Second installment
Luisa Martín Rojo
This travelogue is divided into two parts, the first of which is now being published. Both the journey and the publication are part of the action research we are carrying out as part of the European project ReDes_Ling (Resisting Linguistic Inequality, Staff Exchanges ref. 1011131469). This research aims to understand linguistic inequality in order to counteract it, taking into account that
- Linguistic inequality involves asymmetrical relationships between linguistic groups, resulting in social differences, economic disadvantages, unequal access to rights, lack of material and emotional well-being, or the inability to develop one’s potential (Bonnin 2013).
- Linguistic discrimination is as pervasive as other forms of discrimination based on race, ethnicity, sexuality, or gender (Baugh 2003; Lippi-Green 1997; Urciuoli 1996).
- Bridging the gap between academic research and societal perceptions of language, fostering exchange among interdisciplinary teams of scholars and organizations.
Thanks to Virginia, Lara and Lucía for sharing this journey with me.
The tree of impossible words
Chaco is an officially multilingual province with a significant indigenous population. Despite this, it is common for criollo (non-indigenous) people to see no need to learn indigenous languages, and the administration does little to promote them. In El Sauzalito, for example, the Wichí community was given plots of land to settle. There are no domestic animals, no chickens or goats, only loose dogs; houses are built differently, with small plants growing on the roofs; and there are other ways of relating to nature – listening to it rather than domesticating it.
Photo 7: Wichí territory, what remains after exploitation
In the settlements and beyond, there are only bilingual schools at the preschool and primary levels. In one of the classes we visited, there were three children, ages six to seven, alone with the Spanish teacher. The mestizo teacher was dynamic, funny, open and friendly. She immediately initiated a game with me, a kind of guessing game: “Where is the teacher from?” The children chose nearby places or places they thought were farther away, like Formosa, and I added questions like, “How did I get here? Did I come by sea?” or gave them clues: “I came by plane.” The teacher showed a drawing of an airplane that she used for literacy activities in Spanish. Finally, the teacher suggested that we put a map somewhere in the library or a globe.
While some children were very shy, speaking in Spanish at a barely audible volume and avoiding eye contact, others-particularly some 6-7 year old girls-were extremely happy and open in their communication. This reflected their familiarity with intercultural interaction, perhaps influenced by social class dynamics within the community.
Photo 8: Spanish class in a bilingual primary school classroom.
The situation I described was quite exceptional, since mestizo teachers are usually accompanied by a language assistant (ADA), since they usually do not know the language of their students, who tend to be monolingual in Wichí at these early stages. When someone considers a language to be legitimate within a community, beyond recognizing that the community is culturally and linguistically diverse, they often feel a desire to learn these languages. On the other hand, if the other language is perceived as subsidiary or subordinate, or if those who speak it are not seen as full citizens, the question arises: Why learn it? Changing these judgments and this lack of recognition-or even disdain-requires changing many of the lessons learned during primary and secondary socialization, whether within the family, school, or broader social norms. Confronting one’s habitus is no easy task.
During one of these classroom visits, I experienced an episode related to literacy that can only be understood through the lens of these ingrained attitudes. A monolingual teacher was teaching Spanish literacy to children who were not yet fully bilingual-or at least not all of them. I would say most were still learning Spanish. The children proudly showed me their notebooks, and as they did so, I initiated a game to have them teach me words in Wichí. In one of the girls’ notebooks, I saw a beautifully drawn tree with words written in bubbles that looked like fruits. I think the tree was a replica of an institutional poster I had seen on the walls of the school. In the bubbles, the girl had written – or rather copied – abstract and complex words: love, respect, justice, solidarity, peace. These seemed like very difficult words for six- or seven-year-old children, and explaining them, especially in Spanish at what was probably a B2 level, was no easy task. In this context, I wasn’t sure which word to ask them to teach me in Wichí. I hesitated between “love” and “peace. Finally, she said a word in Wichí, which I clumsily repeated, causing everyone to laugh.
Several teachers and former students of Sauzalito have pointed out this problem: children memorize activities in Spanish without understanding their meaning. In this way, Spanish becomes a language confined to the school context, used only in formal situations and disconnected from the children’s daily lives. However, in the absence of a bilingual secondary education, they will soon be forced to immerse themselves in the mestizo language and culture, in a “sink or swim” situation. The bilingual project tends toward subtractive bilingualism, paving the way for monolingualism in the dominant language, which is the colonial language. A bilingual program that teaches equally in both languages, on the other hand, would pierce the coloniality of knowledge and bring into circulation other forms of knowledge, values, and ways of life.
What happens then? The result is discouraging: many Wichí students drop out of school. From the beginning, they are labeled as “indigenous” and face prejudice and low expectations. Those who have learned more than just Spanish in elementary school are considered the “good ones” in the dominant language, which then becomes the standard by which they are judged. This hierarchy of values and competencies, alien to their culture, is imposed on them.
As a result, not only do they feel out of place because of different routines, values, knowledge, methods, and vocabulary, but they also face contempt for their own culture and language. The participation of those who do not conform to the system is limited, or they limit themselves to avoid being ridiculed or singled out. The inequality that is already apparent in primary school becomes entrenched in secondary school, consolidating a system that marginalizes and silences them.
The way in which language intersects with this inequality in the educational process was illustrated by our colleague Lara’s experience in a secondary school. When she used Wichí riddles as a teaching tool in mixed groups (indigenous girls and non-indigenous boys), it disrupted ethnic and gender dynamics. It was the indigenous girls, not the mestizo boys, who contributed the most to solving the riddles, thanks to their knowledge of both languages and the cultural knowledge associated with them. Yet their contributions were sometimes ignored, treated as “noise” rather than “logos,” as Rancière put it.
Photo 9: Wichí teaching materials.
In this sense, Wichí riddles challenge the symbolic distribution of resources in these schools, as knowledge of the Wichí language is recognized as legitimate knowledge. When this knowledge is valued in the school setting, those who possess it are recognized as legitimate participants in that context. Ultimately, in addition to transforming the distribution and recognition of knowledge, these riddles also transform participation: traditionally assigned roles are redefined, and the voices and agency of indigenous students are strengthened.
In this sense, Wichí riddles challenge the symbolic distribution of resources in these schools by giving value to Wichí language as legitimate knowledge. When this knowledge is recognized within the school environment, those who possess it are recognized as legitimate participants in that context. Ultimately, these puzzles transform not only the distribution and recognition of knowledge, but also participation: traditionally assigned roles are redefined, and the voices and agency of indigenous students are strengthened.
A question of straps
One day, we accompanied Lara to a school where she was presenting her proposal for teaching sequences in Wichí. When we arrived, we met a teacher who greeted her warmly. I understood that this teacher needed to approve her presence in the classroom to carry out the activity, and they agreed on a time. I was struck by how well dressed the teacher was, wearing high heels and lipstick-something unusual given the heat and dusty conditions of El Impenetrable. This detail reminded me of a story I had heard from a bilingual teacher who recounted how, early in her career, a mestizo principal forced her to wear heels and makeup to school.
These reflections led me to think about how clothing and makeup serve as ethnic and racial markers, distinguishing mestizos from indigenous people and emphasizing cultural differences between the two groups.
It was then that a gesture I had noticed before, but didn’t fully understand, began to make sense. It happened in a school where the mestizo teacher and the bilingual assistant shared a classroom. I observed the mestizo teacher paying special attention to the assistant’s clothing, adjusting the strap of her smock several times. This gesture, which at first seemed insignificant, began to take on new meaning. Like place names, literacy, clothing, and bodies, this was not just about cultural difference, but a deeper issue of social inequality.
Dress codes, like linguistic norms that dictate which languages are spoken where and which are worth learning, are not superficial rules. They are tied to the question of who is considered a legitimate participant, a first-class citizen, in institutional spaces. Inequality is imposed when cultural differences limit participation, when an individual is not recognized as a legitimate participant in an institutional space like education. This leads to school dropout and limits opportunities for participation, advancement, and recognition within that space.
We conclude this account with an initial response for the ReDes_Ling project, one that is consistent with observations from other diverse yet strikingly similar contexts: maintaining indigenous languages in schools is a community-driven political project. It is a form of resistance to colonialism and capitalism that is inherently linked to land rights, lifestyle and culture.
For more information:
For further information:
Unamuno, Virginia (2020). Hegemonía comunicativa, participación y voces subalternas: notas desde las aulas con niños y niñas wichi. Diálogos sobre Educación. Temas actuales en investigación educativa, 11(20).
Unamuno, Virginia (2019). N’ku Ifweln’uhu: etnografía en co-labor y la producción colectiva de la educación bilingüe intercultural desde la lengua y la cultura wichi (Chaco, Argentina). Foro de Educación, 17(27), 125-146.
Unamuno,Virginia, Lara Messina & Lucía Romero (en prensa). Fighting is teaching: activism, teaching and perspectives on plurilingual education from the lands of Chaco. Language and Intercultural Communication.
