A year earlier, I traveled to her village in the Ecuadorian Amazon to
research the improbable story of a rainforest community of 1,200 Kichwa
people that has successfully fended off oil companies and a government
intent on exploiting their land for profit. How, I wondered, has
Sarayaku been winning?
This is not the story most people know from Ecuador. Headlines have
focused on northern Ecuador, where Chevron is fighting a landmark $9.5
billion judgment for dumping millions of gallons of toxic wastewater
into rivers and leaving unlined pits of contaminated sludge that
poisoned thousands of people.
Sarayaku lies in southern Ecuador, where the government is selling
drilling rights to a vast swath of indigenous lands - except for Sarayaku.
The community has become a beacon of hope to other indigenous groups
and to global climate change activists as it mobilizes to stop a new
round of oil exploration.
What I found in Sarayaku was not just a community defending its
territory. I encountered a people who believe that their lifestyle,
deeply connected to nature, holds promise for humans to save themselves
from global warming and extinction.
They are fighting back by advancing a
counter-capitalist vision called
sumak kawsay - Kichwa for “living well” - living in harmony with the natural world and insisting that nature has rights deserving of protection.
Naively romantic? Think again: In 2008, Ecuador’s constitution became
the first in the world to codify the rights of nature and specifically
sumak kawsay. Bolivia’s constitution has a similar provision, and
rights-of-nature ordinances are now being passed in communities in the
United States.
Sarayaku residents describe sumac kawsay as “choosing our
responsibility to the seventh generation over quarterly earnings,
regeneration over economic growth, and the pursuit of well-being and
harmony over wealth and financial success.”
The people of Sarayaku are the face of 21st-century indigenous
resistance. Sarayaku may be a remote, pastoral community, but it is
engaging the Western world politically, legally, and philosophically.
Patricia Gualinga and other Sarayaku community members have traveled to
Europe to meet with foreign leaders and warn energy company executives
about their opposition to oil extraction from their lands, produced
their own documentary film about their struggle, filed lawsuits,
leveraged their message with international groups such as Amazon Watch
and Amnesty International, marched thousands of kilometers in public
protest, and testified at the United Nations.
Sarayaku’s resistance has
angered the pro-development Ecuadorian government - which bizarrely hails
sumak kawsay while selling hotly contested oil drilling leases - but has
inspired other indigenous communities across the globe.
Sabino Gualinga, traditional healer and community elder. Photo by Caroline Bennett.
Defending life and land
I climb aboard a four-seater Cessna parked at a small airstrip in the
town of Shell, a rambling settlement on the edge of the Amazon
rainforest in southeastern Ecuador. The town is named for Shell Oil
Company, which established operations here a half century ago.
Our plane flies low over the thick green jungle. The dense growth
below is broken only by rivers the color of chocolate milk, the sinewy
arteries of the rainforest.
The forest canopy parts to reveal a grass airstrip and clusters of
thatched huts. This is Sarayaku. Moist jungle air envelops me as I step
out of the plane. The villagers escort me and my daughter, Ariel, who
has been living in Ecuador and is translating for me, past a large
communal hut where a woman tends a small fire.
Gerardo Gualinga,
Patricia’s brother and one of the community leaders, arrives dressed in
jeans, a T-shirt, and knee-high rubber boots, the signature footwear of
the rainforest. He carries a tall, carved wooden staff, a symbol of his
authority.
“The community is in the middle of a three-day meeting to plan our
political and development work for the next year. Come along - I think you
will find it interesting,” he says, motioning for us to follow him down
to the edge of the broad Bobonaza River.
We board a motorized canoe and head upstream, passing slender dugouts
propelled by men pushing long poles. In 10 minutes, we clamber out on
the river bank and hike up to a sandy village square.
Inside an oval building with a thatched roof, we find José Gualinga,
another of Patricia’s brothers, who was then president of Sarayaku. He
is holding his ceremonial staff and wearing a black headband and a Che
Guevara T-shirt.
Gualinga is leading a discussion of how the community
should pressure the Ecuadorian government to comply with the judgment of
the Inter-American Court on Human Rights, which ruled in 2012 that the
Ecuadorian government should have obtained the consent of the native
people when it permitted oil drilling on Sarayaku’s territory. Following
hearings in Costa Rica, the court ordered the government to apologize
and pay Sarayaku $1.25 million, plus attorney’s fees.
The court decision, declared Mario Melo, attorney for Sarayaku from
the Quito-based Fundación Pachamama, is “a significant contribution to a
more profound safeguard of indigenous peoples’ rights, and it is an
example of dignity that will surely inspire many other nations and
peoples around the world.”
At a lunch break, Marlon Santi, Sarayaku’s president until 2008, explains the history of the struggle here. In the early 2000s, “The government let oil businesses exploit and
explore for oil in this territory. There was no consultation. Many
communities sold out to the oil companies. Sarayaku was the only pueblo
that didn’t sell the right for oil companies to explore.”
Ecuador’s government ignored the community’s refusal to sell
oil-drilling rights and signed a contract in 1996 with the Argentinian
oil company C.G.C. to explore for oil in Sarayaku. In 2003, C.G.C.
petroleros - oil workers and private security guards - and Ecuadorian soldiers came by helicopter to lay explosives and dig test wells.
Sarayaku mobilized. “We stopped the schools and our own work and
dedicated ourselves to the struggle for six months,” says Santi. As the
oil workers cleared a large area of forest - which was community
farmland - the citizens of Sarayaku retreated deep into the jungle, where
they established emergency camps and plotted their resistance.
“In the six months of struggle, there was torture, rape, and strong
suffering of our people, especially our mothers and children,” Santi
recounts. “We returned with psychological illness. All the military who
came …” He pauses to compose himself. “This was a very, very bad time.”
In their jungle camps, the Sarayaku leaders hatched a plan. The women
of the community prepared a strong batch of chicha, the traditional
Ecuadorian homebrew made from fermented cassava. One night, a group of
them traveled stealthily through the jungle, shadowed by men of the
village. The women emerged at the main encampment of the petroleros.
They offered their chicha and watched as the oil workers happily
partied.
As their drinking binge ended, the petroleros fell asleep. When they
awoke, what they saw sobered them: They were staring into the muzzles of
their own automatic weapons. Wielding the guns were the women and men
of Sarayaku.
The Sarayaku residents ordered the petroleros off their ancestral
land. The terrified workers called in helicopters and fled, abandoning
their weapons. The oil workers never returned. An Ecuadorian general
came later and negotiated with community leaders - five of whom had been
arrested and beaten - for the return of the weapons.
I ask Santi why Sarayaku has resisted. His tan, weathered face
breaks into a gentle smile even as he recounts a difficult story. “Our fathers told us that for future generations not to suffer, we
needed to struggle for our territory and our liberty. So we wouldn’t be
slaves of the new kind of colonization.
“The waterfall, the insects, the animals, the jungle gives us life,”
he tells me. “Because man and the jungle have a relationship. For the
Western capitalist world, the jungle is simply for exploiting resources
and ending all this. The indigenous pueblos without jungle - we can’t
live.”
Sarayaku now wants to help indigenous people around the world resist
and defend their way of life. “Our message that we are also taking to
Asia, Africa, Brazil, and other countries that are discussing climate
change, we propose an alternative development - the development of life.
This is our economy for living - sumak kawsay - not just for us but for the
Western world. They don’t have to be afraid of global warming if they
support the life of the jungle.
“It’s not a big thing,” he says understatedly. “It’s just to continue living.”
“Indigenous lands
free of oil: The cry of the living jungle,” a banner hanging on the
side of a building in Sarayaku. Photo by Caroline Bennett.
Indigenous climate change warriors
The Sarayaku story is just the latest in a long-running battle over
Ecuador’s natural resources. Oil extraction began in northern Ecuador in
1964, when the American oil giant Texaco set up drilling operations in
indigenous lands (Chevron later purchased Texaco).
When the oil company
exited in 1992, it “left behind the worst oil-related environmental
disaster on the planet,” according to Amazon Watch, a nonprofit
organization that defends indigenous rights. The devastated and poisoned
region is known as the “rainforest Chernobyl.”
Despite pursuing Chevron for damages, the Ecuadorian government of
President Rafael Correa has embarked on an aggressive new round of oil
development in southern Ecuador, opening thousands of acres to
exploration.
The government has cracked down on resisters, recently
ordering the closure of the Quito headquarters of CONAIE, Ecuador’s
national indigenous organization, attempting to stop Ecuadorian
activists opposed to oil drilling from attending a U.N. climate summit
in Peru, and closing Fundación Pachamama, an NGO supporting indigenous
groups.
Most of Sarayaku’s land has been excluded in the new round of
oil drilling, though nearby communities, including those of the
neighboring Sápara people, are threatened. Sarayaku is joining the
protests of its neighbors.
José Gualinga says these struggles have bigger implications. “We are
doing this to stop carbon emissions and global warming. This struggle of
indigenous pueblos is a doorway to saving
Pachamama [Mother Earth].”
Women have been at the center of the indigenous resistance. Patricia
Gualinga tells me, “The women have been very steadfast and strong in
saying we are not negotiating about this. We are the ones who have
mobilized for life.”
She recounts how, in 2013, 100 women from seven
different indigenous groups marched 250 kilometers from their jungle
communities to Quito, where they addressed the National Assembly. In the
1990s, Patricia’s mother embarked on a similar march with thousands of
other indigenous women.
Sarayaku community members travel widely around Ecuador and beyond, but most return to their pastoral village. “We want to continue living a good life within the forest,” Patricia
tells me. “We want to be respected, and we want to be a model that could
be replicated.”
Patricia
Gualinga, a community leader who has traveled the world speaking out in
defense of indigenous rights, at her home in Sarayaku, Ecuador. Photo by
Caroline Bennett.
The living jungle
I follow Sabino Gualinga, a 70-year-old shaman, as he walks lightly
through the dense tangle of growth. He deftly flicks his machete to make
a path through the jungle for me and Ariel. He stops and points up
toward a tree.
“The bark of that tree helps cure grippe [flu]. This one,” he says,
pointing to a weathered, gray tree trunk, “helps to break a fever. That
one,” he motions to a fern-like plant, “helps with psychological
problems.”
That night, Sabino’s sons, Gerardo and José, join us in front of a
flickering fire to talk about Sarayaku’s journey. They are unwinding
after a long day of meetings. José wears a white soccer jersey and his
long black hair hangs loosely at his shoulders.
José, president of Sarayaku from 2011 to 2014, led his community to
take its fight to the Inter-American Court on Human Rights. Part of the
court judgment required Ecuadorian government leaders to apologize to
Sarayaku. I doubted this would occur, but José was insistent that it
would.
In October 2014, Ecuador’s Minister of Justice, Ledy Zuniga, stood in
Sarayaku’s sandy community square and delivered an extraordinary
message: “We offer a public apology for the violation of indigenous
property, cultural identity, the right to consultation, having put at
serious risk their lives and personal integrity, and for the violation
of the right to judicial guarantee and judicial protections,” she
declared.
The court decision and official apology appear to have given Sarayaku
an extra measure of protection from new oil exploration. The government
must now secure at least the appearance of consent, contested though it
may be, lest they get dragged back into court.
“We’ve shown that laws can change,” reflects Gerardo. “We’ve won not only for Sarayaku, we’ve won for South America.”
A key element in Sarayaku’s success is telling its story everywhere
it can. Sarayaku resident Eriberto Gualinga trained in videography and
made a film about his community,
Children of the Jaguar, which
won best documentary at the 2012 National Geographic All Roads Film
Festival.
Sarayaku has also embraced social media. Community members
showed me to a thatched hut. Inside, young people were clustered around
several computers updating Facebook pages and websites via a satellite
Internet connection.
Now, says José, “When the state says, ‘Sarayaku, we are going to
destroy you,’ we have international witnesses. We can tell people the
truth.”
José draws a distinction between Sarayaku’s struggles and those led
by leaders such as Nelson Mandela and Che Guevara. “They wanted their
freedom. We don’t need to win our freedom. Here in Sarayaku, we are
free. But we take from the experience of these leaders. It strengthens
us.”
A steady rain falls on the thatched roof overhead. The fat raindrops
make a hard thwack on the broad leaves of the trees. A guitarist strums
softly in another hut. Chickens and children run free.
“We are millionaires,” says Gerardo, motioning to the jungle that
embraces us. “Everything we need we have here.” José peers into the
fire. “We are a small pueblo, but we are a symbol of life. Everyone must
come together to support the life of human beings and Earth.”
David Goodman wrote this article for Together, With Earth, the Spring 2015 issue of YES! Magazine. David is a journalist, a contributing writer for Mother Jones, and author of 10 books. He and his sister Amy Goodman, host of Democracy Now!, have co-authored three New York Times bestsellers; their fourth book is due out next year. He hosts “The Vermont Conversation,” a public affairs radio show.