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New Indigenous Citizenship in Bolivia:Challenging the Liberal Model of theState and its SubjectsAndrew Canessa

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Latin American and Caribbean Ethnic Studies

Vol. 7, No. 2, July 2012, pp. 201–221

New Indigenous Citizenship in Bolivia:Challenging the Liberal Model of theState and its SubjectsAndrew Canessa

At the beginning of the 20th century, indigenous identities seemed atavistic and doomed.By its close, indigenous politics were proving to be much more dynamic and successful

than other progressive political movements. This article explores the ways in whichindigenous groups are engaging in novel ways with the nation-state. What is at play here

is a series of articulations of the ways in which the state relates to citizens and vice versain Bolivia where the iconic citizen has changed from being a mestizo to an indigenous

person. Not all communities and not all individuals are equally well placed to takeadvantage of new political spaces and opportunities. This article examines the case of

Khonkho in highland Bolivia and considers its response to the opportunities opened upby a new indigenous political landscape and, in particular, the role of new ritualsin articulating a new relationship with the state. The relationship between cultural

expression and political rights are explored, arguing that the former are much morelinked to the latter than might first appear.

Keywords: Indigeneity; indigenous citizenship; Evo Morales; indigenous

communities; Aymara; Bolivia

Introduction

One of the most remarkable transformations in recent years in Latin America is the

irruption of the politics of indigeneity into mainstream politics. From the Zapatistas

in Mexico to the participation of La Confederacion de Nacionalidades Indıgenas del

Ecuador (CONAIE) in the Ecuadorian government, indigenous groups have quite

clearly come from the margins to play various roles, admittedly with varying success

at the heart of their nation-states. This is perhaps most obviously the case in Bolivia,

which elected its ‘first indigenous president’, Evo Morales, in 2005 and elected him

again with an even greater majority in 2009. In this article I will look at some of the

more recent manifestations of political indigenous expression and reflect on what

implications this has for an understanding of citizenship, particularly in Bolivia.

It is tempting to see the kinds of organizing that have been witnessed since the

1990s as representing a radically new form of engagement with the state that comes

out of neoliberal state reforms (Hale, 2002, 2006; Postero, 2007) whereby the retreat

ISSN 1744–2222 (print)/ISSN 1744–2230 (online)/12/020201–21 � 2012 Taylor & Francishttp://dx.doi.org/10.1080/17442222.2012.686335

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of the state from the lives of its citizens opens up new space of engagement and new

relationships between citizen and state. Michiel Baud (2009), however, challenges the

conventional wisdom that the kinds of organizing witnessed in the 1990s were

substantially new forms of engagement with the state. Taking an historical

perspective, he demonstrates that there is a long history of indigenous engagement

with the state that makes it difficult to sustain the argument that indigenous politics

is somehow profoundly different and antagonistic to modern statecraft. He offers a

persuasive argument that the history of indigenous struggles has certainly challenged

the state but has also contributed to its formation. Indigenous people have more

often argued for inclusion than separation: ‘indigenous movements . . . tried to

compel the state to enforce its own constitutional pledge of citizenship and to comply

with its own legislation’ (Baud, 2009, p. 34).

It is worth considering some of the historical background, not least because many

indigenous communities today see their current struggles explicitly in terms of their

own memories of conflict and injustices of the past (Fabricant, 2012). Although with

Independence and the foundation of a liberal republic Indians were formally citizens

of the nation-state, the political and judicial reality remained very far from actually

granting Indians full citizenship rights. As Erick Langer (2009, p. 539) points out,

during the 19th century the state used categories such as indıgena, indıgena

contribuyente o indıgena originario [indigenous, contributory indigenous, originary

indigenous] – all of them essentially fiscal categories – to designate Indians; they were

never referred to as citizens (a term reserved for creoles and mestizos; Langer, 2009,

p. 538). Rosanna Barragan Romano notes that the first Bolivian constitution makes

a distinction between ‘Bolivians’ and ‘citizens’:

The requirement [of being a citizen is] to read and write, to own property or have a

minimal annual income, and of not being a servant, consequently divided the nationbetween Bolivians and citizens, and excluded the great majority of the population [from

the latter category].

(Barragan Romano, 1999, p. 23, translation by the author)

Nevertheless, in many cases Indians maintained a relation with the state, insisting

on paying tribute in order to continue the colonial contract (Platt, 1982). When

the state attempted to abrogate Indians’ rights, the latter appealed to maintain the

colonial contract – not because they were conservative or because they were incapable

of participating in a liberal state, but because the colonial documents they possessed

were the only ones they could use in their defense (Baud, 2009, p. 25). Even if the

state denied Indians a role in the nation – that is, refused them citizenship rights – for

their part, the Indians continued to fight for a relationship with the state even as the

state continued to dispossess and marginalize Indians throughout the 19th century

(Langer, 2009).

The worst part of this period was during the final decades of the 19th century.

Corruption and despotism reached new heights under the administration of

President Melgarejo (1864–1871), who declared all Indian communities extinct and

sold off many of their lands to the highest bidder (Larson, 2004, pp. 216–219),

although some were able to recoup their lands in 1871 (Langer, 2009, p. 547).

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The combined effects of dispossession, dislocation of markets due to the Pacific

War (1879–1884), and a new racism that saw Indians as biologically inferior

(Demelas, 1981, 1982) led to highland Indians being pauperized and increasingly

marginalized from a state in which they had hitherto played an active, if

subordinated, role (Langer, 2009; Platt, 1993).It is obviously difficult to know exactly what Indians thought of these processes,

but Platt (1993) suggests that they wished for a productive and dynamic relationship

with the state. The uprisings of the last decades of the 19th century and the beginning

of the 20th century have generally been interpreted as struggles for land that rejected

any role of the state in Indians’ lives. Even if the appropriation of land was a clear

motive for these uprisings, they obscure the wish on the part of indigenous people to

participate fully in the life of the nation. In the words of Marta Irurozqui Victoriano:

The indigenous population did not limit itself to expressing its antagonism to the

society which enveloped it, rather, through combining insurgency with other modes of

public intervention such as petitions for Spanish language schooling, the right to

address tribunals or participation in elections, they expressed a wish for an active, and

not tutelary, role in the construction of the Bolivian nation state.

(2000, p. 367, translation by author)

In the second half of the 20th century, and after the overthrow of the creole

oligarchy in 1952, indigenous Bolivians were under strong pressure to assimilate to

mestizo linguistic and cultural norms. Even as their dance and music were elevated

to national folklore, their lived culture was widely regarded as being atavistic.

The politics of assimilation offered the dream of citizenship to indigenous people but

daily and structural racism prevented ‘peasants’, as indigenous people were now

called, from truly occupying their position as citizens within the nation-state. The

dictatorships of the 1970s and 1980s exposed this lie of citizenship, and with the

coming of democracy slowly came the idea of a citizenship that respected cultural

difference. The advent of indigenous politics in the 1980s was yet another demand

on the part of indigenous people to be treated as full citizens in the nation.

The long-term pattern is clearly an engagement with the state to be included rather

than to overturn it or exclude one’s self from it. There can be no doubt, however, that

the retreat of the state in the 1990s opened up new spaces for political engagement.

Charles Hale (2002) famously questioned the benevolence of the new embrace of

multiculturalism, arguing that it was a new way of the state abrogating its duties to

its indigenous citizens and that the state was only benign to a very particular kind

of acceptable Indian subject (Hale, 2004). Guatemala, where Hale based his work,

contrasts, however, with Bolivia, where Nancy Postero (2007) argues liberal reforms

had a series of unintended consequences of opening up real political opportunities

for indigenous people.

In Bolivia, moreover, the language of political indigeneity has been clearly used by

various groups as an explicit critique of neoliberal globalization (Canessa, 2007;

Sieder, 2002; Maybury-Lewis, 2002; Van Cott, 2002; Postero and Zamosc, 2004).

Nancy Postero (2007, p. 17) posits a ‘post multicultural citizenship’ (see also

Goodale, 2009), but access to this citizenship is clearly not evenly distributed

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in Bolivia. It is certainly the case that some groups are able to mobilize in a creative

way to form new relationships with the state (Gustafson, 2009). Most celebrated arethe coca growers, who were able to articulate a ‘lite’ (Grisaffi, 2010, p. 433) version of

indigeneity that focused on relations with the state rooted in the coca leaf as ametonym for a broader set of colonial and postcolonial injustices. Nicole Fabricant’s

(2012) work with landless peasants in the eastern lowlands offers a comparableanalysis of mobilized groups who use land as an indigenous trope of political

engagement. In these two latter cases, these social movements have not only forgednew relationships with the state but have become very closely allied with the state.

Not all groups have such privileged access, however. Esther Lopez’ (2011) workamong the Tacana in the eastern lowlands demonstrates how there is conflict

between indigenous groups: some highlanders are seen as having privileged accessto the state machinery at the expense of others. Rob Albro (2010) has recently

documented how Morales’ government has failed to address the concerns of urbanindigenous groups even though they played a major role in his political success.

These groups articulate, as Sian Lazar (2007) argues, a collective rather thanindividual approach to citizenship. Lazar’s work is particularly important because

one of the frictions between globalized neoliberalism and indigenous mobilizationis precisely the challenging of the liberal assumption, which contends that relations

with the state are based on the sovereign individual rather than groups.The neoliberal reforms of the 1990s introduced the idea of a multi-ethnic and

plurinational Bolivia. What we are seeing today is a rejection of mestizaje as nationalideology. Many have commented on the new forms of indigenous citizenship

indigenous Latin Americans are experiencing today (Kymlicka, 1995; Postero, 2007;Stavenhagen, 2002; Yashar, 2005) in sharp contrast to a historical context where

being indigenous ipso facto implied a lack of citizenship. Marıa Elena Garcıagoes further in her analysis in proposing an indigenous citizenship where ‘cultural

difference is no longer a criterion for exclusion, but one of inclusion in amulticultural political community’ (2005, p. 165). The contemporary state in Bolivia

has rejected the politics of assimilation in favor of a recognition of cultural and ethnicdiversity, and moved indigenous identity from the margins of the nation-state to its

very heart: the indigenous is now the paradigmatic citizen (Canessa, 2006).This has partly come about because in Evo’s Bolivia political legitimacy rests

on being indigenous (although this is, of course, contested). On many occasionsEvo has positioned the indigenous as being the best place from which to defend

and protect the nation’s natural resources and to push for social justice on a verywide front. Indigeneity provides his government with the legitimacy to rule and aplatform from which to protect the nation against cultural and economic

globalization; in short, indigeneity is the foundation of a new nationalism.What we are seeing then is something much more than the ‘indigenous citizenship’

proposed by Marıa Elena Garcıa, which is really citizenship for indigenous people.In Bolivia today, indigenous citizens are not only recognized as citizens of the nation

but, rather, they have a privileged position vis-a-vis the state. Indigenous citizenshipin this sense is not simply a new model of citizenship for indigenous people but a

new model of citizenship per se. Joanne Rappaport (2009) has noted that even

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in Colombia, which has a very small indigenous population, indigenous groups have

successfully managed to change the definition of citizenship in that country, and

I would argue the case more strongly for Bolivia.

Being Indigenous Today

It is quite clear that Evo Morales is both a product of these new forms of political

engagement as well as a principal impulse to its more recent manifestations. One of

the things that marks Evo as a politician is his ability to make political indigeneity

meaningful for a wide range of people, articulating a discourse against global

capitalism, social exclusion and, interestingly enough, globalization. In the years

leading up to the 2005 election, indigeneity came to mean an oppositional politics,

a strategic position from which to challenge vested interests. This partly accounts

for the unexpectedly large majority of the Bolivian population (63 percent) being

returned as indigenous in the 2000 census even as the numbers speaking an

indigenous language as their mother tongue dropped to below 50 percent for the first

time.I am not here to suggest that Evo Morales is not indigenous but, rather, that his

political indigeneity does not come out of a career of identity politics or a long

tradition of mobilizing under an ethnic banner but of adopting a globalized language

of social justice. It is this particular sense of justice, or rather historical injustice, that

is common to indigenous peoples around the world; it is this sense of being

dispossessed and marginalized in their own lands that unites Maoris and Aymaras.

It is, of course, a discourse that can make reference to an illustrious past, be it Inka,

Maya or Tiwanaku – or indeed Maori or Hawaiian. But in these cases the references

are to civilizations that have, of course, fallen; the sense of injustice and loss is often

profound.Another positive association with indigeneity is its putative relationship with

nature that stretches back to the European invasion, which naturalized indigenous

people in their landscapes. In contemporary eco-politics this can be a useful position

to hold, and in the Bolivian case used to great effect to defend the sale of natural

resources, especially in what is known as the ‘Gas War’ in Bolivia, which played

a major role in bringing down the Sanchez de Lozada administration (Kohl &

Farthing, 2006).Indigeneity is, therefore, a discourse of injustice that can draw on positive tropes

of past civilizations, a relationship to the natural environment, and a sense of

authenticity that can speak to a broad group of Bolivians who feel dispossessed and

colonized by powerful global economic and political forces. One of the central

paradoxes about indigenous identities is that they are simultaneous globalized –

indigeneity is now a concept that has meaning across the world – yet dependent on

its particularity and rootedness in place for its authenticity. It is this particular

combination that can make it a powerful instrument of mobilization.It is certainly by now widely recognized that indigeneity is global (Niezen, 2003;

Tsing, 2004) as people as diverse as the Norwegian Sami and Indian dalits organize

under its banner. Given this diversity and historical contingency there is certainly

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a debate to be had about the analytical purchase of the term ‘indigenous’ (see,

for example, the debate started by Adam Kuper in Current Anthropology1) and muchink has been spilled in trying to define indigeneity. In Latin America, as well as the

rest of the world, who is and who is not indigenous and what it means to beindigenous is highly variable, context specific and changes over time.2 Most

commentators, international organizations such as the United Nations, World Bankand International Labour Organization agree, however, that indigenous people have

a particular relationship to history.Now, there can be no doubt that the European invasion and colonization

of America occasioned profound changes in all the native societies, but it is not theonly event in history that defines communities today. One can certainly think of the

expansion of the Inka and Aztec Empires as having a profound effect on the identitiesof many communities, but also the long and varied historical processes since the

Conquest that have shaped contemporary peoples’ identities such as the Toledanreforms in the late 16th-century Andes, ejidal reforms in Mexico, the rubber boom

at the beginning of the 20th century, land reform in its various guises across thecontinent; public education, and so on.

There are issues with this historical perspective because it can predetermine for apeople a relationship with their past and offers little scope for other ways of thinking

about indigeneity that are not historical or where ‘historical continuity’ is decidedlyunclear. Judith Friedlander (2006 [1975]) in her classic book Being Indian in

Hueyapan, which has recently been re-issued, makes the point that contemporaryindigenous communities in Mexico are functions of class structures and economic

and political marginalization rather than historical continuity with pre-colonialcultures. One very easily gets into debates about what and who is authentically

indigenous if the ‘historical continuity’ argument is applied. I tend to disagree withFriedlander’s thesis because, as with many anthropologists, I see culture as dynamic

and I am not terribly interested in looking for ‘survivals’ of pre-colonial populations.This would matter very little if people did not feel obliged to demonstrate that they

spoke an ancestral language (for example, Graham, 2003) or are somehow directdescendants of pre-Columbian populations. This can take many interesting forms.

In contemporary Bolivia, where the globalized consciousness of indigeneity is verymuch evident, many communities are rediscovering their ancient ruins, reintrodu-

cing llama sacrifices and other rituals. I am not saying that this is a bad thing; in fact,in many instances it provides a way for people not only to assert pride in their culture

but to work towards greater local autonomy. What I am suggesting is that this newcultural pride is not sui generis. It is, at the very least, stimulated by globalizeddiscourses surrounding indigenous identity, and more specifically the authenticity

of indigenous identity. Quite clearly, adopting the language and developing thepractices of a globalized indigeneity can be very effective.

This may sound very instrumental but culture has never existed independent ofpolitical frameworks and in a recent work, Jose Antonio Lucero (2008) demonstrates

how indigenous movements in Bolivia and Ecuador have different trajectoriesbecause of the different political terrains in which they operate. For those of us who

are uneasy with the facile assumption that indigenous movements can be understood

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simply as political representations of indigenous people, Lucero’s work provides

an important antidote. He most certainly does not take an indigenous identity assomehow given, of having suffered a period of latency only to be awakened by

indigenous politics, where ‘‘‘real’’ ethnic identities seemed simply to be awaiting theright conditions in order to emerge, almost geologically, through the cracks

of shifting political formations’ (Lucero, 2008, p. 15). In his careful examination ofa wide range of groups he shows how history, region, class and religion are critical

elements in understanding how concerns come to be articulated in terms ofspecifically indigenous identities. In some cases, one might even say the indigenous

movement has formed indigenous identity. This is not to say that indigenous peopleare cynically manipulated or shrewdly opportunistic but, rather, that there are a series

of dialogues between a wide range of people out of which an indigenous identityand movement can emerge. Lucero offers his readers a vision of pragmatic actors

who are nevertheless embedded in historical social relations and who have a longhistory of being discriminated for their cultural practices. For Lucero, ‘indigenous

movements in Ecuador and Bolivia are all genuine expressions of historical andpolitical realities, yet they have been imagined and articulated in different ways’

(2008, p. 111).Indigeneity is, without a doubt, a slippery concept. Recently, Marisol de la Cadena

and Orin Starn have written that ‘reckoning with indigeneity demands recognizing itas a relational field of governance, subjectivities, and knowledges that involve us all –

indigenous and non-indigenous – in the making and remaking of its structures ofpower and imagination’ (2007, p. 3).

Indigeneity is clearly relational; it sets up a distinction between groups and it isalmost always defined in terms of characteristics not shared by dominant groups.

These may very well have once been cultural forms that were once dominant(Friedlander, 2006 [1975]), which points to the very dynamic nature of indigeneity.

Indigeneity also relates to power and imagination as de la Cadena and Starn pointout. To be indigenous is to be in a position usually of relative powerlessness, but it is

always a claim to justice (Canessa, 2007) and a claim to justice based on an historicalrelation. Indigeneity is about history and power.

At its simplest, a claim to indigeneity comes down to a minimal claim, relationaland strategic: ‘we were here before you’ (Clifford, 2007, p. 197). Mary Louise Prattunderlines this point in noting that all the ‘generic descriptors used to refer to

indigenous peoples – indigenous, native, aboriginal, first nations – all referetymologically to priority in time and place . . . This, of course makes the term

relational and retrospective’ (2007, p. 398). One can clearly not have a sense ofindigeneity without an invasion or occupation at some point in time. It is simply not

meaningful to talk of indigenous Americans before the arrival of the Spanish becauseuntil the Conquest there was no sense that they shared any common identity or

position: in 1491 there were no Indians in the Americas; in 1492 there were tensof millions (Bonfil Batalla, 1972).

There is, however, an apparent arbitrariness to the historicity because it dependson a particular moment in time. In contemporary Bolivia, the descendants of Inkas

who arrived in the territory in the 1490s will readily be considered indigenous;

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the descendants of Spaniards who arrived a few decades later will most probably not

be considered indigenous. Indigeneity is not simply an historical relationship of

we were here before you but the enduring power relations that arise out of that

moment in history.

Indigenous people today are consequently not best understood as cultural

survivors clinging onto a quaint, particular but atavistic culture, but rather as

inheritors of a colonial situation that has continued over time even thought the

symbols of power and oppression may have changed considerably. In fact, it is a base

illusion if not condescending to suggest that any people would be so lacking

in cultural dynamism and historicity as to remain fossilized for centuries. The

significant continuity lies in the historical consciousness rather than specific cultural

forms but this raises the question as to what ‘indigenous culture’ actually is.

If indigenous culture is something other than simply a pre-Columbian inheritance,

then it is perhaps better understood as being an articulation of an historically charged

(neo)colonial relationship.

New Indigenous Histories in Khonkho

In recent years (2007, 2009, 2011) I have been conducting research in Khonkho,

a small Aymara community a day’s walk from Lake Titicaca and similarly a day’s

walk over the Cordillera to Tiwanaku. In collaboration with John Janusek, an

archaeologist, we have been looking at ways the people of Khonkho have been

changing the way they think about their past in the context of participating

in excavations of the archaeological sites on their land, the rising prominence

of Tiwanaku with which they feel increasingly connected, and the increased profile

given indigenous identities in contemporary Bolivia.

Khonkho is one of many villages in a fertile plane but one that famously avoided

the encroachment of large landowners at the end of the 19th century. Khonkhenos

of all ages will readily mention the revolt of 1921, focused initially on the hated

corregidor Lucio Estrada but seen both by historians (Choque & Ticona, 1996) and

the people of the plain as located within a long history of resistance to white rule.

After the Expropriation Law of 1874, many of the indigenous communities across

the region were absorbed into haciendas with the exception of the area around

Jesus de Machaca which nevertheless continued to struggle against landowners and,

in particular, organized clandestine schooling in order better to defend their rights.

On 11 March 1921, La Razon of La Paz reported that ‘the teacher Marcelino

Llanqui gathered together numerous community indians in his school in Kenko

[i.e. Khonkho] with the object of telling them that the hour had come to exterminate

the inhabitants of Jesus de Machaca’ (Choque & Ticona, 1996, p. 56). The newspaper

gives the teacher the principal role in the uprising although eyewitnesses and

participants in the uprising most certainly did not describe the events as being

organized by him (Choque & Ticona, 1996). One of the principal grievances of the

Indians was the resistance on the part of the Corregidor and other mestizo/creole

citizens of the town of Jesus de Machaca to the founding of a school. Elisario Perez

who, with Avelino Sinani, would some years later found the first rural Indian school

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in Warisata, had visited the area in response to the request of Indians of the area

who were keen to defend their interests and participate as full citizens in nationallife (Choque et al., 1992).

The resistance on the part of the state and Catholic Church to the demandsfor schools had its roots in the anxiety that education for Indians would corrupt

them and undermine the tutelary relationship they had with landowners and theChurch. The fantasy propagated by the newspaper that the uprising was instigated

and organized by the school teacher confirmed the widespread idea that Indians weresimply incapable of acting on their own initiative. The uprising was heavily repressed

with killings, banishment, imprisonment, the confiscation of animals, and thedestruction of villages (Choque & Ticona, 1996). Despite this repression, however,

the ayllus of Jesus de Machaca managed to resist hacienda encroachment until theBolivian Revolution of 1952, which put a stop to such activity and, in fact, ushered

in a major land reform the following year that turned over thousands of haciendasto the Indians who worked the land.

Every year since 1991 this uprising has been commemorated by a dawn parade intothe main square of Jesus de Machaca. The advent of this re-enactment was more

than simply the 70th anniversary of the uprising. By the 1990s Bolivia was not onlygearing up to the commemoration of what many were learning to call 500 years

of colonization, but also experiencing major economic and political changes. At thesame time, it was also discovering multiculturalism and the President of the time,

Paz Zamora, began to receive foreign dignitaries among the ruins of Bolivia’sprincipal pre-Columbian site, Tiwanaku, which in turn was beginning to celebrate

the Aymara New Year. Although in the early 1990s only a handful would gatheramong the ruins to sacrifice a llama in the freezing dawn of mid-winter, by the end

of the century tens of thousands would participate.This decade also saw state reform and the devolution of power to municipalities

that many at the time, probably correctly, perceived as the retreat of the state.As Charles Hale (2002) noted, the retreat of the state and the celebration of

multiculturalism went hand in hand. It did, however, have some unintendedconsequences in Bolivia, which was that it gave indigenous people real experience

of municipal government (Albo, 2002; Calla, 1997). If, at first, they were elected asrepresentatives of the standard political parties, by the end of the decade they weresuccessfully competing under various banners and entering congress as indigenous

people.The municipality of Jesus de Machaca played a particular role in the inauguration

of the 1994 decentralization Law of Popular Participation because President Sanchezde Lozada and his Aymara vice-President, Victor Hugo Cardenas, launched the new

Law during the 1994 commemorative ceremonies in Jesus de Machaca (Cameron,2010, p. 140). The Law of Popular Participation did not, however, co-opt the people

of Jesus de Machaca and they were at the forefront of over a decade’s resistance toSanchez de Lozada’s two administrations, manning barricades and participating

in a number of sieges of the capital city. In the face of massive unrest, Sanchez deLozada’s government tumbled in October 2003. His 1994 coalition with Katarista

Victor Hugo Cardenas failed in gaining him the support of the indigenous

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population who were his most implacable political foes. This was the case even

in 2003 when Congress granted formal municipal status to the Indigenous marka[community] of Jesus de Machaca that resulted in the election of a complete list of

indigenous councillors the following year (Cameron, 2010, p. 140). In a recent work,James Cameron (2010) gives a detailed account of the tensions between various

factions in the community, but for the purpose of this paper I want to underline thefact that the events of this past decade are part of a long history of a desire for people

to engage with the state on their own terms.This engagement is complicated by the fact that the state is now a self-declared

indigenous one but there nevertheless remain concerns about the benevolence ofEvo Morales’ government with respect to Jesus de Machaca – which divided into

those who wanted more autonomy under a traditionalist framework and those whosought greater leverage through belonging to the ruling party. This came to a head

in the election of 2009 where the confederation of ayllus of Jesus de Machaca sought,and ultimately largely failed, to organize their own elections without going through

the formal state-sanction elections by ballot in what Cameron describes as a ‘tensionbetween liberal and ayllu democracy’ (2010, p. 183).

The year 2009 also saw the passage of the new Constitution through Congressthat allowed for indigenous communities to be recognized as ‘Indigenous

Autonomies’. The referendum in Jesus de Machaca narrowly passed in favor ofIndigenous Autonomy status largely because the national and local ruling party

campaigned against it, with the vice president warning at the consequences of notengaging fully with the indigenous state. Many local people were concerned that not

being allied with the ruling party would prejudice them in terms of infrastructuraland other projects; others saw this as an opportunity to win the autonomy they

had been struggling to achieve for centuries. This points to the paradox (if not acontradiction) of a government that espouses indigenous rights and autonomy

but clearly sees itself as the best means through which those rights can be achieved,especially in the highlands. It also raises profound issues, which are clearly

unresolved, about the relationship between indigenous people and the state when thestate declares itself indigenous. Many people clearly do not trust the state even if it is

an indigenous one.People in Khonkho clearly also do not trust the other arm of historical oppression,

which is the Catholic Church. In recent years the Catholic Church has been

dominated by priests who have moved away from destroying indigenous altarsas they did in the 1970s to embracing what they see as ‘inculturated’ forms of

Catholicism (Orta, 2004). It is not uncommon, for example, to see a Catholic priestin attendance at llama sacrifices (which some see as an inculturated form of the

crucifixion) or to raise his arms in hailing the rising sun of the winter solstice.There is an ambivalence at best to be politically engaged and accepting Catholicism,

and a much longer history of resistance.Khonkhenos’ have their particular tale of resistance against the Church, which

revolves around a priest who used to abuse the young girls of the community.One night the men of the community pulled him down from his church tower and

whipped him to death. Some accounts mention the dispersal of the body parts

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far and wide. For this action, too, there was violent repression and many people had

to leave if eventually to return.Francisco Calle gave me this account in July 2008:

I don’t know where they brought this priest from. The priests arrived with the Spanish,

you know. They say that it happened one day after the church was finished, roofed

and with a big tower. In those days there were the postillones who were very lively.

Well, they climbed up the tower and saw. The priest was sleeping with a young girl and

he was abusing her. They surprised him having sex on all fours. That was the custom

in those days (for the priest to sleep with young women) and it is so in Machaca

today (where there is a large church). But the men said that the priest should leave the

woman alone and that q’ara priest was very bad . . . They talked to the others and

said, ‘What shall we do?’ ‘We will kill him.’ And then they all got together . . . They

beat him and everyone had a chance to whip him. ‘How can you do such a thing?’

They surely said. After killing him they escaped, the people, many of them going to

Pacajes.

(Interview in Aymara with the author, July 2008)

It is very unclear when this incident occurred but Francisco and I were

sitting among the ruins of the church which dates back the early decades of the 16th

century – one of the first churches in the Andes. The incident clearly happened a very

long time ago and stories of priests abusing young women are hardly rare in the

Andes. What is significant is that it continues to be told in Khonkho as an example

of an occasion where people refused to accept the colonial order, the ‘custom’ as

he put it, and took matters into their own hands. Stories of resistance such as

this very much inform contemporary attitudes and speak to a proud defiance

of domination. What are also interesting here are the frank anticlericalism and the

suggestion that this practice continues today in Machaca with its large church

dominating the plain.Perhaps the important point is that people in Khonkho no longer feel the need

to venerate their sacred stones, wak’as (Astvaldsson, 2000) under cover of darkness,

and since the 1990s are much more confident in expressing their own culture and

religious beliefs. What, in fact, began to happen in Khonkho, as in many other parts

of the Andes, was a total reversal: from seeing indigenous culture and ritual as

something that was problematic and backward and most often had to be celebrated

at night, to something that could be publicly celebrated as an assertion of pride.

The home-spun bayeta clothing, which is warm and strong, used to be a shameful

index of indianness; now people will show me their trousers with pride commenting

on its warmth and durability and young people will wear these clothes in fiestas too

(see Figure 1). These assertions of cultural pride are not, however, simply that but

also an assertion of local power against the state. In Khonkho the most clear example

of where local culture is mobilized for political ends is the Aymara New Year

celebration celebrated during the June solstice.When I first observed these celebrations in 2007, there were a few hundred mostly

local people, as well as a handful of archaeologists. In the sub-zero temperatures

people chew coca and keep close to the bonfire as they wait for the arrival of the sun.

This year there was a sacrifice of two llamas whose beating hearts were ripped out

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in offering to the deities (see Figure 2). For the first time, blood was sprinkled on one

of the large carved stones, the Tata Qala, which had been adorned with flowers (see

Figure 3).People spoke of the importance of making offerings to the Pachamama, the earth

goddess, and to pay respects to the ancestors. The culmination of the celebrations

is the hailing of the rising sun and the first day of the New Year.I spoke to many people about who these ancestors were. These sites are associated

with powerful ancestral spirits called achachilas, ancestral beings who live in the

earth. People in Khonkho and other Andean communities will distinguish between

those stones and places associated with their direct ancestors, who may be

Figure 1. Young people in Khonkho wearing home-spun bayeta clothing in an expression ofcultural pride in the dances celebrating the New Year. Photograph by the author.

Figure 2. Ripping the beating heart out of a llama in Khonkho. Photograph by the author.

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understood to be Inkas or people of Tiwanaku, and those associated with chullpas –

known throughout the Andes as having lived before the coming of the sun. They are

pre-cultural people who did not eat with salt (a mark of civilization), who were

banished to the bowels of the earth where they can still exert power on the people

of today. Although chullpas are considered to be humanoid, they did not look

like contemporary peoples but, rather, are often described as being monstrous

with oversized limbs or particularly hirsute. There is, however, a sense of kinship with

these people, although rarely one expressed in terms of lineal descent.

Figure 3. The Tata Qala garlanded with flowers and sprinkled with llama blood. Photographby the author.

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When people dig up ancient burials these are known to be the bones of chullpas.

But in archaeological terms they are burial sites of Inkas and other pre-Columbianpeople who people typically do not consider Inkas. A simple example is the circular

tower Inkan burial sites one sees across the altiplano that are commonly knownas chullpas. These are classically chullpa sites since the doors face to the rising sun,

which is how the chullpas were destroyed –desiccated, just like the mummies that oneused to be able to find in these tombs.

This distinction between chullpas and achachilas such as the Inkas, however,is breaking down as people learn to associate all ruins with Inkas and people

of Tiwanaku. In Khonkho as workers excavate the ruins they come across bones thatthey now learn to associate with the Tiwanaku civilization. For example, when a

subterranean stone channel was found in one of the digs, many people thoughtthat this was a tunnel straight to Tiwanaku and that is how the people arrived.

Yet, this was in a site that had been known for its chullpas. There is somedisagreement and indeed confusion as people come to associate these kinds of bones

directly with ancestors rather than chullpas. This is, of course, a highly charged motifin indigenous discourse as international legal battles are fought to return bones to

their original burial place and concerns about disturbing burial sites for construction,and so forth. People in the Andes, however, are usually worried about disturbing

chullpa bones because this will cause disease and destruction, not because they aresacred.

What is of particular interest in Khonkho is that some people are beginning to saythat the chullpas and the achachilas are one and the same. These tend to be people

who have worked on the archaeological digs, a substantial proportion of thepopulation. People are also distinguishing between Inka sites and Tiwanaku sites

whereas until very recently these sites where either chullpa sites or achachila sites.Again, their view of their sacred and diabolic places is transformed and conforms

more closely to a westernized view of history of Tiwanaku and later Inka occupation.What is interesting is that most people were quite clear that their ancestors spoke

Aymara – many even suggesting that the Inkas spoke Aymara.The archaeological evidence points to a settlement predating the Tiwanaku heyday

and it is very unclear as to what language the Tiwanakotas spoke. ‘Aymara’ however,is the language of contemporary indigenous identity and has – in about the sameperiod that Khonkhenos started celebrating their New Year – gone from referring

to speakers of a language to a people and even a nation. It is absolutely clear that20 years ago very few people thought of themselves as Aymara people, much less a

nation, yet today a large majority does.The globalized language of indigenous identities speaks of peoples and it is not

coincidental that even the most radical of indigenous politicians, such as FelipeQuispe, speak of an Aymara nation and people with its historical capital in Tiwanaku.

What is interesting is that people who are profoundly opposed to many aspectsof western culture will invoke a very occidental model of a nation and its

homogeneous people, the Aymara. There is considerable evidence to suggest thatAndean pre-Columbian polities were multiethnic and multilingual but such a

complicated formulation violates the sense of a single indigenous people that is

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behind much of the discussion on indigenous peoples. International agencies as well

as scholars have great difficulty in dealing with, for example, competing indigenous

groups or instances where one indigenous group may dominate another (who then is

indigenous?). There is a very long history of imposition of western ideas of what a

people or nation are on groups who have complex and often fluid identities that

are not readily reduced to one single ethnic or national group.3 It appears that ‘the

Aymaras’ are no exception except that these concepts are readily adopted by many.

Large numbers of people in Khonkho, therefore, invoke a sense of continuity with the

past where the Aymara people of today are direct descendants of the Aymara people

of the past even as such a formulation is of very recent provenance.

These and other celebrations are occasions for displaying indigenous music, dance

and clothing and there is no doubt that there is a growing pride in increasingly stylish

ponchos. One should not, however, regard these as occasions for demonstrating

‘culture’ in some simplistic way; they are very much about political organization and

legitimacy. New Year is the occasion for the election of the new jach’a mallku, the

maximal leader of the regional groups, or ayllus (see Figures 4 and 5). The rituals and

sacrifices add legitimacy to the process and underline the political autonomy of the

Indigenous Municipality of Machaca as well as they gently challenge the authority

of the more conventionally elected mayor. New Year is most certainly not simply

a party but a very sharp expression of political autonomy.

In 2007 Alejandro Colmena Kisu from Khonkho spoke to the assembled and

explained the connection between the ruins and the renovated political structures:

Figure 4. The election of the new maximal Mallku and Mama Talla of the community.The candidates’ supporters line up behind the couple.

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For those of us who came before dawn broke, we assembled around that stone,

surrounded by wire, called the tata qala. That stone was venerated by our ancestors and

that is why we respect the council (cabildo). Thanks to the tata qala we are able to

see the sun and light, brothers and sisters. Now, brothers, we remember that it was

in 1990 that we returned to this place, to this celebration, and shortly after that this

system of election appeared. We have truly put forward our ideas.

We walk on top of the Pachamama, we feed ourselves from her. The Lord God also

blesses us. This is why this morning we received the sun; and so what has been

celebrated was a good thing. This is surely how they remember in other places. Today,

also, we have an indigenous president in Bolivia, and that is now known the world over,

my brothers and sisters. So this is our idea, our way of thinking: as the mayor and the

council president said, we do these things to become great.

(Speech in Aymara, Khonkho, 21 June 2007)

Figure 5. Mallku and Mama Talla. The Mallku has his whip of authority across his chest, a bagof coca in his hand and his red poncho of leadership. The mama talla is wearing her characteristicheaddress, also a mark of her office. Political authority is explicitly recognized as being investedin the couple rather than the individual.

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Alejandro is clear about the connection between the renewal of the rituals to celebrate

the solstice and the renewal of the electoral system – one that does not include paper

votes and urns – and the rebirth of an independent political identity. But this is not

just about local politics because Alejandro is equally clear about the importance of

having an indigenous president known the world over. Evo’s legitimacy in the eyes

of the world, particularly as an indigenous man, lends legitimacy to the proceedings

on a cold winter’s morning in a small community on the altiplano. Alejandro was,

of course, speaking in Aymara and it will not surprise you to know that when he says

‘indigenous president’ he used the Spanish word ‘presidente’. It might surprise you

to know, however, that he used the Spanish word for ‘indigenous’ too; there is no

word in Aymara for ‘indigenous’ because, naturally, it is not an indigenous concept.I do not wish to suggest that there is anything artless or cynical about the

expression of cultural pride in Khonkho but, rather, that globalized concepts such as

indigeneity circulate, are sometimes transformed, and settle in small communities

where they come to mean something. In this case it is about articulating a desire for

autonomy that can be expressed in terms of an historical claim to the land. Evo’s

election; the development of Tiwanaku as an icon: these all make the indigenous

claim a more powerful one. If, as Nancy Fraser (1997) has argued, cultural

oppression is profoundly linked to social and political exclusion, the obverse is also

surely the case: cultural expression is intimately linked to economic and political

claims.

Conclusions

What it means to be ‘indigenous’ or ‘indian’ has certainly changed over time but

there is certainly an historical continuity in the highland regions of Bolivia of people

denominated as such struggling for their rights to be recognized by the state and to be

included as citizens. This is not simply a point of historical analysis, for many people

engaged in these struggles today have a profound sense of historical consciousness

and very much frame their actions today in terms of a long and conflictive history.

The people of Khonkho are a very good example of such historical consciousness.

In this case the principal point of reference is a violent uprising in the early decades

of the 20th century but people clearly have a much deeper sense of history

going back to the colonial and even pre-Columbian period. It is important then,

not only to heed Michiel Baud’s (2009) suggestion that contemporary indigenous

struggles against neoliberal state be seen from a much longer historical perspective

but certainly worth noting that in many cases the actors themselves would agree

with him.But I would go further: the people of Khonkho and others in the municipality of

Jesus de Machaca have been in a long struggle against the colonial, neocolonial

and even indigenous state. Their condition as indigenous people comes out of this

struggle and of the historical consciousness they so passionately embrace. When we

consider some of their cultural forms that seem so iconically indigenous such as

llama sacrifice, winter solstice celebrations, and the worshiping of autochthonous

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deities, these are much more than simply inherited practices. As we saw, many of the

winter solstice celebration are reinvented traditions or, perhaps more accurately, new

practices that assert a relationship of a people to their past, and a community to the

nation.

Khonkhenos and people like them are not simply fighting for their ‘rights’,

however these might be defined, but for a particular relationship with the state based

on an indigenous identity. That is, they are not arguing for inclusion as generic

citizens but specifically as indigenous citizens; and not as members of an ethnic

minority but as a group of people with a privileged position to the nation-state. This

is particularly salient in the context of the government drawing its legitimacy from

the fact that it represents and articulates the indigenous nature of Bolivia rather than

from the constitutionality of its election and institutions; and from this position it

offers a critique, not only of mestizo-creole elites, but capitalism and globalization in

general. The president, Evo Morales, draws on this in numerous ways: the constant

references to the symbolism of coca is one, but his unofficial inauguration as

president in Tiwanaku that served explicitly to confer this legitimacy upon him is

another most striking example.Evo Morales’ audience is clearly national and international; he invited, for

example, heads of state to his Tiwanaku inauguration and he has lobbied

successfully to have the United Nations change Earth Day to Mother Earth Day

in recognition of indigenous values. The concepts of indigeneity that circulate in

the global sphere that the United Nations inhabits is far removed from the daily

lives of Khonkhenos, but they do settle if, perhaps, in unexpected ways. The

people of Khonkho certainly seem to have translated contemporary identity

politics in very effective ways and, in turn, contributed to its construction; it is

never simply a one-way process.

As such, Khonkhenos and others raise important issues about the relationship

between citizens and the state and what a particular indigenous citizenship based on a

collective and privileged relationship with the nation might look like. This is

particularly so when the state currently defines itself as indigenous and the

government sees itself as being the best defender of indigenous people’s rights. It is

quite clear that the people of Khonkho distrust the state – even an indigenous one –

and that there are fissures in the idealized relationship between government and

indigenous people that Morales’ government often presents. These fissures exist even

in the Aymara heartland, which offers him the greatest support.

Notes

[1] See Current Anthropology (2004) vol. 45, no. 2 and Current Anthropology (2006) vol. 47,no. 1; Kenrick and Lewis’s (2004) Anthropology Today article; and Barnard’s (2006) paperin Social Anthropology.

[2] See, for example, de la Cadena (2000), Canessa (2006), Harris et al. (1995) and MartınezNovo (2006).

[3] The very idea of the nation-state is, of course, a European peculiarity of fairly recentprovenance (Gellner, 1983).

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Van Cott, D (2002) ‘Constitutional reform in the Andes: redefining indigenous-state relations’,in Multiculturalism in Latin America: Indigenous Rights, Diversity and Democracy,ed. R. Sieder, Palgrave MacMillan, London, pp. 45–73.

Yashar, D. (2005) Contesting Citizenship in Latin America: The Rise of Indigenous Movements and thePostliberal Challenge, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Andrew Canessa is at the Department of Sociology, University of Essex, Colchester CO4 3SQ,

UK (Email: canessa@essex.ac.uk).

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