the nation should follow Chavez‟ example on afro-indigenous identity. In this sense, he implicitly argues that without the incorporation of afrodescendants in the

Constitution, the nation and the revolutionary process have not yet fully recognized their identity.

Other leaders of the Afroyaracuyan movement also expressed how afrodescendant legal demands for inclusion should involve direct political participation in local forms of territorial organization, such as municipalities. In this regard, Guillermo, a key afrodescendant activist of the community of Farriar-Yaracuy, stated during a meeting of the local Communal Council:

“The constitutional reform is very important, since with the proposal of the network we might manage to declare the municipality as [an] afrodescendant municipality. This is a very important step in order to directly elect the deputies that represent the afro community. There are many deputies in Caracas, who do not even know Veroes or whose faces we have never seen. We must continue in this process of self-recognition as afrodescendants in order to stop being excluded. afrodescendants have always been excluded, it’s time to be included” 247 (Guillermo April 2007).

247 “La reforma constitucional es muy importante ya que con la propuesta de la red se podrá llegar a declarar al municipio como municipio afrodescendant. Este paso es muy importante para poder elegir directamente a los diputados que representen a la comunidad afro. Hay muchos diputados en Caracas que ni siquiera conocen a Veroes o que ni siquiera le hemos visto la cara. Tenemos que seguir con el proceso de autoreconocimeinto como afrodescendants para dejar de ser excluidos. Los Afrodescendientes han sido siempre excluidos, es hora de incluirnos” (Guillermo, April 2007). 465

In this statement, Guillermo clearly articulates the demand for ethniticizing the

Veroes municipality, with the intention of gaining political representation at the regional and local levels of the State. The fragment reveals a profound critique of the current mechanisms of political representation, as he considers that most deputies do not even know their communities. This critical voice also speaks to a political tension within this particular municipality since there are two main geographical-political-ethnic axis.248

Moreover, Guillermo calls for self-recognition as a key strategy for achieving political inclusion. As I will discuss further on, he aims at ethnicizing communal councils, which are considered the main form of social organization in the current conjuncture of the revolutionary process. This political vision is also shared by Álvaro, another member of the Afroyaracuyan movement from the community of Palmarejo. He states:

“The objective is to recognize the whole municipality as afrodescendant ... before nearly all were recognized as blacks, they still do so and we explain to them why afrodescendants and not blacks. I see the demand for the reform as very positive, but it will be mutilated ... It is important that they have entered in the National Assembly, so that our historical contributions may be recognized ... politicians have always used us to escalate, the struggle is for afro [people] to elect those who will represent them from the base. These people will not agree, imagine the resistance against the educational proposal, that we be included, it talks about afrodescendant leaders, about their strengths, of the people who fought, that history was negated. We know that it will not be easy. In 1999 proposals were made, in 1999 there were people clear with the revolutionary process, pacific manifestations were made” 249 (Alvaro, March 2007).

248 The municipality is composed by two groups of communities. In the axis of “El Guayabo” the majority do not recognize themselves as afrodescendants; yet, since the mayor comes from that geographical location most development programs are directed to this region. The other group of communities is El Chino-Farriar-Palmarejo and Agua Negra, which are historically recognized as part of the “black” or afrodescendant region of Yaracuy. It is constantly argued by the local population that these communities in particular are excluded from municipal and state projects. 249 “El objetivo es que todo el municipio se reconozca como afrodescendiente... antes se reconocian mas que todo a los negros, todavía lo usan y les explicamos porque afrodescendientes y no 466

Álvaro reiterates in the fragment the need for recognizing the specific ethno-racial dimensions of the municipality of Veroes, in order to gain more political representation and inclusion in local public policies. He also presents a critical voice against politicians who had used the votes of communities of the municipality and yet they rarely represent their needs. Yet he evokes a pessimist voice indicating the possible objections and resistance against the proposal and their inclusion in other laws, such as the proposal of the Organic Law of Education. In the public media, the opposition circulated discourses against the inclusion of afrodescendant historical figures in the educational curricula.

In sum, one sees how Afroyaracuyan activists called for transforming their petitions for legal ethnoracial recognition into concrete “practices of inclusion” within public policies. Their frames also claimed specific participation within regional forms of political organization. Overall, we have seen how frames on self-recognition, historical representation, anti-racism, gender equality, and legal inclusion have been articulated and circulated by the Afroyaracuyan movement. These frames have been de-contextualized and re-entextualized from mobilized discourses of National and International networks of

Afrodescendant organizations. They have different degrees of resonance and have been gradually aligned with Bolivarian revolutionary frames. Nevertheless, there are other

negro…La exigencia de la reforma la veo muy positiva, pero va a tener tranca…Es importante que hayan entrado en la asamblea nacional, para que nos reconozcan los aportes históricos…Toda la vida nos han utilizado para escalar los politicos, la pelea es que los afro elijan desde su base los que los van a representar,. Esas personas no van a estar de acuerdo, imaginate la Resistencia a la propuesta de education que nos incluyan, se habla sobre los líderes afrodescendants, de sus fortalezas, de las personas que lucharon, esta historia la negaron. Sabemos que no va ha ser fácil. En 1999 se hicieron propuestas, en 1999 había gente clara con el proceso revolucionario, se hicieron manifestaciones pacíficas” (Alvaro, March 2007). 467

frames that have been produced locally by the Afroyaracuyan movement, which are directly connected to the local history of territorial struggles and to their multiple agricultural and land distribution practices.

Territorial-land Frames

The Afroyaracuyan movement, since its inception has been articulated to a long history of territorial struggles and negotiations. As discussed in Chapter 3, afrodescendant territoriality in the late twentieth century was shaped by the expansion of sugar cane plantations, the loss of access to communal lands, and complex processes of violence. Some of those who first led the Afroyaracuyan movement were directly involved in the emblematic land struggles at Los Gusanillos and Los Cañizos in the late

1980s. I argue that this particular history of territorial struggle in the region of Veroes has territorialized the discursive strategies and actions of the contemporary Afroyaracuyan movement. In turn, these ethno-racial Yaracuyan organizations have also territorialized some of the agendas of the National Afrovenezuelan Movement, by integrating and incorporating demands on territorial and land redistribution in this larger networking setting.

In 2006, during the inauguration of the movement Cimarrones por la Revolución, in Caracas, leaders of the Afroyaracuyan movement proposed incorporating the question of land and territoriality as a critical issue of the agenda of this national movement.

While activists from other states called for afrodescendant self-recognition, historical visibility, and their inclusion within public policies; Afroyaracuyan leaders spoke about 468

lucha de tierras (land struggles). During this event, Leopoldo said with a categorical pitch:

“We request a commitment from the movement. We cannot stop supporting a spirit of unity. In the Veroes Municipality, in the state of Yaracuy, land struggles are taking place in order to change the economic system”250 (Leopoldo Caracas, 2006)

Germán continued this intervention by stating:

“We Yaracuyans are organized. From our trenches we have been taking important steps foward. Miguel was captured, but Andresote is still alive. Andresote is there in the community of Palmarejo. There a struggle took place (in the epoch) of Rafael Caldera. There the people of Veroes, there the Afro fought, they killed one of us, he was called Alirio Romero. This promoted the re-conquest of 400 hectares there in Palmarejo. The Afrodescendants of Veroes have recovered 20,400 hectares. Those, the communal lands left by Gómez are being recovered. That is the struggle that took place; at the beginning we said we are here, on the lands that were taken away from us ... How do we see the Cimarrón vote? Recently a patrulla was created, there (in Veroes) we are 100% organized to tell them that there are 10 million, to tell them no to the yanqui empire, no to any kind of intervention ... we cannot sleep in peace if the people of Yaracuy, of Veroes do not have land. In the constitution it is said that we are a multiethnic country, let‟s request the constitutional amendment”251 (Germán, Parque Central, Caracas 2006).

These interventions are examples of how political, ethno-racial, and territorial claims have been introduced by the Afroyaracuyan movement within national contexts of social mobilization. These fragments evoke historical memories recalling Miguel and

250 “Pedimos nosotros un compromiso del movimiento. No se puede dejar de mantener un espíritu de unidad. En el municipio Veroes en el Estado Yaracuy se viene dando una lucha de tierras, para cambiar el sistema económico” (Leopoldo, Parque Central Caracas, 2006). 251 “Los yaracuyanos, nos organizamos, desde nuestra trinchera hemos venido dando pasos importantes. Miguel fue capturado, pero Andresote todavía vive. Andresote está allá en la comunidad de Palmarejo. Allí se libró una lucha cuando Rafael Caldera. Ahí el pueblo de Veroes, allí los Afro lucharon, nos pusieron un muerto, se llamaba Alirio Romero. Esto dio pie a reconquistar 400 hectáreas allá en Palmarejo. Los Afrodescendientes de Veroes hemos recuperado 20.400 hectáreas. Esas las tierras comuneras que dejó Gómez se están recuperando. Esa es una lucha que se dio, que en un principio se dijo aquí estamos nosotros, en las tierras que nos quitaron a nosotros...Que cómo vemos el voto Cimarrón? ahorita se creó la patrulla, ahí estamos organizados 100% para decirles que son 10 millones, para decirles no al imperio yanqui, no a cualquier intervención ... no se puede dormir tranquilo si la gente de Yaracuy, de Veroes no tienen su tierra ... En la Constitución se dice que somos un país multiétnico, vamos a pedir la enmienda constitucional”(Germán, Parque Central Caracas 2006). 469

Andresote, as well as the land grant given by Juan Vicente Gómez. Germán enounces the number of recovered hectares in order to recall the achievements of local land movements in the region since the 1990s. He speaks of the political organizational capacity of the patrullas (revolutionary brigades) which were conformed in order to seek votes favoring the re-election of President Chávez. Anti-imperial and sovereignty frames also surface in this intervention making explicit the political alignment of the

Afroyaracuyan movement in this electoral conjuncture. Finally, frames of legal recognition and multiculturalism are articulated in order to call for a constitutional reform and the juridical inclusion of Afrodescendant peoples.

Territorial markers are distributed in this narrative spatializing their past, present and future. There are references to the yaracuyanos, and to specific sites like Palmarejo and Veroes. In addition, ethnic tropes are territorialized, when stating for instance

“Andresote is there,” or the “Afrodescendants of Veroes.” In sum, these interventions not only expressed specific regional demands, but also the need to incorporate long-term historical demands on territoriality within the national afrovenezuelan movement.

Following Fernandes (2005:278), one can sense how the Afroyaracuyan movement represents itself as a socio-territorial organization. As such, this mobilized network seeks to spatialize its goals and strategies through political action. The circulation of this Afroyaracuyan territorial frame shows how some spaces (for instance the lands of Veroes) are transformed into territories through processes of social mobilization. 470

These territorial frames were also enacted in settings of political conflict with the

Venezuelan State. For instance, in March 2007, the National Afrovenezuelan Movement

(ROA, Cumbe de Mujeres Afrovenezolanas and the Afrodescendant Juvenile Network) presented before the National Assembly a new project of legal inclusion within the constitutional reform (See Chapter 5). In this context, Afroyaracuyan members proposed articles addressing the recognition of afrodescendant territories and lands.

In Veroes, cultural organizations, land committees, agricultural cooperatives, and

Communal Councils also produce and circulate territorial frames. Most people have at least one family member involved in the recovery of the communal lands or in the formation of land cooperatives. Almost all activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement are involved in one way or another in the process of land recuperation. Many of them belong to agricultural cooperatives or are members of larger land organizations. These territorial frames evoke ideologies of Afro-socialism, agro-ecology, conuco practices, comunero history, and land distribution.

Afro-socialism, conuqueros and comuneros

The Afroyaracuyan movement has produced a complex set of mobilizing frames on Afro-socialism, Afro-comuneros, and agro-ecology. Political, productive and ecological ideologies integrate these frames. The prefix Afro, serves as a framing device that locally ethnicizes State ideologies on socialism, communal production, ecological conservation, and food sovereignty. 471

National discourses on socialism have been constantly circulated in the communities of Yaracuy through State media (TV, radio, regional newspapers).252 Many activists recognize themselves as supporters of the neo-socialist policies embraced by the

Venezuelan government. Although not all members of the Afroyaracuyan movement manifest their specific political orientations, many express their public support for the revolutionary process and the need to impulse socialist forms of production in the region.

Some leaders argue that their communities have practiced their own forms of

Afro-Venezuelan socialism since colonial times. They explain that their parents and grandparents were socialists without knowing it, since as conuqueros they exchanged agricultural products and participated in collective systems of labor. In addition, some activists suggest that land was distributed equally among their afrodescendant comunero ancestors, and as such, they should return to their “original forms of Afro-socialism.”

Thus the notion of Afro-Venezuelan socialism seems to be an emulation of State discourses on “indigenous socialism.” The latter has been a key discursive strategy of the national indigenous movement, which has based many of its demands on the essentialist notion of “being Indo-socialists.” The production of Afro-socialist frames could be an example of how Afrodescendant movements tend to “indianize” their mobilizing frames and strategies in order to gain legitimacy and visibility within the multicultural State

(Hooker 2005).

252 In December 2006, the Venezuelan State proclaimed its new socialist project, which is envisioned as a large machine composed of five “revolutionary motors” (motores de la revolución). The third motor “Moral and Luces,” is “driven” by an extended system of educational brigades, which are in charge of teaching the theoretical and conceptual precepts of the State‟s socialist project in local communities. Members of the Afroyaracuyan movement and of the community have participated in several workshops and activities of these brigades.

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Members of the Afroyaracuyan movement also circulate this frame on Afro- socialism within other organizations. During Communal Councils meetings,

Afroyaracuyan activists argue that the community should embrace its “Afro-socialist roots.” They usually reproduce this frame when the community engages in debates over the unequal distribution of land and credit. Activists also socialize this discourse in meetings with Agricultural Cooperatives, as they constantly evoke the agricultural practices of conuqueros and comuneros.

The notion of Afro-socialism is also linked to circulating ideologies on food sovereignty. The Ministry of Agriculture and Land (MAC) has produced a complex ideological ecology on endogenous development and food security. State institutions such as the Coorporación Venezolana de Alimentos (CVG), the Fondo

Intergubernamental para la Descentralización (FIDES), and the Fondo de Desarrollo

Agropecuario Pesquero Forestal y Afines (FONDAFA) as well as many other agricultural State institutions, are constantly promoting these ideologies through development policies in the municipality of Veroes.

Many agricultural cooperatives in Veroes have adopted this frame on food sovereignty and endogenous development. They align their goals with State development discourses in order to obtain resources from the State. For instance, an Afroyaracuyan activist of an agricultural cooperative in Palmarejo states in this regard:

“I am Palmarejeño and I live in Agua Negra, if I go to the local market shop, I do not find plantain, the plantain goes to Puerto Cabello. We must defend the thesis of food sovereignty. We hope that the government will provide trucks instead of 473

credit, first we must supply our local market shops”253 (Leopoldo Palmarejo, June 2007).

Afrodescendant members of local organizations also produce frames on agro- ecological production. They have developed profound criticisms of the ecological effects of pesticides and sugar cane mono-production on the land and the environment. Many agricultural cooperatives tend to circulate this ecological frame when requesting credit for their organizations. This frame is also linked to regional projects seeking to eradicate sugar cane production and promote endogenous development. Sugar cane production is not only perceived as an exploitative economic activity but also as a devastating practice for the political ecology of the region. Activists are aware of studies conducted in Veroes indicating the high levels of contamination of the Macagua, Salao and Yaracuy Rivers. In fact, they argue that since sugar cane-processing industries were installed in Veroes, there are no longer edible fish in these rivers.

The agricultural cooperatives Damabaya and Cumbe Giomar constantly evoke ideologies on agro-ecological production. They argue that afrodescendant agricultural practices should not use pesticides. Instead, they propose performing the past practices of their comunero and Cimarrón ancestors. A young Afroyaracuyan activist woman of Agua

Negra states in this regard:

“...sugar cane continues to enrich large businessmen. Last year the sugar industry did not cut cane. There is no other source of income. We are inculcating the agro- ecological, there are other short-term crops that can be (produced). The price of sugar cane is very low, but sugar cane is easier than plantain or cocoa. However,

253 Yo soy Palmarejeño, y vivo en Agua Negra, si voy a la bodega no consigo plátano, el plátano se va para Puerto Cabello, tenemos que defender la tesis de la soberanía alimentaria. Ojalá y el gobierno no siga dando crédito sino camiones, primero tenemos que surtir las bodegas (Leopoldo Palmarejo, March 2007). 474

sugar cane destroys the land. Yaracuy has the best lands and they are not given an adequate use. Thus, it is necessary to create an agro-ecological project”254 (Diana, Agua Negra, March 2007).

Raúl, another Afroyaracuyan activist and member of an agricultural-land cooperative also states:

“Not everything can be sugar cane; sugar cane is for lazy people. We have to cultivate products that will bring more nutrients (to the soil). With sugar cane, a great deal of químico (pesticides) is used, that contaminates the soil. With bananas, at least you only have to spray fertilizers, you do not have to fumigate” 255 (Raúl, Farriar, November 2007).

Former land movements in Yaracuy before tended mainly to focus on the exploitative relationships of sugar cane producers (Domínguez 1992, 1995, see Chapter

3). However, as local agricultural organizations have recovered land and engaged in the production of this crop, they have started to embrace ecological discourses. Some of these new land activists specifically seek to eliminate mono-production and the use of pesticides. In this process, they align with State discourses on endogenous development as well as with international ecological-social movements. Moreover, it is interesting that locally they portray sugar cane production as an “easy” practice for lazy people.

Implicitly they call for returning to conuco production and its practices of diversification that involve more labor and the need to seek and create new market networks. Thus, one

254 “ ..la caña sigue enriqueciendo a los grandes empresarios. El año pasado el central no cortó caña, no hay ninguna otra entrada. Estamos inculcando lo agroecológico, hay otros rubros que se pueden tener a corto plazo. El precio de la caña está totalmente bajo, pero la caña es más fácil que el plátano o el cacao. Pero la caña daña la tierra. Yaracuy tiene las mejores tierras y no se le da el uso adecuado, por eso es necesario crear un proyecto agroecológico (Diana Agua Negra, March 2007). 255 “No todo puede ser caña, la caña es para flojos. Hay que sembrar productos que traigan más nutrientes. Con la caña se usa mucho químico que contamina el suelo. Con el cambur por lo menos solo hay que regar abono, no hay que fumigar (Raúl Farriar, November 2007).

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can sense how this movement not only mobilizes environmental discourses, but also seeks to create an ecological habitus in order to foster future environmental changes

(Haluza-Delay 2008).

Land Distribution

Afroyaracuyan organizations, activists, and community members also produce and circulate frames on land distribution. Many activists highlight injustice frames that point to unequal processes of land repartition among movement members. They specifically indicate that some elite leaders have monopolized and accumulated more land than other members. One activist for instance stated:

“…we expelled the latifundistas, yet now we have small latifundios within our lands. Some vivos256 have more than ninety hectares, while there are landless people here in Farriar”257 (an activist from Farriar, March 2007).

Another activist woman from Agua Negra indicated in this regard:

“In Agua Negra the majority of the people have land. There are people, that as I tell you, just like me, that have been (involved) in four struggles and have one hectare, and there are others that have been in five or six struggles and have ninety, eighty, fifty hectares. That is not legal. I do not say that everything (should be) equal, but if I participated, it is not (fair) that I have just one (hectare). But not everyone thinks the same”258 (an activist woman from Agua Negra, May 2007).

256 The term vivo is widely used in Venezuela to designate people who take advantage of other people, and who seek to bypass legal and institutional rules. 257“…sacamos a los latifundistas, pero ahora tenemos pequeños latifundios en nuestras tierras. Algunos vivos tienen mas de 90 hectáreas, mientras otros no tienen tierra aquí en Farriar” (an activist from Farriar, March 2007). 258 “En Agua Negra ahora la mayoría de la gente tiene tierras. Hay gente, que como te digo, así como yo, que han estado en cuatro luchas y tienen 1 hectárea y hay otros que han estado en cinco o seis luchas y tienen 90, 80, 50 hectáreas. Eso no es legal, no es legal. No digo que todo igual , pero que si yo participé no es que tengo solo una. Pero no todo el mundo piensa igual” (an activist woman from Agua Negra, May 2007).

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These fragments point to the irony of how land distribution processes have fostered internal forms of land concentration as well as monopolizing strategies. In other words, they suggest that behind processes of land rescue, groups of leaders have managed to accumulate more land than other comuneros or cooperative members. This leader of

Agua Negra also reveals the ideological diversity among afrodescendant activists and movement leaders, as she indicates that “not everyone thinks the same” concerning land distribution.

This frame on territorial allocation is widely used by community members. For instance, a local merchant of Farriar once told me: “people here say that they are socialists, but look, they are more capitalist than those businessmen. You give them land and they keep it for themselves.” These narratives not only show inequalities in access to land. They also point to contradictions among people who support socialist projects, and simultaneously embrace practices of “primitive accumulation.”

Gender ideologies also intersect with frames on land distribution. Several

Afrodescendant activists seek to show the structural exclusion of women from land distribution processes. For example, many women in Farriar, Palmarejo and Agua Negra have participated in three or four land mobilizations; however they have not received any portion of the recovered land. They have denounced that most women are simply employed as assistants for cooking and providing food supplies during land occupations, while a group of men usually tends to manage and monopolize the process of land distribution, accumulating more hectares than other participants.

For instance, a woman leader of the cooperative Cumbe Giomar states: 477

“…we are taking these lands, because we have been excluded, we have been excluded twice, as Afrodescendants and as women, we are with commander Chávez, with the revolution, here we are en pie de lucha (disposed to fight) cimarroneando, and we will remain here” 259 (an afrodescendant woman activist from Farriar, November, 2007).

This frame addresses the intersection of gendered and racial forms of exclusion as it evokes representations of agency and mobilization. It also makes explicit revolutionary tropes and emotional orientations in support of Chávez, which call for political action.

Nevertheless, this framing device also points to gendered representations on agency, vulnerability, and violence. For instance Octavia, a middle aged woman from Palmarejo, states:

“I took a piece of land someone who was stronger came, and took it away from me. They are very bravos,260 they say “over my dead body they are going to take away my lands.” I do not like to fight. If they give me land, or not it is the same to me”261 (Octavia, Palmarejo May 2007).

This text makes evident key ambiguities experienced by women who seek access to land in Veroes. Men are depicted as brave and strong, and as potential threats to women seeking land rights. In light of this condition, Octavia veils this situation of structural violence by positioning herself as indifferent, concerning her desire to achieve land. She also self-represents as disliking the act of struggling, in order to avoid violence.

Overall, land distribution is locally associated with practices and discourses on violence

259 “Estamos tomando estas tierras, porque hemos sido excluidas, hemos sido doblemente excluidas como Afrodescendientes, y como mujeres, estamos con el comandante Chávez, con la revolución, aquí estamos en pie de lucha, cimarroneando y seguiremos aquí” (an afrodescendant woman from Farriar, November, 2007). 260 The term bravo refers simultaneously to emotions of rage and strength. 261 Yo agarré un pedazo de tierra, y vino uno más fuerte y la agarró. Ellos son muy bravos, ellos dicen sobre mi cadáver me van a quitar mis tierras. A mi no me gusta peliá, si me dan y si no igualito” (Octavia, Palmarejo, May 2007).

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and monopolization. Further research is required for examining the effects of violence in the mobilizing habitus of women activists.

In sum, the interpretations presented here show how processes of social mobilization produce, circulate, and transform frames evoking ideologies on: afrodescendant identity, historical representation, anti-racism, legal recognition, gender equality, territorial rights and land distribution. We have seen how some frames have been de-contextualized from the National Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations, while others have been produced locally by movement activists. However frames on self- recognition, anti-racism and gender equality tend to have limited resonance at the community level. As in the case of many other afrodescendant organizations in Latin

America, the Afroyaracuyan movement must face the ideological barriers set by the myths of mestizaje, racial democracy, and gender equality (Wade 1997; Telles 2004;

Covin 2006). Yet it is salient how historical frames are pervasive as they have a wide circulation within local, regional and national spheres. Historical leaders and cimarronaje ideologies emerge as discursive openers in national legal demands, in everyday local meetings, as well as in land occupations. Territorial frames calling for land distribution are also widely disseminated, as they have been incorporated within the mobilizing habitus of most community members.

Furthermore, I have identified the ongoing flexible articulation of these frames, involving dual processes of ethnitization and territorialization. In Veroes, ethno-racial and territorial organizations are integrated as activists simultaneously seek recognition

(public and historical visibility) and access to state resources (land and state credit). Now 479

let us explore the particular strategies embraced by the Afroyaracuyan movement in order to meet its diverse goals.

Strategic actions of the Afroyaracuyan movement

Social movements embrace diverse strategies for achieving recognition, seeking supporters and resources, and questioning the established order (Munck 1990; Ganz

2004). As discussed in the introduction, strategies may be understood as creative, relational and purposive actions conducted by multiple actors seeking different ends

(Munck 1990; Ganz 2004; Goodwin and Jasper 2004; Krinsky and Barker 2009). Social movements tend to use flexible and diverse repertoires of strategies (Tarrow 1994). Some tend to replicate the actions of former movements while others seek to produce innovative practices. Many movements also adopt and transform the strategic actions of transnational organizations and networks (Della Porta and Diani 1999).

The Afroyaracuyan movement employs a great variety of ever-changing strategies, some of which have been collectively performed through their articulation with the National Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations. Other strategies have also been adopted from local land-agricultural movements that have a long history of mobilization in the region; while other actions have been produced through interactions and engagements with State institutions.

The main strategic actions of the Afroyaracuyan movement are: the production of deliberation spaces (national, regional and local encounters and meetings), engagement and production of media, the promotion of educational activities, territorialization (land 480

occupation and legal claims), and articulation with other social movements, political parties and State institutions (See Table 3). In the following section, I analyze these strategizing domains and some of their effects (redistribution, recognition, access to information and resources).

Deliberation Strategies

The Afroyaracuyan movement has created multiple spaces (internal and external) of deliberation. This is a key strategy for making movements accountable to their members and other constituents (Ganz 2004:188). Afroyaracuyan activists employ the strategy of organizing periodic meetings, gatherings and encounters. These practices allow actors to: align their goals and ideological frames, renegotiate internal leadership tensions, assess timing and recruit new members.

The Espacio Cultural Andresote of Palmarejo represents the location where most internal strategies of the Afroyaracuyan movement are enacted. Members indicate that one of the main activities of the movement is to provide a space for meetings and internal lobbying on issues involving “afrodescendancy.” During my fieldwork experience, different kinds of meetings were held in this space.

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Table 3. Strategies of the Afroyaracuyan Movement

Strategizing Strategic actions Effects domains Public Recognition Visibility Accountability Deliberation National, regional, local encounters Negotiating leadership and meetings Ideological alignments Recruitment Timing Radio station programs Recognition Media TV shows Visibility Production of documentaries Increase frame resonance Production of music Educational workshops Political alignment with the Articulation with State educational revolutionary frames Education missions Recruitment of youth Activists become teachers Identity transformation Infocentro (computer center)

Land occupations Territorialization of demands Legal land claims Legal recognition Territorialization Alliances with peasant movements Political alignment Productive projects Access to credit Institutional Cimarronaje Access to land Ethnicization Articulation with Incorporating activists within Access to financial resources social movements Communal councils and housing Increase resonance organizations Political leverage Alliances Political alignment Activists become candidates Accumulation of political Articulation with Circulation of revolutionary frames capital political parties Registration in the PSUV Political legitimacy Formation of electoral battalions Politization Vote recruitment Clientelism Institutionalization Locate activists in State institution Access to legal and Articulation with (institutional cimarronaje) bureaucratic information State institutions Projects submission Access to institutional Credit request clientelist networks Access to credit and State funds 482

In 2007, they organized two large political meetings with national deputies, regional and national politicians, local leaders and community members. El Día del

Cimarrón (The Day of the Cimarrón), was celebrated in this space on May 25th. During this event, that lasted three consecutive days, leaders of the movement and national politicians gathered in order to commemorate the struggle of Andresote. They also organized round tables to discuss specific issues regarding land rescues, constitutional recognition, inclusion of afrodescendant contributions within education curricula, productive projects and afrodescendant communal councils, among other issues. These meetings served as strategic spaces for circulating and producing mobilizing frames.

For Vallochi (2010) these types of strategies, target the boundaries of conventional politics yet they do not seek to disrupt public routines. This deliberative strategy of convoking local members, politicians, historians, lawyers and the media in a single setting constitutes a key action for seeking political visibility. In turn, this process of deliberation allows for recruiting potential members, for aligning revolutionary and self-recognition frames, and increasing the movement‟s resonance and local accountability.

The Afroyaracuyan movement also conducts internal meetings with leaders of the

National Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations (ROA). During these events, activists discuss, create and produce specific tactics, aligned with the interests and goals of the National Network. For instance, during one meeting with Jesús Chucho García, 483

(the main leader of the ROA) Afroyaracuyan activists carefully designed specific actions in order to request changing the name of the central highway of the region.262

Other internal deliberative activities take place among all activists of the

Afroyaracuyan movement. These events are usually conducted before assisting at national encounters with the ROA in Caracas. In these contexts, activists discuss specific actions and seek to assert their degrees of autonomy from the ROA. Particular agendas are constructed pursuing the visibility of the Afroyaracuyan movement vis-a-vis other afrodescendant organizations in Venezuela. For instance, during one of these internal meetings, some activists argued that they were tired of the imposed leadership of Afro-

Barloventeño organizations (of Miranda state). They indicated that some Barloventeño musical groups tend to have more spaces for participation than other organizations. One leader argued: tenemos que hacer sentir nuestro movimiento (we have to ensure that our movement is felt). Thus, one can sense how this space of deliberation also serves to produce and reassert the regional identity of the Afroyaracuyan movement in contrast to other afrovenezuelan organizations.

Finally, other meetings take place between specific leadership factions of the movement. These performances occur in more private settings such as the houses of particular leaders. In this context, competition and factionalism among movement activists are exacerbated. In this more intimate sphere, members circulate gossip and

262 This highway was named after President Caldera in the 1980s. The movement proposed re- naming this main road on behalf of Juan Andrés López del Rosario (Andresote). This strategy sought to territorialize the recognition and visibility of the region of Veroes as a cimarrón territory. Moreover, the process of replacing names, which has been a characteristic practice of the Bolivarian Venezuelan State, also aligns the Afroyaracuyan movement with revolutionary agendas, that seek to erase icons and indexes of the so-called Fourth Republic.

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representations of other “teams.” They question practices of corruption, as well as the political orientations of other members.

In sum, activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement are constantly negotiating their leadership and political capital, by way of their factions, with other leadership teams, with the National Network, and with State institutions. I believe that this strategy of deliberation shapes the production of internal and external forms of visibility and accountability, as actors align and renegotiate their identities, interests, goals, motivations, and ideological diversity. Moreover, these settings are crucial sites for reshaping the mobilizing habitus of activists and future members.

In the case of land organizations, they produce a different set of deliberating strategies. They tend to meet every week at the house of the principal leader, who is usually the president of the cooperative. While members arrive at the patio of the leader‟s house, a pig may be broiled or a large sancocho cooked. Chairs are disposed in a circular manner, as activists assess their deployed tactics and seek to design or copy new ones. Most of these meetings are monopolized by the main leaders of the cooperative, or by sub-commissions that are in charge of establishing direct negotiations with the State.

They discuss for instance who will drive the truck, who will buy the food, who will cook, bring the water, or the wood. They also establish which activists will stay on the land overnight, and who will go to one or another State institution. Sometimes these meetings increase in frequency during times of sharpened conflict with landowners and police forces. 485

Overall, these strategies of deliberation are crucial for integrating the movement‟s membership and for the creation of new strategic actions. Recurrent meetings and encounters shape the mobilizing dispositions of participants, as they learn and design frames and establish networking alliances. Moreover, internal leadership is constantly negotiated and questioned, and factionalism is very salient even within smaller movements like the Cumbe Giomar.

Media and communication

Social movements use diverse repertoires of media strategies. Radio, television, motion pictures, internet and mobile phones are used by movements in order to circulate their collective frames and goals, enhance resonance, and recruit members. Movements have different degrees and ways of engaging with the media, depending on their audience, goals and conjunctures (Cardoso and Neto 2004; Rucht 2004; Lievrouw 2011).

In general, social movements use their own media as well as public mass media strategically in order to attract attention and increase visibility.

One of the main strategies of the Afroyaracuyan movement has been the control and production of media representations. The ROA and the Cumbe de Mujeres

Afrovenezolanas have constantly argued for the need to gain visual representation in international, national, and regional media. The radio station located at the Espacio

Cultural Andresote in Palmarejo-Veroes represents a key media site of the movement.

The main goal of this space is to circulate afrodescendant music in the public realm.

There is great tension regarding the orientations of music selection within the station. 486

Older leaders argue that the station does not play traditional afrodescendant music. On the other hand, younger activists, tend to be more interested in playing genres such as bachata263 and other afro Dominican rhythms as well as reggeaton.264 Overall, the radio represents a strategic media that seeks recognition, visibility and circulation of afrodescendant frames and goals.

Other media strategies have been centered on the projection of films within the spaces of the movement and in public locations. In the Espacio Cultural Andresote, one room is devoted to the projection of films related to afrodescendant issues. After each event, round tables are organized in order to discuss the content of the movies. Diana, a young activist from Agua Negra and member of the Juvenile Network, states that all selected movies reflect the reality of their communities. Other activists who are students of Misión Cultura, also project Afrodescendant movies in public spaces, such as plazas or open house patios. They argue for the need of creating public settings for projecting films that evoke both revolutionary and afrodescendant values. For instance, during a single week they presented a video produced by the Cumbe de Mujeres on self-recognition and racism, as well a recent film on Pancho Villa. After these sessions, activists call viewers to participate in discussions over the content of the movies. In these settings, they

263 In Veroes most people listen to bachata music in their houses, during events, and family parties. This musical genre is originally from the Dominican Republic. It is a fusion of bolero with other afrodescendant genres like son, merengue and cha-cha-cha. 264 Reggaeton is a well diffused popular musical genre in the Caribbean and Venezuela. It is a hybrid from reggae, dancehall and hip-hop. Don Omar, one of its principal exponents visited Veroes in 2007. People have ambiguous feelings towards this Puerto Rican singer. During his concert, he apparently made racist comments and gestures to the public. Thus, some activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement indicate that his endoracist behavior is a bad influence for young people in the region. 487

actively articulate frames on afrodescendant self-recognition, anti-racism, land rights and peasant struggles.

Activists are also aware of the importance of achieving visibility within television broadcasting. They have developed and produced short documentaries with the support of the Ministry of Culture, VIVE TV (a communitarian state channel) and with independent filmmakers. For instance, the documentary Veroes Cimarrón has been circulated in public TV channels. Germán states in this sense:

“Television, that is a strength, media communication has the power to establish much respect. With media communication we can show the afro movement” 265 (Germán, meeting at Institute of Culture, Farriar, March 2007).”

External media tactics have also been enacted in specific political conjunctures.

During some land occupations, activists have requested the presence of communitarian media in order to register their voices and some of their strategic alliances. For instance, the agricultural-land cooperative Cumbe Giomar requested the presence of a filming team of VIVE TV in order to register a meeting with the Jirajara Movement, a regional peasant organization of northwestern Venezuela.

Moreover, some activists have also reached regional communitarian radios stations and the press in order to denounce the inefficiency of some State institutions. On one occasion, members of the Afroyaracuyan Network went to a local newspaper, in order to accuse the Municipal Legislative Council of the State of Yaracuy (CLEY) for not attending their petition for re-naming the highway after Andresote. During this same day,

265 “La televisión, eso es una fortaleza, los medios de comunicación tienen el poder de fundar mucho respeto, con los medios de comunicación, nosotros podemos sacar a lucir el movimiento afro” (Gustavo, meeting at Institute of Culture, Farriar, March 2007).

488

another group of activists visited a regional radio station in San Felipe in order to make this same complaint. They were given a radio-electric space to expose the motives of their request and the political relevancy of commemorating this historical Afrodescendant leader. In both situations, activist circulated frames on self-recognition and historical cimarronaje.

In general, the media strategies of the Afroyaracuyan movement seek to ensure visibility and public recognition, and to increase the resonance of its mobilizing frames.

The circulation of movement frames across national, regional and local media structures pursues resonance in the visual, sound, esthetic and cultural representations of potential participants, allies and or supporters. In sum, the strategic use of media is a key practice for enacting politics of recognition and visibility.

Educational actions

The Afroyaracuyan movement has also developed significant strategies oriented to educational practices. The Espacio Cultural Andresote serves as the headquarters for the teaching classes of Misión Ribas (high school education for adults), Misión Sucre

(college education program) and Misión Cultura (undergraduate program in education).

This strategy has fostered the articulation of the movement with the State, and has increased the number of participants from their organizations. Most teachers of these social missions are core activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement, who have had the opportunity to circulate, in these educational spaces, most of the frames of the movement. 489

Moreover, the strategy of participating in these educational missions, at this center, has asserted the political revolutionary capital of the movement. This process has publicly aligned these afrodescendant organizations with State programs, ensuring funds, salaries, and materials for its members. In turn, the center has been actively politicized by students and teachers of the missions, who in general tend to self-identify as supporters of the revolution.266

As previously discussed, the Afroyaracuyan movement also conducts different set of educational workshops that have focused on local history, afrodescendant self- recognition, and musical training. Workshops on Afrodescendant history conduct research projects on oral memory. They work closely with communitarian elders reconstructing and constructing their silenced pasts. Moreover, workshops on afrodescendant self-recognition seek to engage participants in the deconstruction of racial and gender categories. They underscore participant‟s use of racists and endoracist stereotypes within their everyday discourses and experiences. Thus, these educational strategies are clearly oriented to foster identity transformation processes and to reshape the mobilizing habitus of new members. They are also important sites for the circulation and re-entextualization of frames on anti-racism, self-identification, historical identity and gender equality.

The movement also conducts musical workshops to train young people in drum playing and vocal techniques. These educational activities seek to produce and circulate

266 I witnessed for example how activists and participants dressed with red shirts and caps, as they constantly engaged in informal political conversations during the campaign for the Constitutional Reform in December of 2007. Thus, revolutionary frames not only circulate in the classrooms but also in hallway conversations, and on the clothing, banners, and signs of the missions.

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embodied knowledge on local music and performance. This strategy usually serves to recruit young participants. It also allows for engaging members through embodied practices.

In addition, an Infocentro (state sponsored computer-information center) was established at the Espacio Cultural in 2004. It was financed by the Science and

Technology Ministry and is part of a national project that seeks to socialize technologies and free software systems. This space is a site of encounter for young local students, who assist to the center in order to do their homework research. The Infocentro has great assistance of young people since there are no other internet stations in the region.

The Cultural space also has a library with textbooks and sources related to

Afrodescendant topics. This setting is widely used by teenage students who need to fulfill their school research requirements. In sum, a significant external strategy of the center has been to create “spaces” of encounter for students of all ages. By attending these spaces, young people are exposed to the frames and actions of the Afroyaracuyan movement as they engage in their educational activities. In this regard Mateo, one of the

Afroyaracuyan facilitators of the Mision Ribas states “...we are always involving education and teachers in our activities.” 267

Although educational strategies have been criticized for being less effective in targeting and affecting State public policies (Vallochi 2010), the Afroyaracuyan movement has embraced this internal and external strategy as one of its core activities to

267 “…siempre estamos involucrando a la educación y a los educadores en nuestras actividades” (Miguel Palmarejo May 2007).

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promote processes of self-recognition, sensibilization, and recruitment of new members.

It is clear that this pedagogic strategy also seeks to transform the mobilizing habitus of new activists; and to gradually incorporate within their bodies and memories new dispositions for social action.

Territorialization strategies

Contemporary rural movements in Latin America, Asia and Africa have consciously embraced strategies involving direct actions on land, as well as legal and political negotiating practices. Actions for accessing land are diverse and change according to the groups who struggle and the stage or cycles of their processes of mobilization (Veltmeyer 2005). Under neoliberalism, new rural movements have undertaken land occupations as a central political strategy for securing territorial rights

(Edelman 1999; Petras and Veltmeyer 2002; Moyo and Yeros 2005; Fernandes 2005;

Baletti et al. 2008).

As stated in the introduction, Latin-American afrodescendant organizations have embraced different strategies for achieving land recognition (Wade 1995, 1997; Alvarez et al.1998; Pineda 2001; Pardo 2002; French 2002; Lihnares 2004; Engle 2010). In

Colombia black movements created alliances with peasant organizations which allowed them to later guarantee territorial rights for “black communities” (Wade 1995). Brazilian black movements have also mobilized in order to achieve specific land rights. In the

1980s, they called for land expropriation in quilombo (runaway) settlements, as well as for the recognition of tenure rights for rural black communities (Leal 2001; Linahares 492

2004; French 2006). In sum, some rural afrodescendant movements have successfully linked classical land occupation strategies with multicultural legal actions seeking territorial rights.

Contemporary Venezuelan rural movements embrace both, strategic actions targeting the State, as well as direct land occupations. In this sense, they resemble the

„bibingka strategies‟ of Philippine land movements of the 1990s. The later involved a dual approach seeking reformist changes within the State as well as continuous land occupations (Moyo and Yeros 2005:47). One of the main strategies of Afroyaracuyan land organizations involves the formation and registration of agricultural cooperatives in line with State regulations. The request for State credit for agricultural production has two main conditions. First, solicitants must belong to a cooperative or enterprise that has a legal bank account for receiving and chanelling State funds. Second, they must have access to land, in order to request funds for agricultural production. Thus, many old land committees have been gradually transformed into cooperatives in order to receive credit from State institutions.

Once these organizations are registered as cooperatives they seek idle or under- utilized State lands in order to request their legal adjudication. According to the Land

Law of 2001, under-utilized lands must be denounced and claimed by organizations who seek to use them for agricultural purposes.268 This process involves denouncing an unproductive plot before the National Institute of Land (INTI) and requesting its legal adjudication. Many alternative strategies are embraced after this process. If INTI does not

268 For instance, peasants can claim the adjudication of a land plot that is catalogued as apt for agricultural activities (Type IV), if it is being used for raising cattle or other purposes. 493

conduct a legal inspection of the requested lands, cooperatives tend to occupy the plot in order to exert political pressure. This is locally known as taking the land por la vía del hecho (by the way of action).

The main goal is usually to occupy the land continuously, day and night. The movement first seeks the appropriate moment for occupying the requested lands. There is great tension associated with guaranteeing the secrecy of this event, in order to not let the owners become aware of their intentions. Many activists in fact indicate that INTI functionaries notify landowners beforehand about the intentions of some movements to denounce specific land plots. Thus, movement leaders must synchronize both the legal procedure of requesting land with the process of occupation, since warned landowners may suddenly introduce cattle or sow the land in order to prevent its expropriation.

Once a movement‟s members occupy a land plot, they set up a camp where they can place a fogón (fire pit) for cooking. Sometimes they build small temporary shacks for sleeping overnight. There is great tension related to possible damage of the infrastructure of the occupied land. Some movements avoid entering the houses or other buildings of the plot. They argue that the bienhechurías should not be affected, in order to be able to claim the legal adjudication of the lands. However, other movements argue that all of the property within the claimed plots should be redistributed. Thus, some organizations allocate the cattle or horses that may remain on the claimed lands, especially if the owner is absent or when local managers join the occupation process.

During land occupations, members organize in teams. Some groups prepare the food, transport the water, and cut the wood. Usually they are women. Other groups are in 494

charge of guarding the plot and its surroundings. They constantly report on the presence of sicarios, land managers, owners and police forces or National Guards. The organizations also have teams that are in charge of talking to or receiving State functionaries that arrive at the plot. These activists are usually the main leaders of the movement, and are well trained in the use of legal and political discourses.

Some team members are also in charge of setting up religious altars or figures on the land. On one occasion, I witnessed how a team brought up an espiritista figure of a saint and placed it at the base of a tree. This spot was carefully chosen so that landowners and State functionaries could see this religious intervention. They also brought cigars in order to smoke them during the occupation and meetings with other organizations.

Other teams are also in charge of renting or borrowing agricultural implements such as machines for sowing, machetes, shovels, and sacks. Money is usually collected among all members, in order to rent sowing machines. A common strategic practice is to sow a small portion of the plot, and cultivate short-cycle subsistence crops (manioc, corn, beans or, squash). This represents a key act of territorialization. Thus while landowners re-territorialize their mobile capital by introducing cattle and grass, movement activists seek to plant subsistence crops in order to claim territorial rights over the occupied land.

While some groups occupy the land, other teams are in charge of going to State institutions. They collect money for transportation and daily food supplies in order to travel to San Felipe. They are usually in charge of making copies, registering and requesting legal documents. This group of activists has the knowledge to engage in the 495

complex bureaucratic steps involved in the process of land requests. In sum, land organizations constantly articulate both legal and spatial actions.

However, in other cases, INTI may conduct the land inspection on behalf of the requesters. After this process, inspectors, agronomists and lawyers start writing the expediente269 (report). This document provides detailed information on the legal ownership history of the plot, its geographical and ecological conditions, the quality and distribution of its soils, access to water sources, its infrastructure and any other relevant characteristic concerning agricultural production. Then the process of bailar el expediente (dance the report) continues, which involves passing the report from one department to another for its revision and approval. A report can “rest” in a specific department for months, years or decades. The circulation of the report and its final approval by the lawyers and the President of the institution will depend on the political pressures, clientelistic networks and leverage of the requesters. This is why occupying the requested land is an effective strategy for accelerating the final processes of land adjudication.

Finally, once the land is legally granted by the State through a carta agraria

(agrarian title) or título supletorio, (title of temporary occupation) the organization performs the official repartition of the land. At this time, great tension emerges among the main leaders who claim to have more land rights due to their degrees of involvement, personal investments and “sacrifices.” Some factions may even retire from the process of land distribution, out of rage for being manipulated or given very small portions of land.

269 Official report describing the characteristics of the land. This is a necessary requisite for the adjudication of State lands. 496

For instance, during a land occupation of 38 hectares that I witnessed in Farriar, one male leader claimed 14 hectares, while a group of women was only given access to half a hectare. These participants were even members of the same family. In Palmarejo, a similar process took place, as eleven women were denied access to land, even after participating in a plot occupation for more than a year. Thus participation, time, gender, and resource investments are important factors shaping these processes of land occupation and redistribution.

Usually after distributing land, participants seek credit in order to repay the multiple debts they have accumulated, hiring machines for sowing or buying seeds. In order to achieve credit, these cooperatives design productive projects that are submitted to State institutions. In Agua Negra, one of the productive projects involves the cultivation of vegetables, with the objective of supplying local merchandise stores. These projects usually have educational components as members conduct workshops and lessons on agro-ecological and conuco practices. In Farriar, other land occupations have also submitted productive projects involving educational activities. The Cumbe Giomar in particular proposed establishing a technical agro-ecological school on the lands of an old sugar-processing industry in Veroes.

In sum, Afroyaracuyan strategies for seeking land involve legal, spatial, religious, discriminatory, educational and productive practices. These territorial strategies are deeply articulated to the mobilizing habitus of former peasant activists and community members. In this sense, land actions have great resonance and the potential to be 497

replicated in the region. Moreover they represent one of the few, but most effective, strategies for achieving redistribution within the multicultural Venezuelan State.

Articulation with other social movements

One of the most important strategies of the Afroyaracuyan movement is the constant articulation with multiple national, regional, and local organizations. This process takes place through the action of engaging Afroyaracuyan activists in other organizations. Thus, members do not belong to a single bounded organization, instead they tend to simultaneously participate in Communal Councils, Communitarian Housing

Organizations (OCV), family cooperatives, land committees, school parent associations, among others.

At the local level, one of the most common strategic articulations of the

Afroyaracuyan movement is with Communal Councils (CC).270 These new forms of organization promoted by the Venezuelan government are novel structures for redistributing State resources among local communities. The main objective of these organizations is to channel funds for specific projects that are collectively designed and approved during popular assemblies of citizens.271

270 In 2006, the Venezuelan State issued the Law of Communal Councils. They are defined as participatory instances promoting the articulation and integration of diverse communitarian organizations, social groups and citizens. By law, CCs promote the management of public policies and projects oriented to fulfilling the needs and aspirations of communities that seek social justice (loose translation and syntheses of Article 2, Law of Communal Councils). 271 Communal Councils in theory are conceived of as mechanisms for exerting “popular power” from below, participatory democracy, and self-management (García-Guadilla 2008; Machado 2009). These instances have been seen as mechanisms for bypassing municipal and regional State levels, as they seek to establish a parallel institutional order. In other words, they establish a direct relationship between communitarian organizations and the President of the Republic (Lander 2007:77). Communal Councils (CC) do not employ mechanisms of political representation. Participants rather elect voceros and voceras, 498

Most activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement hold positions of vocería within the Communal Councils of Palmarejo, Agua Negra, and Farriar. This is clearly because these members have long personal histories as organic leaders in their communities.

Older activists participated in previous Asociaciones de Vecinos (neighborhood associations), cultural-musical organizations and/or in land committees. Thus, as stated by Ganz (2004), the background and identities of leaders are key in shaping the selection of particular strategies. Activists that have previous borderland experiences across organizations are more likely to widen possible strategic choices for their movements

(Ganz 2004:188).

In this regard, Mateo a leader of the Afroyaracuyan movement who is vocero in the Communal Council of Palmarejo states:

“Communal Councils are the direct solution for our problems, they allow us to plan how to (reach) solutions … but the Communal Councils are still waiting for the resources, 30 million in order to build 30 houses. They are limiting themselves to this. I believe that we have to meet in order to plan, search our history, rescue our traditions. For that, you do not need resources downloaded by the President. We have to find ways to attack the problem” 272 (Mateo Palmarejo March 2007).

In this text, Mateo criticizes the strategic position of some Communal Councils that only seek State resources. This activist suggests that these organizations depend on

who have the obligation to communicate the will, needs, questions and proposals of their communities. Moreover, CCs are internally structured by incorporating different committees that attend specific communitarian areas such as: water, infrastructure, health, culture, land, security among others. These organizations are one of the most important and extended forms of communitarian organization in the Bolivarian Venezuela. CCs have embraced the former role of neighborhood associations and represent in some cases the sole mechanism for accessing State resources. 272 “Los Consejos Comunales son la solución directa a nuestros problemas, nos permiten planificar como solventar ... pero los Consejos Comunales están solamente esperando los recursos, 30 millones para hacer 30 casas. Se están limitando a eso. Yo creo que tenemos que reunirnos para la planificación, buscar nuestra historia, rescatar nuestras tradiciones. Y para eso no se necesita que el Presidente baje los recursos. Hay que buscar de qué manera atacas el problema” (Mateo, Palmarejo March 2007). 499

the charismatic power of the President, who has the power to bajar (download) resources.

He points critically to the passivity of activists who engage in this populist dynamic.

Instead, he calls for incorporating within the agenda of the Communal Councils, goals involving historical recognition. This not only represents a process of frame alignment, but also an attempt to create communitarian projects with local ethno-racial components.

Moreover, the Afroyaracuyan movement has proposed the integration of all

Communal Councils of the region, with the objective of constituting a Union of Afro- descendant Communal Councils in the state of Yaracuy. In their view, they need to gain more autonomy and political visibility in order to claim resources based on their ethnic identification vis-a-vis other nearby peasant organizations. Modesto Ruiz, an afrodescendant deputy of the National Assembly, supported this proposal. This national leader circulated the project in regional and local meetings in Yaracuy. In this regard,

Raúl, an Afroyaracuyan leader who is vocero of a Comunal Council in Farriar states:

“Communal Councils are important, Communal Councils go together with self- government. But there are partisan politics, there are always some cúpulas,273 the small groups. There are Communal Councils that see their function exclusively in terms of realizing projects; they do not see the educational or security part. “No, just my project, I launch my small group.” That happens a lot at La Olla and at EL Chino ... with United Afro Communal Councils we will be able to unite efforts, all speak the same language, present proposals and unite the Afro” 274 (Raúl, Farriar, November 2007).

273 Metaphoric expression that refers to elite power groups. 274 “Los Consejos Comunales son importantes, con los Consejos Comunales van los autogobiernos. Pero están las políticas partidistas, siempre hay unas cúpulas, los grupitos. Hay Consejos Comunales que en su visión es nada más que hacer proyectos, no ven la parte educativa o de seguridad. “No solamente mi proyecto, yo meto mi grupito.” Eso pasa mucho en La Olla y en El Chino…con los Consejos Comunales Afro mancomunados podremos unir esfuerzos, hablar todos el mismo idioma, presentar propuestas, y unir a los Afro” (Raúl, Farriar, November 2007). 500

This statement reveals how the Afroyaracuyan movement seeks to ethniticize

Communal Councils at a larger territorial scale. In their view, this process will foster frame alignments (speak the same language) beyond community boundaries. Raúl also shows how Afroyaracuyan people propose common projects in order to avoid political fragmentation. In other words, he points to how political elites have fostered factionalism among afrodescendant communities in the region.

As result of the articulation of the Afroyaracuyan movement with Communal

Councils, in February of 2007 the first Afrodescendant Communal Council was formed in Farriar. Most of its members are young people, who also claimed that they represented the interests of non-traditional leaders in their communities. I interviewed members of this organization who seemed to enact different understandings of the term

Afrodescendant. Some of the Communal Council activist elaborated complex texts that challenged racialized definitions of local black identities. As such, they reproduced the historical and anti-racists frames of the National Network of Afro-Venezuelan

Organizations (ROA). In contrast, other members of the Communal Council indicated that they were using the term for the first time and that they did not know its meaning. As stated earlier, activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement are concerned with the strategic use of the term ¨afrodescendant¨ and expect that this new Afrodescendant Communal

Council will internalize the “de-racialized” and “transformative” meanings of this term.

In sum, the articulation of the Afrodescendant movement with local Communal

Councils has resulted in a process of ethnicization (Restrepo 2004).275 In other words,

275 Restrepo (2004) identified processes of ethnicization among black communities of the Southern 501

Communal Councils have started to incorporate de-racialized ethnic markers of

“afrodescendancy” within their mobilized identity frames. This process provides a unique political visibility for these organizations within the region, and allows them to create regional organizational articulations.

At the local level, other Afroyaracuyan activists have been strongly engaged in the formation of Communitarian Housing Organizations (OCV). In Farriar and Agua

Negra, Afroyaracuyan woman leaders founded two OCVs, after the floods in 2004. Since then, access to secure housing has become one of the most important issues among the local communities of the middle Yaracuy River. A woman activist of the Afroyaracuyan movement leads the OCV of El Esfuerzo (in a sector of Farriar). They mobilize frames that point to the structural poverty and vulnerability of women‟s households in this locality. 276 These particular OCVs have been key sites for articulating and circulating frames on gender equality and ethno-racial discrimination. This framing process has had the effect of recruiting new participants for the Afroyaracuyan movement. For example, many members of the land organization Cumbe Giomar indicate that they had previously participated in this OCV of Farriar.

Other activists have engaged in family cooperatives for producing school uniforms, meals for events, “traditional” sweets, and tequeños (small fried bread sticks

Pacific region of Colombia. This process involves reframing and producing memories, past representations and new ways of imagining communities in terms of their African origins and historical experiences. Ethnicization also entails the relocation of identities and the production of new subjectivities (Restrepo 2004:704). 276 El Esfuerzo is one of the poorest sectors of Farriar, and is located in lands considered under risk of flooding. Most households in this sector lack running water and drainage systems. In addition, many women are Afro-Colombians, and as immigrants have no access to credit or state programs. Activists have engaged in this OCV in order to ensure housing for these women in new building complexes that have been constructed by the regional government at the entrance of Farriar. 502

filled with white cheese). Within these family cooperatives, activists receive credit, as they circulate frames on self-recognition, anti-racism, and gender equality. Some

Afroyaracuyan women leaders also participate in School Parent Associations. They specifically work on the design of educational projects within local schools. In this context, I witnessed how activists denounced the racist practices of some teachers. For example, some instructors were accused of mocking and sanctioning children due to

“their ways of speaking.” Leaders also denounced discrimination against bodily behavior, as well as the lack of afrodescendant components within the curricula. The

Afrodescendant Movement also has developed strategic articulations with regional movements such as the Movimiento Jirajara. The latter is a regional peasant organization of northwestern Venezuela. This movement mainly seeks to support and articulate land organizations, as it also mobilizes frames on indigenous self-recognition.277 The strategic alliance of the Jirajara and Afroyaracuyan movement has also been motorized by Braulio

Alvarez. He is a deputy at the National Assembly who claims to be a descendant of

Jirajara people and was also one of the main leaders of the land struggles at Los Cañizos.

The Jirajara movement has fostered political alliances with Afroyaracuyan land organizations and other peasant cooperatives and unions of the region. They have also engaged in processes of exchanging seeds and agricultural supplies. Although the Jirajara movement criticizes the role of INTI and other State institutions involved in lands distribution process, they have strong political connections with high-level functionaries.

277 They amplify the history of Jirajara indigenous people, and focus on their process of 200 year resistance against the Spanish empire. For the movement, Jirajara indigenous people index fierce struggle since this indigenous group was never subjected to the encomienda system. 503

Thus, through this strategic alliance with the Jirajara Movement, Afroyaracuyan organizations have gained access to particular clientelistic and political networks within

State land institutions.

In general, we have seen how external actors or outside groups are not just

“influential allies” (Tarrow 1998). Most activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement participate in at least in three different organizations. Thus, Afroyaracuyan activists tend to accumulate knowledge on using distinct strategic repertoires. Moreover, this mobilizing experience allows movements leaders to accumulate political capital, and to become recognized as luchadoras or luchadores socials (social strugglers) within their communities.

Furthermore, these leaders represent strategic networking nodes for social mobilization within the region. Across this organizational system they produce, circulate, and re-entextualize frames on afrodescendant self-recognition, anti-racism, legal rights, gender equality, Afro history, cimarronaje, and land distribution. This process has produced the ethnitization of some organizations. While some have simply adopted

Afrodescendant names, others have transformed their agendas, goals and projects by incorporating ethno-racial frames of action. This articulation also shapes the everyday experiences of activists, who are able to act in different strategic domains.

Articulation with political parties

Social movements have strong connections with political parties (Foweraker

1995; Munck 1990; Goldstone 2003; Cadena-Roa 2003; Van Cott 2005). Political parties 504

and social movements are mutually dependent actors that tend to overlap (Goldstone

2003:4). Parties tend to welcome social movement support and rely on this strategic alliance in order to win elections. On the other hand, social movements can rarely survive without the support of political parties; in fact, cycles of protest tend to synchronize with electoral cycles. Thus, the fates of many movements are closely linked to the fate of political parties and vice versa (Goldstone 2003:5).

In Latin America, the articulation of social movements and political parties is particularly strong (Foweraker 1995). Under the current multicultural order many social movements have been transformed into political parties (Van Cott 2005). In Venezuela, the Afrodescendant movement in general has had strong connections with leftist revolutionary parties. In 2006, the ROA created an ethnic party called Cimarrones por la

Revolución. This revolutionary ethno-racial organization called for overt support to

Chávez and his re-election. As stated before, this party aimed at deepening the revolutionary process by claiming the inclusion of afrodescendant peoples in public policies and in the Constitution.

Rather than seeking autonomy from traditional politics, the Afroyaracuyan movement as well, has established mutually strategic alignments with national political parties. Older leaders of the land movements were initially allied to the center right party of COPEI and to the Venezuelan Communist Party. Nevertheless, some of them have gradually shifted their support towards the multiple Chavista parties of the region.278 In

2007 there were three main parties aligned with Chavista politics in Veroes. The great

278 Venezuela is one of the few countries were leftists parties gained in strength after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 (Van Cott 2005). 505

majority of Afroyaracuyan activists supported the MVR (Movimiento V República), and later in 2007 many of them registered in the PSUV (Partido Socialista Unido de

Venezuela).279 However, other factions of activists were aligned with the former Chavista party of PODEMOS,280 since the governor of the regional state belonged to this political party. Other leadership groups supported the left-wing grassroots Tupamaro party. In spite of this internal political diversity among these Chavista sympathizing parties, most members expressed overt support of the revolutionary process and of President Chávez.

This political alignment of social organizations with Chavista parties is a general phenomenon in many rural areas of northwestern Venezuela. Since government and State structures critically overlap in Venezuela, many local leaders have to align with the revolutionary Bolivarian government in order to access State resources and political participation. For example, two Afroyaracuyan leaders were elected as concejales

(council members) of the Legislative Municipality of Veroes, with the support of the

MVR party. Others are involved in the formation of electoral battalions of the PSUV.

They are in charge of recruiting votes in favor of President Chávez during electoral process. Conversely, some activists maintain critical positions concerning the politization of the movement.

For instance, one Afroyaracuyan leader stated in this regard:

279 The Movimiento V Republica (MVR) was created in 1997 in order to support Chavez‟ first presidential candidacy. Later in 2007 this party was dissolved and absorbed by the Partido Socialista Unido de Venezuela (PSUV). 280 This party supported the Chavista government until 2007. Since then, they joined the opposition, as they did not support the Constitutional Reform. They specifically rejected the proposal of Presidential reelection. Moreover, they also refused to belong to the Partido Socialista Unido de Venezuela. 506

“People say „get into this party.‟ Now the discussion is, people must detach themselves from the parties, to be with the communities. Let‟s not believe in political parties, let‟s believe in social movements”281 (Activist from Veroes May 2007).

This statement reveals critical tensions about the process of politization of social movements in the region. While alignment with State parties provides political legitimacy before the government and the State; on the other hand, politization involves institutionalization, and to some extend potential demobilization. This is a critical dilemma for most social movements in Venezuela, as they have adopted a revolutionary rhetoric, in order to seek inclusion within State politics. Thus, most leaders are aware of the problem and constantly balance the benefits of gaining political legitimacy against the costs of losing their autonomy. They strategically walk over the “tight rope” of politization vs. autonomy.

Articulation with local and regional state institutions

As previously discussed in the introduction, social movements are mutually shaped by nation-states (Foweraker 1995; Jenkins and Klandermans 1995; Edelman

2001; Luders 2003; Goldstone 2003; Petras and Veltmeyer 2005; Johnston 2011). In fact, most social movements seek power within the State through mass mobilizations, oppositions, electoral politics, and direct engagement with institutions. Now let us explore how the Afroyaracuyan movement and Venezuelan State institutions engage in

281 “La gente te dice métete en este partido. Ahorita la discusión es, la gente debe deslindarse de los partidos, estar con las comunidades. No creamos en los partidos políticos, creamos en los movimientos sociales” (leader from Veroes, May 2007).

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contemporary settings. In this section, I examine these engagements by focusing on source dependency, project submissions, and employment or the political appointments of activists.

Local engagements

The Afroyaracuyan movement is closely linked to the Alcaldía (mayor) of Veroes

Municipality. This local state institution which is situated in Farriar, provides funds to some cultural and land organizations of the Afroyaracuyan movement. In particular, the

Institute of Culture of Farriar is funded annually with resources provided by the Alcaldía.

This local State institution usually subsidizes public folkloric activities in the communities of Farriar, Palmarejo, Agua Negra, and El Chino. For instance, the organization of festivities like San Juan Bautista, or the Octavita de Carnaval are partially financed by this local institution. This is a well-known cultural performative strategy of the Venezuelan festive State (Guss 2000). Moreover, political encounters and meetings are on many occasions, supported with funds from the Alcaldía.

Furthermore, through the Institute of Culture, the Alcaldía provides resources for small cultural heritage projects. It finances the tape recording, photographic and video registration of folkloric events, local story telling, songs, and oral histories. Two of the main activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement who work at the Institute of Culture receive minimum monthly salaries that are paid by this local State institution. Therefore, the Alcaldía represents a relatively stable source of income for some of these local organizations and activists. Yet its budget for cultural activities is significantly limited, 508

and the Institute of Culture, must in many cases, seek the support of other State institutions in order to secure greater resources.

Another mechanism for accessing State resources is through Communal Councils and the Alcaldía. The FIDES (Fondo Intergubernamental para la Descentralización), with the endorsement of the Alcaldía and the Communal Councils provides technical support in the elaboration of productive projects. Through this mechanism, some land-agricultural cooperatives have requested funding for agricultural production, and for raising hens and pigs.282

Another form of direct engagement with the Alcaldía has been through the appointment or election of afrodescendant activists as Mayors, or members of the legislative council of the Municipality. In fact, the Alcalde (Mayor) of Veroes in 2007 was an active member of the Afroyaracuyan movement and he recognized himself as afrodescendant. He also supported the land occupation at Los Gusanillos in the late eighties and many other land struggles in the region. However many activists indicate that he betrayed his people, once he was elected as Alcalde. Leaders of the

Afroyaracuyan movement sadly indicate that his administration has focused on the construction of infrastructure, roads, sidewalks etc. Hence, he is criticized for leaving aside social, historical and cultural projects. For instance, one member of the

Afroyaracuyan movement states:

“The Mayor does not confront the problems, and we as social movements have to face the vicissitudes. With more power, we might be able to manage the

282 Credits ranging from 6 to 60 thousand Bs. F. with a 12% interest rate for repayment. In 2002, the municipality provided a total 48,014.058 Bs F. in credit to agricultural cooperatives. However, it only recovered 8% of the loans. 509

Alcaldía. If not, the communities will disappear with so much violence, with so much delinquency.” 283

This statement clearly shows how the Afroyaracuyan movement is aware of the need to accumulate power in order to achieve control of the Alcaldía. Activists are constantly seeking to incorporate Afrodescendant agendas within this State institution.

Another political strategy has been promoting particular activists as Municipal

Council members. As previously mentioned, two afrodescendant leaders have achieved positions within the Municipal Council. This conscious act of “cimarronaje institucional,” as they pointed out, is key for assuring access to information regarding internal decision-making process of the Alcaldía. In addition, these institutional activists also gain access to the bureaucratic and clientelist networks of this State institution. The

Alcaldía is in charge of providing different kinds of legal documents. In particular, they issue cartas de permanencia (letters of permanence) and other endorsements, which are fundamental requisites for requesting land adjudications and credit. In sum, the appointment of afrodescendant activists within the Alcaldía provides political advantages vis-a vis other organizations that lack direct access to the internal political dynamics of local institutional settings.

283 “El alcalde no le está dando frente a los problemas y nosotros como movimientos social tenemos que darle frente a las vicisitudes. Con más poder podemos llegar a manejar la alcaldía. Sino, las comunidades van desaparecer con tanta violencia, con tanto delito.”

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Regional and National institutions

The Afroyaracuyan movement has weak relationships with regional institutions, in particular the Gobernación of the Yaracuy State. The engagement with this State level mostly involves legal dialogues seeking for official State recognition. For instance, this movement requested before the Legislative Council of the State of Yaracuy the official recognition of the Día del Cimarrón – to be celebrated on the 25 of May. In 2007 they also demanded changing the name of the central highway of the state in order commemorate Andresote. These requests have involved large-term dialogues with representatives of legal regional State institutions.

Furthermore, some activists are political allies of the Governor of Yaracuy. In exchange for their local political support, they might receive sporadic favors from this institution, such as the lending of a bus in order to assist at events in Caracas. However, in general, the regional state of Yaracuy does not provide stable funds for the

Afroyaracuyan movement in Veroes. This might have to do with existing political rivalries between the Alcaldía of Veroes and the regional government, since different political parties provide institutional backing for each of them.

In contrast, national State institutions provide stronger support for the

Afroyaracuyan movement through the funding of specific projects. The Ministry of

Culture, has been particularly sensible to some afrodescendant agendas. In 2001, they funded the construction of the Espacio Cultural Andresote. Moreover, Afroyaracuyan organizations have made different project submissions to the Ministry through the gabinete cultural of Yaracuy (a decentralized platform of the Ministry at the regional 511

state). In particular, the Institute of Musical and Performance Arts (IAEM) of this

Ministry, has funded many projects involving musical and dance training. The facilitators of these projects receive monthly salaries as long as the project continues.

Although most Afroyaracuyan members participate ad honorem in the movement, those who are involved in specific projects with the Ministry of Culture receive monthly salaries of 600 Bs.F (at the time $ 200). In addition, members who participate in the radio station receive a salary of 200 Bs.F per month. Nonetheless, these salaries are not permanent, since they depend on the continuity and financing of the projects which are approved.

In addition, the National Institute of Youth also provides resources for the educational activities that take place at the Casa de Atención al Afrodescendiente. This institute pays minimum monthly salaries to its managers (600 Bs. F), and to some of the workshops facilitators. They also receive funds for the maintenance of the headquarters of this Casa de Atención, and during specific events they might receive support for providing food, hiring sound systems, and for covering other logistic expenses.

Land Organizations, such as agricultural cooperatives also receive funds through national State credit programs. Financial resources are provided by the Ministry of

Agriculture and Land (MAT). FONDAFA (Fondo de Desarrollo Agropeuario Pesquero

Forestal y Afines) and CRAUS (Comando Regional Agrícola Unificado Socialista) which are in charge of providing credit to agricultural cooperatives in the region.284 These

284 Moreover, INDER (Institute of Rural Development) also provides infrastructural support to these cooperatives by funding the construction of roads, dwellings, etc. SASA (Servicio Autónomo de Sanidad Animal) is another state institute providing credit and technical support for developing sanitarian plants for animal raising in the region. 512

institutes have focused on the production of agro-ecological crops and on the replacement of pesticides. In fact, in 2007 they stopped providing credit for sugar cane production, since it involves the use of agro-chemical pesticides. Credits range from 5 to 25 thousand

Bs.F. depending on the amount of land to be cultivated and the number of members of each cooperative. They have one year of grace before repaying the credit.

One of the main activists of the Afroyaracuyan movement is a member of the

CRAUS and also works at FONDAFA. This leader has critical access to information regarding the process for requesting credit. As such, she has been able to channel many of the credits of local Afroyaracuyan organizations. For instance, the Cooperative

Dambaya and the Cumbe Giomar have received credit from FONDAFA in order to cultivate subsistence crops. Some State functionaries in Farriar indicate that many agricultural cooperatives have been organized in order to recuperate land, and not for agricultural production. Others State functionaries from SUNACOP (Superintendencia

Nacional de Cooperativas) argue that people organize cooperatives in order to request credit for purposes other than agriculture.

Overall, most organizations of the Afroyaracuyan movement depend on sources provided by local and national State institutions. Usually they seek credit, and also place strategic leaders within these institutions in order to channel information and overcome bureaucratic obstacles. Nevertheless, the final goal of the movement is to achieve economic autonomy from the State. In this regard, one of the older activists of the

Afroyaracuyan movement indicates:

“…no one has salaries; the resources were achieved through projects presented to different government instances. The goal is self-sustainability and self- 513

management. Generate resources so they can be maintained, that is the only goal. With the agricultural part, we expect to maintain the space, with the people, the comuneros. The idea is that the peasants will maintain the center; it is a co- management effort. We present projects to the Mayor, to the Ministry of Culture, to PDVSA, to private companies. But there is no salary. What we most do is to incentive (members) within a project; we request an annual amount for all the members. Approximately two minimum salaries are the benefits” (Mateo March 2007).285

All in all, projects are seen as the instruments for articulating social movements with the State. On the one hand, they help movements to maintain a certain degree of autonomy in terms of timing and the ability to choose specific targets. On the other hand, projects represent unstable sources, since some years budgets are reduced or institutional politics might change and not include ethno-racial components. Moreover, engagement through projects involves less accountability. Some community members and political factions in the region argue that throughout the so-called projects some leaders have monopolized State resources, or have subcontracted their own family cooperatives to provide services for events.

In sum, there has been great tension among members of the Afroyaracuyan movement concerning the costs of these institutionalization processes. On the one hand, some activists argue that when leaders occupy positions of State power, they forget about their people. This has been a strong critique directed towards the Mayor, some local afrodescendant functionaries and to activists who manage State-funded projects.

285 “nadie tiene sueldos, los recursos los logramos por proyectos solicitados a diferentes instancias de gobierno. La meta es la auto-sustentabilidad y la autogestión. Generar recursos para que se mantengan solo esa es la meta. Con la parte agrícola se espera mantener el espacio, con la gente, los comuneros. La idea es que sean los campesinos quienes mantengan el centro. Es un trabajo de co-gestión. Presentamos proyectos a la Alcaldía, al Ministerio de la Cultura, a PDVSA, empresas privadas. Pero no existe un salario. Lo que más hacemos es que dentro de un proyecto se incentive, se pide un monto anual para todos los miembros. Aproximadamente dos salarios mínimos es el beneficio” (Mateo, Palmarejo March 2007). 514

Concluding remarks: assessing the movement

During an internal meeting of the Afroyaracuyan movement, leaders started to assess the scope and limits of the movement. The following statement of Germán, one of the oldest leaders of the Afroyaracuyan movement, presents a condensed balance of the situation of some of these local organizations:

“I do not see the movement very structured, I see it dispersed. Nevertheless, we continue cimarroneando, the Afro movement as such. For me the Afro movement is strong, it confronts, it hits, people take it into account. Thus, I see it strengthened, people hear it. However, I still notice that we have strong weaknesses, that is the organization. There are no ordinary meetings, some continue on one side, and I on the other side ... I see it all dispersed ... we need ordinary meetings, plan, structure; everyone from their own angle, to make a fortress of the movement. It should be given form, there are other organizations that do not have (the same) talents and you see them organized. With all the strengths that (the movement) has, and with all that has been achieved, yet weaknesses have become evident in its organization. The Afro movement has not fully given its fruits. You see the achievements that have been made in the official gazette concerning the Day of the Cimarrón at the municipal level. We talked with the people at the regional state, we were involved with the Network (ROA) in the International Encounter of Public Policies. We achieved that the (National) Assembly decreed the 10th of May as the Day of Afrodescendants, that helped. Ah, after that organization we got lost, we did not strengthen the organization. From a political point of view, we need to be in the newspapers, talk about policies, public policies, State policies. Other organizations take the newspapers as a strategy and that is very valuable. We are relegated to cultural acts, black woman for the drum, for moving their hips, with big arse, we only appear in the cultural section (of the newspapers) ... we should not allow the movement to stagnate”286 (Germán, Farriar, March 2007).

286 “…no veo muy estructurado el movimiento, lo veo muy disperso. Pero seguimos cimarranoneando, el movimiento afro como tal. Para mi el movimiento afro es fuerte, que encara, que pega, la gente lo toma en cuenta. Entonces te lo veo fortalecido, la gente lo escucha. Pero sigo notando que tenemos debilidades fuertes, que es la organización. No hay reuniones ordinarias, seguimos uno por un lado, yo por un lado ... Lo veo todo disperso…necesitamos reuniones ordinarias, planificar estructurar, cada quien desde su ángulo, hacer una fortaleza para el movimiento. Eso habría que darle cuerpo, hay otras organizaciones que no tienen talentos y tu los vez organizados. Con toda las fortalezas que tiene y lo que se ha logrado, pero se ha mostrado debilidad en la organización. El movimiento afro no ha dado sus frutos Tu 515

This statement evokes the achievements of the Afroyaracuyan movement in terms of public recognition, visibility and “hearing.” Germán addresses the effective agency of the movement when using the terms “confront” and “hit.” He also refers to the resonance of its mobilizing frames and actions when stating that people have “taken it into account” or “hear” it. In sum, the politics of “visibility” and I might say of “hearing” is interpreted as a clear achievement of the Afroyaracuyan movement and its local resonance.

This activist also recalls these accomplishments as the result of the movement‟s negotiation with the local, regional and national legislative State. He further evokes the transnational engagements of the movement as they have participated in international encounters. However, he points out that these achievements have not been enough. He calls for participation in the designing of public policies. This means to articulate and engage with larger State levels that involve policy planning. In other words, he is aware of the need to embrace more structural negotiations with the State in order to achieve a real redistribution of resources.

Moreover, he also questions the actual forms of visibility of afrodescendant people in the media. He thus evokes the need to embrace media strategies in order to ensure new forms of representation, and to move beyond the production of folklorist- racist stereotypes of black people. It is interesting that he does not address the vez los logros que se han hecho en la gaceta oficial sobre el Día del Cimarrón a nivel municipal. Hablamos con la gente de la gobernación, nos involucramos con la Red en el Encuentro Internacional de Políticas Públicas. Se logró que la Asamblea decretara el 10 de Mayo como Día del Afrodescendiente, eso ayudó. Ah después de esa organización nos perdimos, no fortalecimos la organización. Desde el punto de vista político es necesario estar en la prensa, hablar sobre políticas, políticas públicas, políticas de Estado. Otras organizaciones toman la prensa como estrategia y eso vale mucho. Nosotros nos relegamos al hecho cultural, negra pal‟ tambor, pa‟ mover la cintura, tiene un trasero grande, salimos solo en la parte cultural (de la prensa)…no podemos dejar que el movimiento se caiga …” (Germán, Farriar March 2007).

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achievement of local land organizations, even though his wife is an active member of a woman land organization. Finally, he addresses the need to articulate the multiple organizations that belong to the movement. Implicitly he refers to the desire to overcome internal factionalism in order to achieve organizational “strength.”

Taken as a whole, the Afroyaracuyan movement has embraced a wide repertoire of discursive and strategic actions. Most of their agentive capacities have been successful in gaining political visibility and resonance within local communities, and local and national state institutions. The land organizations in particular have been successful in securing access to land and state credit. However, I argue that this achievement is the result of the articulation of these organizations with former peasant organizations. In other words, movements tend to achieve access to land and other state resources on the basis of enacting the mobilizing habitus of class-based organizations. The Venezuelan

State conceives access to land as a peasant right, and not as afrodescendant territorial right. Afrodescendant ethno-racial demands are more or less limited to the realm of public and media recognition.

However, the political and symbolic power of the Afroyaracuyan movement relies precisely on the successful articulation of cultural and land-agricultural organizations.

This integration represents in itself a key strategic action attempting to simultaneously integrate goals on recognition and redistribution. Moreover, this particular organizational engagement, produces the ethnicization of peasant organizations, and the simultaneous territorialization of cultural associations. This ongoing articulation of class and ethnic 517

forms of mobilization bridges in practice both the politics of recognition and redistribution.

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CHAPTER 8. COMPARING AYAMÁN AND AFROYARACUYAN STRUCTURES, FRAMES, AND STRATEGIES

In Chapters six and seven of this dissertation I explored how the Ayamán-turero organization and the Afroyaracuyan movement produce, transform and circulate new

„collective action frames‟ and strategic actions in order to achieve their ends. In this section, I compare the general structures, framing process, and strategies of the two social movements. I present some concluding remarks addressing the question of how these ethno-racial movements in northwestern Venezuela embrace material and discursive strategies to access resources from the Bolivarian nation-state.

Contrasting structures

Concerning the structure of the two movements, it is clear that they have different membership articulations as well as distinct internal configurations. The Ayaman-turero organization continues to reproduce elements of cofradía structures, in which most members have well defined hierarchical performative roles (Reina, Capataz Mayordomo,

Ayudantes Guardianes, Musicians, etc). All age groups participate in this organization, as elders, children and adults engage in ritual activities. Kinship relationships, religious affiliation and space are key dimensions shaping the memberships of most Ayamán- tureros in Moroturo. The ritual practices of the Tura also serve as an organizing axis of this organization, as they actualize, contest, and re-legitimize the multiple kinship and power relationships among members. Although this organization is linked to a regional network of turero organizations located in the states of Lara and Falcón, its specific goals 519

seeking ethnic visibility are significantly local. Moreover, this organization has weak articulations with the Venezuelan national indigenous movement, and in this sense its impact and scope also tends to be limited to localized realms.

In contrast, Afroyaracuyan organizations are highly diverse in terms of their membership, size, goals and structure. Some have cultural, musical or historical targets, while other organizations mainly focus on recovering land. Members are from different communities, and have different histories of mobilization. Although some are articulated by kinship relationships, they rather are inclined to conglomerate around ideologies of self-recognition, anti-racism and land rights. The formation of this movement has been based on its engagement with the National Network of Afrovenezuelan organizations and on strong alliances with local cultural and peasant organizations. In sum, the two movements clearly differ in terms of their scope, size, goals and reaches.

Comparing framing processes

The two movements produced different types of collective action frames, which tend to point to different goals and mobilizing ideologies. I will compare some of these framing processes in order to show what kind of discourses are mobilized, articulated and circulated by these organizations within the new multicultural order.

Identity frames

After the establishment of the new multicultural State in 1999, Ayaman-turero members started to embrace new identity frames asserting their ethnic identity. The 520

multiplicity of these self-identification frames is evident, as they represent particular subjective locations and index processes of self-transformation. Ayamán identity frames have diverse degrees of resonance among members of this religious organization.

Moreover, it illustrates that “becoming Ayamán” in Moroturo has not been a unified or homogenous process of collective identification. The turero religious identity frame instead tends to be more pervasive and collectively shared among all members of the organization. This identity is annually enacted, internalized, routinized and transformed during the practices of the Tura dances. Thus it becomes clear how ritual processes are key sites for producing, reproducing and stabilizing ethnic identities, in contrast to legal disciplinary technologies that tend to produce more dispersed and less internalized forms of self-identification.

The Afroyaracuyan movement also produces frames on afrodescendant self- recognition, which have been mainly adopted from the ROA. There are different degrees of internationalization and resonance of this self-recognition frame, which are linked to activist‟s degrees of involvement in the movement. All core leaders of the organization self-recognize as afrodescendant in public and private settings. They circulate the term in meetings of communal councils, land committees, housing organizations, and cooperatives. Yet other members use this term strategically without articulating the meaning originally embraced by the National Network. Moreover, this frame has limited resonance among community members, as it faces the prejudices of inscribed ideologies on racism and mestizaje. 521

Overall, one can sense how legal processes have created new opportunities for producing, transforming and circulating novel forms of self-identification. The new multicultural legal order seeks to highlight and recognize silenced, disenfranchised, or diluted ethno-racial identities. However, since this new legal realm has been in force for a relatively short period of time (10 years at the most), these reframed identities in general have not been fully internalized or stabilized within the mobilized habitus of social actors. In other words, legal changes do not necessarily entail the immediate production of embodied forms of self-identification. Long term historical processes are rather required in order to transform identity frames into subjective and inter-subjective

“positionings” that can subsequently structure novel ethno-racial formations.

Territorial frames

Ayamán-turero members produce discourses on the loss of lands. However, they rarely circulate frames on land recovery and peasant mobilization. The few territorial frames evoked by some Ayaman leaders respond rather to projects developed and circulated by external local intellectuals. These framing silences are contradictory considering that Ayaman people have been legally recognized by the State and also have very little access to land for ensuring their subsistence agricultural production. It seems that Ayamans are somehow aware of the few possibilities that they have for recovering land, within a community surrounded and controlled by local large landowners and politicians. Their relative passivity in producing frames on land recovery contrasts with many indigenous organizations in Latin America and Venezuela that are constantly 522

producing frames on territorial rights, which tend to be linked to ecological ideologies and notions of self-determination.

The Afroyaracuyan movement on the contrary mobilizes multiple territorial frames. Some point to the need to recover the practices of conuqueros and comunero ancestors in order to emulate socialist forms production. Other frames condense calls for recovering and distributing large extensions of land or for establishing agro-ecological projects seeking to replace sugar cane mono-production. In contrast to former mobilized peasant discourses in the region, Afroyaracuyan members articulate ideologies on afro- socialism, ecology and primitive communism. These new territorial frames have wide circulation and strong resonance among afrodescendant activists and community members. Overall, it is clear that Afroyaracuyans, due to their legal marginality produce territorial frames by evoking occupational and class-based forms of identification such as: conuqueros, campesinos and comunero. Thus claims for a redistribution of State resources (in this case land) tend to be expressed mainly through class-based mobilizing discourses.

Historical frames

Ayaman-turero leaders produce multiple historical memories addressing the migration and kinship relationships of turero families. They tell stories about their movements across space and how they created different Tura patios along their routes.

Yet these historical narratives are not structured or circulated as “mobilizing frames,” seeking to recruit members or to pursue particular targets. Local intellectuals instead have 523

reframed these narratives, as they seek to prove the indigenous historical occupation of the region. In sum, historical memories do not play a salient role in the production of mobilizing frames among Ayaman people.

Afroyaracuyan members, on the contrary have a tendency to structure most of their mobilizing frames on historical narratives. Historical frames surface in almost every public meeting of the movement. They have wide ranges of circulation within local, regional and national spheres. They specifically reproduce ideologies of cimarronaje, as they focus on the roles and achievements of particular runway leaders of the colonial period. Past Cimarrón leaders, such as Miguel and Andresote, in fact have become mobilizing symbols, as well as key indexes of regional afrodescendant identity. In fact, the production of historical memories and their subsequent framing process is a significant dimension shaping the enactment of concrete strategic actions. It is interesting how Afrovenezuelan organizations in general, as well as other afrodescendant movements in Latin America, tend to produce multiple historical frames in order to gain legitimacy and visibility from the State. Overall, historical frames emerge as important discursive strategies for contesting the fragmented and de-territorialized Diaspora representations of afrodescendant people in the continent.

Framing racism

The Ayamán-turero organization rarely produces frames addressing anti-racist ideologies. Some members recognize historical experiences of exclusion based on their indigenous or class identities. However, this organization as well as many other 524

indigenous movements in Latin America and Venezuela, tends to silence issues on racial discrimination. Racism is seen as a “problem” of black or afrodescendant peoples, not directly affecting indigenous populations or other ethno-racial groups. Thus, following

Perea (2000) and Perozo and Pérez (2001) one may argue that in Venezuela a criollo- black racial paradigm operates. This tends to render invisible or dismiss the everyday forms of racial discrimination experienced by indigenous peoples, non-black

Ecuadorians, Peruvians, Colombians, Asians, Lebanese, Portuguese, Jews, among many other groups. In turn, most indigenous organizations tend to focus on cultural discrimination, and thus avoid deconstructing the hegemonic myths of “racial democracy” and mestizaje.

The Afroyaracuyan movement in contrast has focused on mobilizing anti-racist collective action frames. As many other afrodescendant movements in Latin America, by adopting some of the frameworks of the ROA, Afroyaracuyan activists have sought to denounce in public and private settings structural racial discrimination practices. This frame also seeks to contest local notions on cultural discrimination that tend to portray afrodescendant people from Yaracuy as essentially “violent.” Moreover, in everyday contexts activists have to confront endoracist ideologies that have been inscribed in the subjectivities of many members and their families.

In sum, the new multicultural regime has ironically rendered racial issues invisible for those who are fully recognized by law, in this case indigenous peoples. In consequence, racial issues involving discrimination and exclusion are mobilized rather by 525

afrodescendant people who are legally excluded from the State. Overall, racial formations seem paradoxically obscured by the politics of visibility of multicultural regimes.

Gender frames

The Ayamán-turero organization does not explicitly circulate gender frames.

Although some leaders point to tensions involving the gendered control of the Tura dances (Reina vs Capataz), members in general do not articulate frames condensing these internal power struggles. Women members also avoid highlighting existing inequalities based on gendered constructions and roles. These framing silences contrast significantly with other indigenous organizations in Latin American, especially in Ecuador and

Mexico (Stephen 2005a; Becker 2008), which deliberately seek to emphasize how indigenous women`s lives are shaped by structural inequalities imposed by patriarchal orders.

The Afroyaracuyan movement has instead has adopted gender frames produced by international and national afrodescendant movements. Some of their members seek to highlight the historical role of Afroyaracuyan women, and to enhance their opportunities for accessing land, education, health, and inclusion within public policies. In fact, these frames have shaped the simultaneous formation of women land organizations and cooperatives in the region. However, gendered mobilized ideologies are relatively overlooked and diluted beyond the contours of the Afroyaracuyan movement. In other words, they still lack sufficient resonance to be amplified or reproduced by other community members. 526

Seeking housing and ayudas

Most Ayamán-turero members produced frames on seeking housing for their families. These mobilized discourses evoke modern ideologies on poverty, as well as emotions of suffering. Ayamán leaders also articulate frames requesting ayudas (financial assistance from the State) for conducting the Tura dances, or for aiding particular families. These framing devices in general target the State, as members expect direct support from government programs and their policies of social inclusion. The pervasiveness of this discursive practice is probably linked to former cofradía charity practices and to historical clientelist networks established with local politicians.

Afroyaracuyan members also circulate frames on housing and fund requests.

Some activists have developed housing projects for poor women, while other request credit for family cooperatives. Funds have also been solicited by Afroyaracuyan leaders in order to assist the elderly and people with disabilities. Yet frames are produced rather within the context of local Communal Councils, and they tend to supersede the specific goals of the movement which are more focused on cultural visibility and access to land.

Overall, the production of frames on requesting ayudas is a pervasive discursive strategy among these ethno-racial organizations and among most social movements in

Venezuela. These framing devices emerge in most interactions with the State. In this sense, discourses on “request” constitute part of the mobilizing habitus of all these organizations, revealing their relative dependency on the State as well as their goals on resource redistribution. 527

State Manipulation frames

The Ayamán organization also produces frames on “being used” (fuimos usados) or manipulated by State functionaries and institutions. This discursive strategy seeks to criticize the negligent, corrupt and clientelistic actions of local State agents. This discourse represents a denouncing strategy that serves to reveal internal tensions and differences among leadership teams, and to produce victimizing representations of their forms of engagement with the State. This is a common frame evoked by many indigenous organizations in Venezuela, who are constantly contesting the manipulative strategies of

State agents seeking for votes.

Afroyaracuyan members also evoke frames on State manipulation, when pointing for instance to their exclusion from the multicultural legal realm. They indicate that the

Republic was founded with the support of many afrodescendants, and yet their contributions have not been recognized. Some feel manipulated by the revolutionary project for denying them this opportunity of legal inclusion. Moreover, some activists point to the corrupt and clientelist networks of State institutions and functionaries, who continue to reproduce racist and exclusionary practices. Although Afroyaracuyan leaders refer to the suffering and victimization of their ancestors, in the present they tend to circulate ideologies of cimarronaje linked to representations of pride and struggle. In turn, they portray themselves as “fighters” (luchadoras y luchadores) that have strong agentive capacities to confront the violent and hegemonic strategies of the State and its local allies. 528

In sum, in terms of scope, the collective action frames of the Ayamán-turero organization tend to be significantly local. They target internal community factions and their local political allies. Their framing strategies express the direct need to distribute resources (money and State commodities) among Ayamán households and preserve the moral economy of the organization. This religious organization contrasts with many other indigenous movements in Venezuela and Latin America that produce and circulate transnational frames on: intercultural education, territoriality, legal pluralism, Pan- indigenism, indo-socialism, gender equality, ecological justice, among other ideological domains. In other words, the resonance and targets of Ayamán „collective action frames‟ are in general restricted to local and regional political settings.

Afrodescendant frames seek rather to target local, regional and national spheres.

Some frames have been produced by the National Network of Afrovenezuelan

Organizations and by international organizations, while others have been locally produced by movement activists. Frames on self-recognition, anti-racism, and gender equality tend to have limited resonance at community levels, mainly due to racist ideological barriers (Wade 1997; Telles 2004; Covin 2006). Yet historical and territorial frames have significant resonance among community members and the State.

In term of their effects, one can also sense how the new multicultural legal order has prompted the production and circulation of new “collective action frames” mainly seeking to highlight recognition and visibility from the State. It is clear that the

Venezuelan neo-socialist multicultural regime has opened new discursive fields for articulating ideologies, subjective positionings, values, symbols and tropes producing 529

novel forms of visibility and representation within the nation-State. Only the territorial frames of the Afroyaracuyan movement, and frames on the request for ayudas seek to address issues on resource redistribution (land, housing and state financial resources).

Questions remain on the extent to which these framing processes have concrete effects on the mobilizing habitus of social actors. In other words, what is the degree of articulation between discourse and practice, as they both shape the formation of mobilizing embodied dispositions? In the subsequent section, I compare the strategic actions embraced by the

Ayaman and the Afroyaracuyan organizations, in order to address these questions, and to point to differences and similarities in their mobilizing habitus.

Comparing Strategic Actions

In 2007, the Ayaman-turero organization and the Afroyaracuyan movement embraced multiple, flexible and dynamic strategies in order to meet their diverse goals.

Some actions overlap while others are significantly distinct due to the historical formation of their mobilizing habitus, their particular goals, their current legal status, and the distinct political and historical opportunity structures that they face. In this section, I describe and compare some of these strategies and their effects in terms of achieving recognition and/or re-distribution from the Venezuelan multicultural State.

Ritual strategies

The Ayamán organization of Moroturo produces and enacts different ritual actions, mainly involving the performance of the Tura dances. In Chapter six, I showed 530

how members performed ritual strategies for negotiating with State functionaries and for publicly asserting and contesting internal power relationships among its members and leadership teams. The Tura ritual is the organizing force of the Ayaman-turero organization as it not only defines the roles of its members, but also creates public spaces for seeking recognition as a legitimate indigenous-religious fraternity. These ritual strategies visibilize the ethno-racial markers of its participants and leaders, as they also display their symbolic power before community members, political factions and State agents. By the enactment of the Tura dances, actors seek to assert their indigenous identity and their further inclusion and attention from the new multicultural State. The

State in turn has identified the Tura ritual as the main index of indigeneity in the region.

Moreover, the ritual strategies of the Ayaman-turero organization are strongly embodied within the mobilizing habitus of their actors. In consequence, Ayaman interactions with the multicultural State tend to be mediated in many contexts by ritual strategies.

Some Afroyaracuyan organizations embrace ritual practices in their land negotiations, such as lighting candles, taking protective baths and smoking cigars during land occupations. Yet this strategy is not as encompassing or central as is for Ayaman people. Ritual actions among Afroyaracuyan members are more private, individual and sporadic. They may seek to assert the symbolic power of some leaders vis-a-vis landlords or political factions, however they tend to be relatively marginal or silenced during processes of mobilization (cultural-musical performances, land occupations, public meetings among other settings).

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Legal actions

Since 1999 the Ayamán-turero organization has started to engage in new legal interactions with the Venezuelan State. Ayamán leaders have managed to successfully request before the legislative and executive powers their ethnic recognition and inclusion within State legal instruments. In turn, members of this organization, with the support of local intellectuals asked for new State ID cards, specifying their ethnicity as citizens of the Venezuelan nation. These ID cards have also become markers of indigenous identity,

“proving” incorporation and recognition within the Bolivarian multicultural order. Yet these legal strategies are usually shaped and mediated by local intellectuals. In other words, Ayamans rarely engage in autonomous legal interactions with the State. Thus, it seems that modern-state legal strategies have not been fully incorporated within the mobilizing habitus of Ayaman members, as these actions tend to be orchestrated and set into action by outside supporters.

Afroyaracuyan activists have also embraced multiple legal actions. They have a long history of enacting complex legal strategies before the State in order to access and recover land. As race-less peasants they managed to place many legal demands before the local, regional and national legislative powers. In this sense one may argue that

Afroyaracuyan land organizations have managed to effectively articulate legal strategies within their mobilizing embodied dispositions. However in the ethno-racial and cultural realms, Afroyaracuyan legal actions have been marginalized and even ignored by the

Venezuelan multicultural State. In 1999 and 2007, members supported the ROA and other organizations in requesting the legal recognition of afrodescendant people in the 532

constitution (See Chapter 5). However, this process was unsuccessful and limited by

State ideologies on racial democracy and national mestizaje. In turn, Afroyaracuyan activists have restricted their legal strategies to the domain of territorial demands, while their ethno-racial legal opportunities have ironically been diminished by the multicultural

State.

Territorial strategies

The territorial strategies of the Ayaman-turero organization are significantly limited. In contrast to many indigenous organizations in Latin America and Venezuela, this organization has developed very few strategic actions for accessing land; in spite of producing and circulating discourses on land loss. Ayamán territorial strategies are restricted to face-to-face requests of small plots for housing purposes or animal rising. In this sense, the practice of occupying and claiming state lands is clearly not a strategic possibility for Ayaman people.

On the contrary, the Afroyaracuyan movement has developed a wide range of strategies for recovering large extensions of land, mainly for agricultural purposes. Based on their historical articulations with former regional and local peasant organizations, they have embraced direct territorial actions, by occupying claimed lands in order to exert political pressure. These organizations as whole have managed to recover around 11,400 hectares of land in the Municipality of Veroes. In consequence, they have also been able to request State credit for agricultural production. In contrast to Ayaman people, and other afrodescendant movements in Venezuela, the mobilizing habitus of Afroyaracuyan 533

members has incorporated within its “system of strategies” concrete actions seeking to guarantee their territorial rights. Thus, as suggested above, it seems that access to land among afrodescendant people can mainly be ensured by embracing class-based strategic actions, since the Venezuelan multicultural State has not recognized specific afrodescendant territorial rights.

Media actions

The Ayamán organization does not embrace significant media strategies. The media representations of this organization are rather controlled by external local intellectuals and NGOs‟ who have produced photographs, documentary films, web pages, publications and blogs representing the Tura rituals. Ayamán members have little control or interest in engaging in the production of these media actions. For them the main source of public visibility is achieved through the annual performance of the Tura dances, and by enacting these rituals in State meetings or indigenous regional encounters.

In contrast, the Afroyaracuyan movement has deployed multiple media strategies in order to ensure visibility and public recognition before the State. They have increased the resonance of their mobilizing frames, by producing numerous TV documentaries, radio programs, pamphlets, publications, newspaper articles, among others. These media actions have been recently articulated into the “system of strategies” of their organizations, especially after their engagement with afrodescendant national and international networks.

534

Education

The Afroyaracuyan movement has also pursued educational strategies by promoting workshops, courses, and training programs mainly targeting young afrodescendant people. These actions have served to promote processes of self- recognition, sensibilization and recruitment of new members. These strategies seek to articulate the “collective action frames” of the movement within the mobiling habitus of its members. In other words, educational actions aim at linking and embodying discourses and practices in processes of mobilizations. In this sense, I argue that

Afroyaracuyan educational strategic actions have the objective of consciously shaping and transforming the existing mobilizing habitus of its members. They aim at reframing and re-signifying local socializing practices that have tended to reproduce racism, gender discrimination, social inequalities, demobilization, and fear of the State.

The Ayaman organization in contrast has not focused on modern forms of education. Leaders of this organization, in particular the Capataz, teach young turero children embodied knowledge for performing their roles as future musicians.

Socialization within the organization is also performed by ritual repetition and by the everyday use of rite spaces and material culture. Children learn how to dance and use musical instruments by playing around the altar. They also listen to the myths and stories of elderly leaders, as they are participants in many adult interactions and rituals. Yet further specific research should be conducted in order to analyze how modern forms of education and processes of socialization are intertwined in Ayaman and Afroyaracuyan communities. 535

Alliances with local intellectuals

Ayamán-turero members, like many other indigenous organizations in the continent, have also constructed strategic alliances with local intellectuals. However, the projects and visions of these intellectuals have limited resonance within the internal strategic frames and mobilizing habitus of this indigenous organization. Community members and Ayamán leaders usually indicate that they have been manipulated by some of these intellectuals. Nevertheless, these alliances in turn have allowed Ayaman members to construct larger mobilizing networks for gaining regional, cultural, and political visibility. Thus, it seems that local intellectuals mediate their negotiations with the national State. I believe that these intellectuals in some cases tend to represent the role of former cofradía overseers, who also were external agents that sought to mediate and control the practices of brotherhood organizations in Latin America.

This is not the case of the Afroyaracuyan movement. Most activists instead are local intellectuals in their own communities. In other words, they tend to have direct access to State institutions in order to make demands or request resources. In this sense

Afroyaracuyan members have the tendency to have greater control over the production of their mobilizing frames and on the enactment of their strategies. Yet on the other hand,

Afroyaracuyans do have confrontations with national afrodescendant leaders, who at another level seek to shape and control the actions and discourses of this regional movement. In spite of these tensions, Afroyaracuyan members overtly struggle for 536

maintaining certain degrees of autonomy from the national network, even when this process has fostered internal factionalism and competition among leaders.

Articulations with other organizations

The Ayamán organization has very few articulations with other local social organizations. Ayamán-turero members hardly ever participate in local cooperatives or in social associations. They have only engaged in the formation of the indigenous

Communal Council of Moroturo. Members rather tend to build alliances with other regional turero groups. In addition, the Ayamán organization has weak linkages with the

National Indigenous Movement, in spite of participating in some encounters and meetings. In sum, this indigenous organization tends to foster alliances on the basis of ritual-religious affiliations, and not on common ethno-racial or political goals. This strategy possibly reflects former cofradía networking practices that tended to isolate and maintain separate indigenous, black and criollo organizations.

Afroyaracuyan activists on the other hand, tend to engage in many social organizations. At local levels, they participate strategically in Communal Councils, civil, cultural, housing and productive associations, agricultural cooperatives among others.

This articulating practice creates networking nodes across this broad web of organizations. Leaders thus circulate within these organizations multiple frames on afrodescendant self-recognition, anti-racism, legal rights, gender equality, Afro history, cimarronaje, and land distribution. In turn, some organizations have been ethnicized and others are territorialized. At a regional level, the Afroyaracuyan movement has also been 537

effective in creating strong alliances with regional and national peasant organizations, supporting land occupation processes and legal claims. At the national level, the

Afroyaracuyan movement has also built very strong articulations with the National

Network of Afrovenezuelan Organizations. In fact, as has been previously discussed, this national network has mutually shaped the frames and strategies of the Afroyaracuyan movement. Overall, one can sense how the Ayamán-turero organization is limited by its religious mobilizing habitus, as it builds very few alliances with other local, regional, and national organizations. Afroyaracuyan organizations on the contrary are shaped by their historical experiences of peasant mobilization, which have tended to actively embrace the strategy of opening out and creating important networking alliances.

Articulation with political parties

Ayamán-turero members in general do not align with specific political parties.

They argue that the spirits of their ancestors do not allow them to provide public support to parties. They can assist and help politicians who come to the community in order to request favors, but they are not supposed to move or mobilize outside of their community for political reasons. This form of engagement is significantly different from other indigenous movements in Venezuela and Latin America, which have even formed ethnic parties (Yashar 2005) and sought direct political participation within the State (Caballero-

Arias 2003).

In comparison, the Afroyaracuyan movement has established public strategic alignments with national political parties. Most Afroyaracuyan activists are members of 538

the PSUV (Partido Socialista Unido de Venezuela), and express overt support for the revolutionary process as they participate in public demonstrations and recruit voters. In turn, some organizations have been politicized, as some activists have managed to be elected into public posts. This process has exacerbated the institutionalization of some factions who have tended to demobilize their most radical claims against racism and social exclusion. In sum, one can sense structural differences in the political mobilizing habitus of both organizations. Indigenous members seem to have incorporated multiple strategies seeking to avoid direct engagement with political organizations. Afroyaracuyan historical experiences on the contrary have formed embodied dispositions that aim rather at establishing sustained articulation and identification with parties.

Articulation with the National State

The Ayamán organization has also engaged in direct articulations with the national State. In line with the suggestion of the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples, they have embraced the project of establishing an Indigenous Communal Council. This process has created tensions and exacerbated factionalism among Ayamán leaders, tureros, and criollos who seek to control this new form of organization. Moreover, some members have been invited by the Ministry to participate in national and international meetings. In these contexts, Ayamán leaders have self-recognized as “indigenous socialist warriors,” in order to comply with the political requirements of the Ministry.

However, in spite of these interactions, the Ayamán organization does not depend on national State resources for archiving its goals. In turn, it has not experienced significant 539

processes of State institutionalization or dependency on national State structures. In other words Ayamán members have managed to attain certain degrees of autonomy, regardless of their recognition and articulation with the nation-state.

The Afroyaracuyan movement also has strong engagements with national State institutions, in spite of their legal marginality and exclusion. They have received funds from the Ministry of Culture and other institutions involved in agricultural affairs. They are constantly searching for State financial resources in order to organize cultural events, national encounters, workshops and to support agricultural cooperatives. Their articulation with this State level is achieved by the establishment of projects that, on the one hand, ensure a lesser degree of institutionalization but, on the other, represent unstable sources of income for these organizations.

All in all, the Ayamán-turero organization focuses on seeking cultural and ethnic recognition from the Venezuelan State. Most of their frames and actions pursue to reassert indexes of their indigenous identity (ritual, language and dress) in order to secure their ethnic inclusion within the new multicultural nation. Thus instead of securing redistribution of land or political positions within the State (as many other indigenous organizations in Venezuela), Ayamán leaders rather focus on achieving visibility for ensuring the reproduction and continuity of the Tura dances. This process allows some leadership teams of this indigenous religious organization to accumulate ethnic capital and legitimize their performative roles, vis- a- vis other turero members or regional groups. 540

In turn, Ayamán members achieve a redistribution of limited State resources, through local face-to-face interactions and negotiations with non-indigenous political leaders, local State agents, and intellectuals. Scarce and unstable resources are secured by way of these engagements, which are usually destined to support the reproduction of the

Tura dances. However, by the enactment of their multiple strategies they have managed to maintain their relative political autonomy, from the national State, political parties, and from the national indigenous movement. From this case study, one can sense how ethno- racial recognition does not ensure direct redistribution of State material resources for small-scale indigenous organizations. Thus, while legal multiculturalism emerges as a

“political opportunity structure” providing symbolic visibility for indigenous peoples; at the same time it restricts their full inclusion within the redistributive policies of the

Bolivarian nation-state. Multicultural laws and the State consequently produce limited and illusory inclusions even for those who are recognized within the imaginary nation.

The Afroyaracuyan movement, in spite of its legal marginality, has also focused many of its strategies on public visibility and “hearing.” This movement has also achieved significant recognition from the local and regional legislative State. It has consolidated transnational engagements as it has participated in international encounters.

Moreover this movement, as well as other afrodescendant organizations in

Colombia and Brazil, has been successful in accessing large extensions of land. Members have built strong articulations between cultural and land-agricultural organizations. These networking engagements have fostered the gradual ethnicization of peasant organizations.

The latter are now mobilizing frames on afrodescendant self- recognition, anti-racism and 541

cimarronaje. In turn cultural organizations are territorializing their demands as they support land claims and call for afro-socialist and ecological forms of production. This case study shows how movements can integrate class and ethnic forms of mobilization, allowing them to ensure both recognition and redistribution from the State. This case also sheds light on how movements manage to seek alternative forms of engagement with the

State, in spite of their ethno-racial legal marginality within multicultural regimes. Thus while Bolivarian multicultural laws create forms of inclusion and exclusion, they also preserve or create mobilizing spaces along class lines. In sum, ethnicity seems to be a limited mobilizing field for ensuring redistributive goals. Overall, the main objective of this dissertation has been to underscore the role and limits of multiculturalism in shaping movement‟s capacities to negotiate recognition and/or redistribution with nation-states.

The following chapter presents some concluding ideas on this question. 542

CONCLUDING IDEAS

This dissertation has sought to explore the impact of multiculturalism on processes of ethno-racial mobilization in Venezuela. It has attempted to assess the effects of Bolivarian multicultural reforms on the relationship between social movements and the

State, particularly on their capacity to achieve recognition and/or redistribution. I examined these broad questions by comparing two ethno-racial movements in northwestern Venezuela – the Ayamán-turero indigenous organization located in Lara state and the Afroyaracuyan movement of Veroes-Yaracuy.

In order to understand the historical formations shaping the emergence of these movements and their mutually constituted relationships with the State, we examined the ways in which Ayamán and Afroyaracuyan peoples have engaged with colonial and post- colonial powers. The historical evidence suggests that Ayamán mobilizing habitii tended to be characterized by processes of spatial mobility, as well as by limited confrontation with colonial and nation-state powers. In contrast, Afroyaracuyans mobilizing dispositions have been shaped by more challenging strategies, such as acts of violence, legal negotiation and territorial struggles. It will be for the reader to assess to what extent the concept of mobilizing habitus has contributed to an understanding of the different dynamics of these two social movements. It is my opinion that this concept allows us to approach the long-term accumulated collective experiences and the set of embodied dispositions of mobilizing actors, often difficult to pin down and not altogether conscious. We suggest that the mobilizing habitus of social actors is of fundamental 543

importance for understanding the production of frames and strategic actions of social movements.

This seems particularly clear in the case of Afroyaracuyan actors in Veroes where, in the absence of formal legal recognition (which indigenous peoples have enjoyed) the social movement constitutes one of the most successful cases of land recovery by minority ethno-racial groups during the decade of the Bolivarian process. The point is that these advances have been achieved to a great extent as the result of prolonged experiences of territorial struggle and direct engagement with the State, prior to the adoption of multiculturalism in 1999.

The experience in Veroes also needs to be understood in terms of the particular mobilizing habitii of social movement‟s actors, in order to broach one of the fundamental questions of this dissertation: to what extent Venezuelan multiculturalism has been implemented without important concessions in terms of redistribution. Here, the implications of the Venezuelan experience are complicated by the fact that, unlike previous experiences of multicultural policies under the aegis of neoliberal regimes, in

Venezuela they were introduced within a new context of agrarian reform and widespread redistribution of land for peasants. Of the two movements that I have studied only the

Afroyaracuyan people from Veroes has managed to engage in successful territorial struggles, involving effective land redistribution. As in the cases of many “peasants” in the rest of the country, Afroyaracuyans have been evidently favored by the current Land

Law and by the notable reduction in the use of State repression to counteract peasant land 544

claims. Thus, it seems that in this particular political configuration, mobilization as

“peasants” has proven to be an effective path to achieve redistribution within the State.

The Afroyaracuyan movement has also enacted a wide repertoire of discursive and strategic actions, which have been relatively successful in gaining some political visibility and resonance within local communities and a few State institutions.

Nonetheless, in my view the political and symbolic power of the Afroyaracuyan movement relies on the successful articulation of cultural and land-agricultural organizations, which does not take place among many other afrodescendant movements in Venezuela. This broad political-organizational strategy, in turn has produced the gradual and complementing ethnicization of peasant organizations, and the simultaneous territorialization of cultural associations. This ongoing articulation of class and ethno- racial forms of mobilization bridges in practice both the politics of recognition and redistribution.

In spite of these particular regional successes, afrodescendants have not been legally recognized as a distinct ethnic group by the Venezuelan multicultural State.

However afrovenezuelan movements have managed to open up new spaces within the institutional structures of the State. While the increase in access to the State is undeniable

(i.e. posts, commissions, meetings, cultural programs), afrovenezuelan movements still face the ideological barriers of the myths of racial democracy and mestizaje (Hanchard

1994; Wade 1995; Telles 2004; Hooker 2005, 2009; Covin 2006; Paschel and Sawyer

2008). The afrodescendant movement has also experienced internal fragmentations and the radicalization of some organizations, due to the degrees of institutionalization of some 545

leaders within State structures. Nevertheless the evidence we have examined in the case of Veroes hardly justifies the conclusion that the autonomy of this movement has been undermined, or its fundamental interests subordinated to those of the State.

However if we turn our attention to the experiences of indigenous movements the argument of the skeptical begins to appear more convincingly. The Ayamán-turero organization does not shed light on the problem of redistribution, because their few territorial claims are more or less artificially introduced by outside supporters.

Nevertheless this case does speak about the effects of ethnic legal recognition, particularly on a population that until recently was considered as fully “assimilated” or

“inexistent” in Venezuela. This ethnographic inquiry suggest that, since Ayamán people were first recognized as indigenous peoples by the multicultural State in 2005, they have oriented most of their strategies to assert their indigeneity by engaging in State cultural performances and reproducing their ritual practices. In turn, Ayamans have been caught in the dilemma of being recognized as “indigenous peoples” of the nation, yet at the same time they continue to be constrained by the assistentialist strategies of local State institutions and their political corrupt networks. Thus instead of focusing on national indigenous elections or on land struggles (as is the case for many other indigenous organizations in the continent), Ayamán leaders are centered on ethnicizing and ritualizing their negotiations with the State. However, by becoming “excluded” indigenous peoples, in the eyes of the Bolivarian government, Ayamans have gained greater possibilities of accessing more resources than other criollo populations in similar situations of exclusion. In other words, Ayamans have managed to add symbolic value to 546

their demands in order to gain attention from the State. But access to material resources

(e.g. land and credit) still remains limited for this indigenous population, and almost impossible to achieve through ethno-racial forms of mobilization. In other words, ethnicity seems to be a restricted mobilizing category in order to ensure redistribution, even for legally recognized peoples within the Bolivarian multicultural State.

Moreover, if on a national scale we recall the experience of those other indigenous organizations reclaiming territorial rights and land demarcation (as consecrated in the Constitution) we can appreciate a similar panorama in terms of a very limited redistribution. So far, we have shown how indigenous peoples achieved recognition “as long as” their concrete demands on land rights and legal self- determination did not involve threats to the unity and sovereignty of the nation. What becomes clear from the experience of indigenous movements is that when symbolic recognition is associated with land and territorial redefinitions, nationalist homogenizing ideologies begin to weigh in the definition of State policies. This might be particularly so when, as in the Venezuelan case, the regime implanting the multicultural policy adopts a markedly nationalist (and anti-neoliberal) posture.

But what else could be expected from a nation-state, than to seek to impose unified visions of modernity, development, and culture? The new multicultural frames

(product of ongoing law-making processes among social movements, intellectuals and

State factions) certainly do not supersede the hegemonic nationalist interests of the modern Venezuelan State-nation that, as in many other cases, seek to mirror homogenous 547

spatial, cultural, racial and ethnic imaginations (Anderson 1983; Smith 1986; Corrigan and Sayer 1985; Alonso 1994).

As a result of these limitations, indigenous movements in Venezuela have experienced continuous processes of institutionalization, fragmentation and demobilization, as they engage in asymmetric negotiations with the Venezuelan

Bolivarian State (Quispe and Tillet 2010). They have been co-opted by new Ministries and institutions, and their leadership and goals have been diluted through processes of internal factionalism. So far, the Venezuelan multicultural State has not fully ensured

“redistribution” for indigenous peoples. It rather remains creating “illusory inclusions” based on valuable, but limited recognition technologies (e.g. legal visibility, IDs, media representations). In the best of cases, the revolutionary State has provided through its redistributive strategies, sporadic food supplies, unsustainable health assistance, modern housing projects and some infrastructural assistance for indigenous communities.

Overall, the Bolivarian multicultural project ironically continues to constrain ethno-racial social movement‟s capacity to participate in the State‟s redistributive policies. In order to engage in processes of redistribution, Venezuelan movements must mobilize across larger Republican class-based categories: los excluídos (the excluded), el pueblo (the people), la multitud (the multitude) or la base (the base).

Regardless of these contradictions, the Bolivarian project is still recognized by many indigenous and afrodescendant organizations, leaders, activists, intellectuals and communities as a unique historical opportunity for achieving political participation, empowerment and symbolic inclusion. The new multicultural order has also created new 548

scenarios for transforming and producing alternative forms of self-identification as well as new identities. Many organizations and mobilized actors still hope to achieve new

“locations” within the so-called “twenty-first century socialism.”

Moreover, this multicultural project does represent in the discursive realm a significant rupture with other Latin American neoliberal multicultural projects (e.g.

México, Colombia, Brazil). It advocates a “indo-socialism” as a new form for incorporating indigenous peoples in the process of refunding the Republic according to its new multicultural precepts. Inspired on Bolívar‟s and Mariatigui´s ideologies, this project questions the neo-colonial practices of transnational powers and Western empires, yet it ironically excludes afrodescendant peoples and other ethno-racial groups from this process.

In the new political milieu of the Bolivarian revolution, the final challenge for ethno-racial social movements is to create mechanisms for converting recognition

(political and symbolic capital) into redistribution (access to material resources). It is clear that social movements will continue negotiating, struggling and confronting the nation State, as they mutually shape new legal and institutional spaces. Questions remain about how they will they act upon institutionalization processes and face the risks of demobilization and fragmentation. Certainly the Venezuelan Bolivarian State has provided opportunities, associated with a dramatic reduction in State repression which might enable social movements to promote their interest with greater success.

Future research is required in order to examine the effects of multicultural policies on other indigenous and afrodescendant organizations in Venezuela, as well as on the 549

experiences of transnational migrants. Comparative studies with other nation-states turning to “the Left,” would also enhance and deepen the reaches of this study. This would allow us to assess in a more conclusive ways how neoliberal, anti-neoliberal, or nationalist-populist regimes implement multicultural policies, and in turn shape processes of mobilization and opportunities for social justice, recognition and redistribution. 550

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