Living through the Blockade in an Indigenous Community: The 4F Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ Commune (Part III)

The Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ people in Venezuela’s Amazonas state have long resisted colonization and proudly preserve their language. Today they are building communes that draw both on Hugo Chávez’s socialist roadmap and their ancestral ways of organization, including collective land tenure and assembly-based governance. 

The February 4 Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ Commune sits on the edge of a savanna that gradually turns into rainforest and is crossed by the beautiful Parhueña River. While the majority of this commune’s population is Huo̧ttö̧ja, as indicated by the commune’s name, there are also Kurripakos, Jivis, Banivas, and a small number of non-Indigenous people. 

The commune comprises 12 communal councils and a total population of about 2500, with the largest community being Limón de Parhueña, home to about 750 people. Some of the smaller communities that are tucked away in the woodlands preserve traditions such as living in churuatas [thatched buildings], and can only be reached by foot or motorbike. The most distant community in this commune, the Alto Parhuani Communal Council, is six hours away on foot.

In this three-part series, we listen to men and women who have built the February 4 Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ Commune. The first installment focused on the history and traditions of the Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ people, while the second dealt with methods of organization and production in the commune. In this final installment, the communards talk about the impact of the US blockade on their life and about the meaning of Chávez’s legacy to Indigenous peoples. 

The impact of the US blockade

The impact of the unilateral coercive measures reaches every corner of Venezuela. However, many Indigenous communities have been less affected due to their resilient farming methods.

Sirelyis Rivas: US imperialism is bothered by the Bolivarian Process, because it represents a sovereign project and we are not within their sphere of influence. That’s the fundamental issue!

However, while the blockade is cruel and harmful, Indigenous communities in rural areas weren’t as severely affected as people in urban centers. We produce our own food – our mañoco [yuca flour] and casabe [yuca flatbread] – and we gather manaca, a highly nutritious tropical fruit. If necessary, we can also hunt a danta [tapir], providing us with the protein we need.

In my view, the greatest problem during the height of the crisis was transportation. To sell our casabe, we have to go to the Indigenous market in Puerto Ayacucho. But there were times when transportation was simply unavailable due to gas shortages.

Nereo López Pérez: Our production never came to a halt during the blockade, and I would say this holds true not just for the Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ people, but for all 21 Indigenous peoples living in Amazonas state.

Our production is for the sustenance of our children and our families, and we don’t rely on imported agricultural inputs: we grow our crops in a balanced relation with the land, which will also give us the seeds we need. It is true that some of our tools got worn out and our boots got shabby, but we never ceased to produce. 

Fuel shortages did affect us, however, because we depend on being able to hop on a truck to take the casabe to the market on Saturdays. But we never forgot that we have our own two legs! So when times were hardest, we walked to Puerto Ayacucho, where we sold some casabe and bought what we needed – things like cooking oil and soap.

Simón Pérez: Chähuerä is basically a self-sustaining community, because we produce our own food. If we need soap, oil, fishing hooks, fishing nets, or medicines, we can simply walk to the city, sell a portion of our production, and exchange it for the goods we need.

Ebi Miraval: We care for our conucos [subsistence plots], we grow yuca, we grind it, we lay it on the budare [griddle] and we light the fire. That’s our daily practice, as it was the practice of our parents and grandparents. It has never changed, blockade or no blockade. 

Then for the other things we may need – for instance, coffee or sugar – we may go to town on Saturday, sell spicy tapara sauce in the market, and, if all goes well, we then restock with some of the basics that we need. 

Nereo López Pérez: Manaca is a very nutritious fruit and it grows in the wild year-round, while our conucos are well stocked with yuca. We hunt and we sometimes fish. This is our way of life, so we are far less dependent on the outside world and less impacted by the blockade. It was, of course, another matter in the cities, where people did suffer a great deal. 

During the gas shortages, getting into town was difficult. But things have changed. At one point we had to walk all the way to Puerto Ayacucho, which is a very long journey. However, the fuel supply has improved, so now we can easily catch a bus or a truck to get there.

THE BLOCKADE AND TRADITIONAL MEDICINE

Nereo López Pérez: During the height of the sanctions, many city dwellers were unable to obtain their medicines, with tragic consequences. Here, however, we always had traditional medicine to turn to.

While we do use conventional medicine when necessary, Indigenous communities never stopped relying on traditional remedies. This knowledge is passed down through generations, and nature provides the cures we need.

When medicines became scarce, we turned even more to alternative treatments… and they work! I remember when I had malaria during that time. I had heard about a cure in a Council of Elders meeting, so I went and found the plant, prepared it, and felt better soon after!

The situation made us realize that we must preserve and share this knowledge more effectively, as some of the younger generations may be losing touch with it. In a recent meeting, we discussed the importance of keeping a small apothecary in every home – an herbal reserve along with the knowledge of how to use it.

Sirelyis Rivas: As Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ people, we’ve always relied on traditional medicine, though we also use conventional medicine when necessary and available. During the most difficult years, we turned even more to traditional remedies, and in the process, we revived knowledge about roots, leaves, and flowers that was beginning to disappear.

OTHER PROBLEMS & SOLUTIONS

Estela Pesquera: In 2016, some of the young men in our community started leaving to work in the gold mines. They wanted a break from our way of life, and the crisis left them with few other options. Youths often go to the mines for a few years as “repeleros” [informal workers collecting gold residues] and eventually return to the community. 

Life in the mines is tough though. Sometimes they come back with a little bit of money, but other times they return empty-handed and in bad shape.

During these challenging times, I’ve traveled to the mines myself, but only for a short time to sell catara.

María Solórzano: These have been hard years, and while rural communities are more robust, organizing hasn’t been easy. However, in the area where I work [February 4 Commune and other communes north of Puerto Ayacucho], we have seen the reactivation of dormant communes. This is happening hand in hand with initiatives such as the communal consultations promoted by President Maduro. 

The best thing here is that the communes I work with are mostly Indigenous, so the practice of meeting and collective decision-making is already established. Regarding the blockade, I feel we are beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Simón Pérez: We live in a remote communal council and had long dreamed of bringing electricity to our community. We were making progress, but the blockade made it much more difficult. 

However, in August [2024], we finally received 10 small solar panels for our homes. It took a lot of effort – organizing as a community and making repeated trips to town – but in the end, the Atures Municipality [Puerto Ayacucho government] came through. They provided the panels and helped us get them up and running.

Chávez, the Revolution and Indigenous peoples

The Bolivarian Process represents a watershed moment for the Indigenous peoples of Venezuela, offering recognition and establishing rights for communities that had long been overlooked. 

Nereo López Pérez: When Chávez came to power in 1998, we felt that a new era was beginning for Indigenous peoples. But for us, actions speak louder than words. That’s why, when the Constitution was approved in December 1999 with a preamble declaring Venezuela as a “participatory and protagonistic democracy,” and recognizing our country as “multiethnic and pluricultural,” we began to truly identify with the Bolivarian Revolution.

Additionally, Article 9 of the Constitution mandates the recognition of our languages as “official” and as a “cultural heritage.” Meanwhile, Article 119 not only affirms that the Venezuelan state must respect our customs and traditions but also paves the way for a new approach to delimiting Indigenous lands – one that involves our active participation.

Of course, the Constitution is not perfect, and we actually think some articles should be reformed, but it is undoubtedly a very important resource for us. 

Alongside the Constitution, other legal instruments were established that represent significant progress for Indigenous peoples in Amazonas and across the country. I’m referring to the “Indigenous Peoples Law” [2005] and the “Indigenous Languages Law” [2007].

There is still much to be done: we must continue to protect our culture, our traditions, and our languages, and the government must do more as well. However, before the Bolivarian Revolution, we were a people without a country. We were all grouped as “pueblos campesinados,” a term that holds no meaning because it denied our recognition as Indigenous to this land. We weren’t acknowledged, and, as a result, we weren’t protected by the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

Sirelyis Rivas: I thank Chávez for the commune, which recognizes that every community is different while encouraging self-organization. And I am also grateful for his recognition of our Indigenous languages. 

Some might ask: isn’t that the bare minimum? One could argue that, but before him, we didn’t even exist in the eyes of Venezuela, and, as a result, our languages were not protected. Our mother tongue is our lifeline, and for that reason, I feel personal gratitude to Chávez for what he did.

Nereo López Pérez: To conclude, I would like to share a thought: being a revolutionary isn’t about wearing a red cap or a red shirt. It’s about having a clear vision and working toward it. We must listen to Che’s words: “The revolution is not made with words but with actions.”

Our ancestors were revolutionaries: they fought against the colonizers. Not only did they survive, but they also preserved our culture, our traditions, our organizational structures, and our language. More than 500 years later, we’re still here. That’s why, as long as I’m able to stand, I will give my best to the revolution. There’s still much to improve, but what the revolution brought is good.