Tiwi's Creek: Indigenous Movements for, Against, and Across the Contested Peruvian Border

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Tiwi's Creek: Indigenous Movementsfor, Against, and Across the ContestedPeruvian BorderShane GreeneVersion of record first published: 03 Dec 2008.

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Latin American and Caribbean Ethnic Studies

Vol. 3, No. 3, November 2008, pp. 227–252

Tiwi’s Creek: Indigenous Movementsfor, Against, and Across the ContestedPeruvian BorderShane Greene

This article analyzes the impact of the long-standing Peru/Ecuador border dispute on the

indigenous politics of the border region. The ethnic groups occupying the area areengaged in a bi-national struggle to contest dominant representations suggesting that the

1998 Peace Accord has led to the final territorial enclosure of the two nation-states.

At the same time, the leaders of the indigenous groups must confront their own intra-

ethnic ‘border’ problems. The question of how to represent these struggles remains thesubject of intense debates. Internal differences in the use of ethnonyms (particularly

the central term ‘Jivaro’) reveal that indigenous politics are already over-determined by

the colonial past and present of both Peru and Ecuador.

Keywords: Indigenous movements; Peru/Ecuador border conflict; Amazonia;

ethnonyms; Jivaro

Inside post-1998 Peru there is a little piece of Ecuador in a place called Tiwintsa.Its physical measurements are as precise as its political symbolism is profound.

One square kilometer of private Ecuadorian property (and notably not sovereign

soil), Tiwintsa is located in a cloud-covered, mountainous forest area at theheadwaters of the Cenepa River, just inside Peru’s northern border. Tiwintsa became

the master symbol of bi-lateral relations during the 1994/1995 Peru/Ecuador border

flare-up and again during the 1998 Peace Accord process. In what became the mostsymbolic act associated with the peace agreement, Peru granted Ecuador property

rights over this small square of jungle to mark a final diplomatic end to the oldest

border dispute in the western hemisphere.1 As a result, Tiwintsa is now both animpossibly strange and extraordinarily familiar place to the majority of Peruvian and

Ecuadorian citizens. Its remote location (on the Peruvian side, the nearest provincial

town is a long hike and several boat rides away) makes it a rather unlikely place for

tourist visits. Yet, following the 1994/1995 conflict, often referred to now as the

ISSN 1744–2222 (print)/ISSN 1744–2230 (online)/08/030227–26 � 2008 Taylor & FrancisDOI: 10.1080/17442220802462303

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Cenepa War, ‘Tiwintsa’ suddenly emerged as part of everyday public speech on both

sides of the contested border.Military leaders defined Tiwintsa as a strategic site because it was there that the

Peruvian army discovered a heavily fortified outpost constructed by the Ecuadorianmilitary in 1993 and 1994 (McClintock & Vallas, 2003). As a result it was also this

remote jungle location that witnessed some of the most intense fighting. Famously,after the signing of a cease-fire in February 1995 and during his eventually successful

bid for re-election, President Alberto Fujimori declared: ‘We have taken Tiwintsa!’This was, however, clearly an instance of campaign-speak that highly exaggerated the

military realities in the jungle at the time (McClintock & Vallas, 2003; Weidner,2000). The interesting point is that who occupied Tiwintsa, at what critical moment,

and indeed where in fact it was located, depended entirely on which side of thedisputed border one was hearing the news. Accusations flew back and forth across the

militarized zone about which was the ‘true’ Tiwintsa and which was the ‘false’ one(Fournier Coronado, 1995).

Particularly interesting is the possibility that there are still other Tiwintsas outthere to be explored – ones yet to be fully accounted for by the existing analyses of the1994/1995 conflict and its resolution. Thus the majority of studies of the Peru/

Ecuador conflict have been carried out by security analysts, military scholars, andinternational relations types (Einaudi, 1999; Fournier Coronado, 1995; McClintock &

Vallas, 2003; Simmons, 1999; Toche, Ledesma, & Foy, 1998; Torres, 2000; Weidner,2000).2 These studies inevitably represent the dispute as a series of macro-geopolitical

events – a story to be told from the point of view of the state and with a high regardfor the masculine agency inscribed in the actions of military personnel, heads of state,

and suit-and-tie diplomats from the guarantor countries. I certainly would not arguethat these positions of masculine power are unimportant to the story. But I will take

issue with what these accounts consistently leave out. An important thing they lack isthe slightest curiosity about what the term (‘tiwintsa’) at the center of it all even

means: its indigenous significance rather than its role as a strategic site caught in thethroes of national conflict, de-militarization, and international diplomacy.3

This selective ignorance about Tiwintsa’s indigenous etymology – common inretrospective analyses of the border dispute but not necessarily during the conflict

itself – might be explained through recourse to subaltern history. One might, forexample, cite the automatic reflex to tell history from the point of view of the

victorious state, silencing subaltern voices and alternative histories in the process(Trouillot, 1995; Chakrabarty, 2000). There certainly are some subalterns to consider

here. In particular, there are the various Jivaroans (an ethno-linguistic name given toa cluster of related indigenous groups including the Aguaruna, Huambisa, Shuar,

Achuar, and Candoshi) who live on both sides of the border (see figure 1). Today,Jivaroan ideologues continue to contest the national border despite the fact that

the governments of the two countries consider it a resolved issue.4 In doing so,they invoke a counter-ideology of shared indigenous citizenship that breaches

national territories. Notably, they stake their claim via the deployment of an equallygendered political discourse: one that is masculine and war-like to be sure – but

indigenously so.

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Historically feared for warlike customs, made legendary for sporadic resistance to

Incaic and Spanish imperialism, and still infamous for the defunct practice of

shrinking enemy heads, the Jivaro have the decidedly dubious honor of representing

the most exotic of Others in the Euro-American colonial imagination (Taylor, 1994,

2007). Needless to say, Euro-Americans granted the Jivaroans this colonial image

Figure 1. Map of Peru/Ecuador border region post-1998.

Indigenous Movements and the Contested Peruvian Border 229

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through a complex mixing of truths and falsities. Historically, their (largely male-

gendered) reputation as tried and true warriors is both the one that global historystuck them with and – not coincidentally, I will argue – the one they themselves have

stuck to in order to mount a collective response to their postcolonial condition. TheEcuadorian Shuar and the Peruvian Aguaruna and Huambisa emerged in the latter

half of the 20th century as some of South America’s most savvy indigenousmovement organizers. From both sides of the disputed border they sought to

translate this colonially constructed, and overtly masculinized, will to warfare into aworkable politics of indigenous opposition (Greene, in press; Rubenstein, 2001,

2007). And as the national border problem became more and more politicized anderupted into state warfare, that old colonial image of the Jivaroan warrior was

revived. Indeed, the image of the Jivaroan warrior was creatively rewoven into thevery narratives of Peruvian and Ecuadorian nationhood in complex and contra-

dictory ways.In this article I argue that it is necessary to recognize the multiplicity of Tiwintsa’s

meanings in new ways and, from a certain perspective, very old ways. I propose therecognition of Tiwintsa as a symbol of a still ongoing negotiation within and across

the national border: not between two territorialized nation-states, but between thosetwo nation-states and some emergent indigenous polities, sometimes (but not always

as shown below) unified under the term ‘Jivaro Nation.’ It is in the spirit ofdocumenting this emergent, if still externally and internally contested, Jivaro

Nation – itself a nation of contending nations in debate about the names and bordersassociated with the indigenous citizenship it imagines for its members – that I offer

the following reflections.I situate the problem of a specific contested national space within a broader

debate about indigenous movement politics in these two South Americancountries. Recounting the story of Tiwintsa in this way reveals much more than

how a politicized territory got caught up in a whirlwind of Peru’s and Ecuador’scompeting nationalisms. Tiwintsa also reveals what these two nations (like many

others in Latin America) have alternately defined and denied as a sharednational problem: the old and familiar problem that in the indigenista era was

identified as ‘el problema del indio.’ It is in this sense that Tiwintsa takes on aplethora of complicated alternative meanings – beyond the already complex

meaning found in a part of Peru that now, after almost two centuries ofdispute, officially belongs to Ecuador. More than a space symbolic of state

nationalisms in conflict, Tiwintsa is also a space around which a particular formof indigenous counter-nationalism is taking shape. Yet, the indigenous counter-nationalism for which Tiwintsa is the master symbol is replete with its own

internal contradictions.One central contradiction I will explore is the problem of ethnonyms as they relate

to a postcolonial history of giving and taking, imposing and subverting, propernames on this region’s indigenous citizen subjects. Indeed, the problem with this

particular problema del indio at Tiwintsa is found in the contradiction between theproper name an indigenous counter-nation seeks to give itself and the history of

improper names colonial history has already given to it. Imagining – and thus seeking

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to give a proper name to – a ‘Jivaro Nation’ as separate from (even while contained

by) the nations of Peru and Ecuador is confounded by a simple historical fact: being

named ‘Jivaro’ is inseparable from the colonial emergence of Peru and Ecuador as

nation-states. The relation between naming and territory – just like the relation

between the Jivaro, Peru, and Ecuador – is one of deeply ambivalent interdepen-

dence. In short, I argue that, in the case of Tiwintsa, the supposed resolution of a

politicized national border in fact has helped complicate and expand disputes over

the propriety of indigenous names in the border region. The disputes over proper

indigenous names in turn fuels a series of ongoing indigenous struggles that now seek

to destabilize (even while respecting) the Peruvian and Ecuadorian border anew.Before proceeding along these lines, however, a few disclaimers are in order. It

should already be obvious that in discussing indigenous politics as a counter-

nationalist project I am not asserting that the indigenous actors in question are ‘non’-

nationalist or even ‘anti’-nationalist agents: quite the opposite in the case at hand.

In the course of the border dispute, indigenous actors came to occupy key positions

both in and out of, for and against, the Peruvian and Ecuadorian nation-states (most

notably by having participated in various military capacities) even while imagining

themselves as indigenous citizens.Nor do I, as an anthropologist, claim anything so ambitious (and dangerous) as to

have recaptured a silenced subaltern history here. Such projects are, almost by

definition, doomed to fail (Prakash, 1994). And, if I am to take Spivak’s (1988)

warning seriously, they become particularly precarious when undertaken from a

white, male, North American, academic point of view (presumably my own). I will

leave aside the fundamental paternalism implied in such allegations of total subaltern

silence in order to point to what I believe is even more fundamental. Sometimes there

is no need for total ‘recovery.’ In the case at hand, several indigenous actors from

within Ecuadorian and Peruvian indigenous movements have already begun telling

this history for themselves, both in public and in print (Chiriap, 1995; Pandam,

1995). Admittedly, seen from a certain perspective, the indigenous accounts do tend

to get lost in the flurry of ex post facto accounts of institutionally sanctioned

academics, military officials, and statesmen. This is especially true of those accounts

that present the Peru/Ecuador dispute as if it were a game-theory problem without

taking into account all the players in the game. At most, therefore, I might be accused

of (or, thinking more optimistically, perhaps praised for) taking part in something

akin to subaltern foreign aid (primarily for indigenous men).5 I will have done what

an anthropologist like me can if this alternative account of Tiwintsa helps us

reconsider a chapter in Peru’s complexly Ecuadorian past from a slightly different

perspective.

Tiwi’s Creek: Recounting Tiwintsa Differently

Before proceeding any further we must return to the dilemma with which we

began. What does the term ‘tiwintsa’ mean to an indigenous Jivaroan living

proximate to the site to which the term refers? It means tiwi entsaji (‘tiwintsa’ is the

hispanicized version). And it is, first and foremost, a reference to ‘Tiwi’s creek.’


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From a Jivaroan perspective, ‘Tiwi’s creek’ is the place (any place in fact) where a

man named Tiwi must have once lived or at least hunted game with enough

frequency such that other Jivaroan speakers outside his local kin network came to

designate the site as ‘his.’ In these parts, customary practice dictates that genealogy

and geography, along with generational and gendered status, are superimposed on

one’s riverine location as part of a single logic of social, political, and topographic

reckoning (Descola, 1994; Greene, in press). When a speaker references ‘Tiwi’s

creek,’ he or she is first and foremost indexing the local river (and by extension the

surrounding territory) where Tiwi is known to reside and hunt, and thus implicitly

the territory he is willing to defend. But such an utterance also implies that Tiwi

operates as a kind of generational and gendered spokesman for a larger group.

Customarily, this hypothetical Tiwi would reside in this river location with his own

family while his ‘close kin’ (dekas pataa in Aguaruna, the indigenous dialect I know

best) would live in neighboring houses along the same stretch of river. Thus, in

conflating his name with the place where all his close kin reside, he is acknowledged

as the local representative of a particular river neighborhood. In other words, Tiwi

is (or, in the case of Tiwintsa, was) the most notable male elder and visionary

warrior inhabiting a particular place: big man X representing social group Y living

in river territory Z. Long before it was claimed by Peru and Ecuador, ‘Tiwintsa’

already belonged to Tiwi. Before Peruvian and Ecuadorian soldiers started shooting

down each other there, Tiwi was probably shooting down bashu (blue-billed

curassow), washi (spider-monkey), yugkipak (wild pig), and other delectable items

on the local diet.Who was Tiwi? The man for which Tiwi’s creek was named? This is a question that

is considerably more difficult to answer. By all accounts I have heard or read he is

dead and gone. The name ‘Tiwi’ does not help that much. There are multiple

individuals on both sides of the border with the name Tiwi, or the surname Tiwi,

which is more likely in contemporary circumstances.6 As a result of the 1994/1995

conflict, several actors emerged to claim a strategic genealogical relationship to Tiwi.

After the cease-fire was declared in 1995, Ecuador’s Defense Minister at the time,

General Jose Gallardo, cited with extraordinary confidence what a Shuar with the last

name Tiwi had said about Tiwintsa during the conflict:

This has been known perfectly by indigenous peoples from that area, all of whom are

Ecuadorian citizens. Like the Shuar named Tiwi, who appeared on television on

Channel 4 and, in a believable manner and with indisputable truthfulness, recounted

how his parents and grandparents lived close to the Oilbird Cave [Cueva de los Tayos –

another military site] since the 1930s; and that the Tiwintsa river is named after his

family name.(Gallardo, 1995, p. 14)

General Gallardo’s transitive, military reasoning at the time was roughly as follows:

if Tiwi¼ Shuar; and Shuar¼ Ecuadorian; then Tiwintsa¼ Ecuador. But one cannot

help but wonder what the General thinks on other indigenous matters, particularly

those where indigenous last names are not so militarily useful and do not serve the

purposes of state nationalism.

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A different Shuar, surname Chiriap, also publicly claimed direct genealogical

descent from Tiwi following the Cenepa conflict:

Tiwintsa was the area where my grandfather lived, the elder Tiwi . . . That is why the siteis called Tiwintsa: the water of Tiwi. During certain seasons that site was where theShuar lived, later they went to other places. They used the Cenepa river, its waterfalls,the Coangos river, the Tiwintsa river, its waterfalls; all those areas around the rivers thatoriginate in the mountains were the ancestors’ waterfalls, where they performed sacredrituals, with ayahuasca [a traditional hallucinogen], with tobacco, and with datura.They fasted for many days, they cried, and they bathed in the waterfalls asking forpower, for the strength to become great warriors.

(Chiriap, 1995, pp. 15–16)

What counts for General Gallardo is that Tiwi the Shuar has been an Ecuadorian

citizen ‘since the 1930s.’ His dating does not appear terribly innocent since it places

Tiwi at Tiwintsa well before the 1942 Rio Protocol that Ecuador reluctantly signed

(and later reneged upon) after losing considerable ground to the Peruvian military in

the 1941 border conflict. But, hablando francamente, Gallardo’s account is also

facetious since, from the point of view of the Ecuadorian state, in the 1930s the Shuar

were the ‘savage’ antithesis of ‘citizens.’ On the other hand, what is important to

Chiriap is the fact that Tiwi, his grandfather (possibly in the classificatory sense),

was a visionary warrior. For him, Tiwi operates as a male-gendered symbol of the

customary search for the eternal ancestral spirit the Shuar call the arutam. As he

intimates, the arutam often reveals itself near sacred waterfalls and grants the seeker a

form of visionary power that results in a compulsion to prove oneself a ‘great

warrior’ to use his words (Harner, 1972; Taylor, 1993; Greene, in press).In my own fieldwork with the Aguaruna in the post-1998 era and on the Peruvian

side of the border, I found similarly interesting accounts. For example, one Aguaruna

collaborator, originally from the lower Cenepa River, informed me that the original

Tiwi of Tiwi’s creek was an extended family member of Aguaruna living in the upper

Cenepa. Overlooking the distinct possibility that Tiwi was genealogically related to

both Shuar and Aguaruna – since the Shuar and Aguaruna are of course

genealogically related – he nevertheless insisted that Tiwi was Aguaruna. However,

his account was a lot closer to Chiriap’s than to General Gallardo’s in one absolutely

crucial respect. The term ‘citizen’ – at least in its straightforwardly nationalistic

sense – never came up. The Aguaruna Tiwi, he said, was a warrior from an era when

the Aguaruna lived in a relative state of ignorance about the state and the global

political economy that the state would bring with it in the ensuing decades.

While neither of these indigenous accounts explicitly refers to the notion of

citizenship, they do so implicitly. And they do so in a complex ideological register

that problematizes the militant nationalism of General Gallardo, and yet fails to do so

completely. Indeed, one might see this as an expressive instance of militant

indigenous counter-nationalism that nonetheless ends by contradicting its own

militantly indigenous expression. Consider some of Chiriap’s other remarks, for

example:

The Shuar people covered the entire area that is now in conflict. Those of the south,which is to say the Shuar from the areas around Macas, from Gualaquiza, from


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Coangos, went to what we now call Peru, all the way to Iquitos. So, they always livedrelated to one another. But in 1941, due to the Peruvian invasion, the Peruvians tookmany of our relatives captive. Currently, in the most recent war, it is as if we had foughtwith our own brothers, not only with our own race, but even with cousins, withuncles . . .

(Chiriap, 1995, p. 15)

Deploying his own indigenous narrative, he makes a connection between the (manly)

Jivaroan custom of seeking to become great warriors (i.e. that which Tiwi of Tiwi’screek represents to a Jivaroan) with the ongoing battles for indigenous citizenship in

which contemporary Jivaroan social movements are engaged.

Chiriap’s mention of ‘race’ in direct relation to ‘brothers’ and ‘uncles’ fightingamong themselves makes it clear that there are more than direct genealogical links

being invoked. By mentioning race he is also invoking the fictive genealogies that

produce politicized ‘ethnicity’ and thus the political projects of indigenouscitizenship. In this particular case, he is engaged in imagining a future re-unification

of the various indigenous peoples living on opposite sides of the contested national

border. Indeed, Jivaroan leaders, like indigenous leaders everywhere, have longinvoked the genealogical language of ‘brotherhood’ as a way to speak about counter-

nationalist ethnic citizenship (Brysk, 2000; Warren & Jackson, 2002; Yashar, 2005).

And the discourse of race is, when not explicit, often implicit in the types ofcitizenship imagined by indigenous actors and in those the dominant society

imagines for them (de la Cadena, 2000; Hale, 2006; Warren & Jackson, 2002).Yet, while Chiriap’s discourse is clearly expressive of today’s indigenous counter-

nationalisms, it also directly asserts a form of Ecuadorian nationalism. What else can

explain his citing of 1941 as the year in which the ‘Peruvian invasion’ (i.e. illegitimatenational aggression) truly began and therefore the year in which the Ecuadorian

nation began to innocently defend itself? If he was only, or primarily, an indigenous

militant, why would Peru’s ostensible aggression against Ecuador really matter?In light of these multiple Tiwintsas and these multiple Tiwis – implicating

divergent discourses of warfare and contradictory accounts of citizenship – perhaps it

is time to recount the history of Tiwintsa from a different perspective. Perhaps it istime to recount the history of Tiwintsa from Tiwi’s perspective.

A Short (Jivaroan?) History of the Peru/Ecuador Border Dispute

The various Jivaroan peoples in Ecuador and Peru have long held a reputation for

warfare. In fact, it is in the fascination with different kinds of warfare and the fetish ofcertain kinds of manly warrior status that the history of indigenous peoples and

nations in this part of the postcolonial world is found. The very term ‘Jivaro’

connotes ‘warfare’ in so far as it connotes, among other things, the colonial idea ofthe dangerous and violent ‘savage,’ what in this specific South American context

became known as the ‘wild’ Amazonian Indian (Taussig, 1987; Taylor, 1994, 2007).

From colonial to republican representations, from non-indigenous representations toindigenous self-representations, the Jivaroan warrior stands out as the prominent

historical actor in this context. Most often he was cast as the symbol of indigenous

savagery, precisely the kind of highly racialized representation that has been used to

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deny him his claims to citizenship. But not always. Indeed, at certain times the

Jivaroan warrior has been recast as the symbol of citizenship par excellence: as a loyal

patriot willing to die for his country. It is in this curious space of the most-often-but-

not-always – this space of exception that occasionally allows the representation of the

savage warrior as a loyal patriot citizen – that the historical importance of Tiwintsa is

found.Most of the parts of the story worth retelling are related to events that unfolded in

the scope of the 20th century so it is there that we should start. The Amazonian

rubber boom at the turn of the 20th century brought two relatively new phenomena

to Jivaroan populations: a debt-peonage economy and a slow, steady, and persistent

militarization–missionization of the border region. By the end of the 1930s, military

patrols and outposts on the main waterways were a routine feature of local reality,

especially on the Peruvian side (Wood, 1978, pp. 65–66). The seemingly unending

dispute between Ecuador and Peru had grown increasingly tense due to the failure of

the Garcia–Herrera Treaty of 1890, overseen by the Spanish monarch. The territorial

stakes suddenly rose as a result of the booming rubber exports and would continue to

rise in the coming decades with the discovery and extraction of Amazonian crude

(Wood, 1978, pp. 220–222).

During the early part of the 20th century, relations between military personnel, the

national society, and indigenous people in the border zone were characterized by an

uneasy social distance that was occasionally punctuated by outright hostility.7 One

can hardly hope to fully document the historical complexity of a period that now

seems rather remote and is only minimally documented. Yet remnants of it do live on

in the minds of some. In working with the Aguaruna in Peru I never found any oral

histories that even remotely resembled a social memory of Spanish colonization or

the 16th-century legendary resistance campaigns that the scholars often attribute to

the Aguaruna and other Jivaroans (Guallart, 1990; Taylor, 1994). But I did on

occasion find vivid oral accounts about the early 20th century. These accounts

suggest it was a period of sporadic but ambivalent resistance against the slowly

expanding rubber merchant economy. For example, one long-time indigenous

organizer passed on his father’s account of the Aguaruna and Huambisa revolt of

1904 against rubber traders on the Upper Maranon (Guallart, 1990, p. 189):

Before he [my father] was born there was a conflict in Maranon with the mestizos, with

the mestizo merchants that bought jebe (rubber latex), that bought animal skins, that

bought gold . . . Anyway, according to the story, it is said they [the mestizos] abused the

[Aguaruna] married women, the girls. And they brought diseases . . . The Aguaruna

could not take it anymore and they rebelled . . . In that era the region was managed by

visionary war leaders (curacas).8 An Aguaruna war leader commanded the Nieva river;

there was another war leader closer, near Imacita close to the Maranon; over there on

the Santiago River there was another war leader . . . Everyone respected what the war

leaders said . . . So, the war leaders rose up, organized and coordinated. They organized

and began to attack the mestizos. They began to destroy. Some Aguaruna defended

them [the mestizos] and they took them on rafts, sending them to Iquitos, and others

defended them, getting them out to go towards Bagua. But they were not able to defend

all of them because it was an uprising of the Aguaruna army and they destroyed

everything.


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(Adolfo Juep Nampin, recorded, 7 December 1998)

In fact, those Aguaruna I met who remember this event often consider it the last

significant uprising against elements of ‘mestizo’ society. In the collective

imagination it marks a memorable moment before the onset of externally imposed

pacification. That process of imposed pacification is typically talked about with

reference to four memorable events of the 20th century: the arrival of a North

American Nazarene mission in the 1920s; the Jesuit campaign initiated in the 1940s;

the installation of a protestant bilingual education program by the Summer Institute

of Linguistics in the 1950s; and the Peruvian state’s land-titling legislation of the

1970s. Directly influencing the emergence of an organized political struggle for

indigenous rights, these events are largely what constitute Aguaruna narratives of

their contemporary, indigenous history (Greene, in press).9

As Adolfo Juep’s statement above makes clear, at the time of their last great revolt

the Aguaruna were already divided between those in favor of assaulting mestizo

society and those in favor of defending it. Guallart (1990, p. 193), drawing on other

Aguaruna narrations of the same series of events, provides further evidence of this

ambivalence. The choice to defend mestizos, or at least to second-guess the

consequences of the armed resistance, emerged less as a result of a newfound sense of

empathy than from an already expanding sense of material need awakened by the

circulation of goods that the incipient rubber economy brought with it into

Aguaruna territory: clothes, mirrors, matches, machetes, axes, and, of course,

firearms. By 1910 the rubber posts destroyed in the 1904 rebellion were once again

fully operational and many Aguaruna had involved themselves in the extraction of

the valuable rubber latex anew (Guallart, 1990, pp. 193–194).The Jivaroan groups’ ‘uncivilized’ status – indeed their ostensible propensity for

warfare – emerged as a special concern for the Peruvian and Ecuadorian states

following the 1941 border conflict and the subsequent 1942 Rio de Janeiro Protocol

(which failed to establish a fixed boundary between the two countries). Thus, in 1942

Peruvian government propaganda published a list of the various Amazonian ‘tribes’

that would officially ‘return to Peru’ with the signing of the Rio Protocol. The

document further stated that they would be able to ‘affirm their nationality’ via

‘definitively integrat[ing] themselves into Peruvianness [la peruanidad]’ (quoted in

Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores Republica de Ecuador, 1991, p. 44).However, making these Amazonian tribes into loyal national citizenry would

require significant state efforts, since at the time of the signing of the Rio Protocol

they represented the exact opposite of ‘citizens’ from the point of the view of all states

concerned. The geographer George McBride was the technical advisor appointed by

the US Department of State to the border demarcation commission established by

the 1942 Protocol. In one of his lengthy reports from the 1940s, he estimated the total

population affected in the disputed zone at 250,000 and expressed the prevailing view

of the times:

It’s likely that half of these are whites or mestizos, who definitely recognize one or the

other country as their own. The rest are indigenous peoples (the majority uncivilized)

that maintain little or no loyalty to either of the two countries, that probably do not

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recognize either of the two flags, that exclusively speak their own language and that live

in the same way as their ancestors did before the discovery of America; further, they

have little contact with things of European origin and, in some cases, are violentlyhostile to all the whites of any nationality.

(McBride, quoted in Yepes, 1996, p. 70)

The result of this concern over ‘uncivilized’ Indians was that both the Ecuadorian

and Peruvian states began sponsoring programs of internal colonization of the

indigenous areas in question (Barclay, 1995, p. 40; Rubenstein, 2001). Both states

facilitated the occupation of ‘border’ territories by poor, mestizo colonists for all the

obvious reasons. Their national sentiments were not in question; they could be more

easily communicated to; and, if and when necessary, they could be more easily

depended on to defender la patria.

Encouraging mestizos, the more plausible patriots, to colonize the jungle was only

one part of a larger effort to assert a state presence in the region. The other key

component was government-supported missionization, which amounted to a

surrogate form of statecraft. Steven Rubenstein (2001, p. 268) notes how the

Ecuadorian state’s frustration at having lost the 1941 war resulted in a redoubling of

support for the Salesian missionaries who had already taken the Shuar under their

charge. A similar process of state-supported missionary education got underway on

the Peruvian side among the Aguaruna and Huambisa in the late 1940s. The

Peruvians, however, utilized two competing missionary organizations to establish a

surrogate presence for an otherwise absent state (Greene, in press). Until the Velasco

revolution of the late 1960s, Spanish Jesuits and North American Protestants from

the Summer Institute of Linguistics competed for the souls and citizenship of

Aguaruna and Huambisa peoples with continued support from Presidents Prado and

Belaunde.

Indigenous actors internalized these state-surrogate missionary efforts on

ambivalent terms. There were some inherent contradictions involved. The attempt

to culturally assimilate these ‘wild’ Indians served to reinforce the idea of their racial

inferiority. It simultaneously overlooked their ongoing territorial dispossession. A

different kind of citizenry from the one the missionaries imagined was born. It was

one that grew deeply ambivalent, simultaneously dependent and resistive of the

missionary state’s double-handedness: made real in its power to simultaneously

recognize and disenfranchise these indigenous peoples in the same historical

movement and moment. The end result was the formation of various substate and

subnational political organizations that were directly connected to the missionary-

state’s institutional presence but alternating between stances of opposition and

alliance. Salesian efforts with the Shuar resulted in the creation of the Shuar

Federation in the 1960s, one of the most often cited examples of long-standing ethnic

mobilization in South America (Brysk, 2000; Hendricks, 1991). Despite the bitter

competition between the Jesuits and Summer Institute of Linguistics in Peru, their

efforts played a tremendous role in the formation of the oldest and most active

Aguaruna and Huambisa organizations founded in the 1970s (Greene, in press, 2006).During the most recent manifestation of the border conflict, the role of the

Jivaroan groups was markedly different from that which characterized them in 1941.


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Whereas indigenous actors were generally either hostile or strategically distanced

from the military presence at the mid-century, by the 1994/1995 conflict the relation

had apparently turned cooperative. Since the 1980s – after decades of missionization,

schooling campaigns, and the process of sedentarization entailed in them – young

indigenous men from the border area have increasingly seen the military as an option

for escape from rural poverty and possibly for adventures outside community life.

Thus, during the Cenepa War, Shuar soldiers were organized into an all-indigenous

Ecuadorian battalion (Rubenstein, 2007). In Peru, local Aguaruna and Huambisa of

the Cenepa and Santiago Rivers served as foot soldiers, guides and military scouts for

the army (Fournier Coronado, 1995, p. 89).

As Barclay (1995) notes, this results in an interesting irony. Neither their respective

states nor the Jivaroans would conceive of this indigenous military participation as a

sign of simple loyalties to the national cause. Both the indigenous and state parties

viewed it as a convenient historical conjuncture between the Jivaroans’ customary

warrior spirit and the geopolitics of two modern states. That ‘savage’ warrior spirit

for which the Jivaroans became infamous – indeed that masculinized ‘wild

Indianness’ conveyed through the very term ‘Jivaro’ – was no longer a justification

for the state’s need to ‘civilize’ them. Instead, their very history of ‘incivility’ emerged

as geo-politically useful to the project of national civilizations: an historical

conjuncture capable of even redefining these indigenous savages as national heroes,

of brave Indian warriors acting as loyal defenders of la patria. Or, this was at least the

message during a brief wartime moment when their respective state’s military needs

and the Jivaroans’ colonial military image converged. The Ecuadorian state

recognized the Shuar’s fierce battle tactics and embraced their customary fighting

spirit in the public eye (Barclay, 1995). On the Peruvian side, President Fujimori

formally saluted the Aguaruna and Huambisa for their military contributions to the

conflict as well (Fournier Coronado, 1995, p. 89). Although I have no evidence of a

similar phenomenon on the Peruvian side, Rubenstein (2007, p. 370) notes that in

Ecuador the Cenepa conflict also served as a site around which to rethink the very

same traditional war rituals that made these indigenous peoples colonially infamous

in the first place. Refashioning themselves as savage-patriot-citizens for Ecuador’s

nationalist times, the Shuar sought to confirm the widespread rumors that their

soldiers, enlisted in the Ecuadorian military, shrank the heads of Peruvian soldiers

killed in military action.

Post-Peace Accord Politics

By recognizing the patriotic military sacrifices of these indigenous warriors, the

Peruvian and Ecuadorian states put themselves in a position of also having to

recognize the impact of the war on the area in which these indigenous peoples live

once peace talks began. Thus, both states agreed to implement post-Peace Accord

development projects that specifically targeted the Shuar, Huambisa, and Aguaruna.

During the negotiations, and from opposite sides of the border, various Jivaroan

leaders began to demand direct participation in the political process and to construct

alternative proposals for post-Peace Accord development of the border region.

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The nation’s wartime needs gone, both states strategically avoided direct engagement

with the multiple proposals put forth by indigenous organizations that representedthe indigenous peoples concerned.

One of the most provocative proposals put forth by various Shuar, Aguaruna, andHuambisa representatives was the creation of a single, bi-national ecological and

indigenous reserve to be managed by indigenous organizations (Barclay, 1995, p. 41;Foy Valencia, 1998, pp. 130–134).10 The proposal received both states’ strategic lack

of attention. Instead, Peru and Ecuador adopted a proposal to create separate(although directly adjacent) ecological reserves on respective sides of the border in

the disputed Cordillera del Condor region where Tiwintsa is located, an area alsodemarcated as a demilitarized, ‘free transit’ zone (Simmons, 1999). The separate

parks proposal was adopted in part to assuage any lingering concerns about thepolitically problematic (if also bureaucratically difficult) issue of creating some form

of long-lasting, bi-lateral territorial governance. But it also served to ignoreindigenous interests in directing the dispute resolution, and of course as an attempt

to diffuse any cross-border indigenous politicking.The 1998 peace agreements further stipulated the creation of a temporary

Bi-National Commission, which began to implement development projects on eachside of the historically contested border in 1999. On both sides, the respective states

realized these projects with funds from the US Agency for International Development(USAID) and logistical support from CARE International, targeting most of the

programs to the various Shuar, Aguaruna, and Huambisa communities directlyaffected by the 1994/1995 conflict. The focus of the bi-national development plan was

primarily on infrastructure, basic services, training opportunities, and, ratherironically, the ‘strengthening’ of ‘local’ indigenous organizations (USAID, 2003;

Programa Sur, 2003). The mention of ‘locality’ in this last stipulation is clearly meantto imply indigenous organizations that are internal to nations and thus respect the

newly delineated border.For their part, indigenous leaders responded to the Peace Accord process by

forming an alternate bi-national commission of their own design. In December1998, in reaction to the October signing of the Peace Accord, Jivaroan leaders

organized an indigenous ‘family reunion’ in San Juan de Morona, Peru. It becamethe first of (so far) four ‘Encuentros Binacionales’ of indigenous people from theShuar, Aguaruna, Huambisa, and Achuar peoples – now sometimes referenced

together as the ‘cuatro pueblos’ (the four peoples) by indigenous leaders (Malo, 1998,1999). The meetings served to do more than simply reunite extended family

members separated by decades of border militarization. Jivaroan leaders were alsomotivated by an interest in developing a series of cross-border indigenous proposals

and political actions.One of the most interesting results of these ‘encuentros’ is the formal petition to

their respective states that the limited ‘free transit’ zone around Tiwintsa be radicallyexpanded. Indigenous leaders proposed that members of any Jivaroan group be

allowed the special privilege of free transit across the national border by virtue of abi-national ethnic identity card (International Working Group on Indigenous Affairs,

2002, p. 128). Their respective states responded with silence of course. The meetings


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also resulted in a concerted effort to back up ideological ethnic unification with

greater institutional organization via the creation of the Consejo de los Pueblos

Wampis, Awajun, y Shuar (COPWASH) in 2002, currently presided over by the

Shuar Federation.11

The annual ‘encuentro binacional’ and spawning of the organizational counterpart

COPWASH represent a form of social movement action still too incipient to have

garnered significant attention. The initiative has, however, begun to capture

international support and develop a stance for negotiation with their respective

state governments. The Danish aid organization Ibis recently funded COPWASH to

carry out a cross-border bilingual education initiative for the ‘WASH’ pueblos

(Ringsing, 2004).

The creation of small ‘ecological protection zones’ – one on each side of the border

around Tiwintsa – as stipulated by the Peace Accord also opened up the space

necessary for more alliance-building between indigenous organizations and

international conservationists, a global eco-indigenous politics that has characterized

Amazonian activism since the 1980s (Greene, 2006). Arrangements between the

International Tropical Timber Organization, Conservation International and various

Shuar, Huambisa, and Aguaruna organizations resulted in proposals to expand

conservation efforts that include indigenous partnership on both sides of the border.

On the Peruvian side, the state already approved the creation of the Zona Reservada

Santiago-Comaina, 1,642,570 hectares superimposed on titled Aguaruna and

Huambisa communities. Peru is also entertaining a proposal for a national park

along the border, some 150,000 hectares to be named ‘Ichigkat Muja’ (from the

Aguaruna meaning literally ‘The Mountain that Breaks’).12 On the Ecuadorian side,

these same international environmentalists worked with Shuar leaders to propose

two conservation areas totaling more than 12,000 hectares (Alcalde & Espinel, 2004).

Indigenous Reunification and the Problem of Names

As much as it might be nice to dream of indigenous counter-nationalist utopias,

retelling the history of Tiwintsa in this way makes the complexity of history quite

clear. Nations and counter-nations, national citizens and indigenous citizens, states

and their ethno-political alternatives, the colonizer and the colonized, are deeply,

ambivalently interdependent. Indeed, retelling the history of Tiwintsa from Tiwi’s

perspective does not result in an indigenous counter-narrative diametrically opposed

to the national narratives of Peru and Ecuador. It results in an indigenous counter-

narrative that is directly formed by – even while remaining deeply ambivalent about –

the national narratives of Peru and Ecuador.There are many ways to demonstrate the layers of ambivalence such indigenous

politics inspire. One way in particular, and one that is particularly pronounced in

light of Tiwi’s creek, revolves around the problem of names. The cross-border

indigenous politics that emerged from the Peru/Ecuador border dispute as yet has no

acceptable name. And it is by having no acceptable name that this indigenous

political project reveals its own complicity with – even while continually reasserting

its antagonism towards – the postcolonial Peruvian and Ecuadorian nation-states.

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In short, I seek to tie the above discussion of Tiwintsa as a site of territorial dispute

together with a discussion of how Tiwintsa also serves as a site for disputes about thepolitics of granting or rejecting proper names. The main conceptual point is that

accepting or rejecting proper names is also a way of constructing or questioningborders. Similarly, seeking to stabilize or destabilize existing borders implies an

acceptance or rejection of given names. Thus, the act of naming and the act ofestablishing borders are both of an inherently political nature.

In the case of Tiwintsa, the problem of names – of what to call this ambivalentproject of cross-border indigenous politics – can be made clear by revisiting

Chiriap’s remarks from above in the context of the Cenepa War. ‘The Shuar peoplecovered the entire area that is now in conflict. Those of the south, which is to say the

Shuar from the areas around Macas, from Gualaquiza, from Coangos, went to whatwe now call Peru, all the way to Iquitos’ (Chiriap, 1995, p. 15). His characterization

raises some important questions. Are all those indigenous peoples to whom heclaims a form of political–genealogical kinship – those who he says live in ‘what we

now call Peru’ – really ‘Shuar’? More importantly still: does the ‘we’ Chiriap indexesrefer to ‘we-the-Shuar’, ‘we-the-Ecuadorians’, ‘we-the-Ecuadorian Shuar’, or all of

the above? And how does one account for the fact that I-the-white-North-American-anthropologist came to know some of these people Chiriap appears to be referring to

as Aguaruna, Huambisa, and Jivaro? How does one account for the fact that thesevery same people now routinely refer to themselves as Aguaruna, Huambisa, and

Jivaro?Indeed, there seems to be a major problem with names that haunts this project

of indigenous citizenship and the specific project of indigenous reunificationaround the symbol of Tiwintsa that Chiriap, like other indigenous actors,

imagines. So perhaps we should consider it a problem worth considering furtherand thus rethink the role of naming and its role on the indigenous politics in

this context.13

As the historical linguists tell it, the term ‘Jivaro’ (or ‘Jibaro’; originally ‘Xivaro’) is

a colonial Spanish ethnonym dating to the mid-16th century. Given the context inwhich it originated, the term carries with it a tremendous amount of colonial

baggage. In its contemporary and more colloquial usage it continues to connote‘savagery,’ at least when uttered in Peru and Ecuador.14 As a result, the term ‘Jivaro’is rather controversial from the point of view of some (but not all) of the indigenous

peoples to which it historically refers. Notably, the Shuar people of Ecuador reallylove to hate it, a fact that is already implicit in Chiriap’s remarks above. The

important question is why, and the answer has everything to do with the colonialpolitics of naming – a process that anthropologists certainly did not invent but to

which they (we) have often contributed.Since the early 20th century, ethnological accounts have subdivided the Jivaro

primarily into four ethno-linguistic groups dispersed along the Peru/Ecuador border:Aguaruna (or Awajun), Huambisa (or Wampis), Shuar, and Achuar (or Achual).

Some more recent classifications include the Candoshi and Shiwiar as part of theJivaroan family, although they do not constitute prominent actors in the context of

post-1998 peace accord politics due to their relative remove from the Cenepa conflict


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(see figure 1). This classification scheme is based partly on dialectal differences in the

Jivaroan languages and partly on a combination of real and sometimes assumedcultural overlap found in these groups. Historical documentation of various

ethnonyms, some of which obviously evidence both Spanish and Quechua tongues(i.e. Aguaruna and Huambisa), have also been applied to the indigenous groups in

question to construct ‘Jivaro’ as an ethno-linguistic category.15

In the second half of the 20th century, indigenous actors in the contested border

region began to creatively co-opt and critically challenge the various ethnonyms thatQuechua intermediaries, Spanish missionaries, 20th-century ethnologists, and

eventually state agencies sought to impose on them. This process of an explicitlyinstitutionalized and politicized ethno-genesis began with the onset of bilingual and

missionary education programs in the early 20th century, continued through landtitling claims, and undoubtedly intensified with the emergence of indigenous

movement organizations in the past few decades. The Shuar operating from Ecuadorand the Aguaruna and Huambisa operating from Peru are by now internationally

renowned for their pioneering efforts in the field of indigenous politicking (Brysk,2000; Greene, 2006; Rubenstein, 2001).

What I am suggesting is that ethnic reunification across the contested borderbrings with it a distinct problem associated with colonial practices of naming. The

recent deployment of the organizational acronym WASH, mixed with references tothe ‘cuatro pueblos’ (the ethnic language indigenous leaders use in the context of the

Cenepa War and its resolution) is also a very explicit way to avoid using the term‘Jivaro.’ Ironically, the only term that presents itself to unite this ethno-political

kindred into a singular ethnic group or ‘pueblo’ (as opposed to three or four) isprecisely the same one with which they ideologically divide themselves. These

differences of terminological opinion only make sense if we confront the relationshipof anthropology and colonial history precisely when it comes to the issue of naming

indigenous people. This is a problem with which the indigenous politicians I havecome to know are profoundly familiar, although their familiarity with the problem

has yet to result in a solution for it.In terms of the case at hand, the Shuar leadership in Ecuador remains deeply

uncomfortable with the colonial origins and pejorative connotations of the term‘Jivaro,’ having consciously rejected it since the 1960s (Hendricks, 1991, p. 66;Rubenstein, 2001). Their initial organizational assemblies in 1964, held under the

tutelage of Salesian missionaries, met under the provisional title ‘ProvincialConvention of Jivaro Leaders’ (Shutka, 1993). But the emerging leadership soon

substituted the indigenous terminology from which ‘Jivaro’ is commonly presumedto derive as a colonially-constructed Hispanicization. The original Convention

thus soon became the Federation of Shuar Centers. Deploying the term ‘shuar’(often translated simply as ‘people’) self-referentially as a means of political

representation vis-a-vis national and international actors was then, and still is, amatter of conscious ethno-political choice. Indeed, it has become such a central part

of Federation politics that representing the Shuar as anything other than Shuarbecomes immediately and deeply problematic. The mere mention of the word ‘Jivaro’

to Shuar leaders is by now virtually unthinkable.16

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However, while they historically politicize this substitution of terms, contemporary

Shuar ideologues implicitly draw on a naming criterion that is remarkably similar tothat used by anthropologists, who in turn draw their criteria primarily from that used

by colonial history. Here, one is forced to revisit how and why early anthropologyinsisted that this particular ethnic group now called the ‘Shuar’ and located in

Southern Ecuador warranted a classificatory privilege in relation to their other‘Jivaroan’ counterparts. Thus, as Harner (1972) notes in his classic ethnography,

in the first half of the 20th century ethnologists came to refer to the Shuar specificallyas the ‘Jivaro proper,’ primarily as a means to distinguish them from the ‘other’

Jivaroans (Antipa, Aguaruna, Huambisa, and Achual at the time).17 Stirling (1938)appears to have started this trend. The trend was then followed by Steward and

Metraux (1948), who inscribed this Jivaroan ethnological classification scheme intothe Handbook of South American Indians.

To account for why the Shuar came to be known as the ‘Jivaro proper,’ one mustfirst sift through the colonial historical citations accessed by early ethnologists.

Having done so, one discovers that it apparently all comes down to the expedition ofHernando de Benevente to the Paute River in the mid-16th century. It is Benevente’s

encounter with indigenous peoples living in the area at that time that is commonlysupposed to be the ‘original’ source of the colonial term ‘Xivaro.’ And ‘Xivaro’ is in

turn commonly supposed to be a Spanish corruption of the indigenous terminology‘shuar’ (Gnerre, 1973; Taylor, 1994, p. 9). Thus it is this historical encounter on the

Paute River that eventually legitimizes the existence of a group that anthropologistsonce took to calling the ‘Jivaro proper’ and that the ‘Shuar,’ properly speaking, later

came to reject. In other words, by the time 20th-century anthropologists got aroundto formalizing the ethnonyms for the indigenous peoples in question, the Paute River

was squarely located in a place called Ecuador. Never mind that Ecuador did not existat the time Benevente went on his colonial adventure.

As a result of this historical reasoning, the contemporary indigenous people inquestion (Benevente’s ‘Xivaro’; the anthropologists’ ‘Jivaro proper’; and the Shuar’s

‘Shuar’) are thus supposed to be the original, the real, the authentic thing: hence theirpropriety. This implies a rather extraordinary line of historical-cum-ethnic

continuity. And yet it is nothing as simple as the pre-Colombian-to-the-presentvariety of indigenous continuity sometimes imagined for and sometimes by

indigenous peoples in the Americas. Rather, it is much more precisely a kind ofpost-Benevente continuity: one that projects an unbroken ethno-genealogical chain

that begins with the Benevente encounter itself. The path imagined is one from earlycolonial ‘Xivaroan’ times, straight through earlier anthropology’s properly ‘Jivaroan’times, and ending up in the politically correct ‘Shuar’ times of today (which is to say

the improperly ‘Jivaroan’ times of the Shuar present). And yet the entire logic isbased on the most minimal and sketchy of historical sources from four and a half

centuries ago – before the creation of Ecuador or Peru, much less their imaginaryborder.

The result is what might be called a long-standing hegemony of Shuarness – anadmittedly provocative phrasing (to say the least) but one that might be closest to the

mark. The logic of (past) Jivaro to (contemporary) Shuar continuity rests on


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something else that is vital to consider in light of the region’s cross-border

indigenous politicking. It rests on the idea that the ‘other’ Jivaroans, the Aguaruna,Huambisa, Achuar, and so forth, are not now and have never been ‘properly’

Jivaroan. Instead, the ‘other’ Jivaroans are variants of a modal (if not model) ethno-linguistic collective called the Shuar. These ‘other’ Jivaroans are, in other words,

neither the real, nor the original, nor the properly Jivaroan item. They are, this logicsupposes, its less authentic offshoots. The colonial history of anthropology really is

sad and twisted in this way. And perhaps this explains a bit about why Chiriap claimsthat the Shuar live as far away as Iquitos and yet I have never heard of an Aguaruna

politician claiming that the Aguaruna live as far away as Guayaquil.There is further evidence to suggest that Shuar-centric representations, as influenced

by the recent history of the border war, operate among Shuar ideologues other thanChiriap. Following the 1994/1995 border flare-up, a Shuar federation leader, Rafael

Pandam, went so far as to suggest that the terms ‘Aguaruna,’ ‘Huambisa,’ and‘Candoshi’ are recent and politically-interested ethnological inventions of the Peruvian

state (Pandam, 1995, p. 124).18 He claims they were invented after the 1941 conflict todivide, conquer, and Peruvianize the indigenous peoples at the border. In an

extraordinary act of renaming of his own – notably during this post-conflict but stillpre-WASH unification moment – Pandam argued that the only ‘legitimate’

ethnonyms for these misnamed indigenous peoples are either ‘Shuar’ or ‘Achuar.’Given the company he kept at the time (his chapter was published in the same volume

as General Gallardo’s, cited above!), his act of renaming was undoubtedly meant toEcuadorianize his ethnic brethren on the opposite side of the contested border.

From a more text-centric historical perspective, this claim seems to only point toPandam’s ignorance of the documentation of these terms from as early as the 17th

century (in the case of Aguaruna) or the late 19th century (in the case of Huambisa)(Guallart, 1990; Up de Graff, 1923). But it also reveals a lack of ironic awareness of

the inherently power-laden dynamics always found in the act of naming. In renamingthe Aguaruna, Huambisa, and Candoshi in his own Shuar image, he implicitly

reproduces the very hierarchal dimensions of ethno-historical naming practices thatthe Shuar actively seek to contest in rejecting the colonially-imposed term ‘Jivaro.’19

Like the many colonial-cum-anthropological representations of the Shuar’sostensible (‘Jivaroan’) propriety, Pandam’s position overlooks some importantfacts. For example, there is the fact that multiple linguistic cognates exist in related

indigenous dialects that might also be constituted as the ‘proper’ (and politicallycorrect) name. Since there are no appreciable linguistic differences (and considerable

genealogical overlaps) between contemporary Shuar (in Ecuador) and Huambisa(in Peru), the latter might equally claim to be the original Shuar. Although then there

is suddenly a new problem: are there two ‘Shuars’ or one? From the point of view ofthe Aguaruna dialect, the relevant cognate is ‘shiwag’ (or in Achuar-Shiwiar

‘shiwiar’). When abstracted to reference a modern-day ethnic polity, both connoteessentially the same thing as ‘shuar,’ only from a different dialectal perspective. So,

who are the proper Jivaroans after all? And who holds the rights to determine theappropriate name? The colonial history of drawing and redrawing ethnic boundaries

really is sad and twisted in this way.

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When we examine recent indigenous organizational politics in Peru, as I have done

extensively, the contradictions of naming only deepen. Contemporary Aguaruna and

Huambisa leaders not only tend to accept the term ‘Jivaro’ but, in fact, publicly

promote its use as the term with which to represent their contemporary struggle

toward bi-national ethnic unification.20 Witness, for example, this 1997 public

declaration written by the participants in a large assembly of Aguaruna and

Huambisa organization leaders that touched on the issue of the border dispute and

its local impact:

HIGHLIGHTING, that as the Jibaro Peoples we have an ethnic and cultural identity thattranscends the actual state borders of Peru and Ecuador, which expresses itself in ourfundamental institution, the IPAAMAMU [a customary, decision-making assembly],still in use today in the life of the Aguaruna, Huambisa, Achual, Candochi-Murato,Shuar and Achuar.

(Confederacion de Nacionalidades Amazonicas del Peru, 1997; capitalization inoriginal, author’s translation)

Leaders of local Aguaruna and Huambisa organizations and community leaders from

the ‘five rivers region’ (a localized reference to the Maranon, Cenepa, Nieva,

Santiago, and Chiriaco Rivers) also routinely employ the controversial term to talk

about their long-term bi-national plans. Thus, in a recent encounter among the

various Aguaruna and Huambisa organizations from the five rivers in April 2003,

there was considerable talk about a ‘commitment to work toward the process of

unification as the Great Jivaro Nation’ (Reunion Cumbre de las Organizaciones de

los Pueblos Awajun y Wampis II, 2003, p. 3). Most recently, these efforts fed into an

initiative that some local leaders are calling the ‘Congreso Jivaro.’ The objective – an

ambitious one to say the least – is to work towards the integration of all existing

‘Jivaroan’ organizations into a single, democratic decision-making body. Aguaruna

and Huambisa organization leaders hope to initiate this project among themselves on

the Peruvian side but routinely dream of incorporating the Achuar and Shuar (and

thus reconstituting the border from their own perspective).21 In effect, the Aguaruna

and Huambisa’s ‘Jivaro Nation’ project serves symbolically to counter Shuar attempts

to annex them as ‘variants’ by reattributing to the Shuar the very colonial ethnonym

that they publicly (and, from their perspective, rightly!) repudiate.Why the Aguaruna and Huambisa have come to embrace the term ‘Jivaro’ is not

entirely clear to me, but neither is it a complete mystery. Based on multiple

conversations it seems reasonable to state that most of the indigenous leaders in Peru

who use the term are indeed familiar with its pejorative, colonial connotations. But

they also do not believe there is an alternate word that better articulates the real and

perceived connections between the various ethno-linguistic groups to which it refers.

Their willingness to reappropriate ‘Jivaro’ and thus change the word’s valence is

explainable in part by the fact that Aguaruna and Huambisa do not feel nearly as

stereotyped by it. Perhaps precisely because of their colonially-imposed, and now

apparently internalized sense of, ‘propriety,’ the Shuar feel the exact opposite. One of

the plausible benefits of not having been constituted as the proper Jivaroans is that

this allowed other, alternative ethnonyms to become as, or even more, important in

the process of political ethno-genesis. In other words, Aguaruna and Huambisa


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political organizations emerged first as representatives of Aguaruna and Huambisa

peoples, not as representatives of the ‘Jivaro.’ Only later did they begin to publicly

and politically embrace the idea of being ‘Jivaro,’ and precisely in order to

conceptualize a larger indigenous citizenry that groups together different ethnic

constituencies around, across, and against the national border.

The Shuar, on the other hand, have historically never had much choice in the matter.

They have always been represented as the real Jivaro – always, that is, until they very

explicitly made a political choice to become (or from their perspective re-become) the

Shuar. Needless to say, this also reveals how twisted and sad things get when you are

faced with being the original colonial ‘Xivaro,’ which is to say the real savage. And thus,

after taking the time to think about it, I cannot really do anything else except agree with

the decision the Shuar have made to reconstitute themselves as the Shuar.I should note here that I have no evidence whatsoever to suggest Aguaruna and

Huambisa leaders deploy the term ‘Jivaro’ consciously as a means to reject the

Shuar’s own rejection of it. In fact, all my evidence points to the contrary. Most of the

more community-based indigenous leaders that invoke the term ‘Jivaro’ commonly

assume the opposite; that is, that the Shuar have no more of a problem with the

term’s colonial past than they do. Indeed, the Aguaruna and Huambisa architects

behind the Congreso Jivaro idea routinely assume that in some hypothetical future

the Shuar will come to accept it as the only logical way to talk about their bi-national

indigenous identity. This of course points to the fact that cross-border indigenous

politicking of this sort, much like global indigenous politics generally speaking, is

often a very long-distance affair. In this case, it is characterized by a ready bi-national

(and thus counter-national) imagination that is still deeply fraught with the limiting

realities of lived national experiences.

In 2003 I asked Huambisa and Aguaruna leaders working in a national level

indigenous organization, la Asociacion Interetnica de Desarrollo de la Selva Peruana

(AIDESEP), about the term ‘Jivaro.’ I did so partly on the assumption that national-

level leaders are much more likely to have actual cross-border contact with their

Ecuadorian counterparts. The Huambisa secretary of AIDESEP acknowledged that

the Shuar reject it. He proposed aents, sometimes also translated simply as ‘people,’

as a possible alternative term with which to represent the broader ‘Jivaro’ collective.

But he said it was not necessarily a good one due to its strong association with

individual personhood. Aents appears not to be as easily translatable, at least not

enough to connote the politicized collectivity evoked by the term indigenous

‘peoples’ popular with indigenous leaders. An Aguaruna confidant, also present at the

time, stated what he thought was the obvious danger. Without the term ‘Jivaro’, the

various indigenous peoples it historically refers to on both sides of the border would

‘quedarse desarticulados.’ As far as I know this representational dilemma continues

without resolution.

Conclusion

The path toward ethnic reunification is a long and winding one. Borders – just like

names – really do matter. Actually, this makes a lot of sense. Proper names imply

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borders, just like borders help to constitute and break down, legitimate and make

illegitimate, proper names.The Great Jivaro Nation; the pueblos WASH; the cuatro pueblos; or the inclusively/

exclusively Shuar – the deployment of each of these names depends on theindigenous source and how one relates to the history of the national border as well as

the history that brought the border into existence in the first place. But each of thesenames also operates as an ostensible reference to the same, or a similar kind of,

bi-national ethnic struggle: an idealized indigenous strategy for and against, in andout of, the neocolonial Peruvian and Ecuadorian nation-states.

The very idea of a group of ‘cuatro pueblos,’ potential but not necessaryconstituents of a singular ‘Jivaro Nation,’ arises from some real ethno-linguistic

commonalities, a shared sense of history, and some real and perceived genealogicalconnections. But such ideas, just like the names and borders they imply, are born

from a history of postcolonial polities, contested national territories, and practices ofneocolonial statecraft: all of which unfold in the big picture at the expense of

indigenous peoples on both sides of the border. The counter-nationalist indigenousproject to which Tiwintsa gave rise is at one and the same time an alternative to the

unitary Ecuadorian and Peruvian nation-states and deeply dependent, indeedhistorically inseparable, from their very existence. Without the history of Peru,

without that of Ecuador; there is no history of the Jivaro Nation, no WASH, nocuatro pueblos. And yet Peru, Ecuador, the Jivaro Nation, WASH, and the cuatro

pueblos are also definitely, definitively, not telling the same history either. Seen fromthis perspective, history is out of sync with itself (Chakrabarty, 2000). It is in this

sense that this particular indigenous movement toward ethnic reunificationrepresents something really quite extraordinary. It represents simultaneously a

struggle with too many names and a struggle with no name at all.At another level, there are still multiple layers of customary indigenous practice

that challenge ethno-political unification on the ground despite the problem withethnonyms and the colonial borders they imply. On the paths and rivers near

Tiwintsa, people are already long-accustomed to reckoning groupness in much morelocalized forms than what is invoked in the Andersonian images of a singular ‘Jivaro

Nation’ or multiple ethnic nationalities of the ‘four peoples.’ Local genealogicalpolitics still ally ego first and foremost with ‘close’ kin, a cultural logic thatcustomarily results in the classification of ‘distant’ kin as potential enemies.

The customary associations made between geographically localized kindreds andplaces of topographic significance (usually rivers or other smaller waterways) also

continues operating in effect to complicate the abstracted homogeneity implied inthe ethno-political representation in which indigenous leaders are so highly invested.

Implicit in this same customary socio-logic is the idea that such place-based kindredsare commanded by local ‘big man’ figures. Much like Tiwi of Tiwi’s creek, these are

men whose authority is built out of a proven sense of visionary prowess. In otherwords the local cultural logic implicit in ‘Tiwi’s creek’ is as much a potential obstacle

to ethnic unification as it is a basis on which to reclaim ‘Tiwintsa’ as a site ofindigenous resistance to the colonial fragmentation two territorial nation-states have

unleashed on native people in this part of the world.


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At the pragmatic political level, a more robust form of bi-national indigenous

integration is likely to be blocked by Peru’s and Ecuador’s respective states for all the

obvious reasons. But before deliberating over such seemingly insurmountable

obstacles, indigenous leaders are faced with an even more fundamental ideological

conflict. How should this struggle be represented? To whom? And by whom? Thus

far, the result is that some indigenous ideologues are willing to stake their future

ethno-political claims on being ‘Jivaro’ while others have already forged their past

ethno-political success at having re-become the ‘Shuar.’

Not all is gloomy, however. When retold as the histories of Tiwi’s creek, Tiwintsa

serves as a powerful, multivalent metaphor for Peru’s and Ecuador’s enduring

indigenous times. In fact, seen from this point of view, the alternative logics implicit

in Tiwi’s creek serves to disrupt, even while ambivalently reinforcing, the singular

historical narratives of the Peruvian and Ecuadorian nation-states. What remains are

subaltern silences that are already always being voiced. What results are national

ambivalences seeking that imperfect space for an indigenous politics of permanent

irresolution.

I certainly cannot claim to know exactly who Tiwi was. But knowing what I do

know, I am pretty sure Tiwi would be proud just knowing that his legacy – just like

his proper name – lives on in the minds of many different men. Men who claim to be

making histories for and against borders. And men who claim to struggle in the name

of nations new, nations old, and still other nations with names that are not yet fully

imaginable.

Acknowledgements

Several people contributed substantially to this article. In particular, the author wouldlike to thank an anonymous reviewer, Steven Rubenstein, and Philippe Descola forproviding some very helpful feedback. In addition to being a great colleague and friend,Marıa Elena Garcıa also provided some critical observations that made the argumentconsiderably stronger.

Notes

[1] The incredibly long and complicated history of the Peru/Ecuador border dispute is wellbeyond the scope of such a short paper (Wood, 1978; Yepes, 1996). It originates from

disputes over colonial ecclesiastical divisions. During the 19th century, after South America’ssuccessful independence struggles, the dispute festered through long periods of diplomatic

stalemate and lack of attention. In the 20th century, following a failed arbitration attempt bythe Spanish crown, the conflict erupted into occasional military flare-ups – one in 1941

(which prompted the signing of the Rio Protocol under the auspices of four guarantorcountries: the United States, Brazil, Argentina, and Chile), and again in 1980 and 1994/1995.

[2] Two notable exceptions from anthropologists are Barclay (1995) and Rubenstein (2007).

In fact, Rubenstein’s account told more from the Ecuadorian side and in relation to his work

with the Shuar serves as an important complement since I am more familiar with thePeruvian side.

[3] Tiwintsa is only the most obvious site with a multiplicity of meanings in this context.

The military site known as ‘la Cueva de los Tayos’ was equally contested and is also equally

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significant to indigenous actors if seen from the point of view of Jivaroan mythologies(Mader, 1999).

[4] For those accustomed to imagining Peru as always, inevitably ‘un paıs Andino’ (a widespreadperception heavily influenced by the Incaic legacy), this reading of Tiwintsa might beinterpreted as a call for the need to de-Andeanize Peru’s national history (Greene, 2006)while also placing Ecuador’s claims to being ‘un paıs amazonico’ under critical scrutiny.

[5] Of course, given that this is a paper primarily about indigenous men, one cannot help butwonder if this makes me more or less susceptible to Spivak’s highly provocative framing ofpostcolonial gender politics in terms of ‘white men are saving brown women from brownmen’ (Spivak, 1988, p. 296). I am afraid that this aspect of my politics will remainremarkably open to interpretation.

[6] There are dozens of Aguaruna with the surname Tiwi, for example. Customarily, Tiwi is amale name and of course there were no surnames. As a result of the missionization campaignof the Summer Institute of Linguistics in Peru during the 1950s and 1960s, most indigenouspeoples were given Spanish names and then adopted the names of their parents orgrandparents as paternal and maternal surnames in the Spanish tradition (Greene, in press).

[7] For example, the Huambisa destroyed a Peruvian military garrison on the Morona river in1915 (Stirling, 1938, p. 28; Guallart, 1990, p. 198). The stories of abuse – largely true –committed by military personnel on Aguaruna in the Santa Maria de Nieva region were alsoof course later made famous in fictionalized form with the publication of Mario VargasLlosa’s novel La Casa Verde.

[8] The use of the Quechua term ‘kuraka’ here is significant. The referent of the word is clearlywhat the Aguaruna term a ‘kakajam,’ or a valiant war leader. The narrator’s use of the termpoints to the fact that Quechua terminology was often used as a lingua franca in theAguaruna’s dealings with non-Aguaruna populations (both Quechua and provincial Spanishspeakers). I have heard the term used several times by Aguaruna, but upon asking forclarification it is typically clear that its linguistic referent is identical to that of kakajam.

[9] Although I do not have nearly as much evidence for it, a similar importance of thesehistorical events (at least in terms of the role of missionization and state land-titling) holdtrue for the Huambisa.

[10] The fact that there was a simultaneously ecological and ethnic component reflects the factthat Amazonian indigenous politics have increasingly ‘gone green’ since the 1980s (Greene,2006). Although multiple international environmental actors have influenced the peaceprocess and subsequent bi-national development plan (notably Conservation International),I do not have space here to examine this aspect of the negotiations.

[11] As is notable from COPWASH’s name, the Achuar are absent. While they were originallyparticipants in the bi-national ‘encuentros’ and are implicitly present in Jivaroan leaders’occasional comments about the ‘cuatro pueblos,’ the Achuar at some point dropped out ofthe picture for reasons that are not completely clear (to me at least). The relative geographicisolation of the Achuar from the other three pueblos (which also served to shield them fromthe local impact of the Cenepa War) probably plays a significant role here.

[12] As might be evident (at least to those schooled in Aguaruna geopolitics), this is anindigenized reference to the Cordillera del Condor and thus also a way of representing thenational border locally. While the Aguaruna have innumerable ways of representing theirlocal geography, so far as I know there is no pre-existing term that referred to the Cordilleraas a natural-cum-geopolitical border.

[13] Although I did not conceive of this article in a comparative mode, there are certainly plentyof other cases of indigenous politics and problems with ethnonyms worth mentioning. Infact, this is a very widespread problem and something that almost any text which relatesindigenous self-representation and state representations makes clear (Urban & Sherzer, 1991;Warren & Jackson, 2002).

[14] ‘Jibaro’ is also widely used in the Puerto Rican context to mean something closer tocampesino, peasant, or person from the countryside. How exactly the term got there remains


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somewhat of a mystery, although Gnerre (1973) argues that it must have been borrowedfrom colonial South America.

[15] All of the Jivaroan dialects are mutually intelligible with the exception of Candoshi, whichhas origins that linguists have yet to fully understand. The Shuar and Huambisa dialects areidentical and closely related to Achuar. The Aguaruna dialect evidences patterned differencesfrom the others, like the routine substitution of a ‘j’ sound for an ‘r’ sound (using theSpanish orthography). Examples: ‘ajutap,’ not ‘arutam’; ‘yatsuju,’ not ‘yatsuru.’ There arealso complicated language politics involved in the relatively recent substitution of Awajun forAguaruna and Wampis for Huambisa in Peruvian indigenous politics, but this is well beyondthe scope of such a short paper (Greene, in press). It is also worthy of note here that whileTaylor (1993, 1994) and Descola (1994) often deploy the term ‘Jivaro’ in the Ecuadoriancontext (largely for ‘commodity’s sake’ – as Descola, personal communication, clarified forme), others, like Rubenstein (2007), apparently forcefully avoid it. Rubenstein makes anexcellent case for disentangling the various indigenous peoples grouped under the ‘Jivaroan’rubric. Although I am not ideologically against its use, as he appears to be, I do agree thereare significant differences in the populations under consideration that often get glossed over.

[16] Researchers, state officials, and non-governmental organization workers quickly learn thatthey must avoid the word when dealing with the Shuar (Rubenstein, 2001, 2007).

[17] The ethnonym ‘Antipa’ was later dropped and assumed to have simply been an alternativeethnonym for the Aguaruna (Harner, 1972).

[18] Pandam is a well-known (if also controversial) Shuar leader. In addition to leading the ShuarFederation, he occupied a position in President Abdala Bucaram’s Ministerio EtnicoMulticultural, served time in jail after being convicted on serious charges, and most recentlyre-emerged as vice-president of the Confederacion de Nacionalidades Indıgenas del Ecuador.

[19] Although it is well beyond the scope of my paper, Steven Rubenstein (personalcommunication) pointed out that there is a further problem of the contentious historicalrelation between the Shuar and Achuar within Ecuadorian indigenous politics, and possiblythe Shuar and other indigenous groups more generally. In particular, he pointed to a possibleconnection to what I term a ‘Shuar hegemony’ and Shuar encroachment on other indigenousterritories (particularly the Achuar) due to both the pressure of population growth and theShuar’s political dominance.

[20] This is also the primary reason I continue to employ the term ‘Jivaro’ since, on the basis ofyears of work in Peru with the Aguaruna (who openly accept and employ it), my mostimmediate allegiances are with them. Obviously, this means I must offer an apology to thosewho self-identify as Shuar (and ‘their’ anthropologists).

[21] Here too the Candoshi and the Shiwiar are rarely mentioned by indigenous leaders (possiblyconstituting an entirely separate degree of marginality from the perspective of the bi-nationalJivaroan/Shuar imaginations).

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Tiwi's Creek: Indigenous Movements for, Against, and Across the Contested Peruvian Border

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