By Salvador Contreras § Havaiko’s safe return to his family was a stroke of luck. In a village […]

By Salvador Contreras §

Havaiko’s safe return to his family was a stroke of luck.

In a village nestled in the Wixárika Sierra of Western Mexico, Havaiko and I sat outside a small store while his 3-year-old son rested on his lap enjoying an ice cream. During our conversation in 2013, Havaiko recounted his experience as an observer in Wirikuta, an ancestral reserve in the desert of San Luis Potosi, Mexico. “One of our temples was destroyed. We think the mining company was responsible. They’re mad because we stopped their project,” Havaiko said. He continued, “We were chosen by the Council of Elders who organized an emergency team to act as observers in Wirikuta.” When asked about his role as an observer, Havaiko explained, “My cousin and I rotated every two weeks with other observers. Our job was to report any damage to our temples. Suddenly, we heard sniper fire. If I’m being honest, I thought we were done. We both dropped and took cover. I turned to my cousin to see if he was shot. We were both okay and crawled out of there with our lives.” According to Wixárika leaders, as of August 2022, three Wixaritari (plural of Wixárika) have gone missing.

Havaiko’s story shows the tenuous situation where violent groups are hired by interests to destabilize indigenous territories to extract their resources. The Wixárika people are facing over a dozen of these cases throughout their vast territory. The affronts have accumulated in a resource war that indigenous people refer to as la segunda conquista, the second conquest.

“Why make the passage to the desert given the risks?” I asked Havaiko. He responded, “No lo hacemos por gusto. (We don’t do it for fun). We have religious mandates to walk the ancestral paths and visit our temples. We are fighting to save our sacred sites from destruction.”

In 2010, a Canadian-Mexican partnership renewed a 200-year-old mining concession to construct an open-pit, gold and silver mine adjacent to Wirikuta and the town of Real de Catorce. Wixárika leaders responded by forming a front, Tamatsima Waha’a, “The water of our Gods,” to stop the mining concession. The name of the front refers to their culture hero, Tamatsi Kauyumarie (Our Elder Brother Blue Deer) who brought hikuri (peyote) to the earth. According to Havaiko, “If the project takes off, the mine will suck-up all the water. Tamatsi Kauyumarie will punish everyone. No more hikuri.”

To gain widespread support, Wixárika leaders formed alliances with civil organizations, daytime television and movie stars, punks, rappers, and folk musicians. Together, they marched in Mexico City, chanting the movement’s slogan, “Wirikuta no se vende, se ama y se defiende!” (Wirikuta is not for sale, we love and defend it!). The slogan was broadcast on national TV spots, radio, and social media, sparking a groundswell of support and catalyzing a popular environmental movement to stop the mining project.

A decade later, “They [the corporations] are taking full advantage that we have been busy battling to protect sacred sites in other states.” —Havaiko referred to development conflicts like a dam project, a biohazard land-fill proposal, a proposed uranium mine and long-standing land dispute that cost the lives of 3 Wixárika leaders. In 2017, a 50-year-old land dispute cost the lives of 3 Wixárika leaders, who were murdered by hitmen allegedly hired by local ranchers. The disputes are ongoing.

Meanwhile, “When the [Covid19] pandemic hit, mining activities continued in different parts of Mexico. In Wirikuta, the Canadian mining company amplified their pressure to reverse the mining moratorium,” said Havaiko. Wixárika leaders organized marches and press events in various parts of Western Mexico and the capital.

Print by Santiago Armengod

The enduring practices the Wixárika and other indigenous people in Mexico underline the importance of cargo landscape practices as comuneros, communal land tenure derived from the Mexican Revolution, that are maintained through a system of unpaid community work appointed by a Council of Elders. Exoticizing and othering their religious traditions overlooks the way cosmology, spirituality and health and wellbeing are weaved into stewardship of sacred sites. Thus, from the standpoint of preventing environmentally toxic destruction, cargo is a form of public health and climate justice. Protecting Wirikuta is also an example of how the cargo system has always adapted to environmental and historical context to address its primary imperative—to protect more-than-human landscapes.

Havaiko and his son, now 14 years-old, are on a march to the nation’s capital to reinvigorate the movement to stop the mine and protect Wirikuta. “Being Wixarika is not easy. We have to maintain lo sagrado [the rituals] and to fight the threats in all directions. What kind of future are we leaving our kids?”

Dr. Contreras holds a Ph.D. in Cultural Anthropology from UC Santa Cruz. Building on this foundation, he pursued a Post-Doctoral position at UC Berkeley, specializing in Medical Anthropology. His research primarily focuses on exploring the intricate relationship between the environment and indigenous perspectives on health.

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