Image: The protests from October 2019, the Mapuche and Chilean flags atop of the General Baquedano statue, central Santiago | Susana Hidalgo
South America
Chile
Walking around Santiago, Chile, with Max in 2018, we were struck by the visible stratification between the wealthy and the poor — an underclass I didn’t expect to see in South America’s wealthiest country. It was the middle of winter, grey, and the pollution hung over the city. It didn’t paint the town a cheery hue, and perhaps I had misplaced expectations of a South American city, but we didn’t find it very friendly. Only a handful of people politely asked us where we were from, but there weren’t many follow up questions.
It wasn’t until our last day at the Museo de la Memoria y Los Derechos Humanos (Museum of Memory & Human Rights) reading about the atrocities committed during the Pinochet dictatorship that the more reserved nature of Chileans was resolved. Having to hide from your neighbours for fear of persecution and torture from 1973 to 1990 is bound to traumatise a generation.
What I didn’t realise until last October’s protests was that the country’s constitution had not been updated since Pinochet’s ousting. What Chile was left with was a blueprint for neoliberal policies that would make the country’s rich richer (and therefore the GDP) and the poor unable to access decent healthcare, education or welfare. Even water is privatised. The minimum wage is 3.5% of the salary of a congressman (in Australia, for comparison, it’s about 20%). This disparity had fuelled growing discontent with the current “centre-right” government, so when in 2019 the price of a metro ticket was set to go up by 4%, the camel’s back broke. What started as a mass fare evasion protest soon moved to the streets as a protest against the status quo, where military police struggled to contain the outrage. 30 people were killed.
After a month of constant protests, President Sebastián Piñera agreed to the demands to hold a referendum in 2020 asking two questions: Should there be a new constitution? and Who should draw it up? Initially planned to be held in April, the referendum was pushed back to October due to COVID-19 restrictions. Yesterday the results came in. Overwhelmingly, 78% of the 7.5 million Chileans who voted said Yes to the new constitution, and 79% said it should be drawn up by an elected body of 155 citizens (with a gender parity).
Image: How Santiago voted in the referendum. The red districts where a majority of people voted for no change to the constitution are the richest parts of the city — no surprises there.
In the new constitution, it is hoped that special consideration will be afforded to Mapuche sovereignty. While the Mapuche are the main Indigenous peoples of Chile (and parts of southern Argentina) and their culture is very much alive despite their marginalisation, another Indigenous group has become a bittersweet symbol of Chilean identity, the now extinct Selk’nam. Every tourist place you go there are souvenirs using the costumes of a Selk’nam male initiation ceremony called Hain. It’s sort of nice, but quite bizarre that they’re commemorated in this way considering it was modernity that wiped them out. Having said that, I was totally taken in by the designs and mystique of a lost culture and deliberated long and hard over what Selk’nam keepsake to buy (in the end, I couldn’t decide, lol).
Technically, the Selk’ham are *almost* gone. A young Mestizo from Santiago, going by the Selk’ham name Keyuk, has taught himself the language and is the last surviving speaker. You can watch a short doco on him here:
One of the main reasons Max and I went to Santiago was because for a long time we have enjoyed Chilean indie-pop. Artists like Javiera Mena, Alex Anwandter, Denver, Ana Tijoux, Astro, Camila Moreno, Kali Mutsa and many others, including Gepe, who weaves Andean instrumentation into his tunes. Here’s an oldie, but my favourite of his:
And if there’s one recent Chilean film I recommend it’s A Fantastic Woman (2017), which Australians can watch on SBS On Demand now.
Australia
Djab wurrung
Image: a ‘directions tree’ of the Djab wurrung | Justin McManus
West of Melbourne, near the township of Ararat, you pass through Djab wurrung country. As a kid my family and I drove through it many, many times on the Western Highway (A8) having made the move from Melbourne to Adelaide. In the neighbouring nation of Jardwadjali, with whom the Djab wurrung would intermarry, sits the Giant Koala, a roadside attraction my brother would say got up and wandered the bush at night, scaring me witless.
Djab wurrung is starting to get international attention because on Monday it was confirmed that as the state of Victoria was released from its months-long COVID lockdown, sacred trees were felled for a new highway duplication. An embassy was set up last year to protest the felling of the trees, and a cheaper route that avoided the area was proposed. Instead, while Djab wurrung elders were in the federal court challenging the plan, the trees were cut down. Some in the area are over 800 years old. The directions trees, like the one pictured above, are part of a tradition whereby the placenta is planted at the base of the tree so it grows as the child grows. Djab wurrung children become adults but always have their directions tree to return to. The Djab wurrung also used trees as places for burial and meetings.
Needless to say, the community is devastated by the news. I’m concerned that with the proposed alternative route, the act is blatantly racist, colonial bullshittery. It’s outrageous. It’s cultural genocide.
What’s sad about this country is how settlers don’t want to understand what a sacred site means for Indigenous folk. Last October we saw record numbers of tourists scrambling over Uluru knowing that the custodians of the land explicitly ask them not to. Perhaps it’s the word ‘sacred’? In colonialism ‘sacred’ connotes a primitive spirituality, when all it means is ‘a part of the culture’. Culture is made of stories, events and actions of a group of people. We all have culture. Your childhood home is a part of your family’s culture. If someone knocked it down while you were pleading them not to, that’s the destruction of a sacred site to you. It’s not just a house, a rock, a tree to those who live there and have imbued it with story and meaning.
Ugh.
Some other things of interest:
Super cool mortician has a YouTube channel and answers your questions:
I started listening to this Congolese artist last year and I’m revisiting him again while I’m writing. Tabu Ley Rochereau was one of Africa’s most influential singer-songwriters and is said to have fathered up to 102 children with different women! This is one of my favourite songs of his (and ever):
I wrote this on Tuesday because currently I’m on a short holiday. It will be interesting to see any developments in the Djab wurrung story by the end of the week.
I’d also like to give a shout out to Max, who got confirmation on a new job this week. Super happy and proud.
Until next time, stay safe!