Othering National Identity Alterity and Indigenous Activism in Otavalo
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Othering National Identity Alterity and Indigenous Activism in Otavalo, Ecuador by Sergio Miguel Huarcaya A dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy (Anthropology and History) in The University of Michigan 2011 Doctoral Committee Professor Bruce Mannheim, Chair Associate Professor Stuart A. Kirsch Professor Paul C. Johnson Associate Professor Marisol de la Cadena, University of California Davis © Sergio Miguel Huarcaya All rights reserved 2011 To Blanca Chancoso ii Table of Contents Dedication ii Chapter I Introduction Blanca Chancoso’s Courage 1 Chapter II Imagining Ecuadorians 59 Chapter III Indios and Blancos in Otavalo 127 Chapter IV Challenging Blancos 170 Chapter V Challenging the Hacendado 218 Chapter VI Conclusions Challenging the Nation-State 284 Bibliography 295 iii Chapter I Introduction Blanca Chancoso’s Courage In January 2001, only one year after the levantamiento (uprising)1 of January 2000 had brought down the presidency of Jamil Mahuad, the Ecuadorian highlands and eastern lowlands were again paralyzed by massive indigenous protest. Thousands of indigenous demonstrators blocked main highways, halted the delivery of their agricultural production to local markets, and went to Quito—the national capital—and other cities to join the marches protesting against the government of Gustavo Noboa. Once again, indígenas (indigenous persons) were putting the Ecuadorian government in check.2 1 Since colonial times, non-indigenous persons have used the term levantamiento to refer to uprisings of indigenous peoples. Indigenous leaders choose this term to define the first contemporary, pan-regional, indigenous uprising in June 1990, calling it Levantamiento Nacional Indígena (National Indigenous Uprising). The idea was to distinguish it from national strikes, done by class-based organizations, and to establish continuity with levantamientos during the colonial and republican periods (Zamosc 1994a:37; L. Macas 12/2/2004). 2 For the levantamiento of January 2001, see Acosta et al. (2001); and the Journal Iconos No. 10). For both levantamientos of January 2000 and January 2001, see Lucero (Lucero 2001). For the levantamiento of January 2000, see Dieterich (2001); Hernández et al. (2000); Gerlach (2003); Ponce (2000); and CONAIE (2000). 1 The Confederación de Nacionalidades Indígenas del Ecuador (Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador: CONAIE) had set the levantamiento in motion to protest against the neoliberal economic measures dictated by President Gustavo Noboa. In contrast to previous contemporary levantamientos, the Ecuadorian state tried to repress the mobilization applying unusual levels of violence. The government declared the country in a state of emergency and arrested hundreds of indigenous demonstrators. In Quito, police set siege upon thousands of indígenas who had concentrated in the campus of the Universidad Politécnica Salesiana (Salesian Polytechnic University). In the provinces, troops shot several demonstrators dead. Trying to mediate the dialogue between the indigenous leadership, which threatened to continue the protests, and the executive branch, which refused any negotiations until the protests stop, the National Congress in Quito called the indígenas to present their demands. On January 31, at the height of the levantamiento, three designated indigenous leaders from the highlands, one woman and two men wearing traditional costume, went to the Congress. At the entrance, which was swarming with people, the following exchange took place: Spokesman: “We are coordinating to know who is going to come in.” Indigenous woman: “Yes, we are the leaders.” Police officer, aggressively loud: “Let’s see. Your name!” Unknown voice in the background: “Leaders? From where, how, when?” Police officer, again loud: “Your name!” Indigenous woman: “What did you say?” Police officer: “What is your name? [We need] Your name to…” Indigenous woman, angry: “Don’t you know how to treat persons well?” Other unknown voices: “…to announce it [to congress].” “…to bring you inside.” Indigenous woman: “You need to say señora (madam)! You are not going to call me mi hijita (my little daughter)! I am not your little daughter! Police officer, changing radically his tone from aggressive to cordial: “Please, your name?” 2 Indigenous woman: “Good. You need to learn how to treat [us] as persons! Respect me!” Police officer: “Let’s see, please, your name?” Indigenous woman: “Say to me, ‘Señora, [what is] your name?’” Police officer: “Señora, [what is] your name? Indigenous woman: “Good. Blanca Chancoso.” Police officer: “Señora Blanca Chancoso.” Indigenous woman: “That’s it.” I watched this incident in a video recording, a day after it had occurred. At the time of the uprising, while pursuing an M.A. degree in Latin American Studies in Ecuador, I occasionally worked and volunteered as a video producer and instructor for the CONAIE. The video was shot by a foreign activist who, like I, was a member of CONAIE’s Department of Communication. There, we were busy documenting the uprising and counteracting the government’s media campaign against the mobilization. Using Power Point presentations sent to electronic mailing lists, we reported on government repression. A few days into the uprising, the government realized that its strategy had backfired. The repression had incited more mobilization rather than dissipating it. Eventually, the government backed down, and the uprising was seen as a triumph for the indigenous movement. The indígena embroiled with the police officer was Blanca Chancoso, a renowned leader of the Ecuadorian indigenous movement. In the altercation, she was not only demanding respect from a brusque police officer but also bringing forward an indigenous moral critique on the history of interethnic relations in Ecuador. The presence of the video camera might have compelled the officer to yield to Blanca Chancoso’s demands, but the significance of the incident lays in what she did: she preempted him from treating her paternalistically. She cut off in advance the possibility for the officer to led the 3 interaction into a paternalistic framework, even though perhaps he was not going to do so. Blanca Chancoso’s acute awareness of the way in which power permeates interethnic interactions is an outcome of indigenous subaltern experience. Not long ago, it was common for non-indígenas3 to address indigenous adults as “mi hijito” or “mi hijita” with the intention of restricting their power to act at their own discretion, implying that the indígenas, just as children, were unable to know what was good for them and needed protection. Non-indígenas reserved the terms “señor” (Mister) and “señora” (Madam), as well as “don” and “doña” (honorific title used before the first name), to address socially respectable non-indígenas, at the top of local hierarchies.4 They also avoided the use of the word “usted” (formal you), the polite form of address in Spanish, when addressing an indígena. Instead, they used the informal “tú” or “vos” (informal you), a term reserved for friends and family members who are not your seniors. In brief, indígenas, even unknown persons, were never addressed as señor/señora, don/doña, or usted. 3 I use the term non-indígena as an analytical category to refer to non-black, non-indigenous Ecuadorians. To refer to them, scholars have used the terms blanco (white), mestizo, and since the 1980s blanco-mestizo (white-mestizo). These terms muddle local usage and meaning, which varies across time and space, with analytical categorization. In addition, persons may choose a category but have another foisted on them. Furthermore, I consider that the term blanco-mestizo implies a false homogeneity and hides discrimination within this category (See Roitman 2009). Using non-indígena allows thinking about social categorization in relational and processual terms. When referring to local usage, I use the term blanco in Spanish, without translating it to English. I consider that its translation, “white,” does not render appropriately all the complexities of meaning deployed in local usage. 4 Locally, these were members of the respectable class, who—like the gente decente, decent folks or people of worth, in Cuzco, Peru, studied by Marisol de la Cadena (de la Cadena 1998, 2000)— did not self-identify as mestizos and articulated their social superiority in terms of a racialized morality. 4 Treating indígenas paternalistically, non-indígenas imposed an oppressive fictional intimacy in which indígenas could not demand respect as adult persons (Casagrande 1981: 260; de la Torre 1999: 101; Meisch 2002: 206; Pallares 2000: 274). This treatment was naturalized inasmuch as indigenous subordination and non-indigenous dominance were taken for granted. As indigenous professional Segundo Ramos claims, “For them (non-indígenas), there was no racism. To say ‘mi hijito’ to the indio (Indian) was the standard behavior. It was not seen as racism because they considered that by saying ‘mi hijito,’ they were treating you well” (9/20/2006). In addition, indígenas could neither display aggressive behavior against nor give orders to non-indígenas. These were challenges to the social hierarchy, and would have provoked disciplinary action, often with the complicity of local authorities and police (Butler 1981: 282; Korovkin 2001: 47; Villavicencio 1973: 119-120). Under this social framing, the scene at the entrance of Congress constitutes a reversal of roles: the subaltern india tells