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      Restoring the Past Won’t Liberate Palestine

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      Amid the graphic images, fierce polemics and endless media criticism that have dominated my social media feeds since the war in Gaza began late last year, I noticed a seemingly bizarre subplot emerge: skin cancer in Israel.“You are not Indigenous if your body cannot tolerate the area’s climate,” one such post read, highlighting outdated news coverage claiming that Israelis had unusually high rates of skin cancer. (They do not.) Skin cancer, these posts claimed, was proof that Israeli Jews were not native to the land between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea but are in fact white Europeans with no ancestral connection to the region, enactors of one of the worst crimes of the modern age: settler colonialism.On one level, the claims about skin cancer — like similar ones about Israeli cuisine and surnames — are silly social media talking points from keyboard warriors slinging hashtags, hyped up on theories of liberation based on memes of Frantz Fanon quotes taken out of context. In the context of the ongoing slaughter in Gaza — more than 28,000 people dead, mostly women and children — such posturing may seem trivial. But even, or maybe especially, at this moment, when things are so grim, the way we talk about liberation matters. And I find this kind of talk revealing of a larger trend on the left these days, emanating from important and complex theories in the academy but reflected in crude and reductive forms in the memes and slogans at pro-Palestine protests — an increasingly rigid set of ideas about the interloping colonizer and the Indigenous colonized. In this analysis, there are two kinds of people: those who are native to a land and those who settle it, displacing the original inhabitants. Those identities are fixed, essential, eternal.I have spent much of my life and career living and working among formerly colonized peoples attempting to forge a path for themselves in the aftermath of empire. The rapacious carving up of much of the globe and the genocide and enslavement of millions of people by a handful of European powers for their own enrichment was the great crime of early modernity. The icons who threw off the yoke of colonial oppression — including Ghana’s Kwame Nkrumah, India’s Jawaharlal Nehru and Fanon — were my childhood heroes, and they remain my intellectual lodestars. But I sometimes struggle to recognize their spirit and ideas in the way we talk about decolonization today, with its emphasis on determining who is and who is not an Indigenous inhabitant of the lands known as Israel and Palestine.A good deal of the antipathy toward Israeli Jews today is undergirded and enabled, I believe, by something that to some ears sounds progressive: the idea that people and lands that have been colonized must be returned to their indigenous peoples and original state. But that belief, when taken literally, is at best a kind of left-wing originalism, a utopian politics that believes the past answers all the questions of the present. At worst it is a left-wing echo to the ancestral fantasies of the far right, in which who is allowed to live in which places is a question of the connection of one’s blood to a particular patch of soil.Implicit in the emphasis on indigeneity is a promised restoration, albeit one of a very different sort from the imperial fantasies of Vladimir Putin or the gender obsessions of Ron DeSantis. Decolonization “is not converting Indigenous politics to a Western doctrine of liberation; it is not a philanthropic process of ‘helping’ the at-risk and alleviating suffering; it is not a generic term for struggle against oppressive conditions and outcomes,” as the scholars Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang write in an influential academic paper published in 2012, “Decolonization Is Not a Metaphor.” More

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      Indigenous Australians Say ‘Reconciliation Is Dead’ After ‘Voice’

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      The rejection of the Indigenous Voice to Parliament is likely to lead to an irreversible shift in the nation’s relationship with its first peoples.The result of the referendum was decisive, and at the same time, divisive. It bruised Indigenous Australians who for decades had hoped that a conciliatory approach would help right the wrongs of the country’s colonial history. So, the nation’s leader made a plea.“This moment of disagreement does not define us. And it will not divide us,” Prime Minister Anthony Albanese, visibly emotional, said this month, after voters in every state and territory except one rejected the constitutional referendum. “This is not the end for reconciliation.”But that was a difficult proposition to accept for Indigenous leaders who saw the result as a vote for a tortured status quo in a country that is already far behind other colonized nations in reconciling with its first inhabitants.The rejection of the Indigenous Voice to Parliament — a proposed advisory body — was widely anticipated. Nonetheless, it was a severe blow for Indigenous people, who largely voted for it. With many perceiving it as the denial of their past and their place in the nation, the defeat of the Voice not only threatens to derail any further reconciliation but could also unleash a much more confrontational approach to Indigenous rights and race relations in Australia.Supporters of the “Yes” campaign in Sydney this month.Jenny Evans/Getty Images“Reconciliation only works if you have two parties who are willing to make up after a fight and move on,” said Larissa Baldwin Roberts, an Aboriginal woman and the chief executive of GetUp, a progressive activist group that campaigned for the Voice. “But if one party doesn’t acknowledge that there is even a fight here that’s happened, how can you reconcile?”She added, “We need to move into a space that is maybe not as polite, maybe not as conciliatory and be unafraid to tell people the warts-and-all story around how dispossession and colonization continues in this country.”For Marcia Langton, one of the country’s most prominent Aboriginal leaders, the consequences were obvious. “It’s very clear that reconciliation is dead,” she said.For decades, Ms. Langton and others championed a moderate approach to Indigenous rights. They worked within Australia’s reconciliation movement, a broadly bipartisan government approach aimed at healing and strengthening the relationship between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people.One visible sign of this effort is the flying of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander flags next to the Australian flag in most official settings. Many public events start with an acknowledgment of the traditional owners of the land the event is held on.But activists have long said that these displays can be tokenistic, and the focus on unity can come at the expense of agitating for Indigenous rights. And the referendum has shown that wide schisms still persist in how Australia views its colonial past — as benign or harmful — and over whether the entrenched disadvantages of Indigenous communities result from colonization or people’s own actions, culture and ways of life.“We are very much behind other countries in their relationships with Indigenous people,” said Hannah McGlade, a member of the U.N. Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues, who is an Aboriginal woman and a supporter of the Voice.A rally against the Indigenous Voice to Parliament in Melbourne last month.James Ross/Australian Associated Press, via ReutersIn countries like Finland, Sweden and Norway, the Sami people have a legal right to be consulted on issues affecting their communities. Canada has recognized First Nations treaty rights in its Constitution, and New Zealand signed a treaty with the Maori in the late 1800s.British colonialists considered Australia uninhabited, and the country has never signed a treaty with its Indigenous people, who are not mentioned in its Constitution, which was produced more than a century after Captain Cook first reached the continent.To rectify this, more than 250 Indigenous leaders came together in 2017 and devised a three-step plan for forgiveness and healing. The first was a Voice, enshrined in the Constitution. A treaty with the government would follow, and finally, a process of “truth-telling” to uncover Australia’s colonial history.But some Indigenous activists argued that forgiveness shouldn’t be on offer. And other Australians were rankled by the suggestion that there was something to forgive.“The English did nothing wrong. Neither did any of you,” one author wrote for a national newspaper earlier this year. Another columnist argued that any compensation paid to Aboriginal people now would be “by people today who didn’t do the harm, to people today who didn’t suffer it.”Some Aboriginal leaders opposed the Voice but by and large, polls showed, the Indigenous community was in favor of it.Aboriginal residents in Jimbalakudunj in a remote part of Western Australia.Tamati Smith for The New York TimesBut for many opponents, “this was cast as a referendum about race, division and racial privileges, special privileges — it really failed to grasp or respect Indigenous people’s rights and the shocking history of colonization, which has devastating impacts to this day,” Ms. McGlade said.For decades, the country has gone back and forth on how improve Indigenous outcomes. The community has a life expectancy that is eight years shorter than the national average, and suffers rates of suicide and incarceration many times higher than the general population.Although many Indigenous leaders and experts have said the repercussions of and trauma from colonization are the root cause of this disadvantage, governments — particularly conservative ones — have been resistant to this idea. The remedy, some former prime ministers have said, is to integrate remote Indigenous communities with mainstream society.During the debate about the Voice, this view was echoed by Jacinta Nampijinpa Price, an Aboriginal senator who became a prominent opponent of the Voice, and who said that Indigenous people faced “no ongoing negative impacts of colonization.” Aboriginal communities experienced violence “not because of the effects of colonization, but because it’s expected that young girls are married off to older husbands in arranged marriages,” she added.Such arguments helped galvanize opposition to the Voice.“A significant chunk of the Australian public has been able to find legitimacy in that opposition to not to come to terms with that past,” said Paul Strangio, a professor of politics at Monash University.Prime Minister Anthony Albanese of Australia and the minister for Indigenous Australians, Linda Burney, delivering statements on the referendum results in Canberra this month.Lukas Coch/EPA, via ShutterstockIn April, the main opposition party, the conservative Liberal Party, said it would vote against the Voice, all but sealing its fate — constitutional change has never succeeded in Australia without bipartisan support. Its leaders argued that proposal was divisive, lacked detail, could give advice on everything from taxes to defense policy, and was a politically correct vanity project from Mr. Albanese, the prime minister, that distracted people from issues like the high cost of living.This stance, Mr. Strangio said, appealed to a sense of “economic and cultural insecurity” among many voters, particularly those outside big cities.The particulars of the Voice, Mr. Albanese and other supporters said, would have been hashed out by Parliament if it succeeded. But the lack of concrete details gave rise to misinformation and disinformation, the sheer volume of which shocked experts. In such a climate, any pursuit of more forceful politics by Indigenous activists may bring a more combative response. On Friday, Tony Abbott, a former conservative prime minister, said Australia should stop flying the Aboriginal flag next to the national flag, and acknowledging traditional place names.The defeat of the Voice, Mr. Strangio said, is likely to emboldened the conservative opposition to continue with “the politics of disenchantment, of cultural and economic insecurity, that taps into that grievance politics.”He added, “We are in for a polarized, divisive debate.” More

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      Australia Sees ‘Trump Style’ Misinformation in ‘Voice’ Campaign

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      The reverberations from election conspiracy theories, until recently the domain of political fringes, could be acute, as witnessed by the United States and Brazil.The ballots should, according to the official instructions, be marked with a “yes” or a “no.” A clear and legible “y” or “n” is also likely to be counted. So is a checkmark, for affirmative, but an “X” is considered too ambiguous by the authorities and does not count as a “no” vote.This is how Australians have voted in constitutional referendums for decades. But as the debate over this month’s Aboriginal “Voice” referendum has become increasingly antagonistic and polarized, the process has come under attack.For the first time, in as long as experts can remember, the leader of a mainstream political party in the country has cast doubt on the integrity of an electoral process. Conspiracy theories of a rigged election, the likes of which have led to the storming of government buildings in the United States and Brazil, have rippled from the far right of the political fringes, raising alarm. Election officials have fought back but faced vitriol on social media.A ballot for postal voting in the referendum.James D. Morgan/Getty Images“We may look back at the Voice referendum as a turning point for when election lies and conspiracies went mainstream in Australia,” said Kurt Sengul, a lecturer at the University of Sydney who studies far-right populism. The current debate in the country, he added, was “the first significant Trump style misinformation and disinformation campaign we’ve seen in recent political history,” referring to former President Donald J. Trump.And even though Australia is not at immediate risk of experiencing the kind of election denial seen in the United States, Mr. Sengul added, “That does not bode well for Australian democracy.”The referendum, on whether to set up a body to advise Parliament on Aboriginal issues, has bitterly divided Australia and given rise to a slew of baseless claims on social media, including that the advisory body could seize property or land, or residents would be required to pay rent to Indigenous people if the referendum passed.A rally opposing the “Voice” referendum was held last month in Sydney.David Gray/Agence France-Presse — Getty ImagesCaught in the turbulence is the matter of why a checkmark on a ballot counts as a vote while an “X” does not.Longstanding legislation requires officials to count votes as long as the voters’ intent is clear, even if they do not follow the instructions on the ballot paper. Legal advice over the decades has confirmed that an “X,” which many people use on forms and documents to indicate a “yes,” does not show clear intent.However, some pundits and politicians have suggested that the variance is unfair. The leader of the conservative opposition party, Peter Dutton, said that he did not want “a process that’s rigged.”Mr. Dutton did not respond to requests for comment. Fair Australia, which is leading the opposition to the referendum said in a statement: “We understand the rules in relation to formality but believe they give an unfair advantage to the ‘Yes’ campaign. The responsibility for any erosion in trust lies with those who made the unfair rules, not with those who call them out.”A rally in support of the Voice in Melbourne last month.William West/Agence France-Presse — Getty ImagesUnlike in the United States, where national elections are run by a patchwork of state and local officials, in Australia, they are administered by one independent agency, the Australian Electoral Commission, which enjoys broad trust and support and is widely praised by analysts.The agency aims to make voting, which is compulsory in Australia, as accessible as possible. During federal elections, mobile voting stations are taken to remote Indigenous communities using helicopters, four-wheel-drive vehicles and even boats.“The AEC is the gold standard for how you should run elections,” said Bruce Wolpe, who has written a book called “Trump’s Australia.” He added that when Australians go to the polls, “they know their vote will be counted accurately and they’ll abide by the results, and that’s a big deal for how this democracy works in contrast to the U.S.”The commission moved quickly to counter inaccurate claims about the referendum, responding to posts on social media, sending officials to TV and radio shows, and condemning much of the commentary around the issue as “factually incorrect.”In addition to dealing with the issue of check and “X” marks, during this referendum campaign, the commission has debunked suggestions that ballot papers would not be securely stored, pushed back against claims that the referendum would not go ahead and sparred with users who flushed information booklets down toilets, sometimes responding to hundreds of social media comments a day.But even as officials have become more assertive in fighting disinformation, their task is only getting harder.For several years now, experts have watched the political polarization and spread of voting fraud conspiracies in the United States and worried that such rhetoric would leech into Australia’s domestic politics because of the two countries’ close ties.“It is an ongoing concern that we’re seeing groups draw inspiration from U.S. politics that is highly polarized and attempt to export those tactics here,” said Josh Roose, a political sociologist at Deakin University in Melbourne.Tom Rogers, the electoral commissioner, said that after Australia’s 2019 federal election, he “really started to worry about what we were seeing globally.” His agency realized it wasn’t enough to simply run elections fairly and well.“You’ve got to tell people what you’re doing,” he said.Tom Rogers, the Australian electoral commissioner, with the agency’s executive leadership team.Australian Electoral CommissionThe commission started running digital literacy campaigns to educate voters about fake news, working with social media companies and countering incorrect claims about the electoral process online.Its strategy came to national attention during last year’s federal election, when its tongue-in-cheek humor — including beseeching voters not to draw an “eggplant emoji” on their ballot papers — drew both acclaim and criticism. On social media, the agency tries to respond to as many comments as possible — even ones that may seem outlandish, said Evan Ekin-Smyth, who leads that effort.“We take an approach of: Unless you’re going to engage in something that’s deliberately false, deliberately bad faith, we’ll give a response,” he said. “Why not? We’re there to provide fact-based information about the process that we run. No matter how crazy a theory might seem, some people believe it.”However, the agency dialed back the humor for the referendum because it was experiencing new levels of attacks on social media, including, for the first time, threats of physical harm, Mr. Rogers said.Mr. Ekin-Smyth admitted that the agency’s strategy probably would not change the minds of everyone determined to believe conspiracy theories, but he hoped that by injecting accurate, factual information into the discussion, the commission could help stop these theories from spreading further.“Does it feel like we’re pushing a boulder up a hill? Sort of, sometimes,” he said. But “if we’re keeping that boulder from rolling down the hill, that’s pretty good, isn’t it?” More

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      Una estrategia para el dominio de un partido latinoamericano: la compra de votos

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      En las elecciones nacionales de Paraguay, el Times fue testigo de cómo representantes del gobernante Partido Colorado intentaban comprar los votos de las comunidades indígenas.La comunidad indígena Espinillo está a casi 21 kilómetros del centro de votación más cercano, y en la aldea nadie tiene auto.Es por eso que hace dos semanas, en vísperas de las elecciones en Paraguay, Miguel Paredes, un chofer de ambulancia retirado que se ha convertido en una figura política local, subió a las familias indígenas a un autobús y las llevó al costado de una carretera, a pocos pasos de las urnas. “Queremos cuidar por ellos”, dijo Paredes, de 65 años, vigilante y de pie junto a seis jóvenes a los que identificó como sus colegas.Al caer la noche, Paredes y sus colegas reunieron a algunos miembros de la comunidad indígena y anotaron sus números de identificación. Paredes les dijo que debían votar por el Partido Colorado —la fuerza política dominante de derecha en Paraguay— y asegurarse de que sus compañeros de la comunidad también lo hicieran. Luego, los jóvenes guiaron a los miembros de la comunidad indígena en una simulación de las máquinas de votación en un teléfono, y les indicaron cómo votar por los candidatos del Partido Colorado.Ante los periodistas de The New York Times, Milner Ruffinelli, uno de los jóvenes, pasó a hablar en guaraní, la lengua indígena oficial en el país. “Ese pedido de plata que se comprometió con ustedes, eso ya está también y el señor Miguel Paredes va a ver cómo hacerles llegar”, dijo. “Acá no podemos darles nada, ustedes saben por qué”. More

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      One Secret to a Latin American Party’s Dominance: Buying Votes

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      In Paraguay, the Colorado Party has held power for seven decades. On Election Day, it rounds up Indigenous people and pays them for their votes.The Espinillo Indigenous community is 13 miles from the nearest polling station — and no one in the village has a car.So two weeks ago, on the eve of Paraguay’s election, Miguel Paredes, a retired ambulance driver turned local politician, loaded the Indigenous families onto a bus and brought them to the side of a highway, a short walk from the polls. “We want to look after them,” he said, standing watch with six young men he called colleagues.Then, after dark, The Times found a distinctive type of vote-buying, developed over decades, on blatant display.Mr. Paredes, 65, and his colleagues gathered some of the Indigenous people and took down their identification numbers. He told them they were to vote for the Colorado Party — the dominant, right-wing political force in Paraguay — and to make sure their fellow community members did so, too. The young men then walked the Indigenous people through a simulation of Paraguay’s voting machines on a phone, guiding them to vote for Colorado candidates.With New York Times journalists within earshot, Milner Ruffinelli, one of the young men, slipped into the Indigenous language, Guaraní. “That money that was promised to you, that’s all there, too, and Mr. Miguel Paredes is going to see how to get it to you,” he said. “We can’t give you anything here. You know why.” More

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      MC Millaray, la rapera adolescente mapuche que pide derechos indígenas con su música

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      La estrella en ascenso de la música en Chile tiene 16 años y utiliza sus rimas punzantes para transmitir cinco siglos de lucha del mayor grupo indígena del país.SANTIAGO — Justo antes de subir al escenario, la rapera, una adolescente indígena, tenía los ojos cerrados, respiró hondo y se tranquilizó.Su padre se acercó para sacar una lentejuela del párpado de su hija, pero ella, de 16 años, se encogió de hombros avergonzada. Entonces, Millaray Jara Collio, o MC Millaray, como se hace llamar la joven rapera, se volteó e irrumpió en el escenario con un rap vibrante sobre la presencia del ejército chileno en el territorio de los mapuches, el grupo indígena más numeroso del país.La actuación apasionada de MC Millaray sucedió durante un acto de campaña en Santiago, la capital de Chile, hace unos meses, y justo una semana antes de que el país votara sobre la adopción una nueva Constitución. De aprobarse, la carta magna habría garantizado algunos de los derechos de mayor alcance para los pueblos indígenas en todo el mundo.Aunque era demasiado joven para votar en el referéndum, MC Millaray fue una de los cientos de artistas que hicieron campaña a favor de la nueva ley fundamental.“Soy dos personas en una”, dijo tras su actuación. “A veces me siento como una niña pequeña; juego, me divierto, me río. Pero en el escenario todo lo que digo, lo digo rapeando. Me libera. Cuando tengo un micrófono en la mano, soy otra persona”.La nueva Constitución —que habría facultado a los más de dos millones de indígenas de Chile, el 80 por ciento de los cuales son mapuches, para gobernar sus propios territorios, tener más autonomía judicial y ser reconocidos como naciones autónomas dentro de Chile— fue rechazada de forma contundente en septiembre.Pero tras esa derrota, MC Millaray, una estrella en ascenso con más de 25.000 seguidores en Instagram, está más decidida que nunca a transmitir cinco siglos de lucha mapuche contra los colonizadores europeos.“Aquí no acaba el proceso”, dijo desafiante tras la votación. “Aquí empieza algo nuevo que podemos construir juntos”.MC Millaray actuando con su padre, Alexis Jara, durante un mitin político en agosto en apoyo de una nueva Constitución.MC Millaray saluda a una mujer mapuche tras su actuación en el mitin.Entre el español y el mapudungun, la lengua indígena que hablaba con su bisabuela materna, MC Millaray articula esa historia con una furia lírica trepidante.Sus canciones denuncian las injusticias medioambientales, anhelan la protección de la inocencia infantil y honran a los mapuches caídos. Por encima de todo, pide la devolución de las tierras ancestrales mapuches, conocidas como Wallmapu, que se extienden desde la costa del Pacífico chileno y sobre los Andes hasta la costa atlántica argentina.Su canción “Mi ser mapuche”, que salió el año pasado, combina trompetas con el “afafán”, un grito de guerra mapuche. Canta:Más de 500 años sin parar de luchar; hay tierras recuperadas pero son nuestras, nuestro hogar; seguimos resistiendo, no nos van a derrotar.Desde la llegada de los conquistadores españoles en el siglo XVI, la tierra que una vez controlaron los mapuches se ha visto sustancialmente mermada a lo largo de siglos de invasiones, traslados forzosos y compras. La pérdida de tierras ancestrales se aceleró en el siglo XIX, cuando Chile atrajo a emigrantes europeos para que se establecieran en el sur, prometiéndoles tierras que, según afirmaba, estaban desocupadas, pero que a menudo estaban pobladas por mapuches.Para algunos, es la mayor deuda pendiente de Chile. Para otros, es un impasse de siglos sin solución clara.“Para mí, sería un sueño recuperar el territorio”, dijo MC Millaray. “Quiero dar mi vida al weichán”, dijo, refiriéndose a la lucha por recuperar el Wallmapu y los valores tradicionales mapuches. “Quiero defender lo que es nuestro”.Millaray, que significa “flor de oro” en mapudungun, creció con su hermano y su hermana menores en La Pincoya, un barrio marginal de la periferia al norte de Santiago, donde las paredes están salpicadas de grafitis vibrantes y el hip-hop y el reguetón resuenan en las casas que se extienden por las laderas.La representación de una danza tradicional mapuche, el “purrún”, en un mitin político en agostoPortando una bandera con la estrella mapuche en Santiago.La zona tiene una fuerte tradición rapera. En la década de 1980 se formaron en el cercano poblado de Renca las Panteras Negras, uno de los primeros grupos de hip-hop de Chile, y Andi Millanao, más conocido como Portavoz, una de las estrellas del hip-hop más conocidas de Chile, escribió por primera vez su incendiario rap político en la vecina Conchalí.Millaray dice que cuando era niña lo que más esperaba era viajar todos los veranos al sur, a la comunidad de Carilao, en el municipio de Perquenco, para visitar a su bisabuela materna, y pasar las tardes nadando en un río cercano o recogiendo bayas de maqui en un tarro.“Cuando llego al Wallmapu, me llena de libertad y paz”, dice. “Aprendía acerca de lo que soy y represento, lo que corre por mis venas”, añadió, refiriéndose al tiempo que pasaba con su bisabuela. “Me di cuenta de lo poco que conocía a mi lucha”.En su casa en su barrio de Santiago, era la música lo que más captaba su atención, y acudía a los talleres de hip-hop que sus padres —dos raperos que se conocieron en un concierto en La Pincoya— organizaban para los niños del barrio. “Crecí en una familia rapera” , dijo Millaray. “Ellos fueron mi inspiración”.Una tarde, cuando tenía 5 años, su padre, Alexis Jara, quien ahora tiene 40, estaba ensayando para un evento, y su hija, a su lado en la cama, cantaba con él. Cuando actuó esa noche, Jara vio a su hija llorando entre el público, sintiéndose excluida.La subió al escenario y, lloriqueando y con los ojos hinchados, “Y se transformó —¡pah, pah!— empezó a rapear con tanta fuerza que me robó el protagonismo”, recuerda su padre. Cuando se le pasaron las lágrimas, la niña de 5 años se dirigió al público: “Represento a La Pincoya, ¡quiero ver manos en el aire!”.“Desde entonces nunca pudimos bajarla del escenario”, dijo su padre. “Ahora está todo al revés: ¡Yo le pido a mi hija que cantemos juntos!”.A la espera de los resultados del referéndum constitucional de septiembre. La nueva Constitución fue rechazada por el 62 por ciento de los votantes.Una protesta en Santiago tras conocerse los resultados.A los 7 años, Millaray ya había escrito y grabado su primer disco, Pequeña femenina, que grababa en CD para venderlos en los autobuses públicos mientras cantaba en los buses con su padre.Cuando ganaban suficiente dinero, los dos bajaban por la escalera trasera del autobús y se lo llevaban para jugar con máquinas de videojuegos o comprar dulces.Siguen actuando juntos: Jara, un enérgico torbellino de trenzas y ropa holgada, su hija, más tranquila y precisa con sus palabras. “Tic Tac”, la primera canción que escribieron juntos, sigue en su repertorio.Fue cuando aún estaba en primaria cuando recibió la sacudida que reforzaría su decisión de retomar la lucha de sus antepasados en su música, y en su vida.En noviembre de 2018, su profesora de historia le dijo a la clase que Camilo Catrillanca —un mapuche desarmado que murió ese mes por disparos de la policía en la comunidad de Temucuicui, en el sur del país— había merecido su destino.“No podía quedarme callada”, recuerda. “Me paré, llena de rabia, y dije: ‘No, nadie merece morir y menos por defender a su territorio’. En aquel momento defendí mis convicciones, y me cambió”.A finales de 2021 y en la primera parte de 2022, el conflicto en los territorios mapuches, donde el estado de excepción ha sido renovado periódicamente por gobiernos tanto de derecha como de izquierda, se encontraba en uno de sus periodos más tensos en décadas.Además de las sentadas pacíficas de activistas mapuches en terrenos de propiedad privada y en edificios del gobierno regional, se produjeron decenas de casos de incendios provocados, cuya autoría fue reivindicada por grupos de resistencia mapuches, así como ataques contra empresas forestales.En 2022 se registraron al menos siete muertes en la zona del conflicto, entre cuyas víctimas estaban activistas mapuches, un hombre que se dirigía a una ocupación de tierras y trabajadores forestales.En marzo, cuando la ministra del Interior de Chile visitó la comunidad de la que era oriundo Catrillanca, fue recibida con un crepitar de disparos y rápidamente sacada de allí en una furgoneta.Cuando no actúa, MC Millaray es Millaray Jara Collio.MC Millaray, vestida con el traje tradicional mapuche, habla con su madre, Claudia Collio, antes de subir al escenario en un mitin político.En las protestas a veces violentas contra la desigualdad económica que estallaron en todo Chile en octubre de 2019 —desencadenadas por un aumento de 30 pesos chilenos (4 centavos de dólar) en las tarifas del metro—, los símbolos y lemas mapuches eran omnipresentes.En la plaza principal de Santiago, los manifestantes fueron recibidos por un chemamüll, una estatua de madera tradicionalmente tallada por los mapuches para representar a los muertos. En las protestas, Millaray rapeaba o paseaba entre los manifestantes con su bandera azul pintada a mano con el Wünelfe, una estrella de ocho puntas sagrada en la iconografía mapuche.“Ahora somos más visibles que en cualquier momento de mi vida”, dijo Daniela Millaleo, de 37 años, una cantautora de Santiago a la que MC Millaray cuenta entre sus mayores inspiraciones. “Antes eran los mapuche que marchaban por nuestros derechos, pero ahora tanta gente siente nuestro dolor”.Tras su agotadora agenda de actuaciones en actos de campaña a favor del fallido esfuerzo constitucional —así como un viaje a Nueva York para cantar en Times Square como parte de la Semana del Clima de la ciudad de Nueva York— MC Millaray se centra ahora en grabar nuevo material.“Quiero llegar a un público más amplio, pero quiero que cada rima tenga un mensaje; no quiero hacer música solo por hacer música”, dijo. “No importa el estilo, siempre me pregunto qué más puedo decir”.“Quiero llegar a un público más amplio, pero quiero que cada rima tenga un mensaje; no quiero hacer música solo por hacer música”, dijo MC Millaray. 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      Teenage Rapper, Rooted in Mapuche Identity, Roars for Indigenous Rights

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      MC Millaray, 16, an emerging music star in Chile, uses her fierce lyrics to convey five centuries of struggles by the country’s largest Indigenous group against European colonizers.SANTIAGO, Chile — Just before taking the stage, the teenage Indigenous rapper took a deep breath and composed herself, eyes closed.Her father reached over to pick a sequin from his daughter’s eyelid, but the 16-year-old recoiled with an embarrassed shrug. Then Millaray Jara Collio, or MC Millaray as the young rapper calls herself, spun away and exploded onto the stage with an animated rap about the presence of Chile’s military in the territory of the Mapuche, the country’s largest Indigenous group.MC Millaray’s impassioned performance was delivered at a campaign event in Santiago, Chile’s capital, a few months ago, and just one week before the country would vote on a new constitution. If approved, the constitution would have guaranteed some of the most far-reaching rights for Indigenous people anywhere in the world.Although she was too young to vote in the referendum, MC Millaray was one of hundreds of artists who campaigned in favor of the new charter.“I’m two people in one,” she said after her performance. “Sometimes I feel like a little girl — I play, I have fun and I laugh. Onstage, I say everything through rap. It liberates me: When I get a microphone, I’m a different person.”The new constitution — which would have empowered Chile’s more than two million Indigenous people, 80 percent of whom are Mapuche, to govern their own territories, have more judicial autonomy and be recognized as distinct nations within Chile — was soundly defeated in September.But in the wake of that loss, MC Millaray, an emerging star with more than 25,000 followers on Instagram, is more determined than ever to convey five centuries of Mapuche struggles against European colonizers.“This is not the end,” she said defiantly in the vote’s aftermath. “It’s the beginning of something new that we can build together.”MC Millaray performing with her father, Alexis Jara, during a political rally in August in support of a new constitution.MC Millaray greeting a Mapuche elder after her performance at the rally.Slipping between Spanish and Mapudungun, the Indigenous language she would speak with her maternal great-grandmother, MC Millaray articulates that story with fast-paced, lyrical fury.Her songs decry environmental injustices, yearn for the protection of childhood innocence and honor fallen Mapuche. Above all, she calls for the return of Mapuche ancestral lands, known as Wallmapu, which stretch from Chile’s Pacific seaboard and over the Andes to Argentina’s Atlantic coast.​​Her single “Mi Ser Mapuche,” or “My Mapuche Self,” which came out this year, combines trumpets with the “afafan” — a Mapuche war cry. She sings:“More than 500 years without giving up the fight; there are lands we’ve recovered, but they’re ours, our home; we keep on resisting, they won’t defeat us.”Since the arrival of Spanish conquistadors in the 1500s, the land once controlled by the Mapuche has been substantially whittled down across centuries of invasion, forced removals and purchases. The loss of traditional land accelerated in the 19th century when Chile enticed European migrants to settle its south, promising to give them lands it claimed were unoccupied, but often were populated by the Mapuche.For some, it is Chile’s greatest unsettled debt. To others, it’s a centuries-old impasse without a clear solution.“For me it would be a dream to recover the territory,” MC Millaray said. “I want to give my life to the ‘weichán,’” she said, referring to the fight to regain Wallmapu and traditional Mapuche values. “I want to defend what’s ours.”Millaray, which means “flower of gold” in Mapudungun, grew up with her younger brother and sister in La Pincoya, a hardscrabble barrio on the northern fringes of Santiago, where the walls are splashed with colorful graffiti, and hip-hop and reggaeton blare from the ramshackle homes sprawling up the hillsides.The performance of a traditional Mapuche dance, the “purrun,” at a political rally in August.Carrying a flag with the Mapuche star in Santiago. The area has a strong rap tradition. In the 1980s the Panteras Negras, one of Chile’s first hip-hop groups, formed in nearby Renca, and Andi Millanao, better known as Portavoz, one of Chile’s best-known hip-hop stars, first penned his firebrand political rap in neighboring Conchalí.As a child, Millaray said she would look forward more than anything to traveling south each summer to the Carilao community in the municipality of Perquenco to visit her maternal great-grandmother, spending afternoons splashing in a nearby river or collecting maqui berries in a jar.“When I get to Wallmapu, I feel free and at peace,” she said. “I would learn about what I was and what I represent, what runs through my veins,” she added, referring to the time she spent with her great-grandmother. “I realized how little I knew my fight.”At home in her barrio in Santiago, it was music that most captured her attention, and she would attend the hip-hop workshops that her parents — two rappers who met at a throwdown in La Pincoya — would run for local children. “I grew up in a rap family,” said Millaray. “They were my inspiration.”One afternoon when she was 5, her father, Alexis Jara, now 40, was rehearsing for a show, with his daughter beside him on the bed mouthing along. When he performed that evening, Mr. Jara spotted his daughter sobbing in the crowd, feeling left out.He pulled her up onstage and, sniffling and puffy-eyed, “She transformed — pah! pah! — and started rapping with such force that she stole the limelight,” her father remembered. As her tears vanished, the 5-year-old addressed the crowd: “I represent La Pincoya, I want hands in the air!”“From that day on we never got her down from the stage,” her father said. “Now everything has turned on its head — it’s me asking to join her!”Awaiting the results of the constitutional referendum in September. The new constitution was rejected by 62 percent of voters.A protest in Santiago after the results were announced. By the time she was 7, Millaray had written and recorded her first album, “Pequeña Femenina,” or “Little Feminine,” which she burned onto CDs to sell on public buses while out busking with her father.When they had earned enough money, the two would jump down the back steps of the bus and take the money to play arcade games or buy candy.They still perform together — Mr. Jara an energetic whirl of braids and baggy clothing, his daughter calmer and more precise with her words. “Tic Tac,” the first song they wrote in tandem, remains in their repertoire.It was while she was still in elementary school that she was given the jolt that would strengthen her resolve to take up her ancestors’ fight in her music, and life.In November 2018, her history teacher told the class that Camilo Catrillanca — an unarmed Mapuche man who was shot and killed that month by police in the Temucuicui community in the south of the country — had deserved his fate.“I couldn’t stay quiet,” she remembered. “I stood up, burning with rage, and said: ‘No, nobody deserves to die, and certainly not for defending their territory.’ In that moment I defended what I thought, and it changed me.”At the end of 2021 and in the first half of 2022, the conflict in the Mapuche territories, where a state of emergency has been regularly renewed by governments on both the right and left, was at one of its most tense periods in decades.In addition to peaceful sit-ins by Mapuche activists on privately owned land and at regional government buildings, there were dozens of cases of arson, responsibility for which was claimed by Mapuche resistance groups, as well as attacks on forestry companies.At least seven killings were recorded in the conflict area in 2022, with the victims including both Mapuche activists, like a man on his way to a land occupation, and forestry workers.In March, when Chile’s interior minister visited the community where Mr. Catrillanca was from, she was greeted with the crackle of gunfire and quickly bundled away in a van.When she is not performing, MC Millaray is known as Millaray Jara Collio.MC Millaray, in traditional Mapuche dress, talking to her mother, Claudia Collio, before going onstage at a political rally.In sometimes violent protests against economic inequality that exploded across Chile in October of 2019 — set off by a 4-cent increase in subway fares — Mapuche symbols and slogans were ubiquitous.In Santiago’s main square, demonstrators were greeted by a wooden “chemamüll” statue, traditionally carved by the Mapuche to represent the dead. At the protests, Millaray would rap or stroll among protesters with her hand-painted blue flag bearing the “Wünelfe,” an eight-point star sacred in Mapuche iconography.“We’re more visible now than we have been in my lifetime,” said Daniela Millaleo, 37, a singer-songwriter from Santiago whom MC Millaray counts among her greatest inspirations. “Before it would just be the Mapuche who marched for our rights, but now so many people feel our pain.”After her grueling schedule of performing at campaign events on behalf of the failed constitutional effort — as well as a trip to New York to sing in Times Square as part of Climate Week NYC— MC Millaray is now focusing on recording new material.“I want to reach more people, but I want every verse to contain a message — I don’t want to make music for the sake of it,” she explained. “It doesn’t matter what the style is, I’m always asking myself what more I can say.”“I want to reach more people, but I want every verse to contain a message — I don’t want to make music for the sake of it,” said MC Millaray. 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