1 the Struggle for Indigenous Territory in The

THE STRUGGLE FOR INDIGENOUS TERRITORY IN THE BRAZILIAN AMAZON

ALINE FABIANA ANGOTTI CARRARA

A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

2020 1

To all indigenous peoples

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The present study is a result of a journey that, by no means, was accomplished individually. It derives from a collective engagement and is a product of many hands and minds and hearts.

To start, the whole Danhimipari community, to whom I have committed a lifetime of love and respect, who have embraced their realities with so much wisdom and taught me to expand myself and my views of the world through a relationship that started in 2001 while seeking “the sacred land below the ground”.. Carolina Rowehö Wereé for 12 years of shining eyes and her father Wedero’wa Wereé for a lifelong friendship. José Ivan Padzawere

Wahutu'o, José Robri Umhate and all the schoolteachers and community members who embraced my family and I from sun rise to sunset.

My advisor, Robert Walker who has been a great source of knowledge, guidance, support and motivation, since our first interaction by the Tocantins River in the Amazon. My deepest gratitude for his patience and understanding and for always challenging me to move forward and reach my potential. My co-advisor, Cynthia Simmons, whose knowledge and experience has planted many ideas which always germinated into inspiring conversations. My brilliant committee, Christine Overdevest and Stephen Perz for sharing their views and their critical contribution to shaping this work, and for offering guidance through this journey.

My cohort from the Department of Geography for all the fun, the laughs, the tears, the hugs through constant exchange and mutual support and help with many different aspects involved in pursuing this research. The professors who have deeply contributed to my intellectual and personal growth: Michael Heckenberger, Susan Paulson, Simone Athaide and

Alberto Acosta.

The staff from the Department of Geography who kindly and patiently have resolved and worked out many bureaucratic issues: Desiree Price, Rhonda Black, Dr. Jane Southworth and Alexandro Henao.

The scholarships and fellowships that gave me financial security: Coordenação de

Aperfeiçoamento de Pessoal de Nível Superior (CAPES) – Science Without Borders,

LASPAU (Harvard University), The Rufford Grant (The Rufford Foundation), CLAS

Dissertation Award (University of Florida).

All my friends who were constantly present, allowing me a safe non-judgmental space to balance my emotional needs. Friends are moments in time and time cannot measure friendship.

Finally, I am eternally thankful for my family. My whole lineage, all the way to the unknown roots. My dad for leaving the trace and pointing the way, for guiding from wherever his existence may be. My mom for ballasting my life’s trajectory with her uniquely unconditional love, care, giving and support always. She is the point from where I catch sight of the horizons. Nathália, my one and only sister whose love and acceptance are present in every criticism. And for always being there as my best half. Ritodhi, for stepping on Earth while holding my hand. For walking this incredible journey by my side, even during the times he had to carry me on his own shoulders, and for actively engaging in the materialization of this work with his cozy laughs and admirable intelligence. Arnaldo and

Sushweta, for always being there with their healing powers and enormous forgiving heart.

And Theo, my infinite source of inspiration and knowledge, for sharing his mom with her own mundane interests.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... 4

LIST OF FIGURES ...... 9

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS ...... 10

ABSTRACT ...... 13

CHAPTER

1 INTRODUCTION ...... 15

Conceptual Model ...... 20 Research Terminology ...... 24

2 HISTORICAL BACKGROUND ...... 27

Development History with The March West ...... 27 Indigenous Rights and Policy in Brazil: From Colonial to Modern Times ...... 30 Institutional History of indigenous affairs in Brazil ...... 31 The Indigenous Chapter in the Brazilian Federal Constitution (FC/88) ...... 35 Democracy, Neo-Developmentalism and the Commodification of Indigenous Life ...... 40 Thirty Years of the FC/88 and Unfolding Developmentalist Agenda ...... 43 The Progressive Left States ...... 48

3 BACKGROUND IN THE LITERATURE ...... 55

Place, Space and Territory ...... 57 Displacement and Mobility...... 62 The Territorializing Power of Indigenous Place-Making ...... 64

4 PAN-AMAZÔNIAN STATISTICAL ANALYSIS ...... 70

Statistical Analysis: The Data and Spatial Features ...... 73 Descriptive Statistic of the Collected Data ...... 74 Statistical Analysis: Logistic Regression ...... 80

5 THE HISTORY OF A’UWE UPTABI TERRITORIALIZATION ...... 84

The A’uwe Uptabi Pre and Post-Contact...... 85 Into the 20th Century ...... 90 President Vargas and the New State: Exogenous Territorialization ...... 91 São Marcos Salesian Mission...... 95 Marãiwatsédé – The Last Frontier ...... 96 Territorialization of the IT: São Marcos Indigenous Reserve ...... 101 A’uwe, Territorialities and the Ró ...... 104

6 ENDOGENOUS TERRITORIALITY: PLACE-MAKING IN ALDEIA DANHIMIPARI ...... 110

Methodological Choices and Community Engagement ...... 112 Focus Groups ...... 114 Oral Histories and Storytelling ...... 115 Community Mapping ...... 116 Surveys ...... 117 Results...... 118 “We cannot measure pain”: Creation of the IT and the Lure Back ...... 118 The Places of A’uwe Uptabi Space ...... 121 Community building in the Ró ...... 121 Householding in the Rí ...... 126 Pi’õ Tsiptede: Women Power ...... 129 Mobile Indigenous Lives ...... 133 Search 1: Medical intervention ...... 138 Search 2: Job search ...... 140 Search 3: Usury ...... 142 Discussion ...... 144 A’uwe Uptabi Territorialities in Aldeia Danhimipari and Beyond ...... 144 Territorial Aspirations of the Aldeia ...... 146 Extending and Reforming the Ró: Territorializing the Waradzu World ...... 151

7 BEYOND LEGAL-CARTOGRAPHIC STRATEGIES: ITS, TERRITORIALITIES AND THE FUTURE OF AMAZONIA ...... 159

The Limits of a “Legal-Cartographic Strategy” ...... 167 Indigeneity, Territorialization and Extraterritorialities ...... 172 The Promises and Pitfalls of ITs ...... 175 Looking Backward While Walking Forward: Exploring Intimate Territories with the A’uwe Uptabi ...... 180 The Ró and the ITs: Navigating Different Spatial Ordering in Indigenous Homelands ...... 180 Encountering a Geography of Absence: Intimate Territories and Plurinationalisms...... 184 Territories Gone Wild: Territorially Bound Indigeneity, Plural Worlds and the Future of Amazonia ...... 188

8 CONCLUSIONS ...... 192

APPENDIX

A GLOSSARY OF A’UWE LANGUAGE...... 201

B DETERRITORIALIZATION OR ANTI-INDIGENOUS GOVERNMENT ...... 203

REFERENCES ...... 204

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...... 230

LIST OF TABLES Table page

1-1 Concepts and terminologies ...... 21

1-2 Specific definitions of indigenous spatial occupation and terminology used ...... 24

2-1 Administrative Steps of Demarcation Process ...... 45

2-2 Anti-indigenous policy propositions...... 53

4-1 Descriptive Statistics ...... 74

4-2 Results of Logistic Regression...... 81

5-1 Characterization of State Territorialization of A’uwe Uptabi Lands ...... 101

6-1 Methodological Description...... 112

6-2 A’uwe’s Perception about modern artefacts they use and traditional practices that were not lost ...... 124

6-3 Average of Participants in the A’uwe Dahöimanawé by gender...... 130

A-1 Glossary of A’uwe Language ...... 201

B-1 Deterritorialization or anti-indigenous government...... 203

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure page

1-1 Conceptual Model ...... 21

2-1 Graph of Recognition of Indigenous land by the previous six governments (modified from ISA, 2016) ...... 50

4-1 Official Legal Status of Indigenous Territories in Amazônia ...... 70

4-2 Percentage of ITs under-State Recognition ...... 73

4-3 Map of proximity of roads and highways to indigenous territories...... 76

4-4 Map of proximity of Hydropower Dams (in operation, under construction and projected) to indigenous territories...... 77

4-5 Map of proximity of mining requests to indigenous territories...... 78

4-6 Map of IT Xikrin do Caeté and surrounding mining sites ...... 79

4-7 Map of proximity of mining sites to indigenous territories ...... 80

5-1 Map of Danhimipari Village ...... 84

5-2 Map with flow of A’uwe Uptabi migration and factionalism (Source: Garfield, 2001) ...... 90

5-3 Timeline of A’uwe Uptabi and Development History ...... 92

5-4 A’uwe Uptabi Territories ...... 100

5-5 Flow of Factionalism in SMIR (Source: Delgado, 2008) ...... 104

6-1 Story of Danhimipari’s foundation ...... 116

6-2 Territorial Priorities ...... 116

6-3 Image of Danhimipari village (produced by the author on Google Earth) ...... 127

6-4 Graph of source of Household Income ...... 137

6-5 Graph of presence of Danhimipari by gender ...... 137

6-6 Map of Current A’uwe Uptabi territorialization in Barra do Garças ...... 138

7-1 Categories of engagement of institutional interviews ...... 167

7-2 Map of Municipalities with Indigenous Territories not recognized by the State ...... 175

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

ANEEL Agência Nacional de Energia Elétrica

BMH Belo Monte Hydropower Complex

BNDS Socio-Economic Development National Bank

BBB Beef, Bible Bullet

CASAI House of the Indian in the city

CAR Rural Environmental Registry

COIAB Coordination of Indigenous Organizations in the Brazilian Amazônia

CNPI I National Council for Indian Protection

CNPI II Indigenous Policy National Council

CNV National Commission for Truth

CPI Parliamentary Committee of Inquiry

CVRD Companhia Vale do Rio Doce

DGPI General Department of Indigenous Patrimony

DIP Department of Press and Propaganda

DSEI Indigenous Special Sanitary District

ELETRONORTE Centrais Elétricas do Norte do Brasil S.A

FBC Fundação Brasil Central

FC/88 Brazilian Federal Constitution of 1988

FPA Frente Parlamentar da Agropecuária

FPIC Free, prior and informed consent

FUNAI National Indian Foundation

IBAMA Brazilian Institute of the Environment and Renewable Natural Resources

IIRSA Initiative for the Integration of the Regional Infrastructure of South America

ILO International Labor Organization

IMF International Monetary Fund

INCRA National Institute of Colonization and Agrarian Reform

INSS National Institute for Social Security

ISA Instituto Socioambiental

IRs Indigenous Reserves

ITs Indigenous Territories

MAPA Ministry of Agriculture, Livestock and Food Supply

MEC Ministry of Education

MJ Ministry of Justice

MMA Ministry of Environment

MT Mato Grosso State

NGO Non-governmental organizations

OECD Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development

PAR Participatory Action Research

PDPI Indigenous Peoples Pilot Projects

PDA I First Amazon Development Plan

PDA II Second Amazon Development Plan

PEC Proposta de Emenda à Constituição

PIN National Integration Plan

PL Project of Law

PND I First National Development Plan

PND II Second National Development Plan

PNDH Human Rights National Program

PNGATI National Policy for the Environmental and Territorial Management of Indigenous Territories

PPG-7 Pilot Program for Brazilian Tropical Forest Conservation

PPP Political Pedagogical Project

PPTAL Integrated Project for Protection of Indigenous Lands and Populations in the Legal Amazônia

PT Workers Party

PVEA Plan for Economic Evaluation of the Amazon

RBA Rights-based Approach

RCID Technical Report (Relatório circunstanciado de identificação e delimitação)

SMIR Sao Marcos Indigenous Reserve

SPI Indigenous Protective Service

SPU Union’s Secretary of Patrimony

SUDAM Superintendence for the Development of Amazônia

SUDECO Superintendence for the Development of the Midwest

UNASUR Union of South American Nations

UNCED the United Nations Conference on Environment and Development

WTO World Trade Organization

Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

THE STRUGGLE FOR INDIGENOUS TERRITORY IN THE BRAZILIAN AMAZON

Aline Fabiana Angotti Carrara

December 2020

Chair: Robert T. Walker Cochair: Cynthia Simmons Major: Geography

Indigenous territories (IT) across Latin America are a rights-based panacea to colonial dispossession and a counterweight to the extractive impulses of industrial state building. In the Brazilian Amazon (Amazônia) over 400 ITs have been recognized by the state, addressing the aspirations of thousands of indigenous communities. Despite judicial promises

IT face constant territorial threats from various processes of development, including commercial agriculture, mining and infrastructure building. Additionally, their emancipatory potential for territorial aspirations has failed to materialize. Indigenous communities have had to settle for fragmented pieces of land squeezed in between privately claimed areas rather than the historically important consolidated territories. Therefore, IT emerges as an important yet complicated unit of spatial ordering in Amazônia. My research questions explore this contentious existence of IT: the territorial threats they face, their engagements with territorial aspirations of indigenous groups, and ultimately their position within a wider set of territorial relationships between the indigenes and the state. This work is an analysis of public data and cartographic databases along with ethnographic fieldwork with the A’uwe Uptabi community in Mato Grosso state. It utilizes a mixed methods toolkit of quantitative spatial analysis and feminist epistemologies, drawing on spatial theory, feminist political ecology, and indigenous geographies. The results, on a regional scale, highlight an increasing threat to the territorial

security of IT from a variety of deterritorializing development processes and reveal a map of

Amazônia under siege from the industrial frontier. However, at the communal scale, A’uwe

Uptabi display strategic agency, territorializing their land in ways that moves beyond legally fortifying the borders of their IT. Additionally, their IT while important, is limiting in its potential to grant both territorial autonomy and significantly transformed relations between them and the settler state. Finally, the multi-territorial mobilizations of the A’uwe Uptabi emerge to break free of their state granted territorial (cultural) boundaries, to ensure their dignified survival by ‘taming the white man’. I conclude that, legal cartographic strategies like the IT are important in ensuring indigenous territorial reclamation of land, but they need to be situated next to the wide array of mobilizations that indigenes are involved in to achieve their aspirations of belonging.

CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION

This dissertation addresses the creation and destruction of indigenous territories

(hereafter referred to as IT) in Amazônia by studying the formation, expansion, and maintenance of ITs, processes referred to collectively as territorialization; and their dissolution and destruction, referred to as deterritorialization. The proposed research is motivated by current efforts on the part of the Brazilian State and other economic interests, to deterritorialize ITs, an outcome that leads to the weakening of indigenous rights and outright exploitation. My objective is to gain insight into the spatial processes governing the territorial status of Amazônia’s ITs, in the interest of supporting the rights of indigenes and their legitimate claims to land. Specifically, I address the territorial dilemmas of indigenous peoples in Amazônia, where ~170 indigenous groups have experienced and are currently engaged in struggles to declare their ancestral homelands. My research focuses on a particular group, the A’uwe Uptabi (commonly known by modern societies as Xavante), in Amazônia’s lower basin. It seeks to understand how the A’uwe Uptabi territorialize their reserves and how these territorialities unfold. As part of this, it also seeks to understand how the A’uwe

Uptabi have responded when confronted by forces of deterritorialization. My overall goal is to answer such questions in the interest of supporting Amazônia’s indigenous peoples in their present-day efforts to maintain territorial equilibrium in the face of modernity.

The struggle for land and cultural sovereignty by indigenous societies in Brazil began long ago when the Portuguese first set foot on the South American continent in search of resource riches and slaves (Gambini, 2000). My dissertation does not concern itself with these early years of colonization which have been amply covered by the literature (Gambini,

1988). The period of interest here begins in the first half of the 20th century on the eve of the of the March to the West expedition, followed by the military coup in 1964 which gave way to 21 years of a military dictatorship. The catastrophe visited on South America’s indigenous

peoples by colonization is well-known. That said, adequate conditions for their well-being have never fully recovered and in the first half of the 20th century, 90 ethnic groups have completely disappeared, 37 of them of uncontacted indigenous groups (de Oliveira, 2016, p.

179). Many groups have faced complete cultural disintegration, demoralization, and extinction, due to diseases such as “smallpox, measles, influenza, pneumonia, tuberculosis and whooping cough” that caused death of thousands of indigenes (Ribeiro, 1962). Other groups such as the Tembé, the Timbíra, the Tapirapé, the Umotina and the Karajá have long been subject to assimilationist measures imposed by the State, thereby adopting sedentary life-styles in Indian villages managed by the State (Ribeiro, 1962).

The opening of Amazônia to development provides a vivid recent example of the social forces that have stressed indigenous cultures in modern day South America. When the

Transamazônica Highway (BR-230) construction plan took place, there was a clear awareness that the enterprise would directly impact 29 ethnic groups, from which 9 of them were of very recent contact, and 11 of them were still uncontacted indigenous groups. Among them were Tenharim, Parakanã, Asurini, Juruna, Krenakarore, Rikbaktsa, Suruí, Karajá e

Kayabi and Arara peoples, comprising between 6 and 8 thousand people of non-contacted groups living along the course of the planned highway. During the development of such an extensive enterprise, all these groups suffered loss of community members and some of these groups suffered complete extinction, such as groups from the Krenakarore, the Kararaô, the

Araweté and the Parakanã (Pinheiro & Treccani, 2017; Valente, 2017). The Transamazônica

Highway was built, and its development culminated in significant human rights violations.

The Tenharim people suffered socioenvironmental and cultural assaults, their lands were violently invaded with developmental enterprises, such as mining, and the Transamazônica

Highway took over their homes and sacred sites (Bandeira, 2019; Romani, de Souza, &

Nunes, 2014). In the same vein, during the construction of the BR-174 highway between

Manaus, the capital of Amazonas State and Venezuela, the Waimiri-Atroari indigenous population suffered a violent genocide and in only 4 years it decreased from 3 thousand people to only 3 hundred. According to a report issued by The National Commission for

Truth (CNV) in 2014, around 2.650 Waimiri-Atroari indigenes were killed in a series of violent military attacks (P. Fernandes, 2015; Pinheiro & Treccani, 2017; M. Souza, 2015;

Valente, 2017). Another important road construction that had effect on indigenous populations was the Perimetral Norte, a project elaborated within the National Integration

Plan (PIN), that was designated to link the border of Colombia to Amapá State and which would cross Yanomami territory. This project initiated a wide range of informal mining activities and land invasion (Albert, 1991; Ramos, 2018) by around 45 thousand gold miners

(garimpeiros) (Plummer, 2015). This invasion resulted in a series of assaults such as rape, contamination of indigenous bodies, rivers and soils; murder, depressed indigenous hunting and gathering economies, and disruption of cultural practices (Kopenawa & Albert, 2010, p.

22).

My dissertation is written with an intense awareness of circumstances such as these and is motivated by a desire to provide information that can be useful to the groups that remain in their quest for territorial sovereignty.

Research has addressed the contemporary circumstances of Amazônia’s indigenous peoples through the prisms of social and environmental justice (Hecht & Cockburn, 1990;

Ramos, 1998), cultural landscapes (Heckenberger, 2010; Heckenberger et al., 2007), human rights (Langer & Muñoz, 2003; Vieira & Quack, 2016), indigenous mobilizations against modernity (Walker & Simmons, 2018) and ethno-genesis (Bolaños, 2011). Despite extensive scholarship, the literature on indigenous territories has overwhelmingly highlighted ‘land’ as a resource, its material and affective appropriation and modification occurring as a result of decisions across a wide spectrum of politics. Additionally the notion of territory as ‘political

technology’, an entity that is both geographical and juridical-political, has only in recent years, with the relational turn, become more popular (Clare, Habermehl, & Mason-Deese,

2018; Sandoval, Robertsdotter, & Paredes, 2017). Building on such literature I pursue an analytical frame that recognizes that territory in much of geographical scholarship is not a

‘subject’ of inquiry but rather some ancillary attribute of cultural identity and practice. It should come as no surprise then that we know little about the (1) formation, expansion, and maintenance of indigenous territories (i.e., territorialization); or their (2) dissolution and destruction (i.e. deterritorialization). The objective of my dissertation research is to fill this gap in our knowledge base about indigenous struggles by gaining insight into the forces associated with territorialization and deterritorialization as they interact to create the fundamental indigenous space of the contemporary era, namely the IT, as well as highlight the territorialities beyond the IT.

I argue that the history of development as it has affected Amazônia, and Mato Grosso

State (hereafter referred to as MT) in particular, provides key context for comprehending the territorial processes affecting Amazônia’s indigenous populations. Furthermore, the nature of development projects and the magnitude of associated investment play key roles in structuring both territorialization and deterritorialization of ITs. Also playing an important role is explicit government policy aimed at the treatment of indigenous peoples by the larger, non-indigenous society.

My dissertation pursues its objective and presents its findings as follows. After this brief introduction and clarifications on the research terminology and design, Chapter 2 presents an historical overview of political and economic development in Brazil with a specific focus on Amazônia. The aim is to understand the current territorial status of Brazil’s

Amazônian indigenes as the outcome of Brazil’s development policies implemented in the latter half of the 20th century and carried over to the present time. I begin with a brief

overview of the relevant development history, particularly as it bears on Amazônia, considering the many aggregated factors driven by the State and by the global economy, to understand their role in influencing territorialization and/or deterritorialization of indigenous lands. I also focus on the legal apparatus in place as the instruments for ensuring indigenous’ rights and present an overview of indigenous policies and political history, then explore ethnopolitics and situate the current political struggles faced by Amazônian Indigenes.

Chapter 3 will explore the theoretical foundations of this study. Spatial theory is utilized to address important territorial concepts in relationship to concepts of space and place, and to allow the exploration of these concepts within the different forms of territorialization. Lastly, literature on locality and indigeneity through the lens of political ecology broadens the perspectives of indigenous territorial aspirations, agency, intersectionalities, and resistance and provides a comprehensive tool to understand how ITs form, dissipate, and stabilize, within complex and multiscalar systems.

In Chapter 4 I will address objective one, which reflects a structural process by using logistic regression to assess possible correlations between various factors. I will assess how developmental enterprises (e.g. the construction of roads, hydropower dams, mining sites, large scale agriculture) correlate with ITs legal status preconized by the Brazilian Federal

Constitution.

In Chapter 5 I will offer a detailed historical background on A’uwe Uptabi territorial practices as well as government driven deterritorialization which resulted in the creation of my study site. I also explore A’uwe Uptabi territorial conceptualizations and engage with the reality of the A’uwe Uptabi Sao Marcos Indigenous Reserve located in MT as a situated place-based case study of territoriality and resistance.

In Chapter 6 I rely on data collected during fieldwork in the Danhimipari village and map the A’uwe Uptabi places within space and different forms of territoriality. I also assess

the different intersectionalities that inform different aspects of cultural expressions of A’uwe

Uptabi through space. I explore the notion of ethnopolitics and how it is associated with territorialization and delve into A’uwe Uptabi spatial occupation to understand the role of modernity in the making of indigenous territories.

In the last Chapter, I situate territory within a broader spatial debate about land, identity and nation building. Evaluating the results from the structured regression analysis together with the results on A’uwe Uptabi territorialization processes allow me to discuss the possible advantages and the pitfalls of converting ‘unrecognized’ land into state sanctioned

ITs. This explores the limits of a legal-cartographic strategy as a tool for indigenous self- determination. I then present the concluding thoughts of the present study.

Before moving on to the details of my work, I present a conceptual model which serves as the umbrella framework for the research I present. As a model, it is condemned to a simplistic version of the world we live in. Nevertheless, it helps focus the analytical effort and provides a convenient way in which to organize hypotheses. This is followed by a discussion of the elements of language, specifically the terminology I find useful to define indigenous territories according to the multiple legal frameworks in place.

Conceptual Model

It is possible at the outset to broadly sketch the various forces impacting the integrity of the IT. I lay these out in Figure 1-1, my conceptual model and motivation for my research design. I explore the different concepts and terminologies (Table 1-1; Table 1-2) used along the text in order to complicate the concept of territory as process by looking at indigenous territories and the territorial production itself based in different social processes (Table 1-1).

Figure 1-1. Conceptual Model

Table 1-1. Concepts and terminologies Terminology Concept Reference Territory Product of historic social and (Little, 2002; Haesbaert, political processes and power 2004; Agnew, 1994). relations over natural resources. A physical space in which both culture and nature are politicized in a process of territorialization founded on human practices; these involve the use and control of space for political, social, or economic purposes. Territorialization Mechanism of land control. The (Baines, 2014a; Bassett & relationship of population density Gautier, 2014; Little, 2002; and available natural resources. Peluso & Lund, 2011; Collective engagement of humans to Teisserenc, 2010; Zanotti, occupy, use, control, and identify 2011) with a portion of land. A process in which actors, actions, relationships, and networks engage in a territory occupation. Territoriality The way human populations (Becker, 2010; de Almeida, strategically organize themselves 2012; Filho, 2013; Gallois, within the space. Subjective and 2004; Haesbaert, 2006; symbolic spatial representation of Sack, 1986; Sassen, 2000) social relations. Cultural manifestations through spatial occupation.

Table 1-1 Continued Terminology Concept Reference Deterritorialization Forces that promote spatial (Bampi et al., 2017; Filho, displacement of a population from 2013; Holland, 1991; their territory. McGaw et al., 2011; Sletto, 2016) Multi-territorialities Multiple ways of territorialization (Haesbaert, 2004, 2007) through multiple spaces, strategically defined to meet territorial needs of a human population. Territorialization based on and through movement and mobility. Extra-territorialities A set of relationships between space, (Amir & Sela, 2016; law, and representation that result in Colangelo, 2011; Jegede, populations being excluded from the 2016) legal–juridical and the political territorialization, undermining their spatial representation.

Territorialization, for example, has resulted from State actions to establish homelands, as well as from International non-governmental organizations (NGOs) acting in concert with state agencies. Alternatively, territorialization can occur following indigenous mobilizations.

Deterritorialization takes many forms and can follow from the behaviors of individuals who encroach on indigenous land to exploit resources. It can also result from State actions that aim to reduce the size of indigenous territories, downgrade juridical status, and limit indigenous sovereignty, acting as an obstacle for territorialization in the interest of infrastructure development, land management, and environmental governance. In essence, the dissertation research will explore relationships between the various agents and institutions whose actions produce indigenous territories through the fluid processes of spatial creation and destruction, which I call territorialization forces. Figure 1-1 conveys these ideas in a framework taken from land change science which incorporates notions of scale by identifying distal and proximate drives.

Initiatives are presently underway to deterritorialize existing indigenous territories and to severely restrict the creation of new ones. This research identifies and describes the

forces affecting the integrity of Amazônia’s contemporary ITs. Such information is necessary to mitigate the forces of deterritorialization and thereby to protect the cultural riches of the Amazônia Basin, and South America.

Territoriality will be further understood in chapter 6, where I discuss A’uwe’s territorial aspirations and the spatial culture manifestation, looking at indigenous agency in producing territorialization. Territoriality, then, becomes a fundamental concept for understanding ways in which spatial ordering occurs. The concept of multi-territorialities will also be discussed using A’uwe’s territoriality as an example. I also consider the concept of extraterritoriality in order to address indigenous territories that are not officially recognized as such by the State (Figure 1-1).

The following model presents two dimensions of forces that may manifest in and influence territorial integrity of indigenous territories (Figure 1-1). Distal drivers are the ones considered non-indigenous led causations that influence territorial integrity. The role of transnational corporations and a global economy in pushing regional development associated with governmental actions which lead to deterritorialization. As the Ministry of Justice (MJ) is responsible for dealing with conflicts related to the official status of indigenous territories,

I consider MJ a crucial actor in promoting territorial integrity. However, as the politics and policies in Brazil remain vulnerable to State’s economic interest, I believe that the Federal

Constitution of 1988 by itself is not enough to ensure indigenous land rights. Thus, I argue that an array of autonomous indigenous mobilizations through different encounters with modernity plays a fundamental role in granting indigenous land rights. Moreover, I emphasize indigenous agency in order to grasp how the State sanctioned ‘indigenous territories’, as an instrument of territorial ordering, address indigenous territorial aspirations

(Figure 1-1). Next, I clarify important research terminology to contextualize the terminology

I used.

Research Terminology

The terms, “indigenous territories”, indigenous lands” and “indigenous reserves”, are often used interchangeably and with little attention paid to important distinctions that need to be made pursuant to the research at hand. Throughout the dissertation I will use the term indigenous territories (IT) as a reference to all the land occupied by indigenous peoples, whether they are officially demarcated or not. (Table 1-2). This choice focuses attention on and highlights indigenous territorialities, which extend beyond the limits of their lands and reserves and recognizes the indigenes’ struggles for land rights. Moreover, the use of IT, as a concept, is draw on indigenous episteme, which entails a perspective of thinking about the land without dissociating it from cultural practices and the relationship of society with the land. Thus the indigenous understanding of territory is a sum of the relationships between peoples, culture, and land (Cardona, 2006; Neves, 2012; Sahr & Sahr, 2009). Furthermore, these populations treat the land they occupy as indigenous territories, and understand the spatial occupation associated with ancestral and collective existence, informed by a social territory where rituals and cultural reproduction are ensured. ITs are seen by indigenous populations as a fundamental base that ensures their social and cultural reproduction, with or without formal recognition by the State. In addition, using ITs as the overall concept allows me to also discuss extraterritorialities, or indigenous territories that are claimed by indigenous groups but are not yet recognized by the State.

Table 1-2. Specific definitions of indigenous spatial occupation and terminology used Terminology Conceptual Definition Source Indigenous Indigenous’ concepts about the land they occupy. Any land Cardona, 2006 Territories occupied collectively by indigenous peoples. Neves, 2012 Gallois, 2004 Indigenous Legal term used in the Art. 231 of the FC/88 to characterize Gallois, 2004 Lands lands that are constituent of indigenous rights and FUNAI, 2020 traditionally occupied by indigenous populations. These BAINES, 2014 must be subjected to Demarcação Process according to the Decree n.º1775/96. Indigenous Legal term used in the Art. 231 of the FC/88 to characterize FUNAI, 2020 Reserves lands that have been acquired by the State, donated to the State or those in the process of acquisition.

Non-indigenous society in Brazil treats land occupied by indigenous peoples as

“indigenous lands”. Here, it is important to note the difference between land and territory. As exposed by Gallois:

‘land’ and ‘territory’ refer to different perspectives and actors involved in the process of recognizing and demarcating an Indigenous Land. The notion of ‘Indigenous Land’ refers to the political-legal process conducted under the auspices of the State, while that of “territory” refers to the construction and culturally variable experience of the relationship between a specific society and its territorial base (2004).

The juridical recognition of indigenous territories is problematic under the lenses of constitutional law as it derives from the capitalist rationale of modern law that treats land as the asset passive of commodification under the auspices of private property (de Oliveira &

Tárrega, 2017; Souza-Filho, 2018). Thus, the terminology “Indigenous lands” derive from a juridical perspective based on the Brazilian Law of Land (Law nº 601) from 1850 (Cunha,

1992; Oliveira & Freire, 2006; Souza-Filho, 2018). The use ‘indigenous lands’ as a terminology refers to the lands occupied by an indigenous population within the demarcação process. This term is informed by a political restructure that entailed governmental and administrative bodies of municipalities, states, and the federation from a spatial standpoint, and ultimately placed indigenous peoples in specific spaces, thus recognizing these spaces as indigenous lands according to the Brazilian Federal constitution of 1988 [hereafter referred to as FC/88] (Cardona, 2006). All the official Brazilian governmental bodies, such as the

National Indian Foundation (FUNAI), the Brazilian Institute of the Environment and

Renewable Natural Resources (IBAMA), the Ministry of Agriculture, Livestock and Food

Supply (MAPA), and prominent indigenist non-governmental organizations such as the

Instituto Socioambiental (ISA), present publicly that the areas occupied by indigenous peoples that are officially under the demarcação process are indigenous lands. Under this concept, the land is under a temporary occupation and the land may be appropriated by the

State for economic interests, which are ultimately contrary to indigenous’ interests. It affirms

the notion of land without owner, waiting to be taken by industries or State led enterprises.

Land is seen as an object to be taken or a commodity to be traded (Cardona, 2006; Neves,

2012). While these two notions can be seen as epistemological contraries (the state uses indigenous lands), the notion of “indigenous lands’ became relevant to indigenous peoples within the context of their relationship with the State and while advocating for designation under the demarcação process (Baines, 2014a).

Notions of indigenous lands inform the concept of indigenous reserves (IR).

Indigenous reserves are legally defined as the parcel of lands that belong to the State and were created by the Brazilian State during the first half of the 20th century and are destined for indigenous occupation (FUNAI, 2020). The indigenous reserves were portions of land donated by third party landowners or bought by the State with the purpose of indigenous occupation (FUNAI, 2020). Indigenous reserves are often associated with an image of the

State as a benevolent patriarchal entity (Neves, 2012). However, the establishment of IR, specifically during the second half of the 19th century, was mostly a result of the intense presence of missionaries who aimed at indigenous assimilation, and of indigenous’ resistance and mobilizations for land rights.

The IL is often conflated with lands set aside in the interests of biodiversity conservation; from this perspective both ITs and IRs – in addition to enabling cultural survival - provide a cornucopia of environmental values and amenities for the society at large

(Cunha 1994; Simmons 2002; Rylands & Brandon, 2005).

In the next chapter I provide a historical background of development forces promoted by the Brazilian State and situate indigenous territories within them.

CHAPTER 2 HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

Development History with The March West

The IT, as an institution of relatively recent vintage that emerged in the past 30 years, is based on a view that indigenous people have a right to cultural sovereignty. This stands in sharp contrast to what went before, when indigenous policy was propped up on a racist view that held indigenous people to be incapable of self-governance or autonomous management.

Amazônia did not figure in Brazil’s development planning until well into the 20th century (Simmons, 2002). With logistics in place following The March West, Brazilians were now poised to colonize the vastness of this region. Aware of the region’s mineral riches, the government decided to implement a project of infrastructure to connect the Amazon region to the rest of the national territory. Pursuant to this, the Superintendence of the Economic

Valorization Plan for Amazônia (SPVEA) was created in 1953. A partnership between the

SPI and SPVEA aimed at contacting the Kayapó people in order to make their territories available to extractive sectors (Fisher, 1994). The restoration of liberal democracy and competitive politics led to the diminution of federal power and the invigoration of a laissez- faire economic principle under Vargas’ dictatorship. This changed under President

Kubitschek (1956-1961), who implemented the Target Plan (Plano de Metas) to promote investment in roads, steel mills, hydropower, and shipping, in addition to the construction of

Brasilia. Within ten years, important roads had been paved and bridges built on the Araguaia and Garças Rivers, initiating a period of intense population growth in northern MT (Santos,

2015). During the 1950s road construction projects started to be implemented in the region as President Juscelino Kubitschek’s government had a goal to promote development that

Brazil had never seen before. During this time, the indigenous population in Amazônia was estimated between 68 and 99 thousand people distributed in 150 ethnic groups (de Oliveira,

2016). Between 1956 and 1961, the government wanted to promote 50 years of development

in only five, which became the slogan of the political campaign: 50 years in 5. The project was developed with an aim to promote modernization of the country and to incorporate the

Amazon within the rest of the national territory (Valente, 2017).

In the 1960s, development aimed at Amazônia added fiscal incentives to its policy toolkit (Pinheiro & Treccani, 2017); these were first aimed at agricultural expansion and land acquisition in MT, under the auspices of the Superintendence for the Development of the

Midwest (SUDECO), located in the current municipality of Barra do Garças (Santos, 2015).

In 1966 the SPVEA was dissolved and replaced by a similar organization, the

Superintendence for the Development of Amazônia (SUDAM) (Fisher, 1994), created by the

Military Regime (1964-1985) which seized power from democratically elected President

Goulart (1961-1964) in 1964. In 1964 the military regime government decided to promote territorial occupation of the Amazon region, aiming to take control over the natural resources to avoid foreigner prospections and international mining companies. This implied eviction and displacement of various indigenous populations.

The occupation of the Amazon’s territory would take place for the next 21 years of military dictatorship. SUDAM was created as a way to institutionalize progressive colonization and development projects and attract national and international private investments. From 1969 to 1974, President Medici implemented a campaign to promote continuous occupation of the territory “Land without people for people without land”. This ambitious plan of agrarian colonization aimed to settle 100,000 families of rural workers and small farmers from south and southeast of Brazil in the Amazon. The strategy was to provide economic incentives through credit lines, tax relief, loans to promote agriculture, and land titling for those willing to embark on the adventure. From then on, all the rural settlements in the Amazon region as well as land tenure issues take a very violent approach (Morbach,

2008). SUDAM was tasked with promoting Amazônian development using fiscal incentives

as an instrument to attract corporate agriculture to a region viewed as economically risky.

Under SUDAM, FUNAI’s responsibility was to strengthen actions to promote indigenous pacification of at least 30 ethnic groups (Demetrio & Kozicki, 2019). Under its First

Development Plan (I PND) launched in 1966, the Military Regime sought to link Amazônia to the national economy. This was facilitated by a new law (Law No. 4505/64) that legitimized regularization of land by the Federal Government in Brazil’s individual States, particularly MT, Pará, and Rondônia. These new federal lands enabled in-migration and colonization under the National Integration Plan (PIN) (Simmons, 2002) that was aimed at the development of roads and highways including the Transamazônica Highway, the Cuiabá-

Santarém highway and the BR-174 (Pinheiro & Treccani, 2017). More localized regional development programs (Proterra, PoloAmazônia, etc.) further encouraged the region’s occupation (Simmons, 2002). Through the late 1960s into the early 1970s, colonization companies and cooperatives settled in northern MT, stimulated by incentives and subsidies offered under the Second National Development Plan (II PND) between 1975 and 1979

(Mercadante, 2001). Private colonizers were able to buy large tracts of land at very low prices, given the government’s desire to generate foreign exchange through agricultural export (Simmons, 2002).

During the 1970s a series of policies were established to guarantee the expansion of colonization projects across the entire region. A Federal Decree was passed giving the government the right to the lands “in a 100 kilometer wide belt on each side of any federal highway already constructed, in construction, or planned in the entire Amazon” (Bunker,

1985; Simmons, 2002). The National Institute of Colonization and Agrarian Reform

(INCRA) was created to control federal lands and promote colonization and agrarian reform

(Walker, et al., 2018).

In the 1980s, after the crisis within the petroleum sector in 1979, financial crisis led to economic inflation and also increased international involvement in the national economy. The international debt of Brazil went up to 100 billion dollars and in 1982 the government decided to take loans from the International Monetary Fund (IMF). Under President Joao

Figueiredo the last military government developed a political campaign between 1979 and

1985 to contain the economic situation through guaranteeing subsidies for agricultural production that promoted deforestation, allowed the mechanization of the agricultural system, and started to place Brazil as one of the largest agricultural producers and exporters worldwide. The demand for land increased, the price of land increased, and the ability of the government, through INCRA, to provide legal titling started to decrease. Local elites started taking control over large swaths of land and since they possessed machinery, they induced vast deforestation patterns. As a result, illegal land grabbing and invasions began to be a major issue in the land tenure process in the Amazon (Fernandes et al., 2012; Jepson, 2006;

Reydon et al., 2015).

The quest for land date from colonial times and was pushed forward by a set of divergent policies. Alongside the developmentalist policies, indigenous policies have been in place since colonial times. I will now present how indigenous policies have changed and the forces in place that caused these changes.

Indigenous Rights and Policy in Brazil: From Colonial to Modern Times

The Brazilian legal framework regarding indigenous’ land rights was stable for over

200 years. The first constitutional text published in 1680 preconized full rights over the lands indigenous peoples occupied, and the subsequent official texts (Federal Constitutions of

1937, 1946 and 1967) maintained the same approach (Dantas et al., 2014; Dodge, 2018; Rios,

1987). However, enforcement of the law was never a priority when colonizing indigenous lands, which have always been seen as “nobody’s lands” by the colonizers (Rios, 1987).

In 1850, the Brazilian Law of Land established an official distinction between private and public lands and placed indigenous lands under the category of “terras devolutas”, a juridical concept rooted in colonial management regimes (Miranda, 2011) that could be extended to the freely available, unoccupied public lands (Aldrich et al., 2012; Araujo, 2009;

Simmons et al., 2016). This category comprises inalienable and non-formally divided areas, which may be under different community forms of use and control of natural resources, and are kept out of the land market mainly as public lands of community’s usufruct through the demarcação process (Vianna Jr., 2014). This categorization harmed the indigenous’ primary and original rights over the lands they traditionally occupied, and culminated in indigenous displacement and their lands commercialized under a new land tenure process (Cavalcante,

2013). In Brazil such land tenure issues are contentious and usually associated with violent conflicts (Aldrich et al., 2012; Alston et al., 2010; Simmons, 2002) and are rooted in the Law nº 601 (Santos Junior, 2012). Therefore, deliberations of land tenure are impossible without understanding the land discrimination of terras devolutas (Léna & de Oliveira, 1991).

During the Republic with the Constitution of 1891, terras devolutas that once belonged to the Portuguese Crown became property of the federation and the states which resulted in a new wave of assaults on indigenous peoples and appropriation of indigenous lands. The following constitutional frames (1934, 1937 and 1946) perpetuated this model

(Santos Junior, 2012).

Institutional History of indigenous affairs in Brazil

The “modern” era of the Brazilian Amerindian begins with the creation of the

Indigenous Protective Service (SPI) in 1910, a governmental entity responsible for the assimilationist agenda, whose efforts were directed at incorporating a “primitive” minority into modern society (de Oliveira, 2017; Carvalho, 2012; Ioris, 2005); until they were fully included they remained wards of the state. The creation of SPI was propitious, given that

shortly afterwards Brazilians took renewed interest in their country’s interior, where much of

Brazil’s indigenous population had fled to escape the slaving of the Portuguese colonizers.

The SPI was the first governmentalized entity to manage the State’s relationship with indigenous peoples (Cunha, 1992) and was created and directed by Marshal Candido Rondon to address the future of indigenous populations that were residing within the land colonization project in place (Missão Rondon, 2003). Rondon was the head of Rondon’s

Commission, which initiated a wide-ranging military operation in 1890 to expand telegraph lines into Amazônia. This action followed the former imperial government measures that were aimed at border defense, and territorial occupation through opening of roads, land privatization, and expansion of agriculture and cattle ranching. Rondon’s Commission supervised 20 years of encounters with various indigenous populations in western Brazil

(Carneiro da Cunha & Barbosa, 2018; Cunha, 1992; Oliveira & Freire, 2006). Under the auspices of the SPI Marshal Rondon’s approach towards indigenous peoples was one of assimilation and integration of the indigenes into the Brazilian nation as labor force that could also be used to defend the national frontiers. (Garfield, 2000a; Oliveira & Freire, 2006)

The 1960s marked a period of intense and violent contact with indigenous peoples.

The most oppressive force was the military State, which systematically conducted cultural and physical genocide. This materialized through collective massacres, land grabbing, commercialization of indigenous lands, forced evictions and displacement, spreading of diseases, along with bombing and burning of indigenous villages with the use of Napalm by

INCRA. Additionally the Armed Forces were involved in enslavement, creation of clandestine prisons, prohibition of indigenes speaking their own language, rape, and child abduction, among other forms of traumatization (Fernandes, 2015; Pinheiro & Treccani,

2017; Valente, 2017)

It was during this period that in 1973 the Indigenous Statute (Estatuto do Indio) was crafted, reaffirming a juridical chapter for indigenous populations and assigning the SPI the responsibility of identification, recognition, and demarcação of indigenous territories after approval of state and municipal authorities (Araújo & Leitão, 2002). The SPI became an autonomous governmental institution, which aimed to build on and modify the relationships that was established since the late nineteenth century by the hegemonic role of the Catholic

Church in providing ‘assistance’ for indigenous through catechesis. However, even though the SPI was tasked with the job of indigenous protection by the State, SPI’s implementation mirrored practices instituted in the colonial period, perpetuating the assimilation framework.

This proceeded with the creation and maintenance of indigenous villages, with catechesis as the main ordering instrument aimed at indigenous assimilation(Cunha, 1992; de Souza Lima,

2012, 2015; Oliveira & Freire, 2006; Ramos, 1984).

After British reports released accusations of Brazilian State led genocide against indigenous peoples (Simmons, 2002), the implementation of a Parliamentary Committee of

Inquiry (CPI) to audit denunciations of SPI resulted in the so called Figueiredo Report, conducted by the Federal Prosecutor Jader Figueiredo (Brighenti, 2016). This reveled accusations of genocide, corruption, and administrative inefficiency that initiated a resistance movement among the indigenous who were struggling for legitimate political representation

(Albert, 1991; Brighenti, 2016; Guzmán, 2010; Hashizume, 2013; Lima, 1992; Oliveira &

Freire, 2006). According to the Figueiredo Report SPI accusations included:

Crimes against the person and property of the Indian; Murders of Indians (individually and collectively: tribes); Prostitution of Indies; Torture; Slavery; Usurpation of Indian labor; Appropriation and diversion of resources from Indigenous heritage - Dilapidation of Indigenous heritage; Sale of cattle; Land rentals; commercialization of natural resources such as timber and minerals; Exploration of ores; Sale of chestnuts and other products of extractive and harvesting activities; Sale of indigenous handicraft products; Criminal land donation; Vehicle sales - Scope of incalculable amounts; Adulteration of official documents; Fraud in the account verification process; Deviations from budget funds; Irregular application of public money; Willful omissions;

Fraudulent employee admissions; Administrative negligence (Figueiredo Report, 1968, pg 06;Brighenti 2016[My translation]).

During this historical moment, an institutional challenge arose against old evolutionist ideas about humanity that had, based on an ethnocentric ideology and racial theories, culminated in the notion of development by stages that would achieve assimilation as a final goal. In 1967, after the release of Figueiredo Report, the military regime dismantled the SPI and replaced it with the National Indigenous Foundation (FUNAI). This became the official governmental agency for indigenous affairs. FUNAI was created with a different administrative structure that aimed at meeting military demands. Through the creation of the

General Department of Indigenous Patrimony (DGPI), the Brazilian government developed an organized structure to exploit natural resources and the expansion of agriculture and cattle ranching inside IT, in order to maximize profits and impose an oppressive force (Brighenti,

2016). It was during this new exploitative approach that the Xavante Project (discussed in detail later), started.

The developmental initiatives during the military regime occurred at the expense of indigenous peoples and their ancestral lands (Bunker, 1985; Hecht & Cockburn, 1990;

Pinheiro & Treccani, 2017; Ramos, 1984). The Constitution of 1967, established after the

1964 military coup, ensured indigenous’ possession over their lands and also autonomy over natural resources (Dantas et al., 2014).

When the military coup took place, the government was unaware of the total number of indigenes present in Amazônia. The indigenous population living in the demarcated 126 indigenous lands under the control of the State was estimated to be between 70 and 110 thousand people (Valente, 2017, p. 6). However, there were many other groups which included both the non-contacted peoples and the communities that were yet to be assimilated under the military project.

Despite the recognition of indigenous’ original land rights, the State represented indigenous populations as an obstacle to the national developmental plan (Souza, 2015, p.

103). According to the National Commission for Truth (CNV), established in 2011 by the

Human Rights National Program (PNDH) which aimed at ensuring the right to memory and truth (Gallo, 2015), FUNAI was used to impose military force upon many indigenous groups

(Fernandes, 2015).

The Indigenous Chapter in the Brazilian Federal Constitution (FC/88)

Following the transition to democracy and the drafting of FC/88, Brazil’s indigenous peoples began to recover some of their territorial rights, a process bolstered by an environmental movement that viewed indigenous territories, especially in Amazônia, as important components of a conservation agenda founded on protected areas (Schwartzman &

Zimmerman, 2005; Simmons, 2002). Furthermore, a philosophical shift in both popular and organizational attitudes changed the policy objective of FUNAI from an emphasis on assimilation to the promotion of indigenous self-determination. This was fortified in 1989 by the international community with the drafting of ILO 169 which was ratified by the Brazilian

State in 2002who formally recognized indigenous autonomy. Although significant political threats to indigenous sovereignty in Brazil have arisen, this policy objective remains in effect.

The FC/88 has gone further into the issue of indigenous lands and brought a new juridical concept, recognizing indigenous’ original rights over the lands they inhabit. This presupposes the original rights, which legitimizes the right to land and traditional occupation.

The term “original” brought into light a concept that precedes the Brazilian State (Dantas et al., 2014) and broke the pattern of assimilation that characterized the previous constitutions, while ensuring the right of cultural difference (Cavalcante, 2016; Rios, 1987; De Souza &

Barbosa, 2011). According to the FC/88, art. 231: “Indians are recognized for their social organization, customs, languages, beliefs and traditions, and the original rights over the lands

they traditionally occupy, the Union is responsible for demarcating, protecting and enforcing all its assets”. (Federal, 1988, p. 180) (My translation).

FC/88 divides indigenous territories are into four categories: Indigenous reserves

(lands donated or acquired by the State for indigenous possession); Dominion lands (land that comprise indigenous properties); Restricted lands (areas with forbidden access for protection of non-contacted indigenes); and Traditionally occupied lands(lands that have been traditionally occupied by collective indigenous groups). It comprises public land owned by the State that must be subjected to administrative process in order to be considered legally occupied by indigenous people.

The Legal apparatus of demarcação is problematic and raises questions of fundamental rights. It rejects the notion of self-determination, since it sets physical boundaries for indigenous lives (Navarro, 1998) and excludes indigenous choices regarding economic activities, land and resources management, social structure definition, and policies enforcement. The FC/88 grants the State explicit violations of indigenous lands as it allows

State authority to “license mining and hydropower projects” in these areas (Walker et al.,

2019).

Article.231 of the FC/88 [translated and highlighted by me]:

§ 2º “The lands traditionally occupied by the Indians are intended for their permanent possession with the exclusive usufruct of the soil, rivers and lakes in present in their lands”.

§ 3º “The use of water resources, including energy potentials, research and mining of mineral wealth in indigenous lands can only be carried out with authorization from the

National Congress, after hearing the affected communities, ensuring participation in the mining results, in accordance with the law”. (Federal, 1988).

The end of 1980s and the beginning of 1990s marked an important transition of indigenous representation and inclusion of indigenous peoples and organizations within debates and formulation of indigenous national policies. This resulted from:

• the retraction of the State from “indigenous issues” being responsible solely for territorial matters,

• the decrease of FUNAI’s public budget

• and the creation of more than 200 indigenous organizations in Amazônia that rely on international funding that is aimed at environmental conservation and ethnodevelopment (Albert, 2000; Ramos, 1998).

After the FC/88, FUNAI’s patronizing behavior towards indigenous peoples deepened, which generated a clientelist behavior of the indigenes towards FUNAI. With the neo-liberal governmental measures in the late 1980s, the decrease of the agency’s public budget caused the institution to perish both administratively and physically. FUNAI employees became involved in corrupt schemes such as: facilitating production and/or trade of illegal drugs through/within indigenous lands; bribes to expedite documents; facilitating garimpo and illegal logging in indigenous lands such as the Kayapo, among others

(Pozzobon, 1999).

The distrust of FUNAI by indigenous populations in the first half of the 1990s, associated with an increasing international cooperation under a “globalized governance” for

Amazônia (Silva, 2004) as a consequence of the international impact of the United Nations

Conference on Environment and Development (UNCED) in 1992, resulted in a boost of partnerships between indigenous organizations and non-governmental organizations.

International funding aimed at mitigating the effects of global capitalism on the region’s environment, also positioned indigenous peoples and other local communities as part of a more complex and dense global network (Azevedo-Ramos & Moutinho, 2018; Bebbington,

2009; Lima, 2012; Verdum, 2009; Zanotti, 2011). With that, a variety of environmental non- governmental organizations emerged, and a wide recognition of the role of indigenous

societies fostered a strategic alliance (Schwartzman & Zimmerman, 2005a) and strengthened indigenous organizations that were for decades advocating for land rights such as the

Coordination of Indigenous Organizations in the Brazilian Amazônia (COIAB) (Le

Tourneau, 2015; Smith & Guimarães, 2010). The international funding destined to ITs via

NGOs constituted the main portfolio of PDPI, which culminated in what Bruce Albert called the “project industry” (2000).

The administrative governmental action regarding demarcation of ITs was decentralized from FUNAI and distributed under other governmental agencies such as the

Ministry of Education (MEC), Ministry of Health, and Ministry of Environment (MMA). The institutionalization of indigenous organizations also allowed a political self- representation from the local to the national scale (de Oliveira, 2016). The robust funding of US$200 million from the 7 world richest countries (Germany, Canada, United States, France, Italy,

Japan, and England - G7), a remarkable transnational initiative, was designated to implement the Pilot Program for Brazilian Tropical Forest Conservation (PP-G7;SILVA 2004).

Following the PP-G7’s guidelines, the inclusion of ITs within the conservation strategies for

Amazônia culminated, in 1995, in the Integrated Project for Protection of Indigenous Lands and Populations in the Legal Amazônia (PPTAL) that was managed by the Ministry of

Environment (MMA) in partnership with FUNAI. The PPTAL goal was to demarcate indigenous territories and developed projects in ITs for environmental and territorial management for 13 years (Neves, 2012).

Also, under the PP-G7, the Indigenous Peoples Pilot Project (PDPI) was developed to promote sustainable development projects in IT (ISA, 2000; Sousa et al., 2007) through improvement of indigenous livelihoods together with environmental conservation, and sought to promote cultural valorization and territorial protection (Vaz & Almeida, 2011). In 2006, two years before the end of PPTAL, indigenous organizations and leadership sought to

actively engage within the national indigenous policymaking infrastructure and created the

Indigenous Policy National Council (CNPI II). In 2008, CNPI II promoted debates to create the National Policy for the Environmental and Territorial Management of Indigenous

Territories (PNGATI) which was later formally established under Decree 7.747 of 2012.

However, since it requires partnerships with NGOs, many indigenous populations claim that

PNGATI does not reach into their territories (Urebete, 2017).

These State led actions that culminated in formation of a national indigenous policy gave room to what Alcida Ramos defined as “militant indigenism” (Ramos, 1998). This indigenism movement is marked by non-indigenous organizations being involved with, working with, and advocating for indigenous causes. However, the management conditions of these initiatives limits indigenous participation as protagonist (Almeida, 2008, p. 179).

Despite the great results of both PPTAL and PDPDI in promoting IT demarcation, indigenous participation in the development and implementation of these projects were insufficient and, in some cases, a setback, as they were not infrequently seen as a “negative imposition” from the indigenes (de Souza et al., 2007, p. 11). On one hand the State demanded indigenous participation in form of engagement through indigenous policies, on the other hand the governmental agencies allowed no room for indigenous demands, and indigenous representations became a stealthy figure, and still “domesticated” (Almeida, 2008).

Given this scenario, many groups face the challenge of adapting and aligning existing cultural norms and rules with fast changing conservation policies governing. These changes will represent new ways for Indigenous groups to think about their territories. Likewise, Indigenous groups continue to seek new means of securing income in ways compatible with social conditions and environmental regulations. When it comes to territorial rights, the Indigenous peoples of the Amazon are a step ahead of other Indigenous groups of Brazil. Today they are challenged to find sustainable alternatives to manage their territories. Given the global stakes of the environmental preservation of the Amazon, this challenge has local (maintaining the Indigenous territories according to each group’s needs and philosophy) and global (preserving the rainforest in order to mitigate climate change and biodiversity erosion) dimensions. (Le Tourneau, 2015)

Democracy, Neo-Developmentalism and the Commodification of Indigenous Life

Democratization following the transition of power in 1984-1985 – together with the drafting of a new Federal Constitution in 1988 (FC/88) – initiated a neoliberal approach to economic management that promoted capital-intensive agriculture and export-oriented mineral exploitation, as well as the expansion of related industrial activities (Simmons,

2002). Brazil emerged as a so-called BRIC country1, becoming a player in the global economy having adopted a policy of economic liberalism and deregulation. This gave primacy to free markets and intensified the exploitation of natural resources by international interests, as privatization put some important public infrastructure and enterprises into corporate hands (Carneiro da Cunha et al., 2017; Filho, 2009). One of the most well-known privatization was the selling-off of the “mining conglomerate” Companhia Vale do Rio Doce

(CVRD) by the Brazilian government in 1997 for US$ 10 billion (Chase, 2002, p. 119). This process was facilitated by the heavy investment of the Federal Government in infrastructure.

Twenty years earlier, in 1977, CVRD bought U.S. Steel for US$50 million and in 1980 the

Carajás region became Brazil’s main mining operation site (Schmink & Wood, 1992, p. 67).

To support mining operations, a network of highways, such as the PA-150 and railways were developed by the State (Simmons, 2004) together with large investments in hydropower operations through the State owned Centrais Eletricas do Norte do Brasil S.A (Eletronorte)

(Schmink & Wood, 1992).

Democratization and reformulation of the state also brought along the Neo- developmentalist projects, a phenomenon that Svampa named the “Commodities Consensus”, referencing and critiquing the Washington Consensus (2012), which culminated with the political left turn in Latin America. The neo-developmentalist model

1 BRIC is an acronym that refers to Brazil, Russia, India and China. This group of countries have had economic growth rates and big fast-growing markets similar to advanced development countries.

emerged in Latin America with the crisis of neoliberalism, but is defined by a philosophy and practice that does not challenge the fundamental logic – based in expanding productive capacity and increasing accumulation – of the development apparatus of the previous several decades despite introducing some significant social reforms and new monetary strategies (Baletti, 2012).

The neo-developmentalist approach in Brazil began its operation through three main directives that, despite sectoral differences, were all interconnected in order to guarantee the implementation of diversified economies: extraction of fossil fuels (oil, mining), agricultural expansion (biofuel, soybean, cattle ranching and palm oil), and infrastructure projects

(transportation, communication, energy generation).

In the 1990s, a new wave of political activism in Latin America initiated a wide recognition of their native populations and their territorial rights, called for power redistribution and advocated for democratic states while challenging neoliberalism, imperialism, and myriad exploitations (Burbach et. al., 2013; Webber and Carr, 2013; Arsel,

2016). However, its materialization delivered developmentalist modes of production and operationalized state power through increases in productivity, guaranteeing economic growth and investments in modernization (Bunker, 1958; Svampa, 2012, Burchardt and Dietz, 2014).

Political activism in the first decade of the 21st century called for a redistribution of political power in a challenge to neoliberal policies affecting economy, society, and environment

(Arsel et al., 2016; Burbach et al., 2013; Webber & Carr, 2012). In Brazil, this culminated with a “turn to the left” and the election of President Lula da Silva (2003) of the Workers

Party (PT). A period of neo-developmentalism followed which added social welfare to the development agenda in the form of transfer payments, rural electrification, and so on

(Svampa, 2012). The neo-developmentalist model perpetuated Brazil’s prior emphasis on agricultural export and mineral extraction by sustaining the neoliberal approach to governance of the macro-economy that emerged in the 1990s. Throughout the PT’s tenure in

Brasilia (2003-2016), large-scale investments continued to take place involving transnational

capital, ever covetous of Brazil’s extensive resource base. Furthermore, export markets remained open to promote soybean agriculture in MT, which had become Brazil’s most important agricultural region.

Despite being touted as a panacea to the exploitative effects of the military regime and neoliberalism, the neo-developmentalist model ended up propagating and reproducing similar direct or indirect extractivist tendencies, and adding pressure over ITs which included: extraction of fossil fuels (oil, mining), agricultural expansion (biofuel, soybean, cattle ranching and palm oil) and infrastructure projects (transportation, communication, energy generation) (Walker et al., 2000, 2009; Baletti, 2014). The extractivist nature of these sectors can be attributed to how they prompt environmental degradation and force the weakening of indigenous rights (de Almeida, 2012). Furthermore, “natural resource extraction activities, specifically industrial-scale mining and hydrocar- bons[sic] development, are dependent upon the construction of access infrastructure in the form of roads, railways and port facilities to transport commodities to distant markets” (Bebbington et al., 2018).

This economic trend, under the auspices of the Organization for Economic Co- operation and Development (OECD) and the World Trade Organization (WTO), opened markets for international investments and transnational expansion, which led entrepreneurs to covet new land for business expansion. Added to that the Union of South American Nations

(UNASUR), comprised of 12 countries, launched in 2000 its Initiative for the Integration of the Regional Infrastructure of South America (IIRSA) which aims to use the Amazônia region as a “multimodal transportation corridor and a source of hydropower” and has been receiving political and economic support (Walker and Simmons, 2018). In addition, Brazil became an active participant of IIRSA. The continental scheme of IIRSA has delivered the same modernist vision that was originally expressed by the Military Regime and then sustained under subsequent, neoliberal administrations. In this regard, Amazônia has

emerged as a key regional target of IIRSA due to its vast stores of extractive resources

(petroleum, bauxite, gold, iron and other minerals), potential for hydropower, and strategic location connecting the agricultural powerhouse of MT with global commodity markets

(Arima et al., 2015; Baletti, 2012; Walker & Souza, 2016). President Temer (2016-2018) has continued the modernist project initiated under Worker Party President Dilma Rouseff (2011-

2016) aimed at reducing the size of Amazônia’s protected areas to make way for infrastructure development

Thirty Years of the FC/88 and Unfolding Developmentalist Agenda

After promulgation of FC/88, a series of new policies and decrees were established to mature State regulation over ITs. The Indian Statute (Law nº 6.001) of 1973 was the first legal framework that instituted guidelines for demarcação of indigenous territories. In 1991, three years after the promulgation of the FC/88, the Federal Decree Number 22 was issued to regulate official demarcação of Its, and in 1996 it was replaced by a conservative policy through Decree 1.775 which was designed to ensure the “constitutionality of demarcação”

(Moore & Lemos, 1999). The Decree 1.775/1996 instituted the administrative procedure of an 9 step demarcação process of increasing territorial integrity. These steps comprise (1) claim; (2) identification, (3) contestation, (4) declaration; (5) demarcação, (6) homologation,

(7) registration, (8) Removal of non -indigenous occupiers, and (9) Registration (See Table

2-1). Below is each of these steps in detail, with added practical actions that administrative measures must demand:

1. Claim: Indigenous groups or representatives require FUNAI to initiate demarcation process

2. Identification: Following indigenous claims over a parcel of land, FUNAI is responsible for conducting a study using multidimensional assessments of ethno- historical occupation, environmental conditions, cartography, and land use. During this process a Technic Group is formed, coordinated by an anthropologist, and the study must result in a technical report (Relatório circunstanciado de identificação e delimitação da Terra Indígena or RCID) which includes a detail study of the identified ethnical group and the physical delimitation of the claimed area.

3. Contestation: After analyzing the RCDI, FUNAI has 15 days to publish its approval in the Official Federal Gazette, in the Official State Gazette, and in the City Hall of the municipality where the indigenous land is to be located. Following the publications comes a period of 150 days for public commentary and contestation. The first 90 days are provided for the expression of public reaction to FUNAI’s finding, while the follow-up period of 60 days allows for the drafting of a report expressing diverse and potentially conflicting opinions.

4. Declaration: After the new report is issued, FUNAI presents it to the Brazilian Ministry of Justice, which has 30 days to make a public declaration of official recognition (which may be extended another 90 days if necessary). Alternatively, the Ministry may reject FUNAI’s proposed identification with a published decision following paragraph 1. of Article 231 of the FC/88.

5. Demarcação. If a positive declaration is made, FUNAI physically demarcates the reserve, while the National Institute for Colonization and Agrarian Reform (INCRA) arranges for the resettlement of any non-indigenous peoples who occupy the reserves lands.

6. Assessment: In this stage FUNAI develops a material assessment of every asset inside the area declared as indigenous land and evaluates the value of the assets. In case non- indigenous people are relocated to other areas, a financial compensation for their assets is made in the form of an indemnity.

7. Homologation: Homologation is the act of officially approving, certifying, sanctioning and validating something. This step involves the submission of the physical demarcation evidence to the Brazilian President, who is responsible for emitting an official homologation decree in the Official Federal Gazette.

8. Removal of Non-indigenous: This stage relies on the President’s Homologation published in the Official Federal Gazette to physically require the removal of non- indigenous people from the claimed land, subjecting them to payment for the assets to be left.

9. Registration: After the homologation decree, a registration of the indigenous land is made in the appropriate municipal office’s gazette and in the Secretariat of the Union’s Patrimony (SPU) (“Terras Indígenas,” n.d.)(CIMI, 2020).

Table 2-1. Administrative Steps of Demarcation Process Stage Action Responsible Outcome Timeline 1 Claim R recognition of request for Indigenous Submitted to Any time territorial occupation peoples, FUNAI FUNAI, civil society, etc 2 Identification Technical group is formed to FUNAI and Technical Report Time conduct a study of the area Technical (Relatório frame not claimed. The anthropologic study Group circunstanciado fixed must include the ethno-historical de identificação nature of the indigenous e delimitação – population, juridical analysis of the RCID) land claimed as well as land use and land tenure, cartography, and environmental assessment of the area. 3 Contestation The RCID’s approval is published FUNAI By non- 150 Days in the Official Federal Gazette, in indigenous, non- the Official State Gazette and in the state actors City Hall of the municipality where the reserve is to be located. 4 Declaration Public declaration in the Official Ministry of Public 30 days Federal Gazette Justice declaration in the Official Federal Gazette 5 Demarcation Physical Demarcação of the area FUNAI and Physical Time INCRA Demarcação of frame not the area fixed 6 Assessment Material assessment of every asset FUNAI Monetary Time inside the area declared as evaluation of frame not indigenous territory and evaluate assets and fixed the value of the assets. In case non- financial indigenous people are relocated to compensation to other areas, a financial removed non- compensation for their assets is indigenous made in the form of an indemnity. populations 7 Homologation President publishes full physical Brazilian Areas officially demarcação in Federal Decree President recognized 8 Removal of This stage relies on the President’s INCRA Removal of non- Time Non-Indigenous Homologation published in the indigenous frame not Official Federal Gazette to populations from fixed physically require the removal of indigenous non-indigenous people from the territories claimed land, subjecting them to demarcated payment for the assets to be left. 9 Registration Indigenous lands are registered in Local agency Areas officially the appropriate municipal office of FUNAI registered and in the Secretariat of the Union’s Patrimony (SPU)

The new decree was not necessarily focused on safeguarding indigenous land rights, as it established a legal mechanism which made the indigenous territories vulnerable (Baines,

2014b) by allowing non-indigenous entities to challenge indigenous land claims. As an

example, ignoring FUNAI’s suggestions and concerns, decree 1.775/1996 led to the issuing of private land titles for around 200 thousand hectares within indigenous territories to 14 non- indigenous landholders and groups involved in garimpo in Roraima state (Moore & Lemos,

1999).

The official recognition of IT, as enabled by FC/88, reflects both the realization of collective rights for indigenous communities and the strengthening of an indigenous role in

Brazilian politics. Nevertheless, the 9-step process is layered in bureaucracy, takes very long to complete, and is not always successful. Especially, the demarcação section has been particularly difficult to achieve. Examples are found throughout Amazônia. A Demarcação processes on the Uneiuxi region, initiated in 1982, was declared only in 2006. Similarly, the

IT Utaria Wyhyna/Iròdu Iràna that was identified in 2003 and declared in 2010. None of them have reached full demarcação status (ISA, 2020). Additionally, there are cases were communities have opted for self-demarcação, given processual unreliability. These include the Munduruku people that initiated self-demarcação to fight against a hydropower complex at the Tapajós region (Walker et al., 2019), and the Kulina people who used self-demarcação in order to mobilize official demarcação (Neves, 2012).

Ultimately, even in cases where land demarcação strictly proceeds as mandated in the

FC/88 with specified engagement with indigenous demands, it reproduces historically unequal distributions of control between the state and local communities. Such endeavors place the indigenes within the State’s aspirations of spatial management and development desires (Carneiro da Cunha and Almeida, 2000; Carneiro da Cunha et al., 2017; Gallois,

2004; Ricardo, 2004). As an example, the construction of the Belo Monte hydropower

(BMH) complex that was initiated by the government in the Xingu river basin. The development of BMH went on despite infringing the FC/88 as well as international treaties such as the Convention 169 of the International Labor Organization (ILO 169), and illustrates

this power asymmetry despite 20 years of indigenous resistance against the project. The upper Xingu region is home to around 11 indigenous groups including Araweté, Asuriní,

Juruna, Kuruaya, Munduruku, Xipaya, Arara, Xikrin and Kayapó, and has been coveted by the State for numerous infrastructure projects that are being developed without indigenous consent (Fearnside, 2017; Fearnside, 2006; Moran, 2016; Walker et al., 2019; Zhouri, 2012), causing displacement and evictions of these populations.

The indigenous chapter in the FC/88 represents a certain historical background: such communities will have to balance their needs within the specified spatial boundaries, now and in the future, whatever their population dynamics, the growth of their consumption demand, and the availability of natural resources (Carneiro, 2009). Furthermore, the process of demarcação began a new wave of appropriation and transformation of indigenous places, which resulted in the “calculated management of indigenous life” (Guzmán, 2013, p. 119).

This led to the homogenization of these populations in popular political narratives and state juridical nomenclature, by grouping them all under the identification of indigenous, the

‘native other’ to the settlers. The indigenous in this formulation represent over two hundred ethnic groups speaking more than 180 languages (Cunha, 1992, 1994; Guzmán, 2013).

Currently, there are 432 indigenous territories under State recognition in Amazônia, totaling approximately 115 million hectares, which represents 23% of the Brazilian territory

(ISA, 2020;Figure 4-1 in chapter 4). Most of these ITs have been officially recognized and achieved full demarcation status, and 30% of them are still in demarcation process (Figure 4-

2 in chapter 4). Indigenous populations in Brazil have been fighting for survival for the last

500 years, however since the 80s the fight became about state recognition of their rights.

Even after the promulgation of FC/88 they sustained the fight to ensure fulfillment of their demands. Under Brazil’s current administration (see appendix), the current struggle is for

ensuring the sovereignty of those hard-fought rights (Adriana Ramos from ISA, personal interview on February 7th, 2019).

The Progressive Left States

In Brazil, the leftist governments under Luis Inacio Lula da Silva (2003-2010) and

Dilma Roussef (2011-2016) did not build on the traces of the old socialist ideology. Instead they drew upon a new socialist ideology based on humanism and solidarity to the detriment of profit, opposition to consumerism, and in favor of environmental protectionism and rational use of human and natural resources. “Social ownership of the means of production” inspired their economic ideology, aiming to assure human needs and remove barriers of access to different entitlements (Burbach et. al., 2013). Moreover, these governments were not as effective in officializing and promoting Demarcação (Figure 2-1), and many challenges occurred along the way (Hansen et al., 2017). As the FC/88 preconized, all ITs would have to be demarcated within a period of 5 years, establishing a clear deadline for demarcação to be achieved in 1993. However, different governments had different priorities and many ITs remain without official recognition. Exogenous, state-driven territorialization has been widespread since the transition to democracy in Brazil. By the end of the 1980s, the

Brazilian government had officially recognized 70 ITs, covering 140,000 km2 of the national territory (ISA, 2018). The intensity of territorialization grew through the neoliberal 1990s, bolstered by the Rio Summit of 1991 and the emergence of the “sustainable development” paradigm. An additional 273 ITs, covering 410,000 km2, received official sanction during this time (ISA, 2018).

During the first decade following democratization the Brazilian government completed demarcation of 195 and declaration of 136 ITs, the highest number in the past 30 years. During President Fernando Collor’s government, a focus on Brazil’s international reputation promoted demarcation of the IT Yanomami during the Rio Summit in 1992. That

action opened up a precedence to demarcation of indigenous territories, which did not take into consideration the internal political pressure created by the ruralistas (to be discussed further below), the military, and the neo-liberals (Pozzobon, 1999). Between 1995 and 2002, under the government of President Fernando Henrique Cardoso, demarcation rates reached the highest number. In 8 years, his government demarcated145 ITs and declared118. During this period, the new decree 1.775 changed demarcation rules, opening the “demarcation process to contestation by anyone who feels inconvenienced, including state governors, colonists, landholders, agribusiness companies, garimpeiros and so on.” This decree generated a wide range of protests and demonstrations and was seen as “a maneuver to comply with old demands by landholders, loggers, miners and other anti-Indian interests groups” (Ramos, 1998). Conflicts and disputes over land increased, which resulted in a slowing down of the demarcation process. The decree retroactively opened for revision a total of 154 lands that were ready to for demarcation plus 170 others that were in some stage of the demarcation process. This opened up such lands to contestation, invasions and massacres

(Ramos, 1998). Six months after the Decree was established, around 800 new indigenous land requests were filed in FUNAI and only half of them were considered for evaluation

(Ramos, 1998). Among the cases examined, the IT Raposa Serra do Sol in Roraima was downsized and fragmented to make room for miners and loggers (Ricardo & Santilli, 1997).

After the impeachment of Dilma Roussef in 2016, President Michel Temer (2016-

2018), backed up by the developmentalist sector in the National Congress, has continued the modernist project with the goal to reduce the size of Amazônia’s protected areas and slow down the rate of IT demarcation to make way for the developmentalist agenda. Thus, since 2016, only one indigenous territory was demarcated.

Figure 2-1. Graph of Recognition of Indigenous land by the previous six governments (modified from ISA, 2016)

Brazil is a signatory of the ILO 196, which guarantees indigenous autonomy and self- determination, and recognizes the need for free, prior and informed consultation in decisions regarding their lives and territories. But despite this status, the ruralistas (Frente

Parlamanetar da Agropecuaria - FPA), together with other developmentalist branches in the

National Congress, have outlined a large body of policy propositions that aim to deterritorialize indigenous lands and cease indigenous rights. The ruralistas are part of the

Parliamentary Front, formed by a group of wealthy landholder elite, who also happen to be congressional representatives. They are part of the “BBB Front (Beef, Bible Bullet) in

Congress acting on behalf of the agribusiness, mining and infrastructure industries” (Carneiro da Cunha et al., 2017). Even though the regulation of Parliamentary Fronts within the

National Congress only occurred between 2003 and 2007, the political ideology which these fronts represent dates back to the1940s. The military dictatorship banned these groups but

they regained space during re-democratization. The Ruralistas’ project dates to the 1980s and derives from the agricultural revolution ideology (Simionatto & Costa, 2012).

These politics have led to an alarming reduction of the territories that are constitutionally recognized as the inalienable territory of indigenous peoples, and to tolerating or fostering deregulation of forest and water management. Extractive activities are freely allowed where they should be banned or regulated, so that confrontations and violence are on the rise, and at an alarming rate (Carneiro da Cunha et al., 2017).

After a detailed compilation they could be grouped together according to the themes proposed (Table 4). These proposed policies mainly aim to:

1. Threaten indigenous’ rights to self-determination (Decree 7.957/2013; Ministerial Ordinance 441/2019)

2. Open indigenous lands to natural resource exploitation (PL 1.610/96; Decree 419/2011; Decree 7.957/2013; PEC 237/2013; Mining Bill 2019)

3. Promote the use of indigenous lands for infrastructure development (PL 227/2012)

4. Downsize indigenous lands (PEC 38/1999; PEC 215/2000)

5. Establish a temporal benchmark (1988) for indigenous territorial claims (AGU 001/2017)

6. Legalize encroachment in indigenous lands (PL 227/2012; PEC 237/2013)

7. Transfer the power of demarcação process to entities associated with the FPA (PEC 38/1999; 215/2000; MP 870/2019; Decree 9.667/2019)

Among the proposals, mining projects, extensive cattle ranching, large-scale monoculture, and the construction of roads and hydropower dams are the economic activities most cited.

In Brazil, the push for new land for business expansion is mainly represented by the ruralistas who are committed to degrading indigenous rights and the production of land markets (CIMI, 2018a). Under Michels Temer’s presidency (2016-2018), the FPA gained more power and political support. Currently, 257 of the total of 513 deputies are representatives of the FPA, and among all the 81 senators 40 are FPA (FPA, 2020; Spigariol,

2019). This led FUNAI to be managed and led by segments that were historically anti- indigenous - the agribusiness, mining, religious fundamentalists, and military entrepreneurs.

These sectors then started to define how FUNAI should act and produce government policy aimed at indigenous peoples. In 2018 there were 33 anti-indigenous policy proposals in place, from which 17 aimed to promote changes in the demarcação process, and 13 aimed at promoting natural resources extraction in indigenous territories (CIMI, 2018a). An example was the proposition for opening indigenous lands to infrastructure projects without public consultation, ignoring the ILO 69 (Instituto Socioambiental (ISA), 2017). Additionally, the new PL17/2020 seeks to allow private property registration and regulation, under the Rural

Environmental Registry (CAR)2, for farms located inside IT. Solely in MT, this PL would impact 116 ITs, 27 of them not officially demarcated and other 29 that are not under the demarcation process (ICV, OPAN, FEPOIMT, & Rivers, 2020). Moreover, the legislature passed another bill in April 2020 allowing legal registration of private rural properties on IT that have not yet reached full demarcation. This opens around 10 million hectares of indigenous territories, an area “larger than the U.S state of Indiana” to land grabbers and would legalized invasions inside IT (Torres & Branford, 2020).

The anti-indigenous package gained momentum and visibility under President Jair

Bolsonaro’s appeal for ‘development for indigenous’ improvements, which is a strategy advocating for powerful governmentality, based on “the will to improve” (Murray Li, 2007).

Violence against indigenous peoples is also increasing rapidly. 2019 was a deadly year for indigenous leadership, with the highest the number of indigenous leaders killed in a decade

(CPT, 2019), including seven indigenous land activists (Walker et al., 2020).

The fascist governmental approach of inciting hate speech and inducing violence, both material and affective, has led to a wide spread wave of “politically incorrect” culture

2 The CAR was officially adopted by MT in 2008 as a licensing tool to monitor rural properties; later, in 2012, the New Brazilian Forest Code (BFC) established the CAR as a national requirement for all rural properties. The CAR seeks to achieve three basic objectives: (1) to provide information on the compliance of the rural property with land use rules under the Code; (2) to monitor, using satellite images, the dynamics of forest coverage; and (3) to identify property owners who committed any environmental offenses. 52

(Di Carlo & Kamradt, 2018; Stefaoni, 2018). The government relies on strong support of the ruralistas, military forces (concerned that international interests drawn by indigenous groups and international NGOs could impact Brazilian national security), and religious fundamentalists who perceive indigenes as sinners who must be assimilated (Le Tourneau,

2019). Governmental initiatives to weaken FUNAI’s action have also been in place since

2019.

Table 2-2. Anti-indigenous policy propositions. Policy Propositions Goal Bill (PL) 1.610/96 *Romero Jucá To authorize the exploitation of mineral resources in indigenous lands. (PFL/RR) PEC 38/1999 To transfer the power of approving the demarcação of indigenous lands from the * Mozarildo Cavalcanti executive power to the Senate. It also seeks to establish that the sum of Protected (PTB/RR) Areas and Indigenous Lands does not exceed 30% of the total area of any state. A package comprised of eleven propositions that aims to transfer the power of approving the demarcação of indigenous land, as well as ratification of the PEC 215/2000 homologated ones from the executive to the congress. Deputies and Senators *Almir Sá (PPB/RR) would even hold the power to review and reverse old or already finalized demarcação. Aims to regulate time frames and deadlines for FUNAI (National Indian Decree Foundation) and other bodies to prepare and present reports on environmental 419/2011 licensing processes. Aims to expedite the approval of infrastructure projects in *Executive power, or around indigenous lands, including large infrastructural projects such as resolution of Ministries hydroelectric dams and roads. Also determines that officially recognized of Environment, Justice, indigenous lands are only those lands which perimeters have already been Culture and Health declared by the official gazette (Diário Oficial), thus disregarding environmental impacts on lands still in process of recognition. It determines an interpretation of the conditionings established by the Supreme Decree 303/2012 Court in the judgment of the demarcação of the Raposa Serra do Sol indigenous *Edited by the General land, extending its application to all indigenous lands in the country and Federal Prosecutor, Luís making its applicability retroactive. It also provides that the demarcação Inácio Adams procedures already finalized are reviewed and adjusted to their terms. Complementary Law Intends to consider as public interest, and as such to legalize the existence of Project 227/2012 large landholdings, rural settlements, cities, roads, economic enterprises, mining, * Homero Pereira logging and hydroelectric dams, among others, in indigenous lands. (PSD/MT) Allows farmers to claim possession of indigenous lands through concessions. If PEC 237/2013 approved, the proposal will legalize currently illegal activities on indigenous *Nelson Padovani lands, such as land leasing. This decree creates the Environmental Operations Company of the National Public Security Force, having as one of its duties to "assist on ongoing surveys and technical reports about negative environmental impacts". In practice, Decree 7.957/2013 according to ISA (2013), this means the official creation of a state instrument for militarized repression of any action of indigenous peoples, communities, social organizations and movements that decide to stand against infrastructural projects that might impact their territories.

Table 2-2 Continued Policy Propositions Goal Opinion 001/2017 *Michel Temer Office of the Attorney Argues that Indigenous would only be eligible to claim for territorial right over General of the Union lands which they occupied when the FC/88 was promulgated. (AGU) - Marco Temporal If implemented, this proposal would extinguish SESAI and the application of Municipalization of municipalization would mean the end of a specialized, differentiated and proper Indigenous Health health service subsystem, in accordance with the cultural specificities of the *Ministry of Health indigenous, exposing them to a framework of discrimination and structural racism that would further distance them from decent health care. Mining Bill The bill allows mining activity on indigenous territories and will not give local 910/2019 communities any veto power. *Jair Bolsonaro Provisional Measure Proposed that demarcação process moved from FUNAI to the Ministry of 870/2019 and Decree Agriculture, the house of the ruralistas. Also proposed that FUNAI moved from 9.667/2019 a branch of the Ministry of Justice to the newly created Ministry of Family, *Jair Bolsonaro Women and Human Rights. The Proposal was vetoed by the Senate. Ministerial Ordinance Authorize the use of military and the National Security Force for 33 days during 441/2019 the Acampamento Terra Livre (ATL), an indigenous national mobilization and Ministry of Justice demonstration for indigenous rights that occur annually since 2004.

Bill (PL) 17/2020 Allow tenure regulation of Rural private properties located inside indigenous MAuro Mendes (DEM) territories Mato Grosso State Regulate private property ownership by issuing certificates to rural properties Normative Act 09/2020 and other economic activities that overlap lands claimed by indigenous peoples FUNAI that are not under demarcation process.

CHAPTER 3 BACKGROUND IN THE LITERATURE

A’uwe Uptabi’s territorial aspirations and state sponsored colonial or modernist narratives reflect the transforming engagements between the organs of the state, their contestations around the ‘fate of the natives’, and development of the frontier (De Oliveira &

Risso, 2017; Garfield, 2001). Since the A’uwe Uptabi are one of the most studied indigenous groups within Brazil, a diverse body of knowledge in multiple languages, spanning more than

50 years of scholarship, exists about them, (Dent, 2016). These include: early anthropological assessments of A’uwe Uptabi society (Maybury-Lewis, 1968), biomedical research into their origins and health concerns (Flowers, 1983; Coimbra Jr. et al., 2004), engagements with state natural resource management policies and market based livelihoods (Gross et al., 1979;

Welch, 2014), social and spiritual organizations (Da silva, 1989; Welch, 2010), engagements with state demographic profiling (Gomide et al., 2005; Coimbra Jr. et al., 2004), gendered socio-linguistic analysis (Graham, 2014, 2016), and political mobilizations (Bampi et al.,

2017; Garfield, 2001b).

Despite this varied and rich vein of literature, there is a lacuna when it comes to understanding A’uwe Uptabi territorialization. Additionally, very few studies have positioned themselves as witness to a non-reactive A’uwe Uptabi politics of place making, one that echoes the critical idea of ‘alternative nationalisms. Furthermore, none of the works use the frame of territorialization, as understood by critical refugee studies, to understand

A’uwe Uptabi territorialities. The A’uwe Uptabi have a long and diverse history of forced eviction and aspirations, and a longing for a return to their ancestral motherland (Paridzane &

De Almedia, 2013). They present as a case study of framing of indigenous aspirations and insecurities around mobility as a refugee, the concept of belonging, and place making. While a few recent works have begun to explore A’uwe Uptabi territory making through the notion of indigenous mobilities (De Oliveira, 2018; Paridzane & De Almedia, 2013) and indigenous

urban place making (Araújo de Oliveira, 2014, 2018; Da Cruz Borges, 2013; Serpa &

Grando, 2018), they fail to engage with territorial ordering from the A’uwe Uptabi’s perspective and the notion of multiterritorialities that are the foundation of modern A’uwe

Uptabi lifeworlds. In this sense, the A’uwe Uptabi ’s territorial perception meets the notion of ‘multiterritoriality’, which results from their mobility and their multiple engagements with different spaces as configurations of emergent place making strategies, echoing novel socio- spatial realities (Haesbaert & Mondardo, 2013). Some scholarship explores indigenous

“invisibility” as manufactured to give place to development (Amazônian Caboclo Society : An

Essay on Invisibility and Peasant Economy 1993), in political territorial planning (Cunha,

1998), as part of an imagined national society and both as an economic actor (Nugent, 1997) and as “social subjects” (Bessa-Oliveira & Simão, 2016).

Furthermore in the urban centers there is a utopian colonial misconception that indigenes are being “recolonized”, exiled from their social and epistemic place, and must only comply with modern epistemes and act as such (Bessa-Oliveira & Simão, 2016).

Having territorialization as a fundamentally spatial process, I aim to combine formal connotations of state interest with more spontaneous expressions of agency that are pursuant to political, social, and economic motivations, to understand territorialization process through multiterritorialities. To specify further, I draw an equivalency between territory and

Indigenous Lands, the official federal government designation that follows a formal process of implementation, to understand the territorialization processes of ITs. My framework posits that territory is an artifact of contention, and that territory emerges on the basis of a confrontation of forces manifesting across multiple spatial scales in attempts at territorialization. Territories expand or contract, consolidate or dissipate, as a function of the relative balance of the forces of contention. These forces organize as for territorialization on the one hand, and for deterritorialization on the other. In this regard, resistance comprises the

identity-based, ground-level agency that seeks to mitigate and reverse the forces of deterritorialization. As such, it represents an endogenous, territorial force. Political geography has long conceptualized territory as a bounded space, subject to individual agency, that has been occupied or claimed (Cox, 2008; Painter, 2010). Some development studies typically take territory to be a “state space” (Agnew, 1994b; Painter, 2010) or an effect of forces operating in an arena in which the state is constantly present (Peluso & Lund, 2011).

Others have opposed the notion of territory as limited to political entities, often represented by cartography for statist purposes (Lefebvre, 2008; Lefebvre, 1991; Scott, 1998). More recently, territory is theorized as an effect of social networks and embodied practices

(Castells, 2010; Painter, 2010; Rocheleau, 2015). Cognizant of these various strands of conceptualization, I advance a concept of a territorial making process as marked by multiple acts of territorialization and deterritorialization, defined by multiple aspects of territoriality. I highlight the ongoing multiterritorial process that form Amazonian frontiers, more specifically in the case of the A’uwe people.

Place, Space and Territory

My framework reflects Doreen Massey’s conceptualization of space and territory as outcomes of social processes subject to contingent histories. It reflects the political ecology of localities by calling attention to the role of contention in creating Amazônian places, and by recognizing that contending forces manifest across variable spatial scales. Finally, it draws from feminist political ecology with its recognition of the importance of identity and agency in mobilizing the territorializing forces of resistance. My research aims at elaborating this conceptual framework by assessing the contentious forces at work in contemporary

Amazônia as they affect indigenous lands, and by depicting how agency emerges in resistance to the dissipative forces of deterritorialization.

Theorizations of territory in Anglophone human geography remain overwhelmingly attached to the nation-state (Agnew, 1994a; Agnew & Corbridge, 1995). Territory is either conceptualized as an essentialized bounded “container” (Giddens, 1985), an inevitable effect of state making, or as the emergent product of a collection of tools and philosophies through which the state maintains a particular “spatial order of things” (Elden, 2010). With respect to

Latin America, certain scholarship has challenged this narrative of territory as a creation of hegemonic forces imposed by the state (Becker, 2010; Porto-Gonçalves, 2006a) and questioned the effects of global political economy on the concepts of territory (Santos et al.,

1998). By this view, territory is understood to be a physical space in which both culture and nature are politicized in a process of territorialization founded on human practices; these involve the use and control of space for political, social or economic purposes (Agnew &

Oslender, 2010; Becker, 2010; Reyes & Kaufman, 2011; Sack, 1986). Thus, one understands

Territorialization as the processes by which spaces are created or destroyed. Territory is rendered inseparable from society and therefore inseparable from the state; it emerges in part as an endogenous expression of culture. However, regarding Latin America, certain scholarship has challenged this narrative of territory as a creation of hegemonic forces imposed “from above” (Baletti, 2012; Porto-Gonçalves, 2006b).

Exploring similar themes, scholars have also noted a certain “territorial turn” in the neoliberal and post-neoliberal politics in Latin America (Bryan, 2012; Offen, 2003). This phenomena centers around the recognition of land rights and the subsequent manifestation of twin contradictory agendas. One of which supports the resistance to exploitative development through the articulation of alternatives to extractivist development by promoting indigenous territories, anti-deforestation policies, and socio-ecological sustainability (Harris & Roa-

Garcia, 2013).The other reinvigorates older extractivist policies, accelerating investment in a

neo-developmental agenda linked to national sovereignty, privatization, and broad scale industrialization (Zanotti, 2016).

Territorial realities in Brazil are a product of the encounter between the hegemonic techno-industrial, statist, and positivist process of development/conservation, and the pluralistic socio-environmental imaginaries rooted in regional cultures (Baletti, 2012). The approximately 160 indigenous groups inhabiting the transitional region between the Amazon and the savanna, have contested the territorialization of their lifeworlds, which are situated between the structures of industrial modernity unleashed on them in the 1960s by the developmental state, and the subsequent ‘post-developmental’ backlash to such exploitative overtures (Albert, 2005).

These contentious territorialization - the weakening of relationships between cultures and spaces, and reterritorializations - the restructuring of such relationships, have catalyzed the creation of different competing alliances between indigenous and non-indigenous forces, with the goal of controlling the discursive and material realities of the region (Bolaños, 2011;

Lauriola, 2013). This encounter has been explored by various scholars through the prisms of social and environmental justice (Hecht & Cockburn, 1990; Ramos, 1998), cultural landscapes (Fausto & Heckenberger, 2006; Heckenberger et al., 2007; Heckenberger, 2009), rights based approaches (Langer & Muñoz, 2003; Vieira & Quack, 2016), and ethnogenesis

(Bolaños, 2011). While scholars have noted the ethnonational mobilizations of indigenous groups using a legal rights based approach to counter reconfigurations of environmental governance and land management (Kröger & Lalander, 2016), few have ventured beyond the framework of resource conflicts to engage with more radical interpretations of normative divergences in indigenous aspirations and agency (Coombes et al., 2012). This indigenous agency is often a ‘silent presence’, supposedly subsumed by the powerful processes and alliances of state and capitalist territorialization. Postcolonial legal systems have faced

deterritorialization processes worldwide when dealing with autochthones peoples’ claims over land and indigenous land rights (Stetter, 2007).

Indigenous lives have been represented as a product of intersecting hegemonic structures – colonization, developmentality, and fortress conservation. This narrative fails to account for the agency of indigenous people and places (Elmhirst, 2015; Harvey, 1981; Yeh

& Bryan, 2015). My study attempts to challenge such narratives of ‘geometric determinism’

(Gregory, 1981) and render visible moments of indigenous agency. Additionally, while different attempts at ‘boundary-making’ have been analyzed through material spatialities of the land itself, the complex and often counter-narratives to the ordering power of the state, the indigenous spatialities, has remained hidden (Sletto, 2011). Unveiling this ‘hidden transcript’ is of vital importance, since it challenges both the tropes of the insurgent citizen and that of the Foucauldian environmental subject (Hecht, 2011a). Furthermore, it shifts the focus from the agents to the relationships themselves and attempts to understand the relational production of indigenous places, at the intersections of territorial contradictions in

Amazônia.

However despite this focus on exploring the perennial territorial struggles at the heart of region and subject building in Brazil, there is a conspicuous absence of using territory itself as the ‘subject’ of inquiry, and not as a mere extension of contesting regional aspirations or as a performative political/cultural space. Indigenous lands, as a site of de/territorialization, represent a critical territorial unit whose salient features, such as size, juridical status, management parameters and cultural/symbolic value, are a function of multiscalar forces. These remain poorly theorized and unexplored as a dynamic space with a collection of both intensive (focused on local particularity and social power relations) and extensive (focused on generalizable and quantifiable trends) methodological and disciplinary tools (Baletti, 2012; Vadjunec et al., 2011). These lacunae motivate the current study.

As a result of the widespread neo-developmentalist mode of production, the so called

“commodities consensus” (Svampa, 2012), a robust body of literature has associated large- scale capitalist enterprises such as roads, dams, mines, and agribusiness with violence, social and environmental threats, and communities’ dispossession (Aldrich et al., 2012; Murray Li,

2010; Otero, 2004; Peluso & Lund, 2011; Perz et al., 2008; Svampa, 2019; Vadjunec et al.,

2011). In the scope of developmentalist modes of production, little analytical attention was given to the relationship between land use change and land rights (Bebbington et al., 2018).

Land use change science has identified economic development as an inherently spatial process, shaped by contextual larger political and economic forces (Munroe et al., 2014).

Political forces pushed by a global economy rely on the notion of territories as “socially desolate” (Sack, 1986), seeing them as empty spaces in order to promote ideas of development (Svampa, 2019). In this sense, Amazônia is seen as a rich “reserve of resources” and as a “demographic vacuum” (Porto Gonçalves, 2017; Svampa, 2019) and State developmental fronts have historically considered indigenous territories as “unproductive”.

Literature has informed the direct and indirect impacts of intensive land use change in conversion of Amazônian native vegetation, with a broad focus on deforestation (Aldrich et al., 2012; Arima et al., 2015; Caldas et al., 2007; Walker & Manson, 2004).Additionally, literature discusses the association between land use and land tenure and how it can be used in preventing deforestation and ensuring environmental conservation (Angelsen &

Kaimowitz, 1999; Yishay et al., 2017; Blackman et al., 2017; Ceddia et al., 2015;

Schwartzman & Zimmerman, 2005a). Indigenous territories have long proved to be an obstacle to deforestation (Cunha & Almeida, 2000; Schwartzman et al., 2000; Schwartzman

& Zimmerman, 2005b).This has helped to increase international support for indigenous land rights, a phenomena described as “ethno-environmental-fix” and has offered indigenous populations as “guardians of biodiversity (Adams et al., 2006; Anthias & Radcliffe, 2015).

However, this paternalistic approach can limit indigenous’ autonomy over territorial management (Offen, 2003), and serves as a justifying narrative for a wave of global intervention in favor of “industrial and northern interests” (Escobar, 1995). To analyze the territorialization and deterritorialization forces in place, I begin with the developmental front, which poses a duality between economic growth and environmental conservation (Richards,

2010) combined with the nature of land conflicts in the region, which has been associated with contradictory governmental policies (Simmons, 2002) and resource competition

(Simmons, 2005), and then add the indigenous territorial unit to the issue..

Displacement and Mobility

“…of the ‘border country’ sets the tone for what it means to be restlessly unhomed within the nation or the region…” (Sorensen & Bhabha, 2018)

“ Whatever settlers may say— and they generally have a lot to say—the primary motive for elimination is not race (or religion, ethnicity, grade of civilization, etc.) but access to territory. Territoriality is settler colonialism’s specific, irreducible element” (Wolfe, 2006)

“Indigenous people don’t have boundaries” Pemon elders (Sletto, 2009)

The A’uwe Uptabi experience with colonial and post-colonial nation building is one of forced displacement (Bampi et al., 2017). In many ways, their engagements with space and place are similar to those of refugees, not unlike other indigenous peoples within the settler colonies of the Americas. This ‘effect of displacement’ and disenfranchisement also echoes

Brazilian geographers’ demarcação between territoriality of ‘below’ and territoriality of

‘above, as explained in chapter 1. The ‘above, machinations of the state rendered through the hegemonic biopolitics of governmentality, is perennially locked in a vicious struggle to tame the plural frontiers of the ‘below. A’uwe Uptabi engagement with the state is an example of this encounter. Thus, emerging scholarship around critical refugee studies, postcolonial studies of land and territory, feminist political ecology, and indigenous mobilities and

spatialities all serve as vital tools in further exploring the fluid, entangled worlds that the

A’uwe Uptabi inhabit and produce (Sletto, 2011).

The modern Brazilian state is a settler colony. This foundational tenet leads to a situation, observed in other settler states, of distinctions between dominion and occupancy.

The ‘natives’ are seen as occupants of space that is under state dominion and this differentiation, “illuminates the settler-colonial project’s reliance on the elimination of native” (Wolfe 2006, p.391). Scholars attempting to address this have questioned the different engagements that a settler society has had with enslaved peoples vs. native peoples.

The former are seen as a valuable commodity, whose maintenance and reproduction supplemented the overall wealth of the settlers, as compared to native peoples who emerge as impediments to the acquisition of land (Gordon and Ram 2016; Hofmeester and De Zwart

2018; Rasmussen and Lund 2018; Wolfe 2006). In the Americas evictions of indigenous people from their lands is a process that stretches back to the first colonial encounters

(Barker, 2012; Paul, 2011). Scholars have explored how such evictions were orchestrated as acts of territorial consolidation (Surralles & Hierro, 2005), ‘emancipation’ and ‘development’ of native peoples (Harris & Espelt-Bombin, 2018), commodity extraction (Thaler et al.,

2019), and extra-territorial forces (Rasmussen & Lund, 2018). These represent a form of colonial land governance that underlies much of modern state building (Murray Li, 2010). In

Brazil, such narratives of state building and territorial ordering (ordenamento territorial) are well documented and explored (Baletti, 2012; de Oliveira et al., 2009; Zanotti, 2011; Zhouri,

2010).

This ongoing structural reorganization of materiality and space and its emergent nodes of governance, has produced, and continues to produce a demographic of cultural and territorial dispossession (Kröger, 2012; Pedlowski, 2013; Schwartzman et al., 2013). While populations classified as non-indigenous in Brazil have had their own contentious encounters

with the state, indigenous populations have suffered far greater institutional oppression across their many points of subjective divergence from colonial modernity (Schock, 2015). This acute trauma of being violently uprooted from land that represents both material and affective sustenance for indigenous communities in many ways catalyzes the aspirations and fears that many refugees feel (Chimni, 2009; O’Reilly, 2015). I contend that such a framing is very functional when exploring dispossession of indigenous populations in Brazil, and for the purposes of this work, in understanding the emergent subjectivities linked to relationships with the state and with their former ‘homelands’.

Catherine Brun (2001) in her paper titled Reterritorializing the Relationship between

People and Place in Refugee Studies, provides a very useful heuristic in understanding these processes. First, she highlights the notion of ‘uprootedness’, which remains a dysfunctional relic of more essentialist renditions of place making. Second, she notes the plural perspectives of the actual experience of displacement and the ways it shapes the politics of placemaking. Finally, she mentions the overwhelming focus on deterritorialization compared to the act of territorialization, which ends up marginalizing the agency of displaced communities. While this work is still tethered to scholarship around persons forcibly evicted across national borders, I argue that the experience of indigenous peoples in Brazil echoes these realities.

The Territorializing Power of Indigenous Place-Making

Place-making by settlers is fundamental to the larger nationalist project of State- making (Rasmussen & Lund, 2018). In this regard, theories of the frontier have historical parlance, and as Summers (2008) notes, have emerged from a variegated epistemic and ontological reality. These include notions of colonial populism (Turner, 1990) , anti- environmental determinism (Sauer, 1983), comparative history (Henessy, 1978), political economy theories (Boone, 2012), life cycle stages (Chayanov, 1966), and economic

geography (Spatial economic models). Recently, these more structuralist approaches have been supplemented by post-structuralist political economic theory, focused on contentious, emergent, ‘disarticulated’ theses, that reject an overarching narrative of capitalism and developmentality (Simmons, 2005; Thaler et al., 2019). Despite such attempts at diversifying the ‘many lives of the frontier’, structural narratives still form the significant body of scholarship about Amazônia, that drives the intellectual and political tools underlying explorations of governance, equity, sovereignty, and justice (Augusto & Ioris, 2019).

Moreover, the revelatory theorizations around eco-modernism, green-governmentality and neo-extractivism, challenge the notion of ‘conservation or development’ binaries. They replace it with a ubiquitous machine of territorial ordering (Baletti, 2012; Schmink et al.,

2019). This movement away from hegemonic-state meta-narratives of political and material futures is vital, and has been advocated for by feminist, indigenous, and post-colonial scholars working within the arenas of political ecology, political geography, and critical studies of development and indigenous geographies (Coombes et al., 2012; Pearson & Crane,

2017; Radcliffe, 2017; Zanotti, 2016).

Through a combination of political ecology and indigenous geographies, Coombes et al., (2012) note that “geographical practice must extend beyond the tired conflation of

Indigenous and local, and towards analysis of the broader discursive and political implications of environmental activism” (p.818). They also state that, “persistent indigenous claims about the multifaceted constitution of their resource rights, should compel geographers to reconsider their often-idealized concepts of local autonomy, participatory development and social justice” (p.818). This is a contentious call to action, bringing in focus the inherent paradoxes of the knowledge production politics of Euro-American scholarship, which often emerges out of disciplinary allegiances still rooted in specific scientific ontologies (Coombes et al., 2012; Coombes et al., 2013, 2014). A potential way forward is to explore the agentive

potential of a frame like ‘indigeneity’, and understand how that transforms our vision of mobilities, spatialities and territorialities.

The notion of indigeneity is key to understanding how place-based territorialization is used to endorse land claims, ownership, environment and territorial control, and self- determination (Coombes et al., 2012). The use of identity politics together with its engagement with territory and power (Perreault & Green, 2013) highlight “histories of inequality and struggle” (Yeh & Bryan, 2015). Indigeneity is a “contested concept” (Uddin et al., 2018) that is used by many different actors. A dynamic concept, indigeneity serves as framework to understand “the always-in- production-and-spacing dynamic of power and difference”, which provides a counter narrative to State territorialization (Radcliffe, 2017) .

Indigeneity constitutes an important foundation for indigenous identity as “political subjects”

(Bryant, 2015; Yeh & Bryan, 2015) that articulates with the representation of indigenous peoples within “global actors” (Valdivia, 2007). The concept of indigeneity has been widely associated with the connection between groups and locality through “belonging and originariness” (Merlan, 2009). However, a post-colonial approach shifts this concept to one of legitimacy and autonomy (Coombes et al., 2013) but moves beyond those concepts by linking governance and political economy with strategies of localization (Yeh & Bryan,

2015). Ramos points to indigeneity as a “historically constructed interaction between parties engaged in unequal power relations” (Ramos, 2009). As such, indigeneity posits the indigenous population are actors and agents with “situated knowledges” (Haraway, 1988), and spatializes local rules under identity, and through organized “civic power” to contest

State attempts at deterritorialization (Uddin et al., 2018; Valdivia, 2015).

While ‘indigeneity’ itself is a controversial and much debated concept (Baird, 2016;

Radcliffe, 2017), the engagements of indigenous peoples with the material and affective units

of space or movement, has given rise to scholarship exploring these unique relationships

(Liffman, 1998; Sletto, 2016; Whyte et al., 2019).

Dynamic and complex forms of movement, spaces, and subject positions emerge from indigenous engagement with the various tools of state building (Sletto, 2016). In Latin

America such framings help counter persistent mythologies around place-boundedness and

‘stable indigenous spatialities’ (Gordillo, 2011) while providing an insight into the historic mobilities that stretch indigenous territory building beyond specifically ordained landscape units ( De Oliveira, 2018). Additionally, they perforate the boundaries of what constitutes a homeland, by addressing the territorial and social reorganization brought on by the processes of urbanization and the indigene’s role in them (Maher & Cavalcanti, 2019; Peluso, 2015).

Such framings destabilize more reductionist and binary renditions of the landscapes and tools of conflict between the indigenous and the indigenizing of modernity (Lea, 2017; Peters &

Andersen, 2013; Uddin et al., 2018). An “indigenization of Amazônian modernity” can be seen when indigenous peoples “place themselves and their cultural orientations into coeval juxtaposition with the dominant system” such as the Quechua marches to Quito, in Ecuador, which took form of their own rituals while advocating for land rights (Whitten, 2008).

Additionally, the case of Chilean Mapuche communities exemplify the acts of indigenizing modernity with their engagement against subordination by “reinventing politics on their own terms, devising political forms, that although they may draw on some aspects of modern rationality, are not subordinated to it but constitute a new rationality serving the real needs of the communities” (Kowalczyk, 2013)

In Radical Territories in the Brazilian Amazon Laura Zanotti, notes:

Indigenous groups have been advocating for centuries a notion of territoriality that is not based simply on Eurocentric notions of space… Rather it is an approach to place, space, and being that is at once affective, material, cosmological, and brought to life through a relational practice that involves both human and non-human beings (2016, p.8).

Such scholarship, rooted in Feminist Political Ecology, echoes explorations of indigenous placemaking beyond the boundaries of Indigenous territories and reserves, extending into transforming conglomerations in various states of rural to urban formation (

De Oliveira et al., 2009; McGaw et al., 2011; Nejad et al., 2019; Tomiak, 2017). In the

Brazilian Amazon, indigenous engagement with the forces of deterritorialization and autochthonous aspirations of reterritorialization have progressed far beyond the boundaries of established (and contested) ITs (Baletti, 2012; Chernela & Zanotti, 2014; Ioris, 2020).

While historically absent from explorations of indigenous territorialities in Amazônia, there is a growing scholarship exploring of indigenous mobilities and engagements, especially regarding their circulations between rural and urban spaces, and its impacts on their political and material empowerment (Peluso, 2015; Sobreiro, 2015). This focus on indigenous placemaking in ‘frontier’ cities is critical, as it sheds light on the complex set of performances and subjectivities that are emergent in indigenous encounters with colonial settler centers of habitation. Additionally, this investigation of indigenous interactions challenges the essentialist colonial and structuralist tropes of ‘innocent savage’, ‘exploited native’ and ‘environmental steward’ by revealing a relational landscape, replete with varied indigenous engagements with the different aspects of modernity (Zanotti, 2016).

Indigenous territorialities by their very existence challenge the notion of national borders and the validity of a hegemonic state to represent the identity of pre-colonial communities that still exist within its borders. This vision of territorialization builds on recent scholarship that argues that the internal colonization of Brazil requires a solution: “how different kinds of spaces became incorporated into national territory is a critical ongoing question requiring attention” (Harris & Espelt-Bombin, 2018, p.538). Within Brazil indigenous peoples have differential state granted rights (such as the lack of full citizenship or full access to natural resources), so their relationships to territory mirrors this tension at the

heart of their communal identity. Additionally, the myriad forms of communal agency that show up after colonization challenges the essentialist (and simplistic) narrative that the indigenous quest for territorial sovereignty is always positioned as a threat to the integrity of the state. Moreover, such agency highlights the ingenious mobilizations for ‘survival with dignity’, which have been driving indigenous engagements with Brazil.

These forms of ‘intimate governments’ and subjectivities are driving the call for ‘new

Amazon geographies’ (Hecht, 2011b). One of the key themes is the notion of citizenship and its relationship with region making in Amazônia. The idea of ‘alternative nationalisms’ in the

Brazilian Amazon emerges as a powerful counterweight to the modernist iteration of territorial ordering and nation building originating with state structures. This framing supplements the call for a focus on the complex social, cultural, and ecological relationalities that are emergent in endogenous territorialization. Additionally, Amazônian subjectivities, much like its ecologies, refuse to neatly abide by notions of ‘displacement’,

‘environmentality’, ‘stewardship’ or ‘institutions’(Vadjunec et al., 2011). Therefore, the confluence of the various revelations of indigeneity and indigenous territories provides a parallel vision of identity, belonging, and relationships with the land in Brazil. Further, this change of focus from the federal state as guarantor of political legitimacy allows the indigenous to reclaim their territory in ways that cannot be granted by the institutions of the colonial state. This makes such a framing an incredibly useful heuristic when attempting to understand the changes in regional social-ecological assemblages. Ultimately, the concept of alternative nationalisms provides an opportunity, to reimagine indigenous territorialities as more than just a summation of the heterogeneous reactive mobilizations against the oppressive structures of state building.

In the next chapter I conduct a logistic regression to understand possible correlation of development forces and territorial integrity of ITs.

CHAPTER 4 PAN-AMAZÔNIAN STATISTICAL ANALYSIS

This chapter considers the exogenous political and economic forces that control the territorialization of Brazilian indigenous territories (ITs) and their natural resources, with a focus on Amazônia. My primary goal is to ascertain the proximate factors that affect their territorial integrity by using regression analysis. To this end, I undertake a statistical assessment of territorial status categories defined and promoted by the Brazilian Government under the auspices of FUNAI. These categories range across seven states, as described in

Chapter 2, from study to formal registration (See Figure 4-1).

Figure 4-1. Official Legal Status of Indigenous Territories in Amazônia

I also seek to gain insight into the distal actors and processes that govern the incidence and impact of the proximate impacts to be revealed statistically. Notwithstanding the change in government policy, heralded by FC/88, from assimilationist objectives to one recognizing full indigenous autonomy, a clear definition of indigenous territorial rights and the full recognition of their legality remain open to debate. Indigenous populations in Brazil

have been fighting for survival for the last 500 years, a struggle that in the wake of FC/88 became a political conflict for state recognition of their territorial and human rights. Even after the promulgation of the FC/88 they remained militant in seeking the fulfillment of their demands. Under Brazil’s current administration (see appendix), the struggle is for ensuring the sovereignty of those hard-fought rights (Adriana Ramos from ISA, personal interview on

February 7th, 2019). FC/88 anticipated that all ITs would be demarcated within a period of 5 years, establishing a clear deadline for demarcação to be achieved in 1993. However, different governments had different priorities and many ITs remain without official recognition. Exogenous, state-driven territorialization has been widespread since the transition to democracy in Brazil. By the end of the 1980s, 70 ITs, covering 140,000 km2 of the national territory, had been officially recognized (ISA, 2018). The intensity of territorialization grew through the neoliberal 1990s, bolstered by the Rio Summit of 1991 and the emergence of the “sustainable development” paradigm. An additional 273 IT, covering

410,000 km2, received official sanction during this time (ISA, 2018).

The first decade following democratization was marked by demarcation of 195 and declaration of 136 ITs, the highest number in the past 30 years. During President Fernando

Collor’s government, a focus on Brazil’s international reputation promoted demarcation of the IT Yanomami during the Rio Summit in 1992, thereby encouraging demarcation despite political opposition by the ruralistas (to be discussed further below), the military and the neo- liberals (Pozzobon, 1999). Between 1995 and 2002, under the government of President

Fernando Henrique Cardoso, demarcation rates continued at a slower pace. In 8 years, 145

ITs were demarcated and 118 were declared. During this period, the new decree 1.775 changed demarcation rules, in 1996, opening the “demarcation process to contestation by anyone who feels inconvenienced, including state governors, colonists, landholders, agribusiness companies, garimpeiros and so on.” This decree generated a wide range of

protests and demonstrations and was seen as “a maneuver to comply with old demands by landholders, loggers, miners and other anti-Indian interests groups” (Ramos, 1998). Conflicts and disputes over land increased, and the demarcation process decelerated. A total of 154 indigenous territories were ready to be demarcated plus the 170 others that were in some stage of demarcation were opened retroactively for revision. This opened up such lands to contestation, invasions and massacres (Ramos, 1998). Six months after the Decree was established, around 800 new indigenous territories claims for demarcation were filed in

FUNAI and only half of them were considered for evaluation (Ramos, 1998). Among the cases examined, the IT Raposa Serra do Sol in Roraima was downsized and fragmented to make room for miners and loggers (Ricardo & Santilli, 1997).

The leftist government of the Workers Party did not push a demarcation agenda, and after the impeachment of Dilma Roussef in 2016, President Michel Temer (2016-2018), backed by the developmentalist sector in the National Congress, continued the modernist project, intent on reducing Amazônia’s protected areas and slow the rate of demarcação of

IT, in the interest of the developmentalist agenda. Thus, since 2016, only one indigenous territory has been demarcated. The final results of this lengthy process of demarcation and registration is depicted in Figures 4-1 and 4-2, the latter of which presents the information of

Figure 4-1 in percentage terms. As the figure 4-2 indicates, most of the land claims were addressed by FUNAI since 1988. As a result, 53% of the total indigenous claims were validated by the State through full demarcation while other 11% claims were taken in consideration and are currently in some stage of demarcation process. From this 11%, the number of ITs in-homologation phase is virtually absent while 6% are currently under study,

5% are declared and 1% has been identified. However, almost 40% of the total claims are still not considered.

Figure 4-2. Percentage of ITs under-State Recognition

Statistical Analysis: The Data and Spatial Features

The statistical analysis involves a logistic regression using data that I assembled from a variety of public sources. These data reflect factors that might influence IT territorialization as suggested in the literature on the subject. Data about legal status of ITs was collected from

FUNAI and contrasted with that from the Instituto Socioambiental (ISA, 2017), which covers

432 ITs (n=432), in order to check for gaps and/or possible missing values. These encompass all ITs under all four different legal categories and legal demarcation status. Important to note is that ~300 territories are being claimed as indigenous lands in Amazonia and this study only analyses the ones that are in some stage of the official recognition ladder (CIMI, 2018b).

Data about territories claimed by indigenous peoples that are not yet considered under the official recognition stages do exist. However, after many attempts, I was denied the access to such data by FUNAI and CIMI.

Using ArcGIS, I generated data about the deforested areas in hectares with data collected from PRODES, developed by the National Institute for Space Research (INPE), in three different time sets: from 1988-2007, from 2008-2018 and for 2019, by converting into raster files and projected into UTM coordinates, which enable me to perform areal calculations. I also used remote licensed imagery and vector format files to create centroid

points for all the ITs in order to calculate Euclidean distances from these points to the nearest polygons of roads, mining sites, and dams using data from the Amazon Geo-Referenced

Socio-Environmental Information Network (RAISG). I combined data from Mapbiomas

(collection 4.0), in raster format and reclassified into agricultural areas, with remotely sensed imagery to determine the presence of pasture lands and agricultural fields inside IT boundaries. Finally, I categorized different infrastructure projects using vector format files from UNASUR/COSIPLAN. The descriptive statistics of the information I generated is given in Table 4-1.

Descriptive Statistic of the Collected Data

Table 4-1. Descriptive Statistics VARIABLE MEAN STD. MIN MAX. LEGSTAT DEV. 3.4837 1.0441 0 1 Legal Status of IT (Registered = 1/Other=0) OVERPA 0.0972 0.2966 0 1 ITs that overlap protected areas (YES=1/NO=0)

ISOLATED 0.0902 0.2869 0 1 ITs that are home of non-contacted indigenous groups (YES=1/NO=0) FRONTIER 0.3055 0.4611 0 1 ITs located in National Frontier (YES=1/NO=0) POPDEN 0.1939 1.7217 0 29.8 Population Density of IT YEARLEGSTAT 1985 166.5134 0 2019 Year IT achieved Legal Status (Year)

UNDERSTUDY 0.131 0.016 0 1 ITs that are currently under study (YES=1/NO=0) RE-STUDY 0.0671 0.2505 0 1 Demarcated ITs that are currently under re-study (YES=1/NO=0) PROJECT 0.8773 1.6238 0 16 ITs in which there are projects being developed (No of Projects) OUTORG 1.3842 2.0505 0 15 ITs in which outside organizations are presently working (No of Org.) INDORG 2.5532 4.6578 0 78 ITs that have indigenous organization (No of Org.) NATRES 0.6689 0.4711 0 1 ITs in which natural resources are being exploited (YES=1/NO=0) AGRI 0.375 0.4878 0 1 Presence of agriculture within IT (YES=1/NO=0) LANDCONF 0.3518 1.4781 0 1 Presence of land conflict (YES=1/NO=0) DISTDAM 175.4872 180.3072 0 756.66 Distance to the nearest hydropower dam (in km) DISTMIN 34.9222 42.0891 0 462.77 Distance to the nearest active mining sites (in km)

Table 4-1. Continued DISTROAD 12.6917 27.5410 0 155.81 Distance to the nearest roads (in km) TOTDEF 23000.5 867311 0 933043 Total deforested area in IT (in HA) IIRSA 0.0902 0.0138 0 1 IT overlap with IIRSA Projects (YES=1/NO=0)

In addition, I conducted spatial analysis using GIS in order to identify ITs that overlap some the specific developmental enterprise, such as roads, IIRSA projects and Protected

Areas. My data show 83% of Amazonian ITs are considered traditionally occupied, while only 5% are dominion lands and 12%, reserves. 9% of the them are home to isolated tribes;

30.5% border non-Brazilian nations, 98% possess some pasture, and 37.5%, some agriculture. Projects planned by IIRSA overlaps 39 ITs. The illegal extraction of natural resources affects 289 ITs (or 67%) and land conflict, 152 of them (or 35%). In Figure 4-3 through 4-7, I present some of the data to depict nearness to development frontiers, which many have suggested is a key factor in determining if not legal status, then the degree of environmental intactness of the IT. Figure 4-3 shows the existing federal highway system and road proposed by the IIRSA project, in relation to IIRSA-planned transportation corridors.

The graphic overlay indicates that 197 ITs have overlaps with one or more roads, and all the indigenous territories under study are located less than 100 kilometers from a road or highway (not depicted in the Figure).

Figure 4-3. Map of proximity of roads and highways to indigenous territories.

Figure 4-4 presents a similar spatial analysis for the location of dams, whose impacts on indigenous populations have long been known. The Tucurui Dam on the Tocantins River flooded part of the IT Parakanã, and its transmission lines cut through another 4 ITs (Mãe

Maria, Trocará, Krikati and Cana Brava). Further, the Balbina Dam which flooded part of the

Waimiri-Atroari territories, wiped out 2,000 indigenes (Philip Martin Fearnside 2019; R.

Walker et al. 2020). My dataset identifies 530 hydropower projects in operation, under construction and projected, which fully implemented would flood 100,000 km2 of Amazônia

(Philip Martin Fearnside, 2019). By the guidelines of the Electric Energy National Agency

(ANEEL) guidelines, these can be classified as large-scale hydropower dams - (UHE) with capacity of 50,000 MW - and small-scale dams - (PCH) with capacity <30,000 megawatts

(ANEEL, 2020). According to my dataset, from the total hydropower projects in operation, under construction and projected, 398 are characterized as PCH and 130 as UHE. 432 of them are located less than 100 kilometers distance from one or more demarcated IT (Figure

4-4). This has already caused social conflicts, for example in the Tapajos Valley with the

Muduruku people and various communities in the neighborhood of Belo Monte Dam on the

Xingu River. With regard to ITs currently under study, 148 of them are located within the

100 kilometers buffer (not in Figure). Indigenous peoples are vulnerable to direct or indirect impacts of these hydropower facilities and territorial integrity of ITs is likely vulnerable in relationship to distance from hydropower dams. My analysis indicates that 169 ITs already identified are located within a 100 km buffer from a dam in operation, under construction or projected.

Figure 4-4. Map of proximity of Hydropower Dams (in operation, under construction and projected) to indigenous territories.

Another critical threat to ITs is the increasing intensity of mineral exploitation throughout the Basin. In 2019, the Brazilian President announced his intention to legalize illegal mining operations in ITs with a constitutional amendment (Damasio, 2019). This poses a serious threat, since studies show that even in the absence of mining, mining requests alone induce land grabbing and garimpo (Watanabe, 2019). Illegal mining or garimpo is present in 11% of Amazonia’s ITs and 50% of them are overlapped by mining sites 77

(potential, prospected or under exploitation). In additional, 32 ITs under study are overlapped by mining sites. Some individual ITs are subject to more than 500 mining requests, such as the Yanomami in Alto Rio Negro and Zoé. Areas under study are also vulnerable to mining concessions, especially in the current era of President Bolsonaro’s new policy regime. The mining sector has been associated with drug dealing and ultimately with capitalistic geopolitics as a whole (Kopenawa & Albert, 2010). Figure 4-5 presents data from my GIS generated data base showing proximity of mining requests to ITs.

Figure 4-5. Map of proximity of mining requests to indigenous territories.

Figure 4-6. Map of IT Xikrin do Caeté and surrounding mining sites

Mining in Amazonia has caused irreversible social-environmental impacts, including community displacement, contamination of soil and waterbodies, land grabbing, and so on

(Svampa, 2019). It is important to note that since 2003 indigenous peoples have officially requested governmental regulation over local ‘small-scale’ mining operations as well as the provision of technical support and capacity building, since FC/88 allows this local economic activity (Barreto Filho, 2003). Currently, hundreds of mining sites (potential, in operation or prospected) are situated close to indigenous territories. Figure 4-6 provides an example, with

97 mining requests to operate inside the IT Xikrin do Caeté, which is already surrounded by mining sites. Another factor indicative of disintegrating forces at a more regional scale is proximity to mining site, as depicted in Figure 4-7.

Figure 4-7. Map of proximity of mining sites to indigenous territories

Statistical Analysis: Logistic Regression

For my statistical analysis, I attempted to explain correlations between legal status of the IT, and a set of independent variables indicated primarily the intensity of dis-integrating distal forces. This experiment was motivated by the following research questions:

1) What proximate factors (e.g., nearness to roads, agricultural land use, etc.) affect the territorial status of Amazônia’s ITs?

2) What are the fundamental processes producing deterritorialization within the indigenous territories of Amazonia?

For observations, I considered ITs in some stage of official recognition (N=432) and took territorial status as a discrete dependent variable. Although I anticipated implementing an ordered logistic regression, the number of ITs that had achieved registration was very high, which significantly depleted observation sin the other stages of official IT territorialization under FUNAI. Consequently, I defined my dependent variable, y, in a binary format in which the “modelled event” is taken as the stage, registration, and all other states

are classified as 0. I implemented a logistic regression since ordinary least square regression is not appropriate for a categorical dependent variable. I have chosen to report results (Table

4-2) using the odds ratio, which represents the default output for the software implemented,

Stata (version 14.0). I imported the dataset in excel file format keeping the first row as the variables’ names. Then, I labelled all the variables and checked the storage type for each variable as well as the display format to ensure there were no string values. Next, I ran tests for multicollinearity and eliminated variables accordingly. I also eliminated observations for which key independent variables showed missing values. Ultimately, I worked with 373 observations. My approach was fundamentally exploratory, in that I was interested in which variables would show significance. Nevertheless, I proceeded with a generalized hypothesis that “remoteness” from development frontiers would enhance the probability of registration.

Table 4-2. Results of Logistic Regression LR chi2(7) = 38.73 Prob > chi2 = 0.0000 Log likelihood = -129.31001 Pseudo R2 = 0.1302 LegStat Odds Ratio Std. Err. z P>|z| [95% Conf. Interval] PopDen 945426.3 8284939 1.57 0.116 .0328396 2.72e+13 DistDam .9993847 .0011923 -0.52 0.606 .9970505 1.001724 DistMin 1.005499 .0056838 0.97 0.332 .9944207 1.016701 DistRoad 1.00427 .0088881 0.48 0.630 .9870002 1.021843 OverPA .2452905 .0968226 -3.56 0.000 .113159 .531707 Restudy .1842782 .0863346 -3.61 0.000 .0736573 .4615971 Agri .6920461 .2668859 -0.95 0.340 .3249909 1.473665 _Cons 8.090176 3.32936 5.08 0.000 3.611278 18.124

The results presented in Table 4-2 indicate that the model overall is significant, based on the chi2 statistic which shows a very low significance probability. A Pseudo R2 of 0.1302 is acceptable, since values for logistic regression are considers “good” when the exceed 0.20.

Of the variables that made it into the model, only IT overlapping protected areas (OverPA:

Yes=1/No=0) and IT that are currently being re-studied (Restudy: Yes=1/No=0) are significant, disregarding the constant. The z values are negative (i.e., Odds Rations are <1) which indicates that if the IT overlaps a protected area or has been subject to a restudy, it is less likely to be registered. In general, the remoteness variables (Distance to Mines and to

Roads) behaved as hypothesized, showing positive z-scores, indicating that with distance from a mine or a road, the probability of registration goes up. Nevertheless, associated - probabilities were insignificant, although distance to mine might be considered suggestive with a two-tailed test ( = .332/2 = ~0.16). Distance to dams manifests a perverse result with respect to the remoteness hypothesis. As for other variables, population density is borderline significant in a two-tailed test ( = .116/2 = ~.058), which stands to reason under the assumption that a higher density likely associated with more political force than lower density. If this is the explanation, then the results confirm the importance of endogenous integrating forces in consolidating the integrity of the IT. This could be interpreted as a higher political articulation derived from IT with bigger population. However, this assumption could be simplistic in understanding the many ethnicities that may comprise one single IT.

Although results show significance for the variables overlapping protected areas and

Restudy, the question remains as to their substantive importance. If overlap with a protected area reduces the probability of registration, then by how much does it reduce it? A similar question can be posed for Restudy. To address such questions, I undertook a margins analysis within the context of predictive probabilities. Such an analysis uses regression results and the model to predict probabilities in each category of the variable in question, holding all others to their mean values. In the case of overlap, I find that the probability of registration without overlap is .98, while it is .97 with overlap, as calculated when all other independent variables are set to their mean. This is not much of an effect. For Restudy, I find that the probability of registration without one is .98, and .89 with one. Although showing a stronger effect than overlap, the reduction in the probability of registration following a restudy remains modest.

In general, I conclude that these results are weaker than expected. I offer two considerations. The first is that it is easy to conceptually conflate IT legal state with IT

ecological condition. For example, ITs far from dams may be environmentally intact even if they have not achieved registration. The second consideration is that ITs appear to have been created in sets according to political administration. Additional analyses should address this issue, identifying appropriate dummy variables for testing purposes. In such a situation, results could show that once the political period is controlled for, other likely explanatory variables show significance.

CHAPTER 5 THE HISTORY OF A’UWE UPTABI TERRITORIALIZATION

Figure 5-1. Map of Danhimipari Village

The A’uwe Uptabi communities, much like the spaces they occupy, are not static and their relationships with the tools of modernity reflect this heterogeneity. Their past experiences of dealing with deterritorializing forces inspires construction of spaces that are essential for A’uwe Uptabi socio-ecological wellbeing. In the past few decades, A’uwe

Uptabi communities have been in constant struggle for territorial maintenance with these territorializing and deterritorializing forces. The aim of this chapter is to understand these engagements and how they influence A’uwe Uptabi territorialization, including the creation of their contemporary ITs. The empirical data presented in this chapter come from my engagements with Danhimipari, a village situated in the heart of Sao Marcos Indigenous

Reserve, home of around 500 A’uwe Uptabi who were displaced from their ancestral land during the military regime (Figure 5-1).

The A’uwe Uptabi Pre and Post-Contact

The A’uwe Uptabi – often celebrated as primordial national icons – are remarkably prominent in the Brazilian media. “If a non-indigenous Brazilian citizen knows the name of one or two indigenous groups, chances are A’uwe Uptabi will be among them” (Graham

2003). The A’uwe Uptabi themselves have confronted state power in different ways, echoing their history of exile, territorial loss, and violence (Garfield, 2001). Currently, soybean plantations, pastures, roads, and highways surround the A’uwe Uptabi territories, and Rio das Mortes (The River of Death) which is their main territorial reference is targeted for transformation into an industrial waterway. This encirclement by Brazilian society is accompanied by an onslaught of the various cultures of modernization. The A’uwe Uptabi were once seen as “the wildest Indians” (Maybury-Lewis, 1968; Ramos, 1998) due to their history of territorial defense, when “male warriors bludgeoned interlopers to death - strewing their naked corpses as testaments of A’uwe Uptabi supremacy, xenophobia and masculine prowess” (Garfield 2001b). Prior to 1862, a group of approximately 4000 who were fleeing from the waradzu (or in English translated into ‘the white men’) settled in the Cerrado

(Brazilian Savanah (Garfield, 2000b). Ongoing negotiations between the A’uwe Uptabi and

Brazilian culture have given rise to different subjectivities that reflect the tribe’s socio- political diversity and complicate its response to the territorialization processes (de Oliveira,

2017).

The A’uwe Uptabi people descend from indigenes that split from the original Akwe group that also contained the current Xerente. The literature describes the A’uwe Uptabi historically as a migratory people whose mobility has been threatened by, and has been a threat to, other Amerindian groups (Garfield, 2001b) and colonizers (Lopes da Silva, 1984).

However, since the mid-19th century they have been largely sedentary, defending their lands in northeastern MT, a region marked by intense development (Ricardo, 2004). The A’uwe

Uptabi ’s oral storytelling asserts that their first contact with non-indigenous people happened

“near the ocean”, and zomori (a condition defined by constant walking) is considered as part of their cosmological wellbeing, currently influencing their decision to migrate at certain intervals (Sereburã et al., 1998).

The current understanding of Zomori is as a vital element for A’uwe Uptabi cultural and physical reproduction through the act of walking long distances for hunting and gathering. It is during these long walks that the A’uwe Uptabi pass all knowledge down through generations, and where the identification of places unfolds in A’uwe Uptabi territoriality, occupying spaces which are defined as territory. During zomori the wapté

(young men) are prepared to exercise leadership, resistance, and strength. It is also expected that these young men will expand zomori into new areas, exploring new possibilities for hunting and gathering, and thus expanding A’uwe Uptabi territory (Gomide, 2013)

Curt Nimuendaju, a German-Brazilian ethnographer, produced a map illustrating how the linguistic groups are situated within Brazil according to their territorial occupation. The

A’uwe Uptabi occupation was portrayed as an extensive territory of the Brazilian Savanah.

Documents produced in 1975 by Francisco Tossi Colombina place these populations between the Araguaia and the Tocantins river (Garfield, 2001b; Lopes da Silva, 1992).

The A’uwe Uptabi ’s historical trajectory is a complex one that is only briefly explored in the present dissertation. The background I provide is a contextual foundation to the understanding of indigenous territorialization (endogenous) in the current scenario with a focus on the Danhimipari village.

A’uwe Uptabi history is complicated and has been written about by other scholars in detail (see Da Silva, 2000; Dent, 2016). The following is a brief overview of this history during the colonial period and the first republic, up to the second decade of the 21st century.

The history of A’uwe Uptabi in the 20th century indicates a linear trajectory of these

populations with the impacts of development. I consider the “National Developmentalism

Period” to be from 1956 to the end of militarization. The rise of Neoliberalism in Brazil followed the promulgation of FC/88 and initiated incentives to broad sectors with large impacts on land usage, such as cattle ranching and transport construction. I also consider neo- developmentalism as from the Colonial Period up to the Republic, after the rise of leftist governments in Brazil, in 2003,

Reports about the initial contact and ‘pacification’ of the Akwe people depicts the creation of geographically strategic confinement villages (or aldeamento in Portuguese) as mechanisms for assimilation that were developed in the mid-17th century (Lopes da Silva,

1992)(Freire, 1790). This forced settlement allowed the development of a network of unpaved roads for transportation of gold mined in the Tocantins-Araguaia basin (Artiaga,

1947; Fonseca, 1948; Magalhães, 1863)., After the decline of mining operations the roads opened room for agriculture and cattle expansion (Lopes da Silva, 1992). Initial depictions of the A’uwe Uptabi (or Chavante as described in the first reports) portray them as tamed and servile, tender and affectionate (Freire, 1790). Later texts, however, report them as wild hostiles, aggressive and weary of the presence of waradzu , the “white man” in A’uwe Uptabi

’s language (Fonseca, 1948). This noted behavioral contrast evidently marks the split of

A’uwe Uptabi from the Akwe, which occurred during an attempt of “pacification” in the

Goiás captaincy. This occurred in the 18th century, when the government invited leaders of the A’uwe Uptabi , the most populous tribal group in the Araguaia region to the province’s capital, Cidade de Goiás. Voluntarily subjecting themselves to the Portuguese crown, thousands arrived with no clear intention of leaving; only a few dozen had been expected.

The government used military force to disperse them, and one of the groups surrendered, moving to an indigenous village created in Goiás currently known as Xerente. Others fled from Goiás and migrated west, crossing the Araguaia river where they avoided further

contact with waradzu until the 19th century (Fonseca, 1948; Lopes da Silva, 1992). Intense zomori and many internal fissions and divisions marked A’uwe Uptabi 19th century history.

Factionalism emerges as a fundamental aspect of A’uwe Uptabi social structure and spatial ordering. A A’uwe Uptabi faction is a contextualized social group constituted by men to address ongoing temporary political situations (Maybury-Lewis, 1968). The factionalism is a phenomenon that cannot been seen in isolation. The A’uwe’s life revolves around moieties which “oppose and complement themselves dialectically, express relationships between men and women, children and adults of one’s own, or of the other’s, house, lineage, clan, village, age-set, name-group, etc.” representing the way of being in the world (Ferreira, 2013).

Factionalism is a basic fact of A’uwe Uptabi life; it is part of the general social structure around which people guide their behaviors, their roles, and order their conceptual categories (moieties, age, gender, etc.). The factions compete eternally for power and prestige, and ultimately for the village’s leadership. The natural formation of factions produces a dominant group and a mediator to deal with emergent conflicts (Fernandes, 2012).

The A’uwe Uptabi domestic groups in the villages freely align in favor of a common goal.

However, when the objectives are no longer common, or when the alliances established are no longer favorable to the whole faction, a group begin to detach from the block that formed the faction. It can also occur that in the search for greater autonomy in relation to the faction of a certain village, some groups choose to leave this village and found other villages, while expressing support for the village of origin (Delgado, 2008).

As a consequence of this political social structure, the A’uwe Uptabi people spread across northern MT. A’uwe Uptabi initially settled along the Rio das Mortes, the last portion of savannah before the dense Amazônia rainforest (Lopes da Silva, 1992). A’uwe Uptabi territorialization went through different processes (De Paula, 2007). By 1862 the A’uwe

Uptabi ’s new territory extended from de Rio das Mortes in the south to the Tapirape River in

the north, and ranged from the Serra do Roncador (Roncador Mountain range) to a settlement known as Etetsiwató (Far Rock) near the Araguaia river (de Oliveira, 2017).One faction split from the main group to found the Wede’ú (Torn) settlement, from where further migrations established the Tsõrepré (Red Rock) settlement (Lopes da Silva, 1992). While in Tsõrepré,

“times were good. The land was red and fertile, the population grew, the village was very large, and the people lived to be so old that they were bent like armadillos” (Jr. et al., 2004).

Literature describes Tsõrepré as “the mother land” where the A’uwe Uptabi remained “safe” for the first 30 years of the 20th century (De Oliveira, 2018; De Paula, 2007; Gomide, 2008;

Lopes da Silva, 1992)(Figure 17).

During this time, different dissident factions left the motherland at different moments to then settle in other regions, and from these new settlements other dissident factions did the same. Tsõrepré was comprised by “a cluster of small factions” (De Paula, 2007; Lopes da

Silva, 1992), and from there factions left forming new settlements: Ete’rã’u’rã Wawe at the northeast, Wabdzerewapré towards the south, Arõbõnipó around the Rio das Mortes, others marched north to form Marãiwasede, along the Suiá-Missu river.

These migrations (Figure 5-2) were voluntary and spontaneous, with little to no pressure from colonization by Brazilians. Moving, splitting, and reuniting again has always been a common practice (De Paula, 2007; Lopes da Silva, 1992). Factionalism in the A’uwe

Uptabi cosmology is not seen as continuation of past political struggles nor as a necessary outcome of conflicts or problems faced by A’uwe Uptabi society. In fact, power distribution through political actors and the formation of social opposition forces within the core of social arrangements is perceived as the organizational structure itself, as a form of political expression (Delgado, 2008), and the oppositional forces of the moieties. Such socio-political dynamics continue up to the present day.

Figure 5-2. Map with flow of A’uwe Uptabi migration and factionalism (Source: Garfield, 2001)

Into the 20th Century

Contact with SPI initiated a sedentary lifestyle based on intensive agriculture

(Garfield, 2001b). A’uwe Uptabi interaction with the colonial state was disastrous for their population, and their numbers shrank to 1,100 by 1958 (Maybury-Lewis, 2002). A demographic rebound brought them to ~6,000 individuals at the time FC/88 was drafted, then to their present day population of ~18,000 (Garfield, 2001b; Instituto Socioambiental (ISA),

2018). This current population is spread over 9 reserves and 165 villages, which cover only

1/5 of their former land and represents a mere fragment of their aboriginal habitat which is estimated to have been 5 million hectares (Klasky, 2003), but comprises the largest indigenous population in MT. By 2012, A’uwe Uptabi had lost more than 70% of the total forest cover in their territories, which are located both in the Amazon biome and in the

Cerrado, mainly due to agriculture and cattle ranching, but also due to land grabbing and squatting (ISA, 2015). The Brazilian government intentionally and erroneously demarcated

A’uwe Uptabi indigenous lands as ‘islands.’ Such a predicament challenges A’uwe Uptabi notions of territory, which resembles a fluid and continuous space without "limit," open to tribal mobility, following the A’uwe Uptabi concept of zomori (Gomide, 2011).

President Vargas and the New State: Exogenous Territorialization

Sustained interaction with the forces of modernity begin under the dictatorship of

President Getulio Vargas (1930-1945). The A’uwe Uptabi were trapped, their migrations and zomori were challenged. The surrounding areas gave space to cattle ranching, motorboats populated the nearby rivers, Brazilians were settling inside their territories, and their fields were torn apart by explorers and colonizers. Aimed at centralizing State power over both the economy and the society, the ‘New State’ of President Vargas promoted “inward-oriented economic growth, state-led industrialization and political centralization”. Instituted in 1938, a governmental project called “March to the West” began (Figure 5-3). According to a vision of unity, this project sought to populate, develop, and integrate Brazil’s hinterlands, mainly the central western and Amazônian regions (in Portuguese ‘sertão’) with the rest of the nation

(Oliveira & Risso, 2017; Galeano, 1978; Garfield, 2001b; Hecht, 2011a; Jr. et al., 2004). In this sense, the government instituted the “Roncador-Xingú Expedition” with the aim of establishing communication links between central Brazil and the capital Rio de Janeiro

(Figure 5-3). Created in 1943,he Fundação Brasil Central (FBC) was the organ designated to guide and administer the expedition. Its objective was to develop strategically located population centers to enable sedentarism of both the nomadic colonizers and indigenes as part of the process of integrating the national territory. However, in defiance of the dominant symbolism of the federal government, the A’uwe Uptabi propagated the idea of a wild backwoods by avoiding any and all attempts of contact made by the colonizers, emphasizing that not everyone saw Vargas as a “guide”. Nor did they perceive the nation state of Brazil as their homeland (Fonseca, 1948; Guerra Galvão, 2011).

Figure 5-3. Timeline of A’uwe Uptabi and Development History

Thus, the A’uwe Uptabi emerged an obstacle for such a top-down territorial ordering endeavor and their resistance to the encroachments of outsiders led to violent encounters with fatalities on both sides. The government surveilled from the air while the military attacked on the ground: burning houses, enslaving indigenes, raping women, and kidnapping children

(Lopes da Silva, 1992). The A’uwe Uptabi by no means surrendered to these offensives. In a notable incident in 1934 along the Rio das Mortes River, they attacked and killed 2 Salesians priests who were attempting to contact and catechize them (Oliveira & Risso, 2017). In 1941 they also killed a group of SPI representatives led by Genésio Pimentel Barbosa which was attempting to ‘attract them’ (Fonseca, 1948).

During Varga’s government the SPI was awarded the largest budget in its history and appointed Marechal Candido Rondon to direct the National Council for Indian Protection

(CNPI I) which was responsible for promoting public awareness about indigenous culture and state policies. In 1940 President Vargas flew to the Araguaia River, the first Brazilian

President to set foot in the “central western region”, announcing “his desire to reconnoiter the territory of the extremely ferocious A’uwe Uptabi ” and vowing to “demarcate indigenous

reserves as mandated by the Constitution of 1937” (Garfield, 2001b). The New State, a nazi- fascist government initiated under Vargas in 1937, backed up by national propaganda through the Department of Press and Propaganda (DIP), portrayed the indigenes as a symbol of a unified nation, undermining all the violence these population have historically suffered, and the onslaught endorsed by governmental fronts, as promotion of assimilation and national integration (Hecht & Cockburn, 1990, p. 100).

The goal of the New State was rooted in two powerful aspirational needs of the

Brazilian nation. The first goal was to uncover and advocate for a foundational cultural kernel, which allowed the modern state to stop seeking validation and inspiration from

Europe. The second goal was to sanitize and romanticize the historic and ongoing process of state building, which required territorial fantasies to materialize in the perennial push westward, away from the coast and towards Indian land. These aspirations required a powerful act of myth making and a heroic yet subservient (to the state) subject. The Indian provided both (Garfield, 2000a). Therefore, in the early decades of the 20th century, the state produced powerful images of the Indian and Indianness to ensure the sustainability of nativist ideas of separation from Portugal, to bury the violent past of the Atlantic slave trade, and to serve as an emblem of positive state-Indian relationships. In the process, the state articulated the expansion of territory westward as a collaborative process of land transformation, spearheaded by Indians, state administrators, and intellectual thinkers.

The State’s search for both ideological and territorial legitimacy led to the creation of the Indian as a national icon which signaled a break from the overt colonial encounters of the past Thus, the authoritarian machinations of the Estado Novo were allowed to prosper under the garb of nation building, finding an authentic Brazilian identity, and the pan-Latin

American push to address the multicultural and multiracial contestations leading to the war years, 1939 to 1945. The SPI tactics were to create strategically located indigenous posts

designed to develop agriculture and ranching activities and attract indigenes to confinement, conditioning to the workforce, and to sedentary life.

Under Apowe’s chiefdom, the first A’uwe Uptabi leader to establish a pacific contact with the waradzu, 1946 was decisive to the future of A’uwe Uptabi people as it marks their

‘pacification’ following the first peaceful contact between SPI and A’uwe Uptabi at the

Arõbônipó settlement (Carneiro da Cunha, 1992; R. A. de Oliveira & Risso, 2017; Garfield,

2001b; Lima, 1992; Lopes da Silva, 1992), That same year, the new democratic political regime, under President Gaspar Dutra (1946-1951) launched a Federal constitution that defined a broad plan for Amazônian integration with the rest of the national economy

(Walker et al., 2010) based on competition, depoliticization and principles of laissez-faire (Jr. et al., 2004).

Despite this peaceful contact, the Vargas government was wrong to think that they had defeated the A’uwe Uptabi , and they especially ignored the diversity within their community. In A’uwe Uptabi cosmology: “A’uwe Uptabi tamed white man” and not the other way around (de Oliveira, 2017). A detailed description of the event confirms that only around 80 A’uwe Uptabi from a group of around 400 accepted the pacification agreement

(Fonseca, 1948). Shortly after, Apowe’s group moved their settlement closer to the SPI Post of São Domingos while another faction left, not wanting any contact with the waradzu (de

Oliveira & Risso, 2017). They did not escape the reach of the Brazilians, however, as in 1947 the state of MT granted concessions to the wealthy elite from the southeastern of Brazil and initiated a process of land privatization much of it on territories occupied by A’uwe Uptabi

(Garfield, 2001b). Atrocities against the A’uwe Uptabi followed. From 1946 to 1957 almost all A’uwe Uptabi settlements were forced into ‘contact’ due to land speculation (Gomide &

Kawakubo, 2005).

São Marcos Salesian Mission.

The Salesian missionaries have been present in southeastern MT since 1894. After catechized the Bororo and the Karajá in 1911 these priests aimed at converting the A’uwe

Uptabi . As already mentioned, their initial attempt at contact resulted in the death of 2 priests in 1934. Three years later a new approach was made with better results. This included bartering with the indigenes to come and exchange gifts, a strategy very similar to SPI’s. The contacts increased during the 1950s which paralleled the growing factionalism and internal subdivisions amongst the A’uwe Uptabi that were promoted by capitalist expansion in the region led by economic incentives provided by the State (Guiomar & Tomazello, 2009).

During this period, the first roads and highways opened in the region. At midcentury,

President Kubitscheck (1956-1961) implemented his Target Plan (Plano de Metas) to promote investment in roads, steel mills, hydropower, shipping, and the construction of

Brasilia. Important roads were paved and bridges built on the Araguaia and Garças Rivers, initiating a period of intense population growth in northern MT region (Figure 5-3; Santos,

2015). Land commercialization in the region increased under irregular land tenure regimes.

However, pressured by the SPI, the state of MT announced in 1956 the creation of indigenous reserves (Garfield, 2001b), giving SPI two years to develop the physical demarcação of 1 million hectares of land for indigenes (Jr. et al., 2004).

Despite these efforts by SPI, colonizers arrived in MT looking for opportunity wherever they could find it. Over a period of two decades they seized A’uwe Uptabi land and discouraged indigenous occupation of their own reserves. They even spread diseases such as measles, mumps and chickenpox with deliberately contaminated gifts (Garfield,

2001b; Lopes da Silva, 1992). Cornered by the State led economic push and fleeing from violence and death, A’uwe Uptabi sought shelter in the Salesian missions (Lopes. Da Silva,

2000). Given the high number of A’uwe Uptabi individuals and groups coming into the

missions, the Salesians officially founded São Marcos Mission on April 24, 1958 with a large group of A’uwe Uptabi initially coming from the northern region of the Rio das Mortes

(Guiomar & Tomazello, 2009). The initial re-grouping of different A’uwe Uptabi lineages with the formation of São Marcos marked a dormant state for the factionalism since there were too many leaders and a strong presence of missionaries controlling social and political dynamics (Delgado, 2008; Menezes, 1982).

The 1950s and the 1960s mark a period of A’uwe Uptabi subjugation. They were being ‘developed’ as ’better’ indigenes – “the small farmers, sedentary dwellers, and law- abiding citizens, who retained their indigenous virtue” (Garfield, 2001b). Education and the promotion of the youth’s evolution into Brazilian citizens were the main objective of Salesian work (Langfur, 1999). The first Salesian school activities in São Marcos were informal, relegated to a secondary level, an addition to the work in the fields. Absent physical structure, there were no strict schedules as class times was limited by the amount of seasonal farm work that pupils had to perform (Lopes da Silva, 1992) . The fight against diseases like measles and tuberculosis, the accommodation of new A’uwe Uptabi groups that came to the village

(Batovi group in 1964, Suiá-Missu in 1966), and the construction of the missionary complex all marked the first ten years of A’uwe Uptabi history in São Marcos.

Marãiwatsédé – The Last Frontier

In the 1960s, development aimed at Amazônia added fiscal incentives to its policy toolkit; these were first aimed at agricultural expansion and land acquisition in MT, under the auspices of the Superintendence for the Development of the Midwest (SUDECO) located in the current municipality of Barra do Garças (Santos, 2015). The Superintendence for the

Development of Amazônia (SUDAM) came to replace the SPVEA in 1966 during the

Military Regime (1964-1985) which had seized power from democratically elected President

Goulart (1961-1964) in 1964. SUDAM was tasked with promoting Amazônian development,

also using fiscal incentives as an instrument to attract corporate agricultural enterprises to a region viewed as economically risky. Under its I PND launched in 1966, the Military Regime sought to integrate Amazônia with the national economy. This was facilitated by a new law

(Law No. 4505/64) that legitimized regularization of land by the Federal Government in

Brazil’s individual States, particularly MT, Para, and Rondônia. These lands, in turn, opened the door to in-migration and colonization under the National Integration Plan (Simmons,

2002). More localized regional development programs (Proterra, PoloAmazônia, etc) further encouraged the region’s occupation (Simmons, 2002). Through the late 1960s into the early

1970s, colonization companies and cooperatives settled in northern MT, stimulated by incentives and subsidies offered under the II PND. Private colonizers were able to buy large tracts of land at very low prices, given the government’s desire to generate foreign exchange through agricultural export (Simmons, 2002). This dissertation defines this period as a national-developmentalist period, during which governments (national, sub-national) implemented policies aimed at increased production and productivity through industrialization under the institutional framework of capitalism (Fonseca, 2014). In the context of land privatization, the prices of land were boosted by the transferring of the national capital to Brasilia and the construction of the Belem-Brasilia highway (Garfield,

2001b).

Despite the general awareness of A’uwe Uptabi presence in the Barra do Garça region (Rodrigues, 2018; Wilson et al., 2017), the Suiá Missú farm (Agropecuária Suiá Missú

S/A Barra do Garças/MT) was officially titled as private property in 1961. This farm, occupying an area of ~700,000 hectares, was developed at the core of Maraiwatsede (Deluci

& Portela, 2013) home of the only non-contacted A’uwe Uptabi group (Jr. et al., 2004)

(Figure 5-3). The Agropecuária Suiá Missú, owned by Ariosto da Riva, a businessman from

Sao Paulo State who received financial incentives from SUDAM to initiate colonization

settlements in Amazônia, sold the farm to the Ometto group. The Ometto family, part of an agricultural elite from Sao Paulo State with business focused on the sugar and ethanol industry, was interested in promoting cattle ranching in Amazônia. The Ometto group together with the SPI, the federal and state government, and the Salesian priests decided to remove the indigenes from Suiá Missú (Wilson et al., 2017) to São Marcos. In 1966, following Ometto’s request, an airplane from the Brazilian Air Force landed in Maraiwatsede just a few hours after the end of the Wai’a, one of the most important spiritual rituals of

A’uwe Uptabi society. This ritual marks the progression of manhood “toward spiritual knowledge and power” (Jr. et al., 2004) and takes place once every 15 years (personal communication with A’uwe Uptabi leader in June, 2018). Brazilian military personnel rounded up 300 people, forced them to board the airplane, and “threw” them into São

Marcos. Around 90 people died during the transfer and the initial days after arrival due to this violent removal and the ensuing trauma (Neto et al., 2014).

By the end of the 60s, all the A’uwe Uptabi were officially “pacified”(Garfield, 1996;

Jr. et al., 2004; Lopes da Silva, 1992). Among the major transformations in their lives and realities were (1) extreme reduction of their territorial occupation, with the loss of important and rich areas for practicing zomori, hunting and gathering, demographic disequilibrium and

(2) the onset of daily interaction with and submission to waradzu. The transformation was also reflected in different dietary patterns (with less protein and more carbohydrates), a decrease in the frequency of certain rituals, and the control, reformulation, compression, and even suppression of certain rituals considered by Salesians to be savage and primitive. These transformations enabled A’uwe Uptabi to engage with certain tools of modernity through their circulation in waradzu spaces. The impact also set in motion many of their fears and aspirations governing their future encounters with the instruments of the state, while also shaping their strategies of survival and sovereignty ( Da Silva, 2000; Garfield, 2001b; Lopes

da Silva, 1992). But the A’uwe Uptabi territory remained vulnerable as a spatial entity.

Given the onslaught of A’uwe Uptabi population and the forced separation of A’uwe Uptabi groups due to State intervention, a form of territorialization promoted by the State was ensured.

A’uwe Uptabi ’s struggles over land were accentuated during the 1970s by the colonization projects initiated under the military regime through the Second National

Development Plan (II PND). At that time, the National State promoted land commercialization through colonization projects, and cattle ranching was established as the most profitable activity in the region. The only A’uwe Uptabi territories not affected were the ones involved in the A’uwe Uptabi Project, a government program for developing large- scale mechanized rice monoculture in A’uwe Uptabi areas (Galvão, 2012; Lopes da Silva,

1984). Development projects in the 1980s that were promoted by the First Amazon

Developed Plan (PDA I) and in the 1990s by the second Amazon Development Plan (PDA II) led to the expression of a number of social and environmental concerns, culminating in land distribution and social welfare programs favoring indigenous populations (Figure 5-3).

During the 70s A’uwe Uptabi indigenous lands were subjected to regularization processes through the federal decree 71.106 in 1972, followed by decrees 73.233 and 73.243 in 1973 (Delgado, 2008). These decrees demarcated A’uwe Uptabi lands into islands (Figure

5-4;Table 5-1), thereby isolating populations from one another. This period marked an increase of indigenous activism within the waradzu political and legal system across all scales, and the emergence of the indigenes as “conscious and vindicators”(Gomide, 2008).

Demarcação ended as a result of intense pressure applied by A’uwe Uptabi leaders and was marked by intense conflict with farmers.

Figure 5-4 when associated with table 5-1 gives in broad outline the result of the territorialization processes pursuant to federal interventions. As shown, the first A’uwe

Uptabi IT was created in 1965 and the second A’uwe Uptabi IT was created 20 years later in

1985. The Brazilian government only demarcated 2 A’uwe Uptabi ITs in the 1990s, despite all the new indigenous policies in place and the validity of the FC/88. The 2000s marked demarcation of another 6 A’uwe Uptabi ITs summing to a total of 1 and one half million hectares. The process continues until today, with 4 A’uwe Uptabi ITs in the demarcation process. Note that these demarcations occurred in many different locations, separating the

A’uwe Uptabi nation in different areas. This separation has increased A’uwe Uptabi mobility in order to ensure their social organization, as well as cultural maintenance. Table

5-1 indicates the current population in each of the A’uwe Uptabi ITs, the area of the ITs as well as their legal status.

Figure 5-4. A’uwe Uptabi Territories

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Table 5-1. Characterization of State Territorialization of A’uwe Uptabi Lands A’uwe Year of Population Total area Territorial Uptabi Category Creation (2003) (hectares) Status Territory Traditional Areões 2000 1.028 218.515 Registered Occupation Traditional Areões I Under Study Occupation Traditional Areões II Under Study Occupation Traditional Chão Preto 2001 56 12.740 Registered Occupation Traditional Marãiwatsédé 1998 781 165.241 Homologated Occupation Marechal Reserve 1965 551 98.500 Registered Rondom Parabubure Reserve 1985 3.819 224.447 Registered Pimentel Reserve 1986 1.789 328.966 Registered Barbosa Traditional Sangradouro 1991 882 100.280 Registered Occupation São Marcos Reserve 2013 2.848 188.478 Registered Traditional Ubawawe 2000 395 52.234 Registered Occupation Traditional Wedezé 2011 100 145.881 Identified Occupation

Territorialization of the IT: São Marcos Indigenous Reserve

The official demarcação of the São Marcos Indigenous Reserve (hereafter referred to as SMIR) was effective through the decree 76,125 in 1975, encompassing an area of 188,478 hectares and a population of 854 indigenes distributed in 5 villages. These villages were created as an outcome of what Delgado calls the first wave of factionalism (Figure 5-5;

Delgado 2008). During the demarcação, non-indigenous invaders were not removed and remained in the areas that they had occupied (personal communication with Claudio Romero in May 10th, 2019). In fact, the demarcação of A’uwe Uptabi reserves and the role of FUNAI enraged local landowners:

In Barra do Garças, public opinion protested the creation of the reserves, backed up by local media and the influence of landowners. FUNAI officials were threatened and A’uwe Uptabi people ceased to receive any public

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assistance such as health and education. The Indians were denounced as vagabonds, vandals, and cattle rustlers (Garfield, 2001a).

The first incursion of FUNAI in São Marcos was in 1976, with the aim of understanding the socio-economic situation of the Salesian mission, which in 1978 culminated in the A’uwe

Uptabi Project (personal communication with Claudio Romero in May 10th, 2019). The

A’uwe Uptabi Project was developed to implement State planning and amplify the missionary strategy of using mechanized agriculture for large scale rice production, cattle ranching, and commercial agriculture in order to reinforce “state power in Amazônia” by assimilation of the indigenes, turning them into farmers, controlled labor, and devoted citizens (Garfield, 2001b). During this period of time FUNAI questioned “A’uwe Uptabi s’

’productive‘ use of resources to deflect longstanding charges that the state reserved too much land for too few Indians” (Garfield, 2001a). As Garfield states:

FUNAI only thought of elaborating a Project for the A’uwe Uptabi Community [of the São Marcos reserve], because those Indians were a problem, and a serious problem. The principal objective of that Project was political: it sought to appease the Indians who always gave interviews criticizing this Agency (Garfield, 2001a, 2001b PP67).

After demarcação, The A’uwe Uptabi started pressuring missionaries to either remove the cattle from their lands or pay for land rentals, which led to the selling and distribution of the cattle herd, later negotiated by the indigenes themselves (Menezes, 1982). During this time

FUNAI was responsible for assisting the indigenes on health, education, and agricultural practices. However, intense contentions between the Salesian missionaries and FUNAI resulted in the missionaries assuming control over FUNAI’s institutional responsibilities.

This forced the State to respond to the legal instruments affirmed by the Indian Statute and to provide resources and funding to indigenous villages through FUNAI. During the 80s, with the implementation of the A’uwe Uptabi Project, FUNAI was responsible for acquiring cattle and seeds to provide capacity building for indigenes to promote a local agricultural and ranching economy. FUNAI brought cattle into SMIR and was responsible for trading and

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selling the animals. This led the A’uwe Uptabi to pressure FUNIA to form legitimate labor contracts with indigenes who worked in agriculture and ranching to ensure a sharing of the profit with the community (Menezes, 1982).

The 80s marked an uprising of A’uwe Uptabi leadership who mobilized politically amongst themselves challenging both church and state. Mario Juruna, a leader from SMIR, relied on modern technology using a recorder to “expose the double-talk of government officials” during both the demarcação process and throughout the A’uwe Uptabi Project.

This generated an international outcry with denunciations of human rights abuse against the

Brazilian government at the Fourth International Russel Tribunal3 that took place in 1980 in

Holland. Juruna emerged as an icon of resistance to authoritarian rule of the State (Conklin &

Graham, 1995; Garfield, 2001b; Ramos, 1984). Following such actions, other A’uwe Uptabi leaders started visiting the waradzu leadership in Brasilia and used the FUNAI headquarters in the Brazilian capital as a mechanism of pressuring the State. They were pioneers in developing political and symbolic strategies that allowed the indigenous communities to enter the mainstream media and culture (Conklin & Graham, 1995).

The democratization of Brazil in the 90s gave rise to a wave of environmental ideology focused on conservation. Indigenous groups, cognizant of a strategic opportunity, began mobilizing around ecological concerns and The A’uwe Uptabi began to be portrayed as belligerents and dependent on FUNAI’s funds. A’uwe Uptabi interaction with the State is marked by political strategies of obtaining and maintaining power to ensure loyalty in exchange for favors and services. It is also marked as one of dependence, which served as a

3 “The Fourth Russell Tribunal held in Rotterdam in 1980, arose in response to a need expressed at the International Conference Against the Discrimination of Indigenous Peoples of the Western Hemisphere held in Geneva, Switzerland in 1977,… which demonstrated that certain Nation-States of the Western Hemisphere practice gross violations of the rights of Indigenous Peoples. The Indigenous Peoples represented at the conference recommended that a Tribunal be formed in order that cases may be presented and witnesses heard to inform the world of the nature and effect of those abuses”. Declaration of Indigenous Peoples, !980.

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new mechanism of territorialization through factionalism (Da Silva, 2000). Factionalism developed during the 90s and was a product of FUNAI’s redistribution of funds and assets, affirming the A’uwe Uptabi ’s view of FUNAI as belonging to them (Fernandes, 2005, p.

92). In 2017 São Marcos had 45 autonomous villages, which means that each of these villages has its own Hö (traditional school destined for young men). This originated from what Delgado calls the second and third wave of factionalism that derived from internal politics and encounters with waradzu (Figure 5-5 ;Delgado 2008).

Figure 5-5. Flow of Factionalism in SMIR (Source: Delgado, 2008)

A’uwe, Territorialities and the Ró

Although IT creation represents a key milestone in A’uwe Uptabi place-making, one that represents resistance and political articulation, it is important to note that the A’uwe

Uptabi concept of territoriality extends far past the boundaries of their villages and ITs.

A’uwe Uptabi concepts of space resonate with Massey’s proposition of space as the “product of interrelations; as constituted through interactions, from the immensity of the global to the intimately tiny”, as well as the plurality of space as a condition (Massey, 2005).These interactions can be articulated through the complexity of Ró, understood as the territorial world. For the A’uwe Uptabi , concepts of territoriality lie within their concepts of space,

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which has an intimate relationship with people’s life due to its relevance for their social and cultural reproduction. Thus, the cultural practices must travel through an unbounded space, pervading all different space dimensions (Da Silva, 2006; Salles de Oliveira, 2017): “Both territory and tradition must be respected. Tradition comes before us and must prevail, must always move on” (Sereburã et al. 1998). This concept of unbounded spatiality contributed to and justified A’uwe Uptabi ’s fights against the reduction of their territories (Da Silva, 2006).

In the A’uwe Uptabi ’s myth of creation, Parinai´a, is related to Ró and can be understood as a representation of the A’uwe Uptabi ’s concept of a territorial world, which:

• configures spatially through concentric circles, in a spatial organization that goes from the Aldeia to the territory, or the world,

• has spatial distinctions, which operate and interact with each other in a fluid manner, making it a spatial continuum.

There is always an order when A’uwe Uptabi describe the Ró as the “space,” starting with the Aldeia as the most interior, moving to the crops and then to the Cerrado, together with all the “animals, plants and the spirits” (Gomide, 2008).

Some scholarship implements a circular geometry to depict modern representations of the Ró (Figure 5-6). Visual representation of Ró when elaborated by a A’uwe Uptabi (Figure

5-7) is also circular. According to Da Silva (1992), one can imagine the Ró as a sphere intercepted by a plane through its center. The plane divides the sphere into two semi-spheres, the light world and dark world, while it also delineates another circular dimension. This generates three elements: two semi-spheres and one circle. In A’uwe Uptabi mythology these two semi-spheres correspond to light and dark, the first being the Ró and the second being the world of other people, respectively. This division is also utilized in the measurement of time through day and night (2006). The Ró entails the A’uwe’s spatial organization where the

A’uwe reside within the circle. The circle is a special symbolic representation for the Gê people and reflects A’uwe’s concept of equality and intensity in social life (Coimbra et al.,

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2014; Da Silva, 2000; Garfield, 2001b; Gomide, 2008; Jr. et al., 2004; Neel et al.,n.d.; Welch et al., 2013).

Figure 5-6. Modern visual representation of the Ró (Modified from Da Silva, 2006).

Figure 5-7. Depiction of the Ró by Owa'u Ruri'õ (Source: Facebook Page of the Associação A’uwe Uptabi Warã)

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The myth of Parinai´a also emphasizes territoriality as a result of movement and mobility, both through interactions that materializes through the zomori (the act of walking) and thought the new forms of networks (Haesbaert, 2006).

Zomori entails the movement which the creators were performing while making the

Ró and the entire territory, and only through this creation is Zomori possible. This movement can be understood in many dimensions: (1) as functional: through the search for shelter in a seminomadic society and through hunting and gathering for subsistence; (2) as symbolic: since all traditional knowledge is transmitted and renewed to youth during the Zomori; (3) as territorialization: once the long walk distance forms a way of land use and place making; (4) as identity: since political articulations, factionalism, and spatial organization occur within territorial perceptions (Gomide & Kawakubo, 2005; Haesbaert, 2004).

A’uwe Uptabi territorialization through Zomori is a practice that culturally resists and adapts. It can rely on trucks for transportation and sometimes it can cause conflicts with the

Bororo –their neighbor “enemies”. Additionally, Zomori has influenced political decisions in

Barra do Garças and other urban centers such as the Brazilian State capital (Delgado, 2008).

The A’uwe see the urban environment as a transformed space, an outcome of colonization, but also as another frontier of exploration. The urban spatialization of their social interactions can be seen through different routes utilized by different factions to reach Barra do Garças

(Figure 5-8). It is also notable in the spatial dynamic of A’uwe Uptabi place making within the urban space according to internal political conflicts from 20 years ago (Figure 5-9). Urban space can influence and even dominate A’uwe Uptabi interaction with local governmental agencies, these internal conflicts within the A’uwe Uptabi were a result of political structure and competition for income from FUNAI (Delgado, 2008).

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Figure 5-8. Visual representation of different routes from SMIR to Barra do Garças taken by two A’uwe Uptabi factions in 2000 (Source: Delgado, 2008)

Figure 5-9. Visual representation of different urban territorialization by two A’uwe Uptabi factions in 2000 in Barra do Garças (Source: Delgado, 2008)

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A’uwe Uptabi incursions in Brasilia have a strategic political objective and encompass three separate goals: 1) understanding the waradzu; 2) representation of the self and 3) mobilizing the power of their myths. The first addresses A’uwe Uptabi engagement with and ownership of waradzu’s artefacts and behavior, as a strategy for acquiring their material and political demands. The second entails the performativity of A’uwe Uptabi embodiment through cultural artefacts and performances reiterating their position of non- subjugation to the waradzu, relying on their image of a’uwe tedewa (warriors) while engaging with outsiders in the decision making processes. The third refers to A’uwe Uptabi ideas of watsu’u (history and myth) and their goal of taming FUNAI in order to have their needs met. This is mythologically very similar to the way they had to tame the jaguar in order to acquire fire (Fernandes, 2005). This marks a new set of ideas that associated A’uwe Uptabi multiterritorialities beyond their spatial mobility, but also through the social networks built within their political articulations.

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CHAPTER 6 ENDOGENOUS TERRITORIALITY: PLACE-MAKING IN ALDEIA DANHIMIPARI

We were exiled here. We live like refugees. For 30 years we were marginalized by our own brothers that were already civilized. They had jobs at FUNAI, they spoke waradzu language, they were dressed and knew how to pray. We cannot measure pain. -Ihi woman from Danhimipari

In order to gain contemporary insight into the place-making processes of A’uwe

Uptabi territorialization, I undertook ethnographic work in 2013, 2017, 2018 and 2019 in the aldeia Danhimipari in São Marcos A’uwe Uptabi Reserve and the neighboring town of

Barra do Garças in MT, for a combined period of 18 months. My goal during this time was to explore and answer the following research questions.

• First, what are the set of practices and relationships that a specific A’uwe Uptabi community, situated within an IT, are utilizing to achieve their territorial aspirations? How do such practices address wider processes of regional deterritorialization manifesting in their IT?

• Second, does the IT, as an artefact of state driven land management and territorial ordering, address all of the community’s territorial aspirations? If not, then how are the members of Aldeia Danhimipari addressing this lacuna in their territorial needs?

• Third, are there differences in opinion within the community in terms of how the A’uwe Uptabi should be engaging with various processes of modernity and state building and what do such differences tell us about the diverse subjectivities that form indigenous engagements with such processes?

Ultimately, by framing my research through such questions I wanted to explore and understand the plural and dynamic relationships that indigenous communities had to different notions of territory. These notions include territory as a material place bounded by state validated boundaries; territory as a historical homeland constructed with memories of pre- colonial times and colonial encounters with the waradzu world; territory as a place both within the modern settler state and beyond its purview.

I used a mixed methods approach in line with Participatory Action Research (PAR), as part of a decolonizing methodology framework (Conrad & Campbell, 2008; Liamputtong,

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2008). My engagement with the community was mediated by a collaborative process, which allowed community members to voice their opinions about engaging with a waradzu (me), and how that could be achieved non-exploitatively (Chevalier & Buckles, 2013). The PAR methodology also served as an exploratory tool for me, allowing me access to the different aspects of the A’uwe Uptabi world.

My specific format involved workshops, focus groups, community map-making, surveys, and open-ended interviews. I found all of them to be necessary given the different needs of people involved, the contexts of each setting, and the very wide range of topics discussed. The workshop format was aimed at revealing and understanding A’uwe Uptabi aspirations, the history(ies) of their territorial formation, as well as the different mechanisms through which A’uwe Uptabi were involved in re/de territorialization. During the workshops, focus group activities were developed to further explore the nuances of the A’uwe Uptabi ’s territorial perceptions in different intra-aldeia groupings. The community mapping activities sought to produce a visual representation of A’uwe Uptabi spaces within and across their territories, as well as the different territorial divisions. I conducted the surveys to understand household scale dynamics. Open-ended interviews allowed me to address more individual scale issues and were a useful tool for addressing sensitive topics, often discussed away from the controlled spaces of the aldeia. Additionally, different research tools also prioritized different communal (and spatial) units. Surveys were used to explore the ‘household’ unit and focus groups explored different intra-village groupings (e.g. The teachers, the women, the elders), and the open-ended interviews focused on the individuals (Table 5-2).

In the sections below I present the findings of my fieldwork, in the context of scholarship around indigenous territorialities, mobilities, and place making. This chapter is divided into six sections. The next section details my methodological choices and how the community received each of my research tools, this is followed by a results section that is

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categorized into the four important findings that emerged during analysis of my fieldwork.

Finally, I present a discussion section in which I address my research questions and interrogate my results with existing scholarship. I end with a conclusion summarizing the highlights of the chapter and connecting it to the next one.

Methodological Choices and Community Engagement

Table 6-1. Methodological Description Number of Activity Method Duration Participants Design and implementation of Between June and Dadirri Method 6 A’uwe Dahöimanawé August 2018 workshop Focus Groups 50 A’uwe Dahöimanawé Community Mapping Between September (average per workshop Storytelling 2018 and April 2019 workshop) Oral history Engagement with the From April to June Surveys 43 Ri 2019 Engagement with the Non-structured, Open From September 2018 19 Ró ended interviews to June 2019

I had initially envisioned engaging with the Aldeia using a binary which consisted of a grouping of more traditional spatio-social units, such as the household or the Warã ,and a grouping of more waradzu inspired spatio-social units such as the school and the meetings about the existing registered non-profit. The communal space would consist of the household.

I understood that this separation would provide insight into the more nuanced, personal, and intersectional perceptions that the community may have about their territory, juxtaposed to the more representative and institutionalized view of their territory. I assumed that these categories would present very defined and bounded systems, highlighting different intra- community power distributions.

The initial phase of the research was developed and implemented together and in partnership with the Jucelino Tserema’a local school’s teachers and community leaders, using the Dadirri method. This method was developed in collaboration with the Ngangikurungkurr

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people from the Northern Territory of Australia, and combines some elements of

Participatory Action Research with more emancipatory and critical elements of indigenous and decolonial studies (West et al., 2012) This method is defined as a form of practice that is founded on:

knowledge and consideration of community, and the diversity and unique nature that each individual brings to community; ways of relating and acting within community; a non-intrusive observation, or quietly aware watching; a deep listening and hearing with more than the ears; a reflective non- judgmental consideration of what is being seen and heard; and, having learnt from the listening, a purposeful plan to act, with actions informed by learning, wisdom, and the informed responsibility that comes with knowledge (Atkinson, 2002, p. 16).

This method advances through a focus on narratives, permissions from the community at all stages, the designation of researchers and participants as equals, pre-decided ownership on knowledge produced, and storytelling(Stronach & Adair, 2014). Using this method the A’uwe

Dahoimanawe workshops were set up to facilitate the understanding of communal aspirations and perceptions about their wellbeing, engagements with the world of the waradzu, and their future as well as their own understanding about their territory (notes from preliminary fieldwork, 2016 and 2017). I conducted workshops over 28 days with various groups of people (average around 40 participants). The event was structured in four different week-long stages between September 2018 and April 2019, as follows:

• 1st Workshop: Rowatu’u – I’rada, Awa’awi, Rowa õnõ (History – Past, Present and Future)

• 2nd Workshop: Itsapronidzé - Waró (Trajectory – Our Village)

• 3rd Workshop: Róptede’wai me Datsi Tsõpēnē (Encountering the State)

• 4th Workshop: Ró’mado’o Pitsudu (Objectives)

Following the end of the workshop, I started visiting the different households to administer surveys and conduct open ended interviews. The surveys were administered to whoever volunteered to be interviewed, and explored seven different topics: demography,

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mobility, food security, indigenous organizations and territoriality. In addition, I visited Barra do Garças various times while accompanied by A’uwe village members, and during the commute I conducted unstructured interviews on territorial perceptions beyond the village and the IT (the Ró). All the methods utilized the use of a Free, Prior and Informed Consent

(FPIC) done verbally and recorded. From the total community members participating in the surveys, I questioned (N=43), 29 men and 17 women, 24 of them were Poridza’õno and 18 were Öwawe. The average age of the interviewees was 40 years old, the youngest being 18 and the oldest being 87. From the interviewed community members, 97% were married

(including the widowed), and of those, 83% informed to have performed the dabatsa

(traditional hunting event that materializes the wedding ceremony).

The different methodological tools (Table 6-1) are discussed in detail in the following section, contextualizing them with scholarship and addressing their utility for the overall project.

Focus Groups

Meetings with focus groups were conducted to generate a fluid, dynamic processual space, which would catalyze dialogue about divergences and convergences in intra- community aspirations about territorial formation, wellbeing, engagement with modernity, and socio-political concerns about the future (Kitzinger, 1994; Romm, 2015). Each time we initiated the focus groups, we began by setting the goals and intentions for the work.

However, after goal setting the development of the workshops became the responsibility of the groups themselves. Together they decided on the main topics and themes to be discussed.

The focus groups’ activities evolved through a community ratified process, and I intervened only when I needed clarifications. The group conducted the work in the A’uwe’s language and translated into Portuguese selectively, which means the community decided which parts of the conversation they wanted to share with the me. Additional translations were completed

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after further discussion and consent within the group. I noted feelings and shared emotions based on my interpretation of the group’s engagement, such as clapping after one’s speech, people nodding, silence, etc.

Oral Histories and Storytelling

I realized the importance of storytelling and non-written communication during preliminary fieldwork in 2017, when I met with the Aldeia’s representatives in Barra do

Garças to discuss how the work would unfold. I recognized that one of the key tools of infiltration and assimilation used by the colonial State was the establishment of a written normative (Roman Law) alphabet and with it came a marginalization of ways of cultural transmission and communication based on orality (Porto-Gonçalves, 2006b). Therefore, oral histories (Hajek, 2014) and interactive storytelling (Polletta et al., 2011) emerged as vital modes of communication between me and the community, and for me this was also a demonstration of resistance. As a researcher adhering to certain tenets of feminist and decolonial epistemologies, I was in full support of this. Keeping this in mind, during the facilitation of A’uwe Dahöimanawé, I intentionally avoided written exercises that would provide translation and complement the sessions conducted in the oral tradition.

Unless I was invited to do so I did not participate in the debates and discussions. This approach was due to a number of factors. Foremost was my lack of knowledge of the A’uwe’s language. Despite this, translations were not required for the successful functioning of the process and were done selectively by community approval. Additionally, my ethics as a researcher and responsibility as a guest in the community directed that I not interrupt an autochthonous undertaking, which supported a deliberate attempt on my part to not cause deviations by introducing a colonial and western scientific perspective of the matters being discussed (Spivak, 1988). Finally, my role was as a listener.

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Translated pieces of information and data provided by the community were only written down in Portuguese as directed by the participants (Figures 6-1 and 6-2). I believe this supported communal autonomy. Indigenous oral history is intimately connected to decolonization and supports communal self-determination and empowerment. Thus, it is a deeply political and cultural act.

Storytelling was employed throughout the events and created many moments of meaningful contemplation. Story tellers were usually the community elders, each of their talks lasted approximately one hour and filled the room with expressions of resignation, acceptance, pride, and solidarity. While they told their stories there were many looks of understanding and verbal and non-verbal assent among the participants. Thus, the story telling sessions emerged as a deeply communal and interactive process, with individual storytellers intermittently soliciting validation from the other participants.

Figure 6-1. Story of Danhimipari’s foundation Figure 6-2. Territorial Priorities

Community Mapping

This methodological tool was selected since the present research (1) entails a significant spatial element; (2) aims to communicate spatial information to various stakeholders, and (3) aims to combine objective spatial knowledge of places to our subjective perceptions of territory (Forrester & Cinderby, 2013). The workshop participants understood that mapping, as a social practice, draws on a specific body of knowledge to convey both material and affective characteristics of spaces. Additionally, Community mapping draws on

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many of the recent revelations of counter-mapping. Counter-mapping is cartographic process that appropriates normative techniques of formal mapping to produce maps that run counter to colonial and state validated maps (Syme 2020). These counter-maps articulate community claims over land, visualize territorial spaces using indigenous imagery and vocabulary, and present a visual-analytic frame that encounters historical erasures of memory and culture by powerful territorial processes and agents (Schofield 2016). Thus, community mapping inspired by such a vision has the potential to serve as a tool when advocating for indigenous rights. It empowers non-exploitative visions of spatio-temporal ordering and should be considered as a collaborative and just method of understanding marginalized worldviews

(Bryan, 2011).

Participants performed community mapping activities at two distinct points in the process: before and after the workshops and focus groups. The first activity was aimed at understanding territorial perceptions, and the second was aimed at gathering opinions on how the manifestation of different policies would or could catalyze different territorial transformations. Community members then utilized the maps to discuss territorial management according to the priorities they identified. Additionally, the maps were also utilized while discussing zomori and the Ró in an effort to explore different visions of spatiality and mobility.

Surveys

Scientific surveys were designed to understand local demography, mobility, food security, political strategies, and institutional arrangements about their territory. Surveys were conducted in each house (N=43) and since most questionnaires were answered collaboratively by multiple members of the household, the surveys focused on the household as the unit of analysis. The first version of the surveys was designed in collaboration with a local schoolteacher and were tested by five community members. The initial version then

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went through two different iterations and the third version of the survey was unanimously agreed upon by the schoolteachers. Subsequently, Auwe’s schoolteachers presented the surveys to the group, consulted with the Warã and after three days, informed me about how I should conduct the surveys. Community members chose the exact week when surveys would be conducted and decided that the researcher would visit all the village houses consecutively.

Every survey was initiated by explaining the structure of the survey, the duration expected, followed by consent and permission to record audios. Since community members refused to sign any papers, the consent was given verbally, and audio recorded. The interviews were done in different moments mainly while engaging with community members during trips to

Barra do Garças.

The methodological toolkit discussed above allowed me to engage with the spectrum of people, places, processes, and events that are foundational to Danhimipari. My engagement with the community, driven by both my research goals and the community’s needs, lasted for several months. In the next section, I discuss some of the results that emerged through this process. Furthermore, I situate these results under five overarching themes that surfaced. The categorization of the results under these themes is also my attempt to organize a very fluid and dynamic story of historical belonging and territorial aspirations that I witnessed in MT.

Results

“We cannot measure pain”: Creation of the IT and the Lure Back

In the 90s, the village of São Marcos, central village of the homonymous IT was divided into two factions: one was led by the cacique Aniceto Tsudzawere, supported by

Salesian missionaries and another was led Orestes Apsi’ré, son of Apowe and leader of the

Norotsu’rã group. The families from Marãiwatsédé were regularly humiliated by the

“dressed A’uwe Uptabi ” (A’uwe Uptabi indigenes who were sedentarized by Missionary

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settlements and had taken to wearing western clothes). During this period, many political struggles took place and ultimately the Marãiwatsédé families obtained their leader’s consent to move away and found their own village. The village was created in 1997, when the

Ropotorada – A’uwẽ Marãiwatsédé (the current elders brought from Marãiwatsédé when they were kids) broke away from Sao Marcos in a bid to regain their dignity, create a community they believed in and protest local leadership in the Village of São Marcos.

According to an ihi woman, one of the elders had a dream about the place where the new village should be and followed by six other men, started walking to the region to grow new crops. They built the first house and one shed that served as school and as a church during the weekends after more families moved in. Danhimipari simultaneously represented resistance to different forms of oppression and served as a place vital for the empowerment and collective construction of the group’s identity. Additionally, their cleaving from the larger community and search for a new home reflected their situation as refugees, and their desire to remedy this predicament by granting themselves land ownership and territorial autonomy.

From the total household members interviewed, none was born in Danhimipari. More than

50% of the interviewees were born in São Marcos village, 23% were born in Maraiwatsede and 27% were born in other A’uwe Uptabi villages (Aldeia Sao Jose, Aldeia Nossa Senhora de Fatima).

Danhimipari’s engagement with the waradzu world was gradual however, it was with the state recognition of the aldeia school that things began to speed up. Between 2008 and

2009, the local school achieved the institutional status, which allowed them to receive municipal funds, but its curricula entailed only elementary schooling. This led local leaders to politically articulate and mobilize for expanding the school by utilizing state funding and further developing the secondary school. This mobilization was strategically aimed at increasing the village’s political representation within the State’s educational apparatus.

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Currently, amongst local educators and leaders, the school is seen as a space for and of, construction of autonomy. Pursuing this objective, local mobilization has incorporated the

Political Pedagogical Project (PPP - national educational framework that informs the operational guidelines for educational premises such as calendar, curriculum and programmatic content as well as the methodological processes of pedagogy, evaluation and activities) (personal communication with school teacher from Danhimipari in November, 8th,

2018). Furthermore, as is legally mandated, every school must institute a Deliberative

Council in order to ensure the implementation of the PPP. The elaboration of the PPP together with the increasing number of youths in the village, has contributed to the inclusion of the Jucelino Tserema’a school as a state public school recognized by the Ministry of

Education (MEC) in 2010. From the total 43 interviewees, 38 informed to have gone to school and from those 60% attended school in Danhimipari. Many community members started school in São Marcos and continued after moving to Danhimipari. Around 14 participants informed to have gone to school in Barra do Garças and three informed to have gone to school in other states. Around four participants have pursued tertiary education after the conclusion of secondary school. The elderly claimed to have received education on the

Salesian missions only in Portuguese, others in both languages.

The storytelling about I’rada (history) of Danhimipari’s foundation was permeated by affective mobilizations through Datsiwaiõ (emotions). These emotions contained a mixed bag of feelings of sadness due to memories of those who “cried and suffered” and also feeling of pride due to the recognition of their “courage and vision”, using words spoken by an elder storyteller. It was during the day of the death, on November 1st, that we started approaching the history of Danhimipari, and the work was guided by all the living and the always alive ancestral beings (Graham, 2014). Historical memories about the past were built around political achievements mostly in pursuit of modern definitions of wellbeing, which translated

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into health and education. This also informed basic requirements for obtaining official recognition by FUNAI as an autonomous village, shaping the way local notions of territoriality materialized. Celebrations of ancestral belonging were made by affirmations of collective crops and sustainable crops and other vital practices mandated by traditional knowledge. These included among others, the making of the Hö (Abare’u and Nodzo’u), a traditional school destined for young men to learn all about the A’uwe’s tradition, cosmologies and cosmogonies. As a woman, I was unable to access any knowledge about the

Hö. However, there were other spaces that I was given access too and these revealed a spatial configuration that helped me understand the situated territorial aspirations of the A’uwe

Uptabi . I explore them next in detail.

The Places of A’uwe Uptabi Space

The places of A’uwe Uptabi space extend from the house (Rí) to the legally unbound territory beyond the village (Ró) which extend past the boundaries of the IR. Each of these places involves a particular spatial social organization and set of cultural practices. Each place exists in relation to the other but also provides certain foundational elements that are vital for the production of an overarching territorial design. The boundaries between these various places are not set in stone and are mediated by the disparate engagements between the waradzu world, intra-aldeia power relations and vital elements of A’uwe Uptabi cosmology. I explore some of these places below.

Community building in the Ró

Danhimipari village exudes an omnipresent narrative of history and its important role in community building and sustenance. Orality, dance and singing are present in all the activities performed by the community, through which they pass along important messages, concerns and celebrations. The symbolic aspects of each activity retain and express the traditions and the will of their ancestors, ratifying culture spatialities through social

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organization systems. These systems are materialized through specific rituals and activities tied to the different clans, lineage, age group and gender. For example, during the community mapping project, using the transect walks the group mapped out their territory by highlighting the important spaces for the wellbeing of their village as well as important places for their relationships with other villages and non-indigenous places. The village entails all the spaces, the kinship, the relationships amongst its members, the environment and the outside world, formed in a concentric manner. When community members were asked to draw and produce maps of the village, some places were repeatedly portrayed in all maps: sacred spaces, ceremonial sites, crops, functional buildings (church, health center and school), houses and the many paths that allow movement between these places and the waradzu world. The totality of this concentric spatial organization is the idea of the Ró. The village is defined as the most interior unit of the Ró and a contentious meeting point for the convergences and divergences between these places. Additionally, according to the interviews, the community sees such contentious engagement with dualities as critical for the wellbeing of their lives and land.

During the A’uwe Dahöimanawé debates between different groups constantly presented as a duality, which informs the fundamental structuring principle of A’uwe Uptabi cosmology. This guided my focus both as a philosophical concept and also as a practical principle, whereas all the discussions were elaborated in a “movement of opposition and complementarity”. For example, when I asked questions to the group, one person would stand up and talk for minutes in the A’uwe language and immediately after other community member would stand up and talk. When I received translations and after analyzing these statements together, I realized that the second statements were always opposing the previous statements made but at the same time complementary to them. In this sense, understanding the different political units of the village according to different groups was imperative to

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navigate their territorial perceptions. These territorial perceptions varied depending on the fundamental ordering unit: the households, the village, the IT and their meaning for each of these groups (sometimes separated by gender, sometime by role etc). Furthermore, I believe what complicates A’uwe’s territorial perceptions is the different emergent spatial engagements with different waradzu processes of modernity and state building. These engagements acted as spatio-temporal markers bounding and describing the different places.

Thus, according to the group A’uwe’s Awa’awi (present time), starts in 2010 with the school’s achieving state level and is marked by a dual perception of both success through the ability to adhere to modern realities and materials and a loss of traditional practices.

During the workshops the group described their traditional worldview and practices starkly distinct from the modern world of the waradzu (Table 6-2). Following their objective of addressing the dualities, it was agreed upon that to survive and ensure their sovereignty they would have to mediate a compromise between their traditional worldview and rituals, and the ideas and artefacts of modernity that were now intimately embedded in their lives.

The group produced a list of behaviors and artefacts during the workshop, which I invited them to categorize under: priorities, important and unwanted. Among the priorities culture, transportation and food security were highly ranked. Under the important category knowledge, communication and political articulation were most preferred. Drugs and alcoholic beverages were the only unwanted items listed by the group. Additionally the group stated that collective concepts and aspirations of their Rowa õnõ (future) entailed both material and affective realities that were reflected in 5 priorities: 1) local structure and organization; 2) Food security; 3) Ancestral knowledge; 4) Community Roles and 5) Land.

The priorities stated by the group significantly focused on the participation of community members based around collective engagement and the shared but differential responsibilities about traditional cultural reproduction. During the workshops more vocal

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members of the community utilized the space to spread a “Call for Action” among all the villagers, reinforcing the need of cultural valorization, respecting traditional practices and focusing on increasing interests for decision making on collective issues.

Table 6-2. A’uwe’s Perception about modern artefacts they use and traditional practices that were not lost Traditional Modern Ear pierce Hunt Watch radio divorce Haircut Gathering Portuguese Kitchen utensils Religion Mother tongue Fishing Blanket Alcoholic Drugs Beverages Songs Buriti Race Bicycle Baby stuff Guns Singing Wara Earrings tobacco Lipstick Dance Dabatsa Diseases medicine Haircut (Wedding) Handcrafts Borduna (cudgel) Hairstyle Menstrual pads Folk Dance Bow and arrow Cotton Glasses jobs Food Family Human Relations School Public Phone Addiction Adaba Food Health Center shoes Electricity Religion Medicine TV computer Oven Rituals Knowledge Refrigerator soccer Clothes Zomori Fight Motorcycle mattress Car Safety Irehi (life) Tapwater bags pipes Body paint Village cellphone furniture condoms Ropes around wrists and ankles technology contracts money

These aspirations were echoed by many of the surveys, which I conducted. The need of engaging with issues that are transversal to all villagers remained as a common topic brought by all households by using terms such as: union, togetherness, sharing responsibilities, respect to the culture, respect to memory, respect to elders, etc.

For the households, loss of agroecological diversity emerged as a major concern.

Around 60% of the households rely on local crops that are comprised of annual crops such as grains, fruits and tubercles. The crops are strategically located in the higher areas around the village with an average distance of 1.5 kilometers from the households. Agricultural practices employed are based on the knowledge acquired from the Salesian missionaries during the 70s and remain very laborious and time-consuming activity with production for individual households often not meeting subsistence requirements. Crops are mostly maintained by the

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aldeia elders, both men and women, who along with ploughing, preparing, planting, irrigating and harvesting are also engaged in constant protective measures to fend off marauding wildlife from the neighboring cerrado. As stated by an ihi women:

Before the Priests would give us seeds and tools, they would tell us how to plant and when to harvest. That is why we have so much rice stored in the houses, because the priests always told us we have to save food for emergency.

The materialization of this sentiment is visible inside houses where piles of rice sacks are stacked in corners, protected by walls of pumpkins and other root crops such as manioc and potatoes. Ultimately highlighting the communal notions of food security and food production many people stated during interviews that, “Sometimes food is not lacking over here, but may be lacking at a relative’s house”. This notion of communally experienced sensations such as hunger, pain, joy or suffering highlights the historically significant moral economy in place. Furthermore, agriculture also has a ceremonial meaning since the food is vital for the initiation ceremony. However, in recent times, as many interviewed community members mentioned agriculture is transforming from a collective to an individual system.

The culture surrounding hunting has also changed substantially, since the Salesian missionaries would not allow the A’uwe to go out on hunting trips and whenever they went, they had to be back by end of the day.

Beyond the scattered agrarian land is the dense vegetation of the Cerrado, broken only by the clearings and fields of other Aldeias which the people of Danhimipari describe as a continuation of the Ró. While the Ró is this unbounded communal space that contains many places and was traditionally the vital spatial unit of A’uwe Uptabi territoriality, the Rí

(household) is emerging as an equally important place. This empowerment of the Rí is in part driven by fractures in A’uwe’s communal structures that are catalyzed by intra-Aldeia contentions around engagements with the waradzu world.

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Householding in the Rí

Danhimipari is formed of 23 Rí (households or dwellings) distributed in 46 houses, one health center, one church, a school, a cemetery and the Hö (Figure 6-3). It is a typical

A’uwe Uptabi village, surrounded by savannah forest; it is located strategically in a semi- circular position traditionally facing a body of water, the Rio das Mortes. The village faces east which allows the open side of the village to receive the first beams of sunlight during dawn, when men gather in the Warã, for the first daily meeting, usually after bathing in the river. The Warã entails a movement, when men occupy the center of the Aldeia, forming a hierarchical circle with the ihi sitting in the circle surrounded by other ‘rings’ of men. This concentric formation guides the spatialization of A’uwe’s life, and its structure is spatialized according to functions and definitions of each place, to different roles within the community.

The places are connected from a relational perspective according to different clan and age groups. For the A’uwe, places have intrinsic history and cultural meaning. Collective understanding is always manifested through discourse and the political activities are always associated with the relationships among the individuals. These discourses are expressed in the

Warã, which is the fundamental political unit of the A’uwe. The Warã is in front of every house.

The Rí is a place of physical and social reproduction, which serves as a very specific unit of territorial ordering. It is where place making occurs guided by feminine dominance in both structure and decisions. The houses always belong to the older woman. Women occupy this space usually in an intergenerational assemblage of kinship. Husbands arrive from the outside and brothers must at some point, leave. It emerges as a place of traditional transfer of knowledge and is the most intimate spatial unit of belonging. Some scholarship mentions the presence of polygamy in many A’uwe Uptabi villages. However, this is not the case for any of the households in Danhimipari. The Rí in Danhimipari are not built in a traditional circular

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shape and have instead adopted the waradzu’s square architecture. The interior of the Rí contains a central wooden pillar and is covered by dried natural straw. The interior of the houses varies a lot but there are some commonalities. These include the division between the public open area and the private sleep rooms and a place for fire. Most houses are equipped with some modern artefacts such as gas oven, television, DVD player, radio, fridge and microwave. Clothes are not treated as personal belongings and are folded and stored in wooden shelves, together with bags, and are freely used by anyone within the household that can fit into them. Nails stuck on the wooden frame of the houses hold bows and arrows, maracas, strings, and the bakité (traditional baskets weaved by women).

Composed in an uxorilocal manner, Rís have an average of 9 people, with a maximum number of 20 residents and the minimum of 4 and are spatialized according to the moieties:

Öwawe (big river) on one side of the village and Poridza’õno (tadpole) on the opposite side..

The average number of children per couple is 6, with maximum of 10 and minimum of 2.

Figure 6-3. Image of Danhimipari village (produced by the author on Google Earth)

Most of the marriage ceremonies take place within the house, with only the Adaba

(bride) ceremony being performed at the center of the Aldeia as a public event. Marriage can

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only occur in an exogamous manner in which members of the Öwawe moiety can only marry members of the Poridza’õno moiety. Children are born in the house solely in the presence of women and receive the same clan distinction as the father (a patrilineal system). At the house, cultural rules of division, a fundamental operation for the A’uwe’s social equilibrium is acquired from a very young age, through the act of distributing food, weaving, cooking.

Rooted in their households, individuals usually identify themselves in relationships to other houses according to the familial lineage and clans, situating themselves within the moieties and the many layers of belonging. Behind every house there is a prominent backyard which are a consequence of sedentarization and now occupy an important role in A’uwe space (Da

Silva, 2006; Gomide, 2008; Salles de Oliveira, 2017).

Backyards are not places of importance in the traditional A’uwe Uptabi cosmology of space. Moreover, the advent of the backyard itself tied to engagement with the waradzu world, as an example of a space made through the marriage between A’uwe Uptabi and waradzu cosmologies of space. A few daily subsistence crops such as cassava plants, banana and mango tree are situated in the backyards. These areas are continuous from Rí to Rí and boundaries are non-existent, materializing only through the presence of household clothes hanging on clotheslines, and kitchen utensils scattered unintentionally. Mainly women and children occupy the backyards during the day. At night it is where couples get intimate, especially the youth, away from the public gaze.

Ultimately, the Ri emerges as a very feminine space, much as the wara is a masculine one. While A’uwe decision making may seem rooted in the more public conversations that are ubiquitous to the Wara, my field data shows that such decision-making stands on the relational foundations created within the Ri. Moreover, it is the women who are often at the forefront of such conversations, challenging both the waradzu world and the A’uwe Uptabi one.

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As my data pointed to strong manifestations and clear spatialization of gender roles, I will now present results of my interactions with Danhimipari women.

Pi’õ Tsiptede: Women Power

For the A’uwe, the Ri is the foundational unit upon which the entire aldeia structure stands. It is also the domain of acts of cultural reproduction regulated mostly by women. The

Rí, then, symbolizes an important locus of the political function, since all the actions and decisions made at the household level affect the collective unit. In this sense, women’s voices are seminal within and beyond the village. A’uwe women have been key to the physical and cultural reproduction, as well as the maintenance and survival of A’uwe people. Their vast knowledge of the crops, plants species, seasonal changes along with their knowledge of material manipulation translates into the critical cultural artefacts, such as the bakité (baskets used to carry food, as a crib for babies, used to carry babies), has historically ensured the viability of all the rituals performed by the men. These ritualistic celebrations serve to strengthen relationships of belonging for specific age groups and act as a key element of division in political alliances.

During my first stay in Danhimipari, women completely ignored my presence, avoiding eye contact and shut me off from any interaction. I felt as if there was a silent code in place, a customary agreement that would not, in any way, recognize the reasons that brought me there. With time, I started being invited to go to the morning bath in the river and gradually started being invited into their homes. Some women offered me meals, which would bring me to their households and opened space for dialogical interactions. Slowly, the thick wall of indifference started to fade revealing the one major commonality I shared with them: being a woman. This was further validated on my second visit when I brought my entire family to the village, A’uwe women responded to the presence of my husband and my

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son with a statement of a shared common understanding of the trials, tribulations and expectations of womanhood.

Women’s engagement with my research process began with the same watchful tentativeness that highlighted their engagement with my presence in their Aldeia. For example, during the first workshop, there was only one woman present who was the only female schoolteacher. By the end of the first week and with the conclusion of the first workshop, more women started coming to the activities, approaching me and initiating conversations. Women’s participation in the activities increased gradually (Table 6-3) and so did our interactions and conviviality. With their participation new demands started to emerge, together with news concerns and perspectives. These included concerns around long-term food security, their aspirations for building an Aldeia granary, accessing sewing lessons and procuring a sewing machine, buying kitchen appliances to reduce their household labor burden and normalizing sexual education.

Table 6-3. Average of Participants in the A’uwe Dahöimanawé by gender Gender 1st Workshop 2nd Workshop 3rd Workshop 4th Workshop Male 42 31 34 33 Female 8 4 22 16 Total 50 35 56 49

As the workshops progressed and more women entered the room, the soundscape became happier with the giggles of babies’ and the laughter of kids. I distributed paper and color pencils to the children, and as the atmosphere became one of comfort, they got louder, necessitating their movement from inside to outside the room. Crying babies were soothed by breastmilk and gentle whispers. Women’s active participation in the workshop was mostly silent, yet attentive. A few whispers between themselves occurred occasionally, sometimes followed by glances and at other times by words under their breath directed at the kids.

The ihi (elders) women participating in the meetings acted as spokesperson for all the women. This is due to their understanding of Portuguese as well as their familiarity with waradzu ideas. One of them relayed this succinctly by stating:

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When we were brought from Maraiwatsede I think I was five (years old). My sister disappeared, we don’t know what happened to them” an ihi woman says, frowning, “I was taught by the nuns how to sew and iron clothes. All girls were taught how to sing and pray for God and Jesus Christ. From them I learned cooking and growing food by placing seeds on the soil.

When their pronouncements were translated, they mostly referred to collective well-being, community decisions and concerns about health, education, food/water security and cultural reproduction. However, some of their speeches were not translated. Therefore, there was an unspoken understanding that some of the opinions that were expressed aloud addressed important issues of intra-aldeia politics, which the women did not wish to leave their midst, and the four walls of the room. As an example, an ihi women spoke for around 45 minutes, during which time everyone in the room seemed crestfallen. After she concluded her speech a few people in the room clapped their hands, and then silence filled the air. When I asked if someone would like to translate, no one responded, and we moved onto the next topic. At the end of that meeting, I found a note within the pages of my field notebook, which someone had clandestinely placed there with the written translation of her speech:

(…) Why do men have to play soccer every day? You must organize your time, leave the soccer for the weekends or for another week. What will you children eat? Look to us, the elders, the examples we leave, how hard we have worked. Make your crop, work to sustain your children. Everything is already very difficult; FUNAI does not give us tools. You have to care more ….

When discussing the interactions of the A’uwe in Barra do Garca, after a long talk between ihi and iprédu (mature) men, an ihi woman stood up and made a speech, sitting back down after concluding and translating it into Portuguese:

Men need to stop using condoms. There is no need. They go to the city and learn waradzu things and want to bring these harmful things home. Women are the ones who suffer because condoms stay inside their bodies and became infection. They have pain and have to go to the city to visit the hospital. This is not our way. They have to stop.

When asked about their role within the village the women were often silent. When asked about their aspirations for the village, discussions took around one and half hour to conclude

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and I was told that they would bring an answer the next day, a promise which they kept.

Thus, the women of Danhimipari over time actively engaged with the process of the workshop, bringing to it a sense of urgency and reflexivity that revealed how deeply they were engaged in developing the future of the community within the waradzu world.

The workshop space was slowly but surely transformed by the presence and engagements of the women, however I quickly realized that the communal nature of the space also acted as a detriment for revealing certain more sensitive content. These emerged during my one-on-one interviews and household surveys.

During the household interviews some women voluntarily stated their material needs addressing in very specific terms what they aspired for, stating that:

…all women want pots and pressure cooker, blender and food mixer. We also want to have washing machine and sewing machine because our clothes are very old and full of holes and our children’s clothes are very hard to wash. We get tired.

Such invocations about the harshness of their labor duties were often followed by discussions of ill health, which was a major concern for many women.

Women’s perceptions about the city was almost unanimous: they don’t want to be there. As one woman stated: “It’s too hot, too loud, too dangerous. People are very rude.

Everything is hard, things are expensive, we have to pay for water. I miss being here when I have to go there.”

However, during my interviews many men stated that women were increasing their reliance on modern artefacts, which could somehow compromise the traditional aspects of the village such as lipstick, haircut and hairstyle and menstrual pads. This point of view seemed to echo similar concerns that women had about men. Therefore, both genders seemed to be concerned about the other’s choices of engagement with the waradzu world and related these concerns to their fears of cultural loss and through it a potential decay in territorial autonomy, articulation and belonging.

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During the final stage of my fieldwork accompanied by my family I lived for a while in the city of Barra do Garças in MT. One day as we played in a playground area located in the Praça da Matriz (Matrix Square), in the heart of the city, someone asked me where I was from and subsequently, my reasons for being there. After answering their questions, I was advised to “be very, very careful, since these people are not a kind you want to mess with.

They are lazy, very aggressive and sometimes can be violent. Make sure you are never alone with any of this kind”. These people in this interaction referred to the A’uwe Uptabi , but could have referred to any indigenous community in Barra do Garças. This characterization matched the testimonies that various A’uwe individuals provided for me. The city was becoming a critical piece in the A’ uwe lifeworld with its connections to Aldeia livelihoods, educational, medical and nutritional needs, however indigenous people in the different spaces of the city were seen as outsiders by the local waradzu who engaged in various forms of othering, often voicing colonial stereotypes about them. In the following section I discuss some of these experiences and present A’ uwe efforts to extend their Ró through their attempts to territorialize Barra do Garças.

Mobile Indigenous Lives

Indigenous people are omnipresent in Barra do Garças, walking in the streets, shopping at stores, supermarkets and pharmacies, eating in restaurants at downtown, sitting in public squares, entering public agencies, banks, hotels and hospitals. There are around 1,500 indigenous households in Barra do Garças (IBGE, 2010). Despite this constant presence, the non-indigenous population in Barra do Garças tends to treat them as invisible and situate them within prevalent negative stereotypes while constantly questioning the validity of their indigeneity. According to conversations, I had with waradzu in the city, Indigenous people are supposed to be principally anti-modern and anti-waradzu, eschewing all the trappings of the waradzu world if they want to retain their indigenous identity, which most people saw as

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a monolithic cultural cosmology, in stark contrast to the processes of state building and industrial development. Such views reflect a national imaginary about indigenes which freezes them in a temporal box of tradition and places them in a static historical space

(Maher, 2016). In the words of the woman from the playground, “If they really cared about nature, they would not spend so much time in our city”. A’uwe Uptabi people in Barra do

Garças face constant racial discrimination in many forms and it is common to have the waradzu associate indigenous presence with dirt and danger and something which can devalue their assets. For example, when A’uwe leaders came to meet me at a local hotel in

Barra do Garças where I was staying, the hotel’s front desk inquired if they would remain in the hotel and for how long. They added: “We ask because this may affect our reputation and because we have to arrange for cleaning after they live the premises.”

Later that evening, while asking the front desk about options for dinner in the nearby area I was advised to:“… avoid walking around until very late since there will only be prostitutes, indians and drunk people in the streets.”

Many non-indigenous people in the city stated concern about alcoholic consumption by the indigenes. While visiting a A’uwe Uptabi family who live in Barra do Garças, for a birthday celebration, I was asked to buy beer. The family explained: “They do not sell alcohol to indigenes. Either you go get the beer or we have to go to other place where we know the owner”. When asked about their perception in relationship with the waradzu in

Barra do Garças 73% of the A’uwe informed that they face racism and are not treated well by non-indigenous. Racism seems to be more towards men. However, since men occupy more public spaces and deal with a wider range of waradzu while women mainly deal with the waradzu in medical facilities. Their perceptions in regard to visiting the city varies between gender. Women are more likely to affirm they enjoy going to the city because that is where the better medical treatment is. Moreover, men affirm they would like to live in the city since

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they all believe that getting a job would allow them to increase their financial contribution to the household. Among the ones who informed to want to live in Barra, education was the main reason, followed by medical reasons, job and income generation (Table 6-4).

Table 6-4. Percentage of different perceptions in regard to the nearest city by gender Question Women (N=17) Men (N=29) YES NO N/A YES NO N/A Would you like to live in the city? 23% 77% 0 48% 14% 38% Do you like to go to the city? 53% 41% 6% 7% 62% 31% Are you welcome in the city? 47% 23% 30% 17% 52% 31%

A’uwe associate the use of Portuguese language with their mobility within the urban space. 100% of the women stated that Portuguese was important when talking to doctors, nurses or other health related personnel. The A’uwe seem proud to be bilingual and frequently state that most waradzu can only speak Portuguese. Among the reasoning for A’uwe’s mobility: work, attend school or courses, commercial transactions, visiting family, medical reasons and access to income were the main reasons provided. Most travel was undertaken through public transportation, freight or hitchhiking with relatives or the government agency’s car.

Results from the surveys show that 100% of village’s households rely on the city for acquiring food. These commercial transactions are performed monthly by members of households who go to the city to receive their salaries (associated with public funding about health and education); pension funds (aposentadoria) and cash transfers from a social welfare program of the federal government (Bolsa Familia).. These funds cover the household monthly food intake and transportation costs. An average of 2.5 meals are consumed by each household, with some of them clearly stating the shift towards modern food intake, since historically their tradition was just one meal per day: “Now we eat like waradzu. It is more tasty but gives us more diseases. A lot of people here have diabetes, high blood pressure and even go blind because of waradzu food” I was informed that the supermarkets where they acquire goods are always the same, since those are the places “…that can be trusted”,

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referring to the lack of trust the A’uwe hold in regard to commercial establishments due to

Operation Aldeia Livre conducted by the Brazilian Federal Police in Barra do Garças in

2008. This operation investigated commercial establishments that had procured cards from the Bolsa Família Program and the INSS (social security), along with personal documents from A’uwe Uptabi people hailing from different villages in the region. With the cards and their respective passwords, the entrepreneurs, personally or through third parties, withdrew the social security benefits granted to the indigenes by Social Security agency, as well as the amounts received by them from the Bolsa Familia Program, maintained by the Federal

Government (Marchezi, 2009).

Transportation of goods is done mainly by waradzu who own trucks and use their private cars for portage. They transport A’uwe and the goods they bring home, charging between R$600 and R$700 (U$ 120 and U$140) (equivalent to roundtrip in an arrangement called freight). Besides food, the A’uwe also purchase clothes, diapers, cleaning supplies, personal hygiene items and functional things such as batteries, flashlight and also entertainment goods such as radios, TVs, etc.

Among the households interviewed, income generation was tied to salary for different contracts all of them associated with public health agencies and local school (janitors, sanitary agency, schoolteachers, watchmen), pension funds and Bolsa Familia. From all the respondents who informed their source of income (N=21), 41% receive Bolsa Familia and

21% rely on pension funds, which means that the elderlies are financially responsible for the household substance. The health agency provides local jobs to people from 5% of the households and the local school, which relies on public funding (municipal and state) employ people from 28% of the households (Figure 6-4). Remittances from family members living outside the village and in urban spaces were mentioned but not quantified in terms of income source.

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Figure 6-4. Graph of source of Household Income

In terms of A’uwe’s mobility, the results indicate that only the leadership (N=2) left the village frequently, often to work on political issues, meet non-indigenous people and participate in protests such as the deployment of the Special Indigenous Sanitary District

(DSEI) A’uwe Uptabi in Barra do Garças. Most of the interviewees or 88% (N=38) said that they rarely left the village and two interviewees stated that they never leave. There was also a clear gender spatialization of mobility: among the respondents who informed to visit urban spaces, 63% were men and 37% were women (Figure 6-5).

Figure 6-5. Graph of presence of Danhimipari by gender

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While attempting to understand the A’uwe’s engagement with different urban spaces and processes (Figure 6-6), I voluntarily accompanied five individuals in Barra do Garças in order to explore their spatial presence and movement within the city as well as the reasons why. During these trips I was utilized as a free transportation option and was requested for

“help” in the cases described below. Below I present three vignettes that describe certain encounters that are representational of A’uwe Uptabi experiences in Barra do Garças . These narratives provide an insight into the myriad ways in which the A’uwe are attempting an iterative reterritorializing, dealing both with discursive and material structures of state sanctioned development beyond the legal boundaries of the IT.

Figure 6-6. Map of Current A’uwe Uptabi territorialization in Barra do Garças .

Search 1: Medical intervention

During an interval in the second workshop an ihi woman approached me to demonstrate skin allergies that were spreading in some of the young girls. One of them had a red rash that had spread across the whole body and she was in some discomfort. The ihi kept asking me if I had any “medicine for the skin” in my bag for them. After the interview at the affected girl’s household the parents asked me if I could take her to the city for a medical

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check-up. After the workshop ended, I picked up the family who arranged to lock the door of their house and give the key to their neighbor and drove them to Barra do Garças. At the hospital I was always the one who the medical staff addressed, even when the parents were right by my side and spoke clear Portuguese. I was used as a translator and a witness to validate all the information given by the medical professionals to the A’uwe Uptabi family in regard to the condition of their child. The girl’s infection had caused significant weight and hair loss and had led external wounds that covered her body. She was admitted into the hospital since intra-venal medication was needed, as well as for further examination. After her admission the parents thanked me many times and when I told them to stop thanking me,

I heard:

“We have been bringing her over here for the past 4 months. It costs us a lot of money to be here in the city, but nobody, no doctor, no nurse has taken us seriously. They have not examined her well. Never put needle to see inside her blood. All they said in the past times was to put a cream on her skin and we have spent so much money buying the cream. The cream for the allergy. But now they know it is not allergy. We knew it is not allergy and we told them. They do not listen to us. They do not want to listen to us. They do not want us here. But now we will have to stay because she will be cured. And they will have to work for us.”

The 7 year old girl remained at the hospital for a week until the fever gave room to smiles and the infection started giving room to appetite. The parents took turns in spending time at the hospital, while the mother spent all the nights beside her daughter. The father would go back and forth from CASAI (Casa do Indio or house of the Indian), an urban shelter for indigenes who need to be in the city under medical recommendation and their accompanying family. The child left the hospital and joined the father in CASAI in order to remain in observation for another 3 days before returning home. In 10 days, the family had spent over

$100 in food, medicine and transportation. Since I was in Danhimipari when the child was discharged, they had to pay their own way back. Upon taking my leave from CASAI, the mother said:

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“I want to move here. Living in the city will allow me to study and I can have a job. I want to become a nurse to help the people in my village. Maybe I become a nutritionist because I heard it is easier to get in college for that profession. That would also help my people. Everybody there have problems caused by the food. You know, the food from waradzu.”

While coming to CASAI to talk with the father or delivering food (he was giving me money and shopping lists and I was used as their driver for a week), I had the chance to see other families from Danhimipari staying there. One ipredu had brought his father who had high blood pressure. An ihi husband with his wife, blind due to diabetes, were waiting for their medication to return home. All of them with lists in their hands and folded money in their pockets, waiting for me to pass by to approach with both lists and coins.

Search 2: Job search

A widowed pi’õ, mother of a ritei’wa went to Barra do Garças do find a job. She asked me for a ride when I was leaving in the morning and by the time, I came to pick her up, her family started filling the car’s trunk with things. Pillows, blanket, bakité filled with cassava and rice. On the two and a half long drive to the city, she told me she was looking for a job as a security guard. Then she said staring at the unchanging landscape of the Cerrado:

“I am strong and big and people sometimes are afraid of me. I see that often in the city. One can always tell when someone is afraid. It is like the jaguar that can smell fear. Dogs can do the same, you know. We can also do the same, but it is not with our dahhitsi’re (nose)”.

While in Barra do Garças she rented a room at a house occupied by other A’uwe Uptabi families from other villages. As part of the rental she had to bring in a big gas tank to for the house’s oven, a mattress and contribute with the water and utilities. While job seeking, she spent 2 weeks in the city, constantly requesting me to communicate with her family who remained in the village. I would move notes back and forth and realized that most of the notes were a negotiation of her time and limited resources with her family’s needs. During her stay in the city, I was also utilized as an accessible transportation option. I helped her to design

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her CV in which she mentioned that she had previously lived in the city to finish high school.

Furthermore, she asked me to make special mention of her strength, stating, “Make sure you write that I am very strong. I won the iuwede, please write that there”. The iuwede is a log race and a famous A’uwe Uptabi ritual where different age group take turns in carrying an almost 120 pounds log.

She corroborated her prowess when she called me to collect and deliver the gas tank to the house where she was staying. When we reached the gas depot, she got out of the car and returned carrying the full tank on her left shoulder. She looked at me and walked slowly towards the car, performing her physical strength as a proof of what she had asked me to include in the CV.

When she was finally hired for the position, she had to arrange a copy of the house key. But she was informed that she would only be awarded a copy of the house key after she brought as proof a permanent job offer. Once more she called me and asked for assistance.

When we got to the locksmith’s store I remained in the car while she stepped inside. She came back after a few seconds, sat in the passenger’s seat, buckled her seatbelt and said,

“They will not give me the key. Let’s go! I have to get documents to bring here”. As we both sat inside the car negotiating the best way to deal with the key carving situation, melting under Barra do Garças’ 94◦ F summer, she informed me that a proof of residency was needed in order to get the key done. After this, she called the head of the household she was staying at in the city and hung up after a brief conversation. At which point she said to me “We will have to come back tomorrow. The same time we did today. I will be outside the house waiting. Now drive to the house”. As I would be driving back to Danhimipari the next morning and my trips there normally started around 4 am I informed her that this would not be possible and she replied “You go back to Danhimipari after I get my key and also because you have to deliver a few things to my family there”. Considering that, I had meetings and

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work that same afternoon I insisted to go inside the store and get the key carved myself. She agreed saying: “As long as you pay for it and that you wait for me to prepare the bag you must bring to my family”. We negotiated once more about who would pay for the key and after I promised to wait for the bag to be ready, she handed me the money. I went in the store and came back a few minutes later carrying two identical keys.

Search 3: Usury

While conducting the survey in a household in Danhimipari an ipredu asked me if he and his wife could come visit me that night. I was not quite sure what that visit meant since they mentioned that they wanted to talk to me in private. Around 8pm when the kids were all inside their houses and the sound of soap operas filled the entire village mixed with the barking of dogs and some coughs and laughs, the couple arrived.

The Abada of the household where I lived brought out just one chair. The wife stood up beside her partner. The ipredu told me they would have to go the city and needed me to go with them to the Police. They explained that the Police had their documents and they had to go pick them up. For a while, I hesitated in agreeing, since the reason why the cops were holding their documents was not made clear. They added: “During the questionnaire you said you will go to the city to pick up your family and bring them to stay over the weekend.

We want to go with you on Thursday”. Eventually I agreed to drive the couple to Barra do

Garças but stated that I would not accompany them to the Police Station.

That Thursday started early, the heat made me fold my hammock and go to the river at 6am. On my way back, I saw the couple standing beside the car with one bag on the ground. I told them I would still have to make a few visits before leaving and boil some water for some coffee. While driving to the city the whole story unfolded in a long explanation:

We needed money to come back home after coming to the city for buying groceries and medicine. Then the driver made a good deal that he would

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charge us less if we come with him every month, but we had to pay 2 months in advance for having the discount.”

He explained that usury was very common in the city and very easy to negotiate and continued:

We found that there were waradzu lending money to A’uwe and went there to borrow money. It was very easy, but after you go there once you have to always go there, and it is very difficult to pay them back.

He then explained that the amount of the governmental cash transfers had decreased after they borrowed the money and that the governmental agencies were not very effective in explaining why that had happened. He informed that they had come to the city many times to solve the problem and had the correct amount of payment fixed. He added, “Everything was going well until we came to the city the next month but the pension funds and the Bolsa were less than we always get. We went to the government agency. Nobody said anything”.

After finding other families with the same problem, they decided, collectively, to come to the city together and ‘occupy’ the governmental agency, determined to understand the reasons for this change in payments. While this ‘occupation’ took place, he went to the bank to have a copy of his bank account where the benefit should be received. To justify this he said, “The person in the bank can see everything that happens inside your card. They gave me a paper and said the money was correct and that it was taken”. Without knowing who took the money he came to the governmental agency with the piece of paper and after that someone called the Police. He recounted that:

The police told us to go home and come to FUNAI to check their name every month on the list there. Then many days passed, I almost forgot about it, but I always remembered it because the money was less and we had to buy less food. Then my wife said she wants to go to FUNAI and we went and we saw our names were there in the paper someone stuck on the wall. Now we have to go to tell the Police that our name was there, so we will know if the Police will give us our money back.

The next morning at the Federal Police Station in Barra do Garças, the wife told me to approach the front desk and explain the situation. However, the front desk personnel denied

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me an audience and as I backed off the couple stood up upon hearing the staff’s response.

They were told to wait until they would be called by the number given to them on a piece of paper. After spending half an hour with the police staff they returned to the waiting room carrying documents: “The police will not give us our money back, we were robbed” the husband said after telling me that a group of usurers were captured in possession of indigene’s documents and the Police was only returning the documents back to them. “Don’t be upset” I said, “At least now you will have your whole payment back to normal and you will not even have to pay back the money you borrowed”. He looked at me with a half-smile and replied “I already borrowed money again from another agent. That one has not been caught”.

The above vignettes clearly demonstrate the different instances of rural/urban mobility that reveal a relational geography, one in which modernity shines city lights on processes of potential deterritorialization. In each instance the significant entanglements between indigenous culture and modernity is quite explicit. Moreover, these entanglements are not always driven by collective needs or demands but illustrate the different levels at which deterritorialization forces may operate, reaching even individuals and families.

In the penultimate section of this chapter I situate the stories from Aldeia Danhimipari within regional scholarship on de/territorialization, indigeneity and post and de-colonial visions of indigenous autonomy and long-term wellbeing. This engagement with existing literature allows me to address the research questions, which informed this segment of my work.

Discussion

A’uwe Uptabi Territorialities in Aldeia Danhimipari and Beyond

Endogenous territoriality is the product of an iterative process which reflects the diversity within any community while challenging a static and monolithic vision of spatial

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articulation. Therefore, Aldeia Danhimipari can be characterized as a variety of spatial objects. It is a village inside a A’uwe Uptabi IT which allows it a spatial legitimacy within certain state definitions of autonomy and belonging. It is a village formed of many different households which contrary to popular state narratives, represent a constellation of aspirations when it comes to deciding the future of their lifeworlds. It is a spatial object, that exists as a certain scalar unit within a much larger vision of A’uwe Uptabi territorial cosmology. The different scalar units (household, village, IT etc.) don’t form a hierarchy of importance and appear to be equally necessary for the wellbeing of the community. But, how does my post fieldwork plural understanding of the Aldeia’s spatiality allow me to address my research questions? To begin with, I want to restate the questions from the introduction. First, what are the set of practices and relationships that a specific A’uwe Uptabi community, situated within an IT, are utilizing to achieve their territorial aspirations? How do such practices address wider processes of regional deterritorialization manifesting in their IT? Second, does the IT, as an artefact of state driven land management and territorial ordering, address all of the community’s territorial aspirations? If not, then how are the members of Aldeia

Danhimipari addressing this lacuna in their territorial needs? Third, are there differences in opinion within the community in terms of how the A’uwe Uptabi should be engaging with various processes of modernity and state building and what do such differences tell us about the diverse subjectivities that form indigenous engagements with such processes?

In the chapter that follows I answer these questions through a focus on the many examples of A’uwe agency when confronted with different processes of the waradzu world.

The analysis is divided into two separate sections. The first deals with community efforts to confront or amplify the forces of deterritorialization within the Aldeia and the IT and focusses on answering the first two of my research questions. The second deals with A’uwe territorialities beyond the borders of the IT and also their complex, multi-scalar negotiations

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with modernity and the waradzu world. The second section is focused on answering my third research question.

Territorial Aspirations of the Aldeia

Exploring transforming spatial units within the IT A’uwe Uptabi placemaking represents a multifaceted spatiality of belonging, surviving and attempting to flourish.

However, it also echoes the trauma of displacement and deterritorialization and is haunted by the dreams of a homeland that emerges as a product of historic processes and current aspirations. What is clear from my multisite engagement in MT is this: the A’uwe Uptabi are engaging in a diverse and seemingly contradictory array of territorial practices. These include the reliance on state systems of food production which reduces their frequent presence in various portions of their IT, their focus on Portuguese education which allows younger people to engage with waradzu institutions and actors who have interest in their land and their support for the idea of zomori (frequent migration) to challenge their current sedentarization and to reclaim access and mobility within their historic territories.

Additionally, their territorialization attempts are manifesting at scales and temporalities that are marginalized by a ‘hierarchy of territorial value’, which often valorizes international and

Brazilian (Latin American) notions of juridical relevance, western property rights and fundamental landscape governance units. Thus, notions of what I define as spatial liberation guide much of the A’uwe Uptabi processes of spatial ordering. This is an attempt to move beyond their state created place-based indigeneity in the form of the IT, while also holding onto land, as a remedy and refuge to their many traumas of dislocation and uprooting within a settler colony (Gordillo, 2011). A great example of this is the ability of the A’uwe to ensure a dynamism and fluidity when it comes to defining and producing different spatial units.

Therefore, the Ri, the Ro and the Wara emerge as very adaptable, their roles reflecting the various transforming pressures that the community feels. Each spatial unit emerged as a place

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of engagement for different issues: reproduction and food security (Ri), engagement with

Waradzu politics and institutions (Wara) and challenging waradzu spatial ordering and processes (Ro).

In Danhimipari the many acts of territorialization are more akin to what Lefebvre

(1991) calls spatially productive processes and challenge Deleuze and Guattari’s vision of state domination. These acts are not simply confined to protecting or reforming legally instated markers that bound the endless red earth of the Cerrado, but they are also values and lifestyles, institutions and relationships, subjectivities and affects. For the A’ uwe the boundaries of the IT are simultaneously a state sanctioned territorial guarantee and an artificial boundary, arbitrary and limiting. Therefore, A’ uwe encounters of the forces of deterritorialization manifest by accessing instruments of the state through the recognition of their school and by performing a reformed version of their zomori by engaging in various forms of mobility far beyond the boundaries of the IT.

Much of A’ uwe territoriality is driven by their search for belonging. This dialogue around ‘roots’ or a place of belonging is contentious and depends on the intersectionality of the interlocutor, as well as a complicated post-colonial negotiation between all involved. In many ways, as Coombes et al., (2012) state, “it is indigenous people’s negotiation of the hybrid present which offers cause for optimism” (p.693).This negotiation with the hybrid present through their engagement with the different artefacts and behaviors of the waradzu world was made very clear during the workshops. Over a period of many days, through stories, examples and experiences, different participants attempted to articulate how the aldeia should engage with their current reality broken down into a list which contained birth control, processed food, the internet and their language.

A’uwe Uptabi spatialities as mentioned before are not tethered to static or temporally defunct notions. They ebb and flow with the many organizing principles of social life.

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However, the state as an aggressor and frontier philosophy as an organizing principle, have managed to facilitate a hierarchy of spatial value. This hierarchy biases the communal spaces of A’uwe Uptabi territory (the IT, the Wara) entrenched in a certain vision of indigenous territorial ordering and assuming a certain homogeneity and representational equality in the building blocks of such spaces. Therefore, the Rí (household) is invisible in most narratives of A’uwe Uptabi territorialization and with it the incredible agency of A’uwe Uptabi women as powerful negotiators of spatial ordering. An implicit bias towards the Aldeia and the IR as fundamental territorial units of A’uwe Uptabi spatial life ended up marginalizing certain subjectivities and processes, which are critical in understanding the range of A’uwe Uptabi territorialities. While there is functional merit in resorting to this framing, making the Rí the fundamental unit allowed certain vital subjectivities to emerge. These reflected a specific code of conduct that was passed onto them through a variegated mix of church sanctioned rules around gender, women’s viable roles in state building and intra-community anxieties around (biological/cultural) reproduction. Most of my conversations with women about their anxieties focused on their inability to define and control (to an extent) the boundaries of the

Rí according to their desires. Changing these boundaries of the Rí implicitly meant an appeal for their own inclusion in certain spaces of the Ró. Thus, the Rí granted women territorial relevance.

Additionally, simultaneously, these accounts suggested that due to the growing reliance of the Aldeia on the cash economy, on purchased food, on urban livelihoods and on state healthcare, it was the Rí that was increasingly important for engaging with waradzu structures. This meant a slow but sure transfer of certain responsibilities from the Warã to the

Rí. Was this an articulation of a more equitable territoriality? As witness, I recount the transformation of the workshop space. Over the duration of the four workshops, as the gender mix changed, the space went from one where the men attempted to reproduce a shadow form

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of the Warã to one that increasingly resembled the unruly, multi-generational, multi-gendered spaces of the Rí.

In Danhimipari, as I set aside the territorial boundaries prescribed to me by colonial cartography, I visualized a different regime of places (Sletto, 2009). A vocabulary of spatial ordering emerged with boundaries that were differentially sanctioned and validated by different subjects and served very different functions. The important role that women played in the Ri regarding decisions around childbearing, the incorporation of more industrial agricultural techniques, livelihood options and health issues, came to the forefront only when

I shut the doors to the Warã. Additionally, the aspirational differences between generations of men was quite prominent which emerged when the younger men were removed from the spaces of the Hö and the Warã. Thus, on car rides to and from the city and in meetings within the city, younger men would speak more openly about the affairs with waradzu women in the city, consumption of alcohol and the various burdens of their intra-aldeia responsibilities.

Through these conversations, it became quite clear that different subjectivities of

Danhimipari (young men, older men, young women etc.) were engaged in very different engagements with territoriality, which often did not coalesce into a unified strategy.

Therefore, A’uwe Uptabi territorial aspirations even at scale of an aldeia were a function of various spatial unit and subjectivities, which while in consensus about the material and cultural threats to their lifeworld and their territory sought to engage with it in a variety of ways. Such intersectional analysis is overwhelmingly absent in scholarship on A’uwe Uptabi and indigenous territorialities in the Brazilian Amazon, that often focus on narratives of fissions and factionalisms (Chernela & Zanotti, 2014; Santos et al., 1997) and indigenous politicking around state driven habitation units (Garfield, 1997; Lachnitt, 2017).

In conversations with the A’ uwe the borders of the IT emerged as an artifact of the waradzu state and therefore was affected by the whims and desires of waradzu institutions

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which according to the A’ uwe were impossible to predict. The schoolteachers believed that institutional recognition added a layer of protection to their territory, but were also cautious about believing that the state would always honor this pact. Their conversations about their land inevitably circled around a ‘them’ and an ‘us’ and while for their fathers this distinction had been more definite, the lines were now a lot more blurred. As some mentioned during household surveys and interviews, they felt stuck between two worlds, outsiders to both.

Such sentiments were echoed by other members of the Aldeia during the group meeting. The trauma of dislocation and dispossession hung over historic accounts of their homeland, an affective result of deterritorialization, and in many instances such stories ended up being grouped together with stories of their own inter-group fissions. Echoing diasporic sensibilities narrative histories often referred to a more ancient land. At times, this land was

Marãiwatsédé, a place made deeply significant due to their brutal encounter with the state, at other times, it was São Marcos and at yet other times it was lands further east talked about in deeper history, all confiscated from them. The current origin of the spatio-temporal lines bounding the Aldeia, much like the ones bounding the IT as their current homeland, were a matter of diverse interpretations. These contestations can be traced back to A’uwe Uptabi encounters with the world of the Waradzu, which effectively rendered them refugees in their own land. The intense acts of zomori which many of them recounted from their history seemed to stem in a significant way from this encounter. While the A’uwe Uptabi ‘nation’ through intense struggle and tenacity had managed to survive the colonial state, their territorial aspirations had been permanently transformed. Therefore, for many of the A’ uwe the IT was a makeshift homeland, a temporary territorial placeholder, before they reached the needed relational equilibrium with the waradzu world. At times when the A’ uwe talked about their culture or their cosmology, it seemed as if their aspirations were a reactionary product, a statement against the colonial state and worldview. Such an ideology of mistrust,

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defense and counter factuality had a powerful impact on their aspirations from their spaces.

These dual forces of feeling like uprooted refugees searching for a promised land and an acute sense of mistrust in the waradzu culminated in territorialization that seemed to lack a scalar coherence. Thus, traditional sovereignty espoused in the wara in the evening meetings was followed with a dinner cooked with industrially produced food, purchased from supermarkets in Barra do Garças, using cash from state salaries or welfare packages.

A’uwe Uptabi territorial needs were in a constant state of flux and the IT seemingly just partially addressed what had been taken from them. Additionally, the IT and their Aldeia were as much a boundary to keep the deterritorializing forces of the state at bay as they were designed to keep the indigenous out of ‘civilized’ waradzu spaces.

Extending and Reforming the Ró: Territorializing the Waradzu World

The engagement of indigenous peoples with the materials and effects of modernity is a well-researched field in Latin America (Campbell, 2015; Hecht, 2011a). Scholarship around identity, mobilization and cultural preservation has explored notions of alternate modernities

(Uzendoski, 2005), indigenous urbanization (Mcsweeney & Jokisch, 2015) and plural nationalities (Harris & Espelt-Bombin, 2018) among others. During the workshops at

Danhimipari and my days driving the BR-070 and living in Barra do Garças, many of these complex and contested realities around modernity, belonging and engagement emerged, and were often hotly discussed by the group without reaching a proper resolution. To begin with, the group task that deconstructed the modern waradzu world into objects/behaviors that the

A’uwe Uptabi found useful, needs to be further explored. According to de Oliveira and Risso

(2017), “selective cultural adaptation” by the A’uwe Uptabi has been utilized as a method of pacification of the waradzu for many years. At Danhimipari this was on full display with strategies and actions connected to pacification entering the conversation on a regular basis.

However, this adoption of certain specific artefacts of modernity cannot solely be ascribed to

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a strategic vision centered on survival. Since such an explanation (inadvertently) reduces indigenous agency and mobilization as a reaction to the hegemonic overtures of a settler state

(Chernela & Zanotti, 2014). Amerindian societies in Brazil have been jostled by the act of colonial state building, but in the process have also realized that the state was not, and is not, a monolith. Thus, there isn’t an overarching and precisely managed directive of the state with individual institutions and agents all falling in line to execute this agenda. Additionally, the relational networks that constitute spaces across the territory require an engagement that often does not mirror their strategies of defense against state building. As an example, many A’ uwe households have a member that frequently spends significant time in the city. As revealed in my vignettes these individuals are often looking for jobs to better the household’s economic condition, addressing healthcare and food security needs of the household and accessing educational opportunities through the state. Such an arrangement while seemingly supporting the process of assimilation and fueling further deterritorialization of the IT also ends up enhancing the wellbeing of the Rí and in some ways can be seen as extending the Ró.

Engagements with modernity do not follow an overarching objective, and instead materialize as a dynamic negotiation reflecting the intersectional positionality of the fundamental indigenous unit (person, household, Aldeia) and the specific modernist artefact

(school, western medicine, transportation, and telecommunication). The workshops at

Danhimipari were centered on meals prepared with ingredients procured at city supermarkets, However, while some artefacts received unanimous praise

(telecommunication, especially the internet), others elicited significant debate (birth control, processed food, etc).

Analyzing all such choices is beyond the scope of this chapter, however I do have a couple of insights that seems useful.

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First, A’uwe Uptabi spatial strategies are extending their practices of territorialization into cyberspace (De Oliveira & Risso, 2017.). Their seamless maneuvering of platforms such as Facebook, reflect the realities in many other indigenous societies in Latin America. Is this an act of defiant spatiality? Alternatively, is it yet another example of an unequal and unmediated encounter between the A’uwe Uptabi and the waradzu world which could be potentially harmful for the A’uwe Uptabi or is it a tool of social-networking, allowing them the mobility to move not only between the daily lives of their kin, separated by juridical territorial ordering but also within the borders of the nation state and beyond? In the local school building at Danhimipari, there are stacks of textbooks. These lie around in mounds, barely used, acquisitions from the state public school system. Understanding the world of the waradzu and through it, the nation that surrounds them is seen of vital importance within the community. However, for many of the people within the aldeia the digital, social-networked space, built on fluidity and permeable and malleable boundaries, allows them to extend beyond the boundaries of the Aldeia and the IT.

Second, A’uwe Uptabi dialogues with modernity highlight unresolved questions of nationhood and citizenship. A’uwe Uptabi territorial aspirations are at times an attempt at parallel nations, where the waradzu state exists next to the A’uwe Uptabi one, and they are free to claim citizenship in both. This view elicits a vision where the world of the waradzu is kept apart from their own, both through the material boundary of the IT and through the different life trajectories prescribed for the members of the aldeia which address the cultural demands of A’uwe Uptabi cosmology. For many households in Danhimipari despite significant networks and engagements with waradzu processes and artefacts they never mentioned giving up the rights to their IT. However, at other times A’uwe Uptabi territorial aspirations were confounded by questions about the location of their homeland. As one participant at the workshop mentioned, Are we inside Brazil or are we beyond? What was

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interesting was that cultural roots and through it, personal belonging was seen by most to be a very black and white issue. The people of Danhimipari were A’ uwe part of the ethnic group that the waradzu called A’uwe Uptabi . If there was a hierarchy of identities people of the

Aldeia quite clearly put A’uwe Uptabi above being Brazilian. However, such a clear cleavage was missing in their discussions about land and territory. For the A’uwe belonging is performative and comes with a heavy dose of ambivalence. Therefore, A’ uwe may consume alcohol beyond the borders of the Aldeia but within the borders of the IT. However, within the Warã they strictly adhere to the behavioral code and no exceptions are made. As one young man said when I encountered him in the city late at night, ‘When we are in the city, we follow rules of the city. The city is not the village’. Thus, for the A’ uwe each spatial unit (Ró,

Rí, Hö, Warã and the city) has different rules of engagement. But, despite them stating that they move through each space slightly differently there appears to be a lot of tentativeness and insecurity when relating to (as they see it) the contradictions of modernity.

These contradictions are often not dealt with through militancy, despite popular imaginaries still echoing such visions. The questions around industrial food consumption or the vital presence of Bolsa Familia in guaranteeing material security is justified as an act that currently ensures communal wellbeing. Therefore, the choices that the community agrees upon today is not static and neither does it tether to romantic visions of a fossilized or glorious past. There is an acute understanding of the impact of the Salesian mission, state education practices and changing preferences around cultural reproduction. Moreover, the fears seem to stem from the loss of control. As one participant at the workshop stated, “These are tools that we can use…but we don’t want to be used by them”. Such fears also underlie the critique that some ihi women have about the obsession with football, which now permeates through much of Danhimipari’s male population.

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Ultimately, while many of the elders when gathered around the Warã voiced their concerns about the loss of culture and their ways, what remained undefined was the word

‘culture’ itself. Their concerns echo an idea that Sarah Smith (2013) mentions in her work with indigenous people from the Himalayas: generational vertigo. This concept explores the fear of the coming future, an anxiety about the unknown tethered to historic trauma and losses of autonomy. Therefore, for many of the elders who still remembered the brutal evictions, the forced conversions, the moratorium on hunting, the future of waradzu-A’uwe

Uptabi relations producing positive outcomes for the Aldeia seemed a complicated and dangerous task.

Ultimately, the movement of Danhimipari’s people into the markets and schools, hospitals and restaurants of regional urban centers, while being attached through blood and history to their IT, further challenges this status-quo, reimagining life on the frontier Southern

MT, as some scholars claim, is both a frontier and a ‘sacrifice zone’ (Oliveira & Hecht,

2016). It is a meeting point of massive global agro-commodity chains (soy, cattle), rampant ecological destruction of the Cerrado biome and a mélange of neo-extractivist land use behaviors (Grecchi, 2011; Jepson, 2005). While scholars point to the devastating impacts of intensifying commodity chains on this outer rim of the Amazon basin, to the A’uwe Uptabi, waradzu aspirations seem historically unchanged: remove Amazonian lands from indigenous control, violently if required, and remake it as a territorial unit of the modern state. Given this reality, the people of Danhimipari stated that they had been actively involved in infiltrating waradzu spaces for as long as they could remember, with the motive of being active agents of place making. They see significant value in creating networks across the spaces surrounding them, in many ways extending or maybe ‘reclaiming’ their Ró.”

Indigenous engagements with urban spaces and processes is well documented in scholarship exploring migration, urban-rural linkages and multi-sited/trans-local

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mobilizations within indigenous groups across Amazônia (Nasuti et al., 2015; Peluso, 2015;

Sobreiro, 2015). Additionally, similar to the experiences of indigenous people in other parts of the world, questions of authenticity (who is a real Indio?) and questions of belonging in a non-rural or non-forest landscape are omnipresent in many indigenous encounters with the city (Calestani, 2012; Campbell, 2015; Pieris, 2012; Puketapu-dentice et al., 2017; Tomiak,

2017). Such contestations are very much at the forefront of indigenous/non-indigenous relations in the city of Barra do Garças.

This city on the banks of the Araguaia river is not an ‘Indian city’, but neither is it devoid of the ‘strategic urbanizations’ of the many indios that call the region home

(Aparecida, 2003; de Oliveira, 2014). While prejudice against the indios is rampant, there is also simultaneous co-optation and commercialization of their mythos and identities. This is displayed in the dozens of tourism advertisements that invite people to sail down the Rio das

Mortes in search of British explorer Percy Fawcett’s mysterious region of disappearance after meeting with the A’uwe Uptabi . The word A’uwe Uptabi and different images of powerfully built and ferocious looking A’uwe Uptabi warriors appear as logos on buses, auto-repair shops and even the occasional pair of clothing. This heterogeneity within the urban space is also echoed in the narratives of the people of Danhimipari who have a very different cartographic nomenclature of the place and in a way, are engaged in producing a living counter-map of the city. This production entails a very different relationship with dwelling and ideas of home. Therefore, A’uwe Uptabi know places – streets, shops and supermarkets, where they are welcome and tend to conglomerate around these areas.

Simultaneously, many waradzu declare these areas as dirty, unsafe and dangerous. However, for the A’uwe Uptabi this accessibility is predicated on individuals and businesses, which are constantly changing in a frontier town like Barra. To counter this A’uwe Uptabi frequently update their list of people and businesses where their presence is welcome, passing this

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knowledge along to newcomers, who in turn also work to update the list and divide the city into places of welcome and places of refusal. In some ways, this is like the Negro Motorists

Green Book which served as a guidebook for African American travelers for decades during the Jim Crow era, allowing them to experience domestic travel using a very different spatial map of the nation.

Despite such challenges, the city offers access to a very critical set of processes and tools which the households in Danhimipari need for their wellbeing and future survival.

However, as Peluso (2015) puts it, they “craft rural and urban aspects of self”, which are then strategically deployed. In these deployments, the city emerges as a space where A’uwe

Uptabi individuals wrestle with the many subjectivities that they embody, away from the constant communal supervision and scrutiny of the Aldeia. These manifest as the consumption of alcohol or marijuana (strictly forbidden within the Aldeia), intimate relations with non-indigenous people, involvement with extractivist industries such as agriculture and logging, threatening the IT and indulging in other plebeian waradzu rituals such walking in the praças in the evenings, going to water parks and eating out at restaurants.

The A’uwe Uptabi engagement with Barra do Garças definitely echoes this

‘domesticating the waradzu’ aspiration (de Oliveira & Risso, 2017). Nevertheless, A’uwe

Uptabi encounters with modernity and the world of the waradzu are not neatly captured by these visions of insurgency or as solely the function of their defiance against an exploitative frontier. I believe A’uwe Uptabi definitely utilize essentialist tropes of indigeneity to access different forms of political and economic capital and to produce unity when negotiating the juridical realities of their territory and rights. However, they are also engaged in producing an alternative form of modernity, one that is pursuing various forms of cosmopolitanism, consumption and phenomena to see if they can be claimed/reclaimed as their own. In this sense, I see the A’uwe Uptabi place making in Barra do Garças as their concerted efforts at

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extending their Ró. This is an act of territorialization and one that maybe underway using a plurality of cosmologies. These may involve production of an indigenous urban space that allows them access to a waradzu life with its industrial food systems, private ownership and livelihoods not tied to the land. The quest here is to harness the ‘masters tools’ to see how they can be used positively. This notion was made clear multiple times at the workshops where many aldeia members saw the different artefacts and behaviors of modernity as merely a thing, which could be harnessed for good, or bad, and the waradzu had failed to use it for good. Additionally, extending the Ró also meant creating alternate refuges for the community. The people of Danhimipari had gone through multiple evictions and were ready to move again if they were threatened, which many saw as a valid possibility. While the city was not their ideal vision of a place to build a new Aldeia, it would definitely allow them sanctuary as they planned their future.

In popular waradzu imaginaries the A’uwe Uptabi are seemingly driven by a need to protect their ancestral land and culture but the A’uwe Uptabi themselves are not bound by such characterizations. For them the driving aspiration is survival and the transformations that are required to address this objective are overwhelmingly justified. Indigenous relationships to land are still overwhelmingly visualized through the prism of multiple points of collision between the indigenes and some powerful process of state building. However, it is rare to find a framework that manages to explore questions of territorial and communal sovereignty and wellbeing, through an assessment of the different spatial units that produce indigenous territory and the different subjectivities that are active in their production. While the IT is an important spatial unit for the A’uwe Uptabi , it is one among many, all of which are vital for their territorial sovereignty and communal wellbeing. The A’uwe Uptabi are actively fighting to reclaim and reform all of their salient spatial units and in the process are exploring how best to engage with the many processes and artefacts of the waradzu world.

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CHAPTER 7 BEYOND LEGAL-CARTOGRAPHIC STRATEGIES: ITS, TERRITORIALITIES AND THE FUTURE OF AMAZONIA

I began this dissertation addressing the question of territory. The choice, in part, by a need to both compare this term to others such as ‘frontier’ or ‘land’ and, in doing so, reclaim the notion of territory by freeing it from its top-down governmentalized avatar.

In southern Amazonia, as in much of Brazil, the state is dynamic. I believe James

Scott’s (1998) representation of the state is far from authentic real and structurally too absolute (and obsolete), undermining the insurgency of the Amazonia’s population. The heterogeneity that defines territorial ambitions and machinations of the state is matched by an equally diverse set of institutions and stakeholders in the region. Addressing this political clamor while acknowledging the objectives of multiple stakeholder objectives is a herculean task. In the past two decades communal land titling and envisioning land through different property regimes has proliferated regionally. Such efforts have combined top-down tools from emerging state legalized cartographic initiatives and the proliferation of bottom-up counter-mapping projects created collaboratively with communities. The production and spread of ITs is a direct result of such mobilizations. While some accounts advocate for them as a key legal-cartographic strategy for indigenous self-determinism, others criticize them as attempts to subsume demands for indigenous land rights within a neoliberal multicultural agenda that serves to destabilize indigenous resistance to unregulated encounters with state and markets(Anthias and Radcliffe 2015; Finley-Brook 2016; Wainwright, and Bryan 2009).

The question then becomes, who does the IT serve and how? Is it a viable space of reterritorialization or is it a tool of land management that allows for further deterritorialization? Is the formalization and recognition of indigenous land an insidious effort to make such territories more ‘legible’ for the state and markets? Alternatively, can

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such formal definitions of territory be wielded for more progressive and possible decolonial alternatives to development (Goncalves, 2014; Radcliffe, 2017)?

In this chapter, I engage with the conclusions that emerged from my quantitative analysis of hundreds of ITs, the different forces threatening their existence and the commonalities and differences within their engagement with such forces. I bring such an exogenous exercise of territoriality in dialogue with the place-based, endogenous manifestations of territoriality from a A’uwe Uptabi IT, rooted in a very specific experience of history, colonization, indigeneity and state building. I believe by bringing these two experiences of territoriality together, I witness the plurality of worldviews that produce

Amazonia while addressing the scalar bias and analytical limitations of the different research methodologies used. While the analytical end-points of the previous two chapters form the empirical core of this one, my theoretical frames are drawn from recent scholarship about indigenous geographies in Latin America, new Amazonian geographies and critical scholarship on territory.

In Brazil, legislative attempts to grant autonomy to indigenous populations over their own lands, have progressed through mechanisms aimed at ‘protecting’ such communities from the historical exigencies of elite state and non-state institutions. Additionally, such titling is also seen as a solution to the persistent disputes over frontier lands, which require expensive and lengthy arbitration attempts. However, judicial interpretations and political volatility, have always threatened any constitutional assurance to indigenous communities about recognition of their rights. Therefore, while ITs may not address the political and territorial aspirations of such communities in totality, they remain significant tools to access rights over land and, more importantly, as reference points for indigenous political organization (DiGiano et al., 2020; Lauriola, 2013; Monteiro et al., 2019).

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However, if we move beyond the purview of indigenous autonomy and rights, ITs also emerge as spaces critical for ecological wellbeing. The transformation of fortress conservation initiatives to more participatory models involving place based indigenous communities is often dependent upon the ‘propertisation’ and governability of ITs. However, such seemingly coupled objectives often hide the reframing of indigenous aspirations through the tools of the neoliberal state and its selective cultural appropriation (Begotti & Peres,

2020; Walker et al., 2019; Zhouri, 2010b).

Exploring the contradictory potential of ITs is critical, in the context of Amazonia to address the claims for alternative versions of nationalism, identify the limits of legal titling in regards to indigenous self-determination and finally, to explore the role that ITs play and, should play, in the pursuit of territorial justice (Correia, 2019; Hecht, 2011b).

In this analysis, I am inspired by the work of Penelope Anthias and Sarah Radcliffe and their work with territory, property regimes and indigenous land claims in Latin America.

As Anthias states, in recent monograph, the territorializing logics undergirding the elaboration of agricultural and natural resource management laws, the cartographic translations of indigenous land claims and the recognition and protection of such rights is a contentious, complex and relational process. “Territorially bound indigeneity” that emerges from ITs is just one aspect of the many subjectivities that construct a community. The engagement between such subjectivities has significant impacts on indigenous territorial projects, which remain under explored (Anthias, 2019a, 2019b; Anthias & Radcliffe, 2015).

In the sections that follow, I situate territory within a broader spatial debate about land, identity and nation building (Ioris, 2020). In doing so, I firstly discuss the possible advantages and the pitfalls of converting ‘unrecognized’ land into state sanctioned ITs. This explores the limits of a legal-cartographic strategy as a tool for indigenous self-determination

(Anthias 2019, p.1). Second, I explore if/how A’uwe Uptabi notions of territory and

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territoriality address the limitations of their IT to address indigenous aspirations of sovereignty, belonging and equity. Finally, I move past the binary of

‘exogenous/endogenous’ territoriality and envision multi-territorialities in Amazonia, given the current political realities of Brazil, and present some closing thoughts regarding the spatial futures of Amazonia, ITs and indigenous self-determination.

In Latin America, debates interrogating the objectives and impacts of the ‘territorial turn’, especially for indigenous lands, proceeds along various foci. These include explorations of the cultural and political dividend that elite subjects and institutions can accumulate through such developments (Bryan, 2012b), the role of extraterritorial forces in undermining indigenous autonomy(Ospina Peralta et al., 2015), the competing territorialities that arise due to divergence in stakeholder aspirations and how, without mitigation, they inevitably produce significant deterritorializing forces(Halvorsen et al., 2019), the state recognition of autochthonous territorial rights for indigenous lands remains an unenforceable promise with powerful stakeholders routinely violating such rights (Gebara, 2018) and the successful capture and wielding of state development policies by indigenous political movements, to access legitimate power and achieve endogenous rights(Laing, 2020). Within scholarship, whether Anglo-American or from Latin America, the spatio-political transformation of indigenous land into indigenous territory reflects the historic struggles of the settler colonial state, its more recent dabbling with neoliberal logics and the surprisingly diverse and dynamic set of political tools that regional indigenous communities have mobilized(Bhandar, 2018; Harris & Espelt-Bombin, 2018).

The objectives of and dividends from land titling and the recognition of indigenous lands under the auspices of state judicial systems in Latin America, is mired in contentious and complicated considerations. These include the undermining of indigenous land claims through ambiguities of governmental procedures related to resolution of territorial

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disputes(Correia, 2018; Sieder & Barrera Vivero, 2017), the scalar mismatches between the domains of IT governance (often national) and the sites of implementation (subnational)

(DiGiano et al 2020), the fixed limits of land under titles, often reflecting political compromises between various stakeholders instead of wellbeing requirements of indigenous communities(Acuna 2015; Constantino et al 2018), the common property titling of indigenous land emerging as an important tool for resisting dispossession and landlessness in the postcolonial state (Coombes et al 2012; Tubbeh and Zimmerer 2019), indigenous titling demands attempting to reform state conceptualizations of territory by invoking both jurisdictional recognition and place-based communal relationships with land (Bauer, 2016;

Finley-Brook, 2016) and the functional and emancipatory potential of tools such as the FPIC, becoming standard practice in developmental negotiations over indigenous land(Schilling-

Vacaflor, 2017). Despite such considerations, over the last two decades, hundreds of new land title claims for indigenous areas have been initiated (and some completed) in Amazonia, changing overall land distribution (de Toledo et al., 2017).

Indigenous territories in Brazil, ever since the constitution of 1988, have occupied a central role in indigenous mobilizations for cultural resurgence and material security against impositions of the state (Bolaños, 2011). Furthermore, the legal framework places ITs in the common property regime category, allowing the indigenous communities use rights to the land, rights to exclude outsiders from access and finally, a recognition of indigenous juridical systems as the regulator for intra-territorial decisions (Lauriola, 2013). However, drawing territorial boundaries of indigenous land is a difficult process and one that requires consideration of more than material relationships. The titling process has been unable to address such realities and has been criticized for its undermining of indigenous territorial aspirations to satisfy powerful political interests (Backhouse et al., 2013; Constantino et al

2018). Even as neo-extractivist industrial forces have attempted to sabotage indigenous

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territorial sovereignty, there has been a concerted trans-national effort by scholars and activists to highlight the ecological conservation potential of ITs (Fa et al., 2020; Gullison &

Hardner, 2018). The coupling of indigenous rights with ecological concerns has allowed indigenous political actors to harness the power of global mobilizations focused on mitigating the effects of the Anthropocene (Lima et al., 2020). But, simultaneously, institutionally and judicially marrying indigenous and ecological concerns has created certain regulations and restrictions regarding the land use in ITs, that reflect their characterization as environmental protection areas (Le Tourneau, 2015; Machado et al., 2017).

ITs also feature prominently in debates about frontier governance in Brazil (Sauer,

2018; Schmink et al., 2019). The Brazilian frontier is a product of contestations between various processes of territorialization, including state institutions, corporate interests, settler struggles as well as indigenous aspirations (Otsuki, 2011). Historically, frontier production, especially in Amazonia, rests on three key understandings. First, the frontier is a society and land still in formation and therefore is replete with noncompliance with laws and democratic organization. Second, the frontier represents vast economic potential since it concerns land that is yet to be fully domesticated by state institutions. Finally, frontier dynamics are made possible by categorization and conversion of land into different types of owned property

(Carvalho 2017; Thaler et al. 2019). In many ways, ITs in Brazilian Amazonia are a product of such frontier processes and the various relationships that indigenous communities have with such processes.

Despite various constitutional guarantees ensuring their creation and sovereignty, ITs have faced significant legal, bureaucratic and enforcement challenges (Becker, 2010;

Pedlowski, 2013). For example, there is a lack of a clear pattern within court decisions handling territorial disputes between indigenous communities and other stakeholders, which has led to an intensification of such disputes (Monteiro et al., 2019). Additionally, scholars

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have also challenged the long-term political commitment of indigenous leadership towards notions of conservation and sustainability, given certain ongoing resource extraction partnerships within ITs, between some indigenous communities and powerful non-indigenous actors (Lima et al., 2020; Walker et al., 2019).

As evidenced from the review above, ITs occupy an important position in discursive and material mobilizations in Latin America. However, their existence is predicated on some contentious processes and different stakeholders measure the value of ITs very differently.

So, one on hand while ITs can be seen as the state’s efforts to counter the dispossessions caused by capitalist development, they are also a culmination of global policy processes supporting indigenous rights in an effort to battle the destructive impacts of capitalist development on ecosystems(Greenleaf, 2020; Radcliffe, 2007, 2019; Vindal Ødegard &

Rivera Andía, 2019). Therefore, indigenous land rights remain rooted in very limited visions of ‘ethnodevelopment’ failing to address the broader processes of coloniality and inequality that act as barriers for indigenous aspirations for comprehensive wellbeing (Albert, 2005;

Hecht & Rajão, 2020). Territorial aspirations of indigenous communities that are not met by the titling and securing of land rights, the demarcation of fixed borders on their lifeworlds and the pursuing of more comprehensive visions of territory, have produced radical political critiques in Latin America. Having said that, scholars have also noted the fact that many indigenous peoples have used ITs as a vital stage from which to demand a focus on changing colonial power relations, practicing resource sovereignty and expanding their political presence in different spaces of the modern state(Anthias, 2019b, 2019a; Anthias & Radcliffe,

2015; Klingler & Mack, 2020; Radcliffe, 2017).

Comprehending the limits of ITs and their position within complex, plural territorial formations that accompany most indigenous aspirations is vital when discussing the future of

Amazonia. A way ahead, as some scholars have suggested, is exploring the communal

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processes of re-and deterritorialization through the prism of multi-territorialities. Such a framing allows us to move past the focus on certain fixed territorial units and, refuses to reduce the substantive claims of indigenous territorial aspirations to the fate of such units

(Correia, 2018, 2019; Sletto, 2016).

But how do such discursive claims map out on the ground? How do different actors think about the IT, its current predicament and what it represents for the aspirations of the state and the indigenes? To address such questions, I draw on my interviews with politically relevant members of the various bureaucracies, institutions and research institutes in the

Brazilian capital of Brasilia over a period of 6 months in 2019 (N=20). The interviewees were pre-selected according to my own professional network and also based on stakeholder analysis to identify important key informants. The list of contacts was elaborated previously to conducting field work and changed due to lack of response or inaccessibility to certain actors. The list of contacts aimed to have a variety of actors, institutions, initiatives and policies involved in both territorialization and deterritorialization of ITs. The list of contacts was categorized as the following sectors: activists, non-governmental organizations (NGOs),

Ruralistas, government, researchers and indigenous organizations. For the ruralistas group, approximately 15 names were selected and contacted via telephone and email. However, from the list previously contacted, only the executive secretary of the Ministry of Agriculture

(MAPA), was interviewed. The category of indigenous organizations was dropped, since nobody manifested interest in participating in the present study (Figure 7-1).

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Figure 7-1. Categories of engagement of institutional interviews

In order to understand the spatial representation of the indigenous territories that are not yet officially demarcated and the indigenous territories that have claimed demarcation but are still awaiting administrative measure, thus not included in demarcation ladder, I have collected secondary data from Conselho Inidgenista Missionario (CIMI) report in violence against indigenous peoples in Brazil released in 2019 with data from 2018 (CIMI, 2018b, p.

37). The data allowed me to produce analyses utilizing descriptive statistics and spatial tools.

Additionally, I also mined the ethnographic data I collected in the Aldeia Danhimipari to better understand how the A’uwe Uptabi are wrestling with reconciling their notions of territory with the legal structure in place.

In the next two sections, I first demonstrate how ITs have the potential to address some historically unequal power relations between indigenous communities and the settler state while also reproducing some problematic issues. I then engage with A’uwe Uptabi notions of territoriality to situate ITs within a much larger vision of indigenous mobilizations for reclaiming and sustaining their lifeworlds.

The Limits of a “Legal-Cartographic Strategy”

Latin American geographies on territorial ordering understand territory as a “political technology” which is composed by different power assemblages within multiple practices of

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territorialities (Clare et al., 2018). Amazonian geographies converge on a recent territorial turn which has contributed to new configuration of land occupation and resulted in the devolution of more than “200 million hectares” to indigenous communities (Offen 2003;

Correia 2019). New territorialities emerged in different scales as a consequence of the increasing globalization of land, the strengthening of political power of transnational corporations, and the loss of State economic power (Becker 2010). Moreover, the internationalization of environmentalism associated with the rise of grassroots movements called for new debates around territorial ordering (Hecht 2011b).

In Brazil this territorial reconfiguration was a result of indigenous movements advocating for land rights and culminated in the implementation of a new set of laws preconized by the FC/88 under the demarcation process. As Amazonia configures a space of contested disputes (Simmons 2005; Aldrich et al. 2012) as a key region for “authoritarian nation-building” (Hecht 2011b), it becomes a center piece of multi-territoriality (Haesbaert

2004) and a stage for land rights advocates.

Rights have roots in the Enlightenment. Human rights, such as land rights, are based on legal frames and international agreements and treaties. Thus, land rights open room for different interpretations and levels of implementation. The judicial interpretation of the FC/88 is beyond a technical task and a matter of power: a political dispute for making sense of the juridical rules at the time of its application and contextual to specific societies. In the case of indigenous land rights, the concept of collective rights, which opposes the notion of individual rights, must be taken in consideration (Souza-Filho 2018). The set of rules that preconizes land rights are a product of the state will and can be legitimated in different ways by state actors (Archer, 2002). Furthermore, the use of rights for solving land disputes has not caused structural changes or was able to fix fundamental problems. It is a progressive notion and want to modernize. It is based on the belief that Western values and ethics are universal

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aid promotes economic development, the rich will always help the poor with no sense of self- interest. The institution of rights can be oppressive and a way to establish power hierarchies, since “rights and conflicts are inextricably linked” (Galant and Parlevliet, 2005).

With the promulgation of the FC/88, indigenous rights came to be articulated within three main central ideas: identity, pluralism and self-determination (Duprat 2018). The practices of legal instruments towards the official recognition of indigenous territories preconized that rights are not a matter of charity or solidarity but an obligation of both national states and international actors and can be operationalized in rules, structures, institutions, relationships, and processes (Gready and Ensor, 2005) and must take in consideration indigenous’ customary laws (Pereira 2007)(ILO 169). Demarcation emerged as a result of both exogenous and endogenous territorialities. However, demarcation based on land rights as preconized by the FC/88 has materialized in very different responsibilities for different institutions and individuals. Building on the notion of creating very concrete, reductionist boundaries to address deep structural problems within indigenous society have guided state expectations to meet these ‘rights’ often at the cost of other pressing problems such as pluralism and different perceptions of development. Focusing too much on rights biases states to empower distant universal ethics driven institutions that administer through very formal channels. Indigenous populations not having access to formal institutions are often further marginalized given the focus on demarcated lands. Furthermore, demarcation process expects the state to create some sort of valence between the different rights advocated for by different populations within its purview. This is another node of contention in many developing countries with heterogeneous populations and differential marginalizations.

Ultimately, demarcation is materialized as a set of normative principles, a set of instruments, a component to be integrated into land tenure programming and an underlying justification for interventions aimed at strengthening modernization of indigenous territories.

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Despite such discrete categorizations there is an inherent humanistic perspective that underlies the rights-based approach (hereafter referred to as RBA) unfolding in a society that has often been visualized as indexes, legal instruments and relationships to land, resources and security that fails to account for the underlying power discrepancies of the populations themselves (Cornwall and Nyamu-Musembi, 2004; Johnson and Forsyth, 2002).

In terms of indigenous peoples, some scholars have noted the ethnonational mobilizations of indigenous groups using a legal RBA to counter reconfigurations of environmental governance and land management (Kröger & Lalander, 2016). Despite the fact that the 2006 UN Declaration of Indigenous Rights proclaims that any activity that may cause impact directly or indirectly on indigenous peoples must be subjected to free, prior and informed consent (FPIC). However, in Brazil, that is not always enforced. In fact FPIC can risk legitimizing state action rather than avoid it. There was also a great critique in terms of understanding the different perspective to which RBA can resonate with. A good example is shown by the statement that by accepting or denying the FPIC terms, indigenous are themselves caught in the decision of the non-indigenous. This itself perpetuates coloniality since even with international rights of UN the parameters were set by external agents

(Masaki, 2009).

Some of the critiques suggests RBA relies on legal processes and engage with the state and entails counterproductive methods. It also concerns individual rather than group’s rights and calls attention to the fact that it needs a collective identity which depending upon its scale, engenders state interest in negotiation. Examples show that some RBA practices can only be effective using confrontation over negotiation and may privilege individual over collective rights (Patel and Mitlin, 2009). Other critiques note that RBA are mainly developed based on a northern model of urban development and open room for local cultural realities and different parameters of modernity. Furthermore, it emphasizes its universalism.

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In the case of the A’uwe Uptabi , for instance, accessing a modern education system through the Brazilian State has resulted in a construction of both the State school and the Health

Agency in Danhimipari, both of which have validated the village’s spatial and territorial autonomy. While the state school allows a methodological apparatus for teaching the

Portuguese language, a tool which the A’uwe consider vital to relate to the waradzu, this practice is being implemented with no consideration to the A’uwe’s approach and cosmology of acquiring knowledge. As consequence, a room filled with hundreds of textbooks including modern arts, geometry and plant biology, amongst other topics, exemplifies the non-utility of this material to that community. Furthermore, these hundreds of textbooks piled is a showcase of the State machinery investing only in discursive practices of the multicultural.

The right to access education is distorted within another form of colonial manipulation.

Another standout point is the relationship between the citizens and the state and between civil-society and the state, which recognizes that RBA should critique the state instead of providing services and improve its relationship with neoliberal techniques of governments. That could be summarized in RBA being driven by the new modes of governmentality of neoliberal regimes (Hickey and Mitlin, 2009). In Brazil, the relationship between the State and the civil society have resulted in a very similar approach to indigenous rights, since civil society relies on public funding and the State relies on partnerships with civil society in order to conduct demarcation. This relationship resulted in a perpetuation of the “project industry” and became the stage for the professional indigenist.

According to some of the cases presented by literature on RBA, many people are not aware of their rights, so it is time consuming and requires a lot of training and resources in order to generate knowledge, with the result that some governments are not committed to promoting or validating people’s rights or do not have the resources needed for such

(Browver et. al. 2009). Understanding the scenarios of rights denial is crucial. However, these

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understandings must assume intersectionalities that are mainly multidimensional and many times embedded in conflicts of different orders and dynamics. I will now present some of these intersections to address the roots of extraterritorialities.

Indigeneity, Territorialization and Extraterritorialities

In order to develop any idea regarding indigeneity, it is extremely important to take into consideration certain semantic and ideological ground rules. First, there needs to be a better understanding of scale. Since there are very relevant legal, cultural and political distinctions between the categorization and social construction and characterization of terms such as originary people, native people, traditional people, indigenous people, ethnic groups, his ambiguity can lead to mistakes in terms of definition especially when it concerns rights.

Second, the acceptance of the fact that each society has its own way of perceiving cultural distinctiveness, order, civility and identity. This disproves the colonial idea of non-industrial societies being not only subordinate and backward but truly archaic and unchanging; and third: the context, the social dynamic implications, historical events, ideologies, geography. since a broader generalization can play a very controversial role when considering the role of indigeneity.

The term ‘indigenous’ is defined by characteristics that relate to the identity of specific people in a specific area and distinguish them culturally from other people or peoples and is mostly associated with pre-Colombian societies. According to the World Bank, the terms "indigenous peoples," "ethnic minorities," "tribal groups," or "caste or lower-class tribes" describe social groups with social and cultural identities distinct from the dominant society and more vulnerable to damage in the development process. This is because, although based on a particular cultural repertory and history, the contours of ethnic identity are highlighted according to the political context in question (Maretti, 2004).

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The institutionalization of indigeneity, therefore, may become a necessity insofar as these communities only have access to the rights of land and social welfare through the exacerbation of particularisms. Land conflicts have impacted the consolidation of indigenous rights and encouraged some groups to claim the official recognition of indigenous identity.

But problems arise with the demarcation of ITs in an incident area designated as protected when it results in the restriction of access of other communities (which are not recognized as indigenous) to the area's natural resources. The same occurs when community management for environmental sustainability is no longer a shared orientation of the indigenous community. Thus, certain populations have exclusive rights of usufruct of the territory and without restrictions for the traditional use of the resources. And then one enters another minefield in dealing with the issue: the measure of traditionalism (Carneiro, 2009).

The existence of ‘traditional lifestyles’ is recognized and promoted, in and by, the

FC/88. Moreover, the notion of traditional people has also been promoted ever since social movements started appropriating the environmental concern as part of their activism, especially in opposition to the State. There have been two main approaches leading to the incorporation of indigeneity within land rights. First the conservationist approach bringing indigenous populations into the ecological discourse. Second, the social movements shedding light on issues such as environmental and social justice and bringing this discourse to the indigenous populations (Barreto Filho, 2009). “The portion of lands legitimized under indigenous’ occupation is “unacceptable both in terms of quantity and quality because, in many cases, rather than comprising integral territories or habitats, they are merely superficial lands, community archipelagos or marginal spaces” (Surralles and Hierro 2005).

Furthermore, the recognition of indigenous lands occurred within “legal frameworks based on spatial concepts that are frequently opposed to the concepts that result from each people’s process of ethnic space construction” (Surralles and Hierro 2005).

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As I noted in chapter 2, the FC/88 started to break the pattern of assimilation guaranteeing the indigenes the “right to be different”, thus ensuring rights over traditionally occupied lands. In this sense, the demarcation of indigenous territories should be seen merely as an administrative public declaration by the Executive power recognizing indigenous territories. Furthermore, the FC/88 has established a deadline of 5 years for the full demarcation of indigenous lands which has yet to be completed. In fact, almost 20 years later, there were more than 450 indigenous territories waiting for juridical providence (Cavalcante

2016) in Brazil. Currently, indigenous territories that are not under demarcation process, and unrecognized by the State, suffer the process of extraterritoriality, currently affecting approximately around 300 indigenous territories in Amazonia (Figure 7-2) (CIMI 2018b).

Legal recognition, furthermore, does not rely on instruments that ensure safety and integrity of indigenous territories, or one that holds the State accountable for its colonial approach. As an example, the Normative Act signed by the Brazilian President, Jair Bolsonaro in April,

2020 issuing private rural land ownership certification to develop agriculture and expand cattle ranching. Amir and Sela (2016) note that:

The concept of extraterritoriality designates certain relationships between space, law, and representation. The inquiry into extraterritoriality(…) is not confined to the established boundaries of political, conceptual, and representational territories; rather, it is an invitation to navigate the margins of the legal–juridical and the political, but also the edges of forms of representation. Within its accepted legal and political contexts, the concept of extraterritoriality has traditionally been applied to people and to spaces. In the first case, extraterritorial arrangements could either exclude or exempt an individual or a group of people from the territorial jurisdiction in which they were physically located; in the second, such arrangements could exempt or exclude a space from the territorial jurisdiction by which it was surrounded. However, the relationship between the concept of extraterritoriality and that of sovereign territoriality is much more complex - the notion of extraterritoriality and its applications have often been the product of attempts to evade territorially based laws (Amir and Sela 2016).

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Figure 7-2. Map of Municipalities with Indigenous Territories not recognized by the State

As I could not access geographic locations of the more than 300 indigenous territories that are currently not under the demarcation ladder, I have selected the municipalities in which they are located. Amazonas State holds the higher number of indigenous claims without administrative measures (N=189), followed by Para (N=29), Rondônia (N=22) and

Mato Grosso State (N=22) (Figure 32). There are 7 municipalities with more than 10 unrecognized ITs, all of them located in Amazonas State. According to my data analysis, the distribution of the unrecognized ITs in municipalities suggests that all of them overlap some of the main threats showed in Chapter 4 (roads, hydropower, agriculture, mining, etc).

The Promises and Pitfalls of ITs

In Brazil, the advantages of demarcation processes surpass the disadvantages. Despite the recognition of demarcated ITs being a fundamental instrument for indigenous peoples to access other modern institutions, such as the health system, territorial management, and so on

, the institutionalization of space allows the state to better control it (governmentality), opens these territories to sub serve the State’s interest. Moreover, the reduction of the places of

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importance and ‘ownership’ limited to a certain area affects cultural practices, indigenous mobilities and shapes the interrelations between different ethnic groups and their surroundings. The sovereignty and security of ITs is dependent on the regulatory functions of the state and as such a hostage to the health of the juridical structures that granted the IT legitimacy. “Demarcation process has been an attempt to erect borders in a borderless world”

(Castree 2004).

Indigenous territories focused policy is often made keeping in mind the past. How people used to live, how they used to be, how they used to manipulate natural capital to survive, perpetuating the notion of ‘traditional people’. It often fails to incorporate the transitioning landscape of stakeholders that are now involved in accessing the same natural capital/landscape. This traps indigenous populations within a static identity box much like colonial conservation, with boundaries drawn around what a forest is and what a population is. This notion of unchanging indigeneity is often the focus of international efforts in securing rights for such communities. Furthermore, indigenous identity, which is itself a production of

“othering”, has been reduced to a homogenous, abstract mass, which is starkly visible in most unequal power exchanges in society. Therefore, in order to survive, the communities themselves have resorted to validating the tropes that such institutions bring with them. In this way the policy making indigenous spatial occupation has ended up drawing their inspiration from a colonial imaginary that has failed to capture the dynamism inherent in ecological and human communities.

As I have demonstrated previously in this dissertation, ITs in Brazil have a tenuous existence. While studies show their significant impact on conservation goals(Freitas et al.,

2018), climate mitigation targets(Cruz et al., 2016) and indigenous rights(Goncalves 2014) others see them as unproductive land use units that should be properly developed for national prosperity(Klingler & Mack, 2020).

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The constitution of 1988 and the enshrined de jure rights, if properly enforced, grant indigenous communities with collective land titles that formalize their ownership and autonomy over the titled land. The demarcation ensures ethnocultural, environmental viability and territorial integrity and have been a crucial instrument for indigenous cultural and social reproduction (Begotti and Peres 2020). Moreover, the rise of social movements in

Brazil as a consequence of the territorial turn and have resulted in institutional strengthening and accountability when building a plural state. This process allows the visualization of development driven spatial ordering, and the intricate relationships between indigenous peoples and different engagements with modernity.

After almost thirty years of the enactment of the fundamental law some achievements are visible, such as the demarcation of several territories, especially in Amazonia. Moreover, the formal establishment of public policies associated with the role of institutions in advocating for the judicial system led to increasing protagonism of indigenous peoples in the judicial and political spheres. The growth of indigenous populations, driven by ethnic

(re)affirmation and the adoption of indigenous policies, reconfigured a strenuous resistance process. Paradoxically, Brazil’s indigenous peoples have been suffering at the same time as serious threats to their own survival, as they have been considered the main opponents of the development project designed for the country. On the one hand, they constitute an obstacle to the actions of the State which wishes to explore water and mineral resources in less targeted and exploited areas, as evidenced by the Belo Monte project in Pará. On the other hand, agribusiness sees, in ITs, an obstacle to economic exploitation and the expansion of the agricultural frontier (Alcântara et al, 2018). Ferguson’s (1990) idea of an ‘anti-politics machine’ to explain the technical idea of development or the way it is operationalized, that removes the politics from the processes of society is key here. Development projects have taken complex bio-cultural problems and created for them very technical interventions

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without considering the uniqueness and local contexts. However, it was exactly the contradictory approach that led the indigenous movement’s strategy for recognition of their rights.

According to the data compilation between the results from the interviews (n=20), ethnographic data from the Danhimipari and spatial assessment of extraterritorial ITs, I developed the lists that I present below.

Advantages

1. Provides legal security through visibility to the judicial system.

2. Protection from invasions and incursions by various commercial interests

3. Territorial and land use autonomy

4. Political mobilization catalyzed by social networks formed between IT residents and external institutions

5. Allows them to get funding due to clear “tenure” paperwork

6. Allows them to access public funding (e.g. financial and material incentives for family agriculture)

7. Allows access to Health and educational facilities

8. Helps with capacity building activities for engaging in various livelihoods within and beyond the IT

9. Education systems outside the IT recognizes intra-IT schools giving people the opportunity to study in the city and attend higher educational institutions

Disadvantages

1. Always vulnerable to the changing legal realities of the Brazilian state.

2. There is a lack of autonomy over deciding the future of underground resources e.g. minerals, water.

3. The State-recognized IT area is a fraction of the consolidated area claimed by indigenous communities.

4. There is an overt dependency on FUNAI, which is underfunded, politically undermined and overwhelmed by all their responsibilities.

5. Areas demarcated as ITs can be subjected to restudy due to state interest in the future.

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6. The boundaries of the IT box indigenous communities into a unified unit, demarcating both a hard boundary and homogenizing the territorial aspirations of different intra-IT groups.

The last point on my list, the containment of indigenous people on ‘islands’ surrounded by multiple land ownership types, is a point which was not directly visible to most of my interlocutors. However, on my probing them with ‘hard’ questions, they seemed to agree that the ITs were a ‘territorial fix’ because the state had no idea how to deal with the actual demands of most indigenous groups.

Despite the disadvantages listed above everyone I talked with reiterated the importance of ITs, especially given the political turmoil since the impeachment of President

Rousseff. Land tenure and environmental policies were un-regularized and unlawful occupation of public lands was on the rise, especially in the Amazon (Benatti & da Cunha

Fischer, 2018). Additionally, in the transformation of development in the Brazilian Amazon from the developmentalism of the 1950s-1980s to the post-environmentalism of the current age, certain individuals also mentioned a transformation of the role of the state. The state had gone from the massive extraction of natural capital to supporting the commodification of land in terms of its inherent ecosystem services and its ability to mitigate climate change. While it remained unsaid, the subtext here was clear: the neoliberal multiculturism of state/market alliances protecting property rights and rights of use for the various stakeholders in Amazonia was a better model than the authoritarian state violently and extractively expanding the frontier.

In summary, the IT provides a juridical safeguard and a material landscape that indigenous can ‘own’, root themselves and use as islands of alternative cosmological/ontological development. It also addresses issues of institutional strengthening and accountability when building a plurinational state (such as Brazil). But it also supports an institutionalization of space allowing the state and market to better control it. Additionally, it

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reduces the places of importance to a certain bounded area erasing the historical mobility that many indigenous communities pursued. Finally, the sovereignty and security of the IT is dependent on the regulatory functions of the state and as such a hostage to the health of the juridical structures that granted the IT legitimacy.

Brasilia was very different from the soy, corn, cattle lands of Mato Grosso state. The

A’uwe Uptabi were surrounded by massive intensification of land use as part of a frontier continuously “in the making” (Lombardi & do Carmo, 2020). In the following section, I discuss some of the considerations that the residents of this frontier in Danhimipari brought forth regarding the utility and future of their IT.

Looking Backward While Walking Forward: Exploring Intimate Territories with the A’uwe Uptabi

The A’uwe Uptabi of Danhimipari are wrestling with complex structural processes mentioned in the last chapter and are in the process finding ways of articulating their territorial and cultural aspirations in a show of defiant agency. According to the A’uwe

Uptabi , the IT has fallen short of their desires which span increased territorial control at the local level and a reworking of their colonial relationships with the waradzu world that exist beyond the borders of their IT. In the next two sections I discuss some of their actions and aspirations in regards to their territorial aspirations (which I mentioned in the last chapter) and discuss their engagements with the IT and how that informs their relationships with the state, non-indigenous people and transnational corporations. In doing so I hope to reveal the complicated role that ITs play in the much larger contestations around justice, autonomy and belonging in a settler colony.

The Ró and the ITs: Navigating Different Spatial Ordering in Indigenous Homelands

In Danhimipari the past is overwhelmingly present in all discussions of fears and aspirations. The community draws on their traumatic memories of eviction, conversion and

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control to chart a way ahead and thus they walk forward, facing backwards. This is made explicit in their ongoing mistrust of the waradzu world, its many promises and their subsequent refusal to ever assimilate. Despite their refusal to assimilate on the states’ terms, they are very open to rebuilding non-oppressive and more equitable relationships with the waradzu. This desire for ownership not just of their networks but also of their material resources and their land is a source of major dialogue within the Aldeia. Community members in both private interviews and the workshops expressed the vital need to choose and how such choices should not be set in stone. However, what often remained implied in their articulations was the unprecedented situation they faced when trying to reconcile the two avatars of their land: territory and property.

The questions of ownership, autonomy and use are essential in understanding these attempts at reconciliation. Underlying these discussions is the mismatch between the spatial ordering units of the state and those inspired by A’uwe Uptabi cosmology. Therefore, bounding the A’uwe Uptabi world in territorial units using waradzu cartographical tools has led to a spatial othering. The people of Danhimipari are acutely aware of this hierarchy, but they also see strategic value in the waradzu ignorance about their spatial goals. The community members, highlighting the historic mistrust of the waradzu that I mentioned before, reveal very selectively any knowledge about the Ro and the set of practices that produce and maintain it. Furthermore, I think three key points emerged during my stay in MT that shed light on these relationships between the Ró and the IT.

First, according to the community members the Ró and the IT represent two completely different territorial paradigms, addressing very different objectives. The Ró is a lot more unbounded and dynamic both spatially and temporally. Therefore, its inception begins with cultural myths of creation and this space, which at times signifies homeland, but at others, the process through which land becomes territory. During the workshop, communal

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elders talked eloquently about times when they fought to protect the Ró and other times when they fought to build it. When they were evicted, the Ró travelled with them, spreading out from wherever they found a new home. This complicated material and immaterial nature of the Ró allows it to transform as needed by the community while still following certain cultural rules. It can be argued that the characteristics of the Ró are rooted in the nomadic nature of the A’uwe Uptabi , while the IT represents the colonial state’s attempts to sedentarize and ‘territorially bind indigeneity’(Anthias, 2019a). The IT is visible only in relation to other land use units that surround it. The sylvan cerrado is fragmented by farms, cities and factories and the borders of the IT signify as much what it is as what it is not. The people of Danhimipari see this logic of spatial ordering as a state-driven effort at containment. As a woman who I transported to the city of Barra do Garcas said, “People in the city expect us to never leave this aldeia and to find ways to survive without the outside world. But that is impossible”. Therefore, the Ró and the IT appear to be driven by very different objectives, while the Ró addresses the historical aspirations of mobility and autonomy the IT works to contain and to protect.

Second the spatial units that make up the Ró and the ones that make up the IT lack reconciliation in terms of addressing the communities overarching territorial and cultural aspirations. For example, the Hö, which is a traditional spatial unit, is defined as a space that is critical for the cultural reproduction of A’uwe Uptabi masculinity. However, the community was still grappling with understanding how the Hö engaged with the Aldeia

School. In conversations with younger A’uwe Uptabi they often stressed the necessity to understand waradzu institutions with a process that could be greatly supported by their engagement with the public school curriculum that was available at their school. However, while looking for some paperwork, the teachers unearthed a large pile of middle and high school textbooks that lay unused in a school storage room. Many of the younger A’uwe

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Uptabi men at the workshops lamented their lack of engagement with these repositories of knowledge about the waradzu and wished that these materials from the state were better utilized. However, they also stated that their time was better spent in the Hö learning about their own traditions to ensure that such traditions did not die out. Contentions exist between other spatial units as well, such as the Rí which is marginalized in state accounts of indigenous claims, and the aldeia which is often understood as the fundamental spatial unit of the IT.

Third, territorial ownership and the responsibilities that come with such ownership remain contested. For the A’uwe Uptabi ownership of land as defined by the state lies in direct conflict with the relational territorial entanglements of their own cosmology.

Therefore, while the state and missionaries attempted to educate them in subsistence agriculture, replacing traditional grains with state manufactured seeds, A’uwe Uptabi have not sought to expand on these agrarian systems. Food security through their territorial offerings remains elusive and families spend considerable resources to buy industrially- produced food from urban supermarkets. Developing their territorial units to reflect private property owners surrounding them is not something they consider. However, their dependence on the waradzu production systems is evident to most community members. This is a situation which the community does not see an immediate resolution. However, ownership over their territory for many means a freedom to practice important rituals and to retain a place of refuge where they can escape waradzu oppression. Many see the land ownership agreements with the state as unavoidable, but not one that they fully comprehend or endorse, unlike the Ró which exists through a common understanding within the community and despite its aspects of immateriality seems a lot more accessible than the IT.

The Ró and the IT like the world of the A’uwe Uptabi and the waradzu exist parallelly, colliding into each other every so often. For the A’uwe Uptabi there is no easy

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resolution to these various spatial units with their own sets of rules and objectives, however despite such spatial and cultural trepidations, residents of Danhimipari realize the necessity of both. However, this daily negotiation also gives rise to territorial aspirations which arguably exist at the intersection. I discuss this in the next section.

Encountering a Geography of Absence: Intimate Territories and Plurinationalisms

A’uwe Uptabi , similar to other indigenous communities of the Americas, have been overwhelmingly studied in relation to the colonial settler state. Their intra-communal intersectional positionalities have been overlooked through a focus on their communal othering by ‘whiteness’ (waradzu-ness). Indigenous and critical scholars have rightfully challenged this portrayal by asking, “How can we decenter the whiteness that has created othering itself?”(Curley and Smith 2020, p.40) One solution is to move the focus from the monolithic power struggles between the A’uwe Uptabi as an indigenous people and the

Brazilian state to one that highlights the diverse spatio-social relationships of different members of the community. Such an attempt complicates the territorial narrative, revealing the fragmented social landscape of indigeneity that cannot be contained within clear binaries of assimilation/rejection, extraction/stewardship and waradzu/A’uwe Uptabi . Additionally, it highlights the substantive visions of territoriality that indigenous people are pursuing through their appropriation of different processes of the waradzu world(Coombe, 2016).

In Danhimipari this materializes in various ways, leading to mention two emerging vital points. First, territorial aspirations of the Aldeia manifest very differently depending on the spatial unit focused upon. Additionally, there appears to be a hierarchy of spatial ordering at play, both in the A’uwe Uptabi and the Waradzu conceptions of territory. Different spatial units often function independently and are not part of some larger territorial strategy.

Therefore, the Rí, a space overlooked in many accounts and formal rights-based mobilizations is placed near the bottom of this hierarchy. However, key relational

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entanglements between the A’uwe Uptabi and the waradzu is often decided within this space. Public welfare programs, urban livelihood agreements, educational and medical issues are all debated within the Ri, while the wara weighs threats to the territorial integrity of the

IT, discusses institutional engagements with state bureaucracy and monitors communal solidarity. Relationships with the more formal structures of the state remain, in that seemingly more democratic Aldeia square, while within the household’s various informal processes (including the market) reign supreme. This cleavage is also somewhat gendered with community consensus promoting men as torchbearers of formal politics, while women engage with the daily politicking of A’uwe Uptabi life. I believe this functional separation and the subsequent (national and international) popularization of the formal politics around indigenous rights, territorial claims and challenges to the settler colonial state, marginalize the more intimate territorialities of the Rí. The territorial constellations emanating from the Rí challenge both colonial visions of indigeneity and the radical politics of confronting resource nationalism and neoliberal multiculturalism. A’uwe Uptabi women occupy the intersections of multiple precarities, including missionary zeal against their sexuality, the state’s patriarchal challenges to their labor qualifications and the weight of intra-communal responsibilities for cultural transmission. Engaging with these multiple processes, A’uwe

Uptabi women are focused on very specific notions of autonomy and wellbeing. There is a significant demand for learning skills, often in the waradzu city, which helps them deal with chronic wellbeing issues. These include acquiring medical and agricultural training and building social networks that allow them to access hospitals, schools and vocational training centers. This focus on the relational worlds comprising of both A’uwe Uptabi and waradzu exists in contrast to the radical aspirations espoused by the men in the warã. The territorial autonomy pursued by the Rí at its heart is about the material survival of the A’uwe Uptabi through the production of a network of power extending far into the land of the waradzu.

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Ultimately, the evaluation of whether such relationships signify assimilation is done through the lens of survival. Therefore, the women were of the opinion that such hard cultural and territorial boundaries with the waradzu, while necessary for their protection, were also practically impossible. Through this control over the Rí the women were attempting to increase their presence in the daily, mundane spaces of waradzu life. I suggest this seemed an effort at battling their erasure not just from the historical narrative of Brazil but also from the work-in-progress structures of modernity. These intimate territorialities exist as a companion to the more visible and ‘louder’ voices of indigenous rights centered on the territorial security of the IT.

Second, territorial mobilizations of the A’uwe Uptabi reflect their still unresolved question of belonging. To address this situation, furthermore, the A’uwe Uptabi are actively engaging with various actors while simultaneously trying to articulate a more coherent and equitable politics of identity. Questions of nation-hood or identity-based rights emerged sporadically throughout the workshops. However, while no one explicitly stated this plurinational sentiment, it was quite prominent in many conversations that the residents of

Danhimipari were trying to seek autonomy from both within and from the state (Laing,

2020). In doing so, the IT was their most important territorial unit, given its relevance both for supporters of post-colonial land reparations and environmental preservation. This was made explicit during the last workshop when the schoolteachers brought forward a proposal for a project that they were considering. It was an international project with European state funding, focused on institutional capacity building within indigenous communities with recognized ITs, with the objective of addressing climate change impacts and boosting ecosystem services. Even as the group discussed the promises and pitfalls of engaging with this project, it was made evident that their allegiances to their territorial vision was intact.

However, they were also interested in the possibilities provided by a state protected unit of

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their land. These debates brought up questions of trust in legal promises of the state, the actual motive of the international project planners and the possible territorial compromises it might entail. Beyond explaining a few terms (ecosystem services, climate change, capacity building) I was excluded from the conversation until the very end. What I did witness was a community struggling to address their relationships between indigeneity, territory and extractivism. It also became clear that the IT was a co-produced territorial (A’uwe Uptabi and Waradzu) unit and the community was still negotiating its limits as an identity-granting artefact and as a space from which to challenge and make claims of the state. This ambiguity around the political and territorial potential of the IT was echoed in A’uwe Uptabi conceptions of the state. As one older man at the evening Warã summed it up for me, “We were born from this land long before the waradzu came and we will be here always. They are the visitors here not us”. In many ways this divergence in territorial claims is quite clear for them. The waradzu territorial aspirations, for them, are sedentary, localized and unchanging while their cosmological imperative is one of mobility, migration and change.

The IT remains a contested space in A’uwe Uptabi territorial claims and political aspirations. It is their refuge against the waradzu’s extractivist development and their ethnic othering. However, the material security is guaranteed through a legal system rooted in the same waradzu world that historically oppressed, evicted and traumatized them. This abusive relationship grounds much of their feelings of mistrust about the territorial potential of the IT.

Additionally, the IT addresses a very limited list of territorial aspirations and the community is aware of this. Their vision of territory is variegated and their mobilizations to achieve this more expansive homeland is imbued with strategic agency. For the people of Danhimipari the waradzu world has always attempted to ‘tame’ and contain them: through the church, the school or the boundaries of their IT. However, they resisted such ‘domestication’ by an active pursuit to understand, infiltrate and re-make the waradzu world using a unique relational

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praxis. They have survived by pacifying the waradzu in an attempt to regain their dynamic and mobile territorial imaginary which extends far beyond the boundaries of the IT. In the final section of this chapter, I explore such possibilities of multi-territorialities and discuss if

ITs can be leveraged to address indigenous territorial demands in a plurinational Amazonia.

Territories Gone Wild: Territorially Bound Indigeneity, Plural Worlds and the Future of Amazonia

A’uwe Uptabi , akin to other Indigenous people in Latin America exist at the intersections of a seemingly irreconcilable set of processes. First is the powerful imaginary that bounds indigenous communities within stereotypical subjectivities and attaches the viability of their territorial claims to the fulfillment of such stereotypes. The ‘guardians of nature’ or ‘anti-capitalist revolutionaries’ are often reprimanded for their more complicated and entangled relationships with the market and the state. Secondly, there is a correlation drawn between conservation goals and indigenous rights with the state (and other international actors) attempting to ‘protect’ both from the assaults of capitalism. Interventions and strategies are deployed within territorial units meant to serve as a refuge for both nature and the indigenous. Thirdly, the focus of indigenous survival and wellbeing remains rooted in a narrow vision of land titling and the territorial units that such titling produces. While indigenous communities are often co-producers of these units, they critique the conflation of such territorial ordering to visions of their autonomy. They claim that the interventions should actually be beyond the borders of what is recognized as their legal territory since the epicenter of the forces of deterritorialization (trans-national companies, extractive bureaucracies) are far beyond such borders(Anthias, 2019b; Anthias & Radcliffe, 2015; Vela-

Almeida, 2018).

How do we, as scholars, support the resolution of this processual quagmire in an effort to provide allyship to indigenous communities? We need to address the twin processes undermining indigenous territorial aspirations: settler colonialism in Latin America and the

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geopolitical mobilizations around multiculturalism. The first reproduces historically unjust relationships between indigenous and settlers by placing the burden of land reclamation on indigenous communities in legal courts rigged to favor the settlers. The second reduces the participation of indigenous actors and worldviews to an ahistorical and generalized model rooted in European notions of human rights and property ownership. Encountering both these processes is a herculean task requiring a relational restructuring on a global scale. In terms of discursive tools, the concept of multiterritorialities seems useful (Correia, 2019).

Conceptually, this imagines plural overlapping, yet distinct, territorial identities contained within the same territory. Therefore, in the case of Danhimipari, their indigenous identity coexists with their subjectivity as a ward of the state and their characterization as environmental stewards by global environmental politics. The subjective space between these identities is not empty and is populated by a plethora of hybrid relationships joining them together. While these identities might seem divergent in terms of their objectives, their mobilizations echo the messy, unformed realities of plurinationalisms.

The struggles over legalization and formalization of indigenous land in the Amazon reflects the Westphalian core of state building in Latin America. In the bounding and production of an indigenous territory, the material and political are severed from the spiritual and promoted as the aspirational vision of autonomy. ITs are rooted in this structural ideology, and given their regulatory apparatus, are only meant to provide the indigenes with a seat at the table where dozens of other territorial claimants are clamoring for a piece of the

Amazon. The edicts of ILO convention 169 are just the beginning and not a final resolution of the ‘indian question’. Currently the recognition and demarcation of indigenous land stands in stark contrast to the Brazilian states’ deepening relationship with global capitalist networks moving primary industry products to feed the ravenous appetites of the international elite(Urt,

2016). The A’uwe Uptabi understand this dichotomy well and root their mistrust of the

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waradzu in such contradictory aspirations of the state. They realize that the IT is just the latest iteration of waradzu attempts to tame and pacify them and cognizant of this they are active at extending their Ro. Reclamation and reparation through the courts, while viable for their ‘wards of the state’ identity, is unhelpful in their quest for cultural legitimacy within a settler society.

Since the election of Jair Bolsonaro the political undermining of ecological and indigenous wellbeing has been pronounced (De Carvalho et al. 2020). Bolsonaro is a firm believer in the claim that there is “too much land for too few Indians” and thus environmental policies have been deregulated, indigenous territorial invasions by farmers has been incentivized, miners have been encouraged, and there has been an active revitalization of extractivism. In Brazil, the rights of non-indigenous rural populations have often trumped indigenous rights under the rule of law. Under the regime of Bolsonaro, the line separating the state and the private sector’s extractivist initiatives have been functionally erased. For example, the Parakana, a Tupi-Guarani people from the São Félix do Xingu, are currently only in possession of 20% of their demarcated territory, with the rest under control of 2,500 settler families ‘illegally’ occupying their land. In 2019, these settlers refused to relinquish control over their occupation of the IT ‘asking the Indians to prove that they had traditionally occupied all 773,000 hectares of land’(Maisonave & de Almeida, 2020). Such a demand contains within it an appeal to reduce the size of the IT and currently they seem to have won a partial victory in the Supreme Court. Similar territorial restructuring is happening across the

Amazon basin reflecting the very real fears that the A’uwe Uptabi hold about the undependable and fickle nature of the state’s promises.

A response to such judicial promises has been the active efforts on the part of the

A’uwe Uptabi to pursue their territorial goals beyond the limits of land titling. In many ways this reflects the key struggle for Amazonia: the state attempting to compromise across various

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interest groups (ruralistas, environmentalists, activists, industry) by creating legislation surrounding land tenure and use. Its objective is to control and determine the fate of all land within its national borders. On the other hand, the indigenous people are still involved in a historical struggle to ensure that the settler state acknowledges their sovereignty and allegiance to a spatial, spiritual and cultural territory that existed before the advent of colonial time. In the absence of such acknowledgement, their actions are aimed at actively remaking relationships between them and the waradzu world, in the hope that if (and when) their IT is legally compromised they will be actively involved in more than the boundaries of their state recognized territory.

ITs remain a powerful institutional and legal spatial unit of indigenous survival

(Begotti & Peres, 2020). Their inability to address the vast and revolutionary demands of many indigenous communities reflects the inability of the settler state to encounter its own past. ITs are not a long term solution. They are a ‘fix’ that obscures the need to deal with development and conservation challenges that exist far beyond their borders (Anthias &

Radcliffe, 2015). Indigenous people are aware of such limitations and their expectations from such territorial projects are often to provide them with a platform to pursue far more radical and dynamic objectives. It is the settler state that fails to look beyond the limiting visions of rights and property, of biodiversity audits and conservation credits, at the colonial ideas of extractivism and ethnic othering that it fundamentally rests upon.

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CHAPTER 8 CONCLUSIONS

The active offense the Brazilian President, Jair Bolsonaro (2019-present) is imposing through a publicly-acknowledged, anti-indigenous government program threatens indigenous territorial sovereignty as well as indigenous wellbeing. The anti-indigenous governmental package has explicitly brought up the vulnerabilities of indigenous territories. Despite the clear legal framework the Federal Constitution of 1988 represents in granting State recognition of indigenous territories, the current government offense put in question the effectiveness of State-sanctioned indigenous territories and possible loopholes this legal entity may need to address in order to ensure indigenous land rights.

Amongst the first governmental measures under Bolsonaro’s fascist regime, was the attempt to remove responsibilities over land demarcation from the National Indian

Foundation (FUNAI) to the Ministry of Agriculture, Livestock and Supply (MAPA) and a proposition to move the responsibilities over indigenous affairs localized under FUNAI from the Ministry of Justice to the newly created Ministry of Family, Women and Human Rights through the provisional measure 870/2019 and the decree 9.667/2019. An attempt to pass a mining bill (910/2019) allowing mining activities inside indigenous territories and nullifying indigenous veto power on the decision process was followed by an attempt to authorize military force and the national security against indigenous peoples during demonstrations, , ignoring the ILO 169 premise of indigenous self-determination.

Indigenous mobilizations increased in order to raise awareness of the current governmental threats. However, governmental offenses continue. The Bill 17/20 in Mato

Grosso State was discussed in the Congress to allow tenure regulation of rural properties located inside indigenous territories was backed up by the normative act 09/200 signed by the

Brazilian President in April, 16th of 2020. The normative bill resulted from an alignment with the ruralistas aiming at weakening environmental regulations and opening indigenous

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territories that are not demarcated to large-scale agriculture and ranching by issuing certificates of private rural property ownership. This would promote a new wave of invasions on ITs and open up precedent for land grabbing, squatters and other informal sector to develop inside indigenous territories such as land speculation and appropriation.

There are more than 400 indigenous groups currently awaiting demarcation of their territories in Amazonia where a network of developmental enterprise is being pushed by economic interests and governmental actions. The Initiative for the Integration of the

Regional Infrastructure of South America (IIRSA) launched in 2000 by the Union of South

American Nations (UNASUR) is now repeating the national-developmentalist approach expressed by the Military regime, intensifying pressures from global economy under a regime which I defined as neo-extractivist approach which I presented in Chapter 2.

Given the expressed vulnerability of indigenous populations who have been susceptible to the State’s territorial ordering since the colonial period, I took territory as a core conceptual foundation of this dissertation in order to understand the production of indigenous territories. In order to further analyze this concept, I utilized Massey’s concepts of space as an open system (2005) and of place as social relations (2009). I incorporated

Agnew’s concept of territory as a space of political action and resistance (1994). By complicating the notion of territory and its production, I attempted to unveil the current forces manifesting in, and influencing territorial integrity of, indigenous territories in

Amazonia.

I utilized land use and land cover change (LULCC) theories to address my first research objective which entailed an assessment of deterritorializing forces operating in

Amazonia. I argued that (1) transnational corporations promoted deterritorialization, (2) the federal Constitution was not enough to safeguard indigenous’ land rights and that (3) proximity to development enterprise areas reduces territorial integrity. In chapter 4 I

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conducted a ordinal logistic regression model in order to identify the correlation between the legal status of indigenous territories under the demarcation ladder to a variety of factors such as infrastructure (roads, hydropower dams), demographics, geographic location of ITs in relationship to mining sites, protected areas, large scale agriculture areas, cattle ranching farms, etc. The results pointed to a highly significant statistical correlation between mining sector, hydropower construction, proximity to roads and highways and overlap to protected areas. The results indicated deterritorializing forces in place and quantified their correlation with ITs’ legal status.

Highlighting the relevance of regional geopolitics, the results illustrate the notion suggested by Deborah Cowen and Neil Smith: "where geopolitics can be understood as a means of acquiring territory towards a goal of accumulating wealth, geo-economics reverses the procedure, aiming directly at the accumulation of wealth through market control. The acquisition or control of territory is not at all irrelevant but is a tactical option rather than a strategic necessity" (Elden 2009). In Amazônia, the developmentalist fronts are operationalized by a range of multimodal transportation hubs through networks of roads and waterways that add stimuli to monoculture (namely soybeans) expansions, displacement of pasture lands to new frontiers and increase in forest conversion (Walker and Simmons 2018;

Simmons et al. 2018). The socio-ecological impact of largescale soybean expansion unfolds through the use of agrochemicals, causing nefarious damage to indigenous populations and territories.

The second objective of my dissertation aimed at understanding territorialization of the Danhimipari community, home to around 500 A’uwe. My argument is that women’s resistance, indigenous’ autonomy and relationship with modernity increase territorialization.

In Chapter 5 I presented a detailed historical background on the territorial trajectory of the

A’uwe since pre-Columbian times to the advent of Brazilian democratization in late 1980s.

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The background offered context to the formation of Danhimipari. Aiming to address my second objective, I relied on Indigenous Geographies literature to inform notions of refugee studies and indigenous’ displacement and mobility. The lenses of Political Ecology allowed me to assess the way ITs form, dissipate and stabilize within complex and multiscalar systems through the prism of locality. Notions of locality and indigeneity under the feminist political ecology approach also informed notion of the A’uwe place-making through territorialization, highlighting important elements such as agency, intersectionalities and resistance. My results in Chapters 6 and 7 derived from a combination of decolonizing methods utilized for data collection during fieldwork.

How are different actors within certain A’uwe Uptabi territories in MT, that occupy different intersections of power, engaged in resisting/reproducing specific elements of territorial ordering? How do their historical engagements with colonial place making inform affective and material mobilizations? What are the different worldviews of space/place that the A’uwe Uptabi use to produce their vision of territoriality and how do they engage with emerging processes of waradzu modernity? How do these engagements extend beyond the physical boundaries of the IT and what do they look like?

In around 60 years A’uwe have faced deterritorialization from different fronts and confronted these forces by resisting hem while taming the waradzu and by reterritorializing and reclaiming different spaces. Practicing zomori and moving through the Ró has been always a tool of both territorialization and resistance, but more than that, represent a mechanism to survive and ensure cultural and social reproduction.

The well-known A’uwe Uptabi indigenes (Graham 2011; Conklin and Graham 1995) who long occupied the Brazilian population’s imagination, at important times also contributed to significant changes on indigenous policy. Currently, they are associated with clientelism and patronage, mostly being referred to as “beggars”. What is not known are the

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strategic aspects of these encounters between A’uwe Uptabi and the world of the waradzu.

The different spheres where their voices echo their own needs and aspirations and the multiple spaces where their fears resonate with State oppression move in a fluid manner within the Rí and beyond the Serra do Roncador.

I conclude Chapter 6 by stating that we must challenge the bias of the Aldeia and the

IT in narratives of place-based territoriality. Furthermore, focusing on the household also reveals the agency of certain marginalized populations and highlight it as a unit of powerful source of resistance and territorialization. I argue that territorial considerations are a function of the engagement between different A’uwe Uptabi spatial units and modernity, and they are not always complementary. That said, A’uwe Uptabi ’s concepts of multiterritorialities point to consideration of evolving overlapping territories (Agnew and Oslender 2010). Lastly, indigenous place making in the city should be understood not just from a passive indigenous presence building the ‘nation’ or being assimilated’, but as a strategic act of reclaiming and extending their vision of territorial ordering. Moreover, the intersectionalities present in the cultural manifestation of A’uwe’s are spatialized by gender roles and race. This explicates territorial occupation and aspirations within and beyond the village.

In Chapter 7 I aimed at understanding the role of ITs by exploring the concept of

Legal Cartographic Strategy and the relationship between ITs and indigenous peoples’ aspirations. In order to do so, I conducted semi-structured interviews with key personnel involved in the demarcation process (N=20). I also relied on secondary data to spatially assess the configuration of unrecognized ITs in a process which a call as extraterritoriality. I merged the results from my regression analysis of hundreds of ITs with the place-based, endogenous manifestations of territoriality from a A’uwe Uptabi IT, rooted in a very specific experience of history, colonization, indigeneity and state building. I then, used the framework

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of indigeneity and territorialities to understand the promises and pitfalls of the IT as a legal entity as ensured by the Federal Constitution.

According to the FC/88 (art.67), indigenous territories should all be officially demarcated since 1993 (Molina 2018). As the democratic legal apparatus shed lights onto indigenous land rights, it also points to indigenous populations as subjects of rights, moving from an assimilation ideology to one that is closer to equal citizenship. At the same time, re- democratization has reinvigorated developmental capitalism forces promoting deterritorialization detrimental to indigenous land rights. The present chapter analyzed the effects of such forces on demarcação of indigenous territories using ordinal logistic regression model and findings have indicated a strong correlation between these neo- developmentalist modes of production and their ability to hinder indigenous rights and promoting deterritorialization.

If the Brazilian State’s spatial articulation for indigenous territorialities has been fundamentally based on the safeguard of natural resources for future exploitation (Carneiro da Cunha and Barbosa 2018), thus aiming at deterritorializing in different points of time according to its own interest. The FC/88 has endorsed the strategy by ensuring displacement of these populations from their ancestor lands in order to make room for essential actions for the country's development through a variety of deterritorialization mechanisms such as policies, infrastructure projects and land tenure reordering (Barreto Filho 2003).

Indigenous peoples belong to the land and not the other way around. Economic decisions should always respect indigenous people’s self-determination. That said, any action concerning indigenous populations and their territory should respect indigenous self- determination to 1) determine the course of their own development; 2) control the direction and pace of changes that affect their lives; and 3) have the freedom to choose the types of relationship they wish to have with the State, with society in general and with the market- in

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the particular ways in which they (State, society and market) present themselves to indigenous peoples.

If the Anthropocene is marked by a fossil fuel-based industry and an economical model that increasingly and exponentially demands land and natural resources (Viveiros de

Castro 2015), Amazonia region is the epicenter of such transformations, given the reality of a global climate crisis and the imminent tipping point caused by deforestation (R. T. Walker et al. 2019). Stuart Elden (2015), proposed to consider the notion of “terracide” (the process of

“killing the earth”) introduced by Henri Lefebvre to rethink geopolitics. And if “the

Amazônian experience(..)fundamentally shape the politics of Brazil” (Hecht 2011), chances are that the new Amazonian spatial re-configuration proposed by the “terracidal” (Elden,

2015) developmentalist front may pose Brazil as the utmost lesson of resistance. Studies have suggested the need for “transforming indigenous resistance (…) into a force that can confront state power, continental trading blocs, and international capital” (Walker et al. 2019). I argue that indigenous have confronted and resisted “other’s powers” (colonial, State, capitalism, etc) since colonial times. I agree with Viveiros de Castro, who affirmed that the Brazilian

State has bet that indigenous populations would have disappeared by the 21st century and have done their share contributing to its realization (2016).

Finally, I conclude that the recognition of ITs occurring within legal frameworks based on spatial concepts are frequently opposed to the concepts that result from each community’s process of ethnic space construction. The ITs, as a juridical entity, serve as reference points for indigenous political organization and mobilization and also as a mechanism allowing indigenous peoples to engage in a network of funding and investments in socio-environmental projects. The IT address certain territorial anxieties of indigenous peoples by granting them constitutional visibility and legal protection to fight deterritorialization. However, the ITs only address certain elements of indigenous territorial

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aspirations. Therefore, indigenous land rights remain rooted in very limited visions of

‘ethnodevelopment’, failing to address the broader processes of coloniality and inequality that act as barriers to indigenous aspirations for comprehensive wellbeing.

I have identified a few gaps while conducting the present study. The first is the lack of data on indigenous territories that are not yet recognized by the State or not in any stage of demarcação. Future research including those areas would be crucial to identify deeper impacts of the proposed development model, which I suggest to also include notions on extraterritorialities. The second is the clear identification of actors behind territorialization/deterritorialization phenomena and their specific roles and strategies. Third, in acknowledging the complex issues of indigenous territorial rights and the complexity of

Amazonian indigenous populations, the present study only revolves around a certain processual scale. This study leaves out the agency of multiple indigenous populations on all the relevant topics raised, such as territorial management, land rights and demarcação. Lastly, the present study also left out indigenous agency towards demarcation process, such the self- demarcation.

This study may contribute to the literature on A’uwe Uptabi territoriality as well as the field of Indigenous geographies by presenting a case-study that challenges the narratives defining indigenous territories as ‘bounded territories. I argue that mobility is a vital practice within the A’uwe’s cultural expressions through space and that indigenous epistemes on territorial ordering contribute to anti-colonial manifestations of indigenous occupation.

The present study may also contribute to the field of geography by complicating notions of territory and exploring the processes involved in territorial production in different scales. These concepts are informed by non-colonial praxis performed by indigenous peoples and extend into definitions of space and place as relational to cultural expressions and different intersectionalities such as race, gender and age. Moreover, positing territorial

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boundaries as dynamic systems, and as a product of indigenous territorial aspirations, makes it more flexible in adhering to different notions of ownership, autonomy and indigeneity, pointing to the need to also address multiculturalism.

Lastly, the institutional framework that grants indigenous peoples’ autonomy and self- determination also perpetuates the western colonial concept of limiting indigenous autonomy within the rights-based approach. This approach is the foundational pillar on which the ITs stands. Thus, the legal package of the ITs limits indigenous self-determination by compounding the multidimensional aspects of indigenous territorialities, territory and legal cartography.

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APPENDIX A GLOSSARY OF A’UWE LANGUAGE

Table A-1. Glossary of A’uwe Language A’uwe English Abada Young women Adaba Bride A’uwe Uptabi Real people A’uwe tedewa Warriors Awa’awi Present Bakité Traditional baskets weaved by women Ba’ õno Little girl Dabatsa Wedding ceremony Dahhitsi’re Nose Dahöimanawé Well being Danhimipari Hope Datsi tsõpēnē The State/government Datsiwaiõ Emotions Etetsiwató Flat rock Hö Traditional school destined for young men Ihi Elders Iprédu Mature men I’rada Past Irehi Life Itsapronidzé Trajectory Iuwede Log race Marãiwatsédé Dangerous forest Öwawe Big rover Parinai´a Myth of the creation of the world Pi’õ Mature woman Poridza’õno Tadpole

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Table A-1 Continued A’uwe English Rí Place of physical and social reproduction/house Ritei’wa Young men Ró Territory/world Ró’mado’o pitsudu Objectives/goals Róptede’wai Encounter Rowa õnõ Future Rowatu’u History Tsiptede Power Tsõrepré Red rock One of the most important spiritual ritual for the A’uwe Uptabi Wai’a society which mark the progression of manhood “toward spiritual knowledge and power” Waptébremi Little boy Warã Central place in the village where leadership and elders meet daily Waradzu White man Waró Our village/home Watsu’u History and myth Wede’ú Torn Zomori A condition defined by constant walking

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APPENDIX B DETERRITORIALIZATION OR ANTI-INDIGENOUS GOVERNMENT

Table B-1. Deterritorialization or anti-indigenous government

Jair Bolsonaro’s Quotes Date

“It’s a shame that the Brazilian cavalry hasn’t been as efficient as 1998 the Americans, who exterminated the Indians.” “The Indians do not speak our language, they do not have money, they do not have culture. They are native peoples. How did they 2015 manage to get 13% of the national territory?” “There is no indigenous territory where there aren’t minerals. Gold, tin and magnesium are in these lands, especially in the 2015 Amazon, the richest area in the world. I’m not getting into this nonsense of defending land for Indians.” “[indigenous reserves] are an obstacle to agri-business. You can’t 2015 reduce indigenous land by even a square meter in Brazil.” "This unilateral policy of demarcating indigenous land by the Executive will cease to exist. Any reserve that I can reduce in size, 2016 I will do so. It will be a very big fight that we’re going to have with the UN" “In 2019 we’re going to rip up Raposa Serra do Sol [Indigenous Territory in Roraima, northern Brazil]. We’re going to give all the 2016 ranchers guns.” “You can be sure that if I get there [elected President of Brazil] there will be no money for NGOs. If it’s up to me, every citizen will 2017 have a firearm in the house. There will not be a centimeter demarcated for indigenous reservations.” “We are going to integrate them into society. Just like the army which did a great job of this, incorporating the Indians into the 2018 armed forces.” “If I’m elected, I’ll serve a blow to FUNAI; a blow to the neck. 2018 There’s no other way. It’s not useful anymore.”

“If I become President there will not be a centimeter more of 2018 indigenous land.”

“The indians are evolving, more and more they are human being 2019 like us.”

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Aline identifies herself as a woman, as an artist, a daughter, a gardener, a sister, a storyteller, a mother, an activist, a friend and as a feminist. She is a permaculture designer and works with natural healing techniques. She is a social scientist and conservation practitioner with broad experience in the Pan-Amazonian region, more specifically the

Brazilian Amazon. She has also worked in the Brazilian Savanah (Cerrado) and in the

Pantanal region. Her skills range from the natural, environmental sciences to humanities and social sciences, highlighting the use of hybrid methodology. Her academic main interests are in land use and land cover science, critical geography, Latin American studies, political ecology, cultures of governance, post-development, territoriality, decoloniality and the production of subaltern spaces.

Aline was born in Brazil and grew up in a village between Al-Nasiriyah and Al-

Fallujah in the province of Dhi Qar, southern Iraq, where from a very early age she was confronted by social issues, such as famines, racism, sexism, religious fanatism, war and attacks over ethnic minorities. It was during the Gulf War II that she understood the severe consequences of power asymmetries and violent conflicts. Back in Brazil, she started interacting with indigenous groups in the State of Tocantins from a very early age, while also spending many years in Uberaba, a “coronelista” town in Minas Gerais State.

In 1998 Aline went to Oklahoma and lived with a Comanche family. During this period, she encountered a counter-narrative of native Americans in the South of the U.S and became fascinated with their resilience and their epistemic views of the world. Back in

Brazil, she pursued a bachelor’s degree in International Relations, with a monograph work on

International Cooperation for the Brazilian Amazon Conservation. She then, moved to the

Amazon region where she worked for non-profit organizations and spent over a decade in the region working on issues tied to development and ecological and cultural change. While

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working for the Instituto Peabiru, Aline embedded herself into governance processes and scenarios of institutional engagement, regionally, nationally and internationally. Her work has allowed her to be present in the midst of the processes that were remaking the political and ecological frontiers of specific biomes and of Brazil, while managing projects related to landscape management, indigenous territorial management, local value chains, non-timber forest products and agroforestry.

In 2009, Aline engaged in Post-development initiatives while working at the 9th

World Social Forum, held in Belem-PA, Brazil, where around 2 thousand indigenous peoples were raising issues of stateless peoples. Also, in 2009 she became a consultant for the

Projetos Aldeias, in Amazonas State, Brazil, working with institutional development for 5 indigenous groups in partnership with Opan, USAid and World Vision. As a conservation analyst for the World Wildlife Fund, Aline engaged in works related to large-scale agricultural value chains (cattle, soy and palm oil) and have sat in important multi- stakeholder initiatives such as the RSPO, GRSB and RTRS in order to promote better management practices in the commodities sector and to mitigate its socio-environmental impacts. She received the WWF Standards of Conservation Project and Programme

Management Certificate in 2011.

She moved back to United States in 2013 to pursue a master’s degree in environmental studies at the University of Wisconsin – Madison. She received her Ph.D. in

2020 from the Department of Geography at University of Florida, under the supervision of

Dr. Robert Walker. To pursue her studies in the US, Aline was awarded a full scholarship from Science without Borders program from the Coordenação de Aperfeiçoamento de

Pessoal de Nível Superior (CAPES) and from LASPAU - Harvard University. She also received teaching assistantship from the Department of Geography and was awarded The

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Rufford Foundation Small Grant and the CLAS Dissertation Fellowship funded by the Hazen

E. Nutter Scholarship Fund.

Besides her academic achievements and engagements, Aline is deeply rooted in healing practices, permaculture design, agroforestry and involved in feminist and decolonial parenting initiatives and unschooling.

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