In the Afro-descendant town of Puerto Tejada, in the southern Colombian department of Cauca, a handful of master swordsmen represent one of the last bastions of the traditional martial art called grima, or machete fencing. From its origins in the colonial era to the threats facing this ancestral art form in the present, grima is an integral part of Afro-Colombian cultural heritage.

The House of Cacao

The House of Cacao offers a cool and tranquil refuge from the tropical sun in a region known for its sweltering heat. Yet even in this cultural center, a welcome shelter from the clamorous streets outside, the metallic ring of steel striking steel breaks the quiet repose. Here in the Academia de Esgrima de Machete y Bordón, some of the last masters of an ancestral Afro-Colombian martial art propagate their teachings to younger generations dedicated to the survival of their heritage.

“This is an art that, ever since our African ancestors arrived in this country, we have maintained and preserved through the generations,” explains Maestro Miguellourido, a recognized master with fifty years of experience in the art. “That’s why for us, grima is an art of freedom and resistance. That’s why we can never allow it to die. It’s our heritage and the legacy of our ancestors.”

Yet the future of this heritage is uncertain. The masters dwindle in number as many young Afro-Colombians look to urban Colombia and mestizo culture instead of their own heritage. Grima has no official status in the National Registry of Colombian Cultural Heritage. Like so many others, it’s a tradition that stands at an impasse between a storied past and an uncertain future.

An ancestral artform

In some respects, history has moved slowly here. As in colonial times, sugar is the lifeblood of the region’s economy. In centuries past, the Spanish forced enslaved Africans by the tens of thousands to work these fields. As thousands more were sent to the deadly gold mines of the neighboring Pacific, the lowlands of southwest Colombia took on the distinctive African character that they still retain. 

Today, neocolonial business interests plunder the region for its sugar and gold just as the Spanish did before them. Through the intervening centuries and up to the present, one ubiquitous tool has remained instrumental in the hands of the cane cutters: the machete.

The men skilled in its use in the fields soon learned to handle the machete with equal aptitude as a weapon. Drawing on African martial traditions merged with European styles of swordplay, Afro-Colombians developed grima—a contraction of the Spanish esgrima, meaning fencing—as a practical and distinctive form of self-defense. A machete in one hand and a defensive stick in the other made for a simple yet effective fighting technique.

The same machetes that once cut cane eventually sought the necks of the Spanish enslavers as thousands of Afro-Colombians joined the wars of independence in the name of liberation. The series of hegemonic nineteenth-century regimes that followed independence later broke that promise. In later decades, the sons and grandsons of the rebels put their machetes to equal use during the civil wars that wracked Colombia well into the twentieth century.

For practitioners of the art today, the liberatory history of grima is still fundamental. 

“The legacy of this art is a liberatory one that has given to the Black people of Cauca the generosity of freedom because our people, Black men and women, were principal actors in the fight for freedom throughout Colombia,” explains Alicia Castillo Lasprilla, a local educator, researcher, and grima activist. “In this cultural center, the House of Cacao, a center of Afro-Colombian culture and memory, we are reconstructing every piece of historical memory that links us to the practices and customs of our ancestors.”

For Lasprilla, grima is a core expression of Afro-Colombian culture indelibly linked to many others. 

“This martial art overlaps with our gastronomy, our ancestral cuisine. It’s also linked to traditional medicine, oral tradition, music, popular arts, and artisanry. By safeguarding grima, we safeguard our whole culture.”

In search of recognition

One way grima practitioners and activists seek to guarantee the future of their art form is by campaigning for its recognition at the national and international levels, as an officially inscribed form of intangible heritage.

“We are in the process of safeguarding this tradition by seeking recognition and support at the municipal, departmental, and national level so that we can cultivate this art and pass it on to the next generations. This is an arduous task, and we’re facing an uphill battle for recognition,” says Maestro Porfirio, who studied under the legendary Héctor Elías Sandoval—a researcher, storyteller, filmmaker, and poet, in addition to a master swordsman. “The fact that many people have come from other countries to visit us, seeing something of value in our art, when our own government hasn’t even recognized it—this situation needs to change.”

The grima practitioners campaigning for heritage recognition believe it may represent the best opportunity for valorizing and preserving their art. Perhaps the publicity, state programs, and funding that accompany heritage recognition could provide the boost grima needs to remain a living tradition.

Still, students of heritage regimes know that such lofty ambitions are sometimes misplaced. Sometimes, they have unintentional adverse effects on the communities and traditions they seek to valorize.

Afro-Colombians, in particular, may have reason for concern. Colombian anthropologist Maria Fernanda Escallón documented one example in the village of Palenque. Members of the maroon community, the descendants of escaped African slaves who established free enclaves on the margins of colonial societies like Colombia, inhabit the town. Palenque, located in the Colombian Caribbean, experienced significant socioeconomic and political tensions following a UNESCO heritage declaration in 2005. 

The same is at risk of happening with viche, a traditional Afro-Colombian sugarcane distillate that was once illegal but was legalized and officially recognized as national heritage in 2021. The commercial production that followed now threatens to put artisanal producers out of business.

Yet not all heritage declarations have had such questionable results; others have succeeded in safeguarding threatened traditions and benefiting source communities. Whether attaining official recognition would solidify or jeopardize the future of grima depends on a delicate and unpredictable balance of legal procedures, community leadership, and bureaucratic political factors. For now, that question remains perhaps unanswerable. However, if the activists for recognition have their way, it will have to be answered sooner or later. 

In the meantime, grima masters like Miguellourido and Porfirio continue to preserve and propagate their teachings in spaces like the House of Cacao. For them, grima is heritage, whether official or not, and they see it as their duty to extend it to the next generations as it was to them.

“What fills us with pride is when people come, they see our art, they learn it, and they leave happy in the knowledge that Colombia possesses its own martial art, which is grima with machete and bordón,” says Maestro Porfirio.

As I left the tranquil courtyard of the House of Cacao, the bright ring of steel still sounding from within left me with the resonant impression that, for now, whatever the future may hold, grima remains a vibrant and living tradition.

Rowan Glass is an anthropologist, journalist, writer, and filmmaker based in Colombia. 

The post Grima: The Last Masters of Afro-Colombian Machete Fencing Fight To Save Their Tradition first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

In some ways, the tiny country of Luxembourg looks like a land from a fairytale. Many of its government policies, especially regarding multiculturalism, also sound idyllic. Officially, the country is trilingual. But after living in the country for a year, I realized that the lived reality is a bit more nuanced.

I’m originally from the United States, and in 2021, I moved to Luxembourg to complete a master’s degree in multilingualism. Friends and family back home often asked me, “So, what language do they speak there?” 

Luxembourg’s official languages are French, German, and Luxembourgish. The latter became a separate language in 1984 after being considered a dialect for many years. Luxembourgish is most similar to German and Dutch and uses many French words. According to the language law that the government passed in 1984, residents can contact public authorities and businesses in any of the three official languages.

That level of official multilingualism may appear challenging to people from countries with only one official language. However, Luxembourg promotes fluency through its multilingual school system. That allows kids to begin learning many languages as soon as they are old enough to enter school. 

Primary school is mainly in German. In secondary school, instruction switches to French. That’s usually not a problem because primary school students learn French as a second language. Students also learn other languages, such as English, in school.

Luxembourg’s linguistic reality

Lena Lorché, a Luxembourgish citizen educated in the multilingual school system, says the teaching method works well if you already speak Luxembourgish at home.

Luxembourgish is mutually intelligible with German, and two people can easily have a conversation while speaking the two different languages. Thus, Luxembourgish-speaking children can easily pick up German at school. However, some of Lorché’s peers grew up speaking a different language at home, for example, Portuguese or Italian. They initially struggled more in school than she did because German was so different from their mother tongue. 

According to the most recent statistics from the Ministry of Education, around 98 percent of Luxembourg’s population speaks French. English is the second most common language, spoken by around 80 percent of the population. German follows close behind, with around 78 percent of the population speaking that language. Additionally, English is the most common language among Luxembourg’s ever-growing international population. 

Sabrina Mikes, an American who studied and worked in Luxembourg, said the country’s official trilingualism can be “somewhat misleading.” That’s because Luxembourg is highly multilingual. 

“Many people speak Portuguese and English in addition to the country’s government languages,” Mikes said. 

Monyck De Sa Santos, a Brazilian master’s student who works as a research assistant at a university’s cultural affairs office, said her experiences have further illustrated this point. She speaks English and French at work. Outside the office, she uses French for most interactions unless she’s with another member of the country’s sizeable Portuguese-speaking population.  

Karo Fernandez, a human resources professional at a law firm who is originally from Colombia, speaks French, English, Spanish, and German, often in that order. 

So, while the country is officially trilingual, the lived reality of residents, particularly immigrants, often includes more languages. 

A spike in immigration to Luxembourg

According to recent census data, the number of foreigners living in Luxembourg has increased by around 38 percent over the last decade. Around 47.2 percent of the population is now foreign-born, and around 18 percent of native Luxembourgians hold a second nationality. That percentage will likely increase as the government streamlines the path to citizenship. 

Historically, immigrants to the Grand Duchy have come from nearby countries such as France, Belgium, Germany, Italy, and Portugal. However, in recent years, more have arrived from countries outside of the European Union.

The government wants to increase the international workforce for economic reasons (the country relies on cross-border workers and immigrants for many industries) and to be a global hub.

Pro-immigration policies include charging non-EU nationals very affordable tuition, from 200 to 400 Euros a semester for university. In comparison, most public universities in neighboring France charge non-EU students around 1,500 Euros a semester. Additionally, attractive tax benefits have led many multinational companies, such as Amazon, Paypal, and Rakuten, to set up their EU headquarters in Luxembourg. 

The growing prevalence of English

Luxembourg has also benefited from Brexit, when the United Kingdom left the European Union, by welcoming more English-speaking workers who would have previously gone to the United Kingdom. 

Bianca Pirrelli, a multilingual Italian immigrant, sees Luxembourg as the new London in Europe because there is so much migration.

She said it often differs from other European countries, where you need to know the country’s language before living there to interact with daily life, and English is an “extra asset.” In Luxembourg, immigrants from different countries usually use English as their common language.

Lorché, the Luxembourgian, told me that while multilingualism has always been the norm, the biggest shift in her lifetime is “the increasing importance of English in Luxembourg.”

Speaking Luxembourgish

Luxembourgish is the native language of most Luxembourgers, and a little over 70 percent of the population uses it in everyday life. However, according to the UNESCO Atlas of World Languages, Luxembourgish is still a vulnerable language. 

According to the 2021 census, French and English are the most used languages at work, while Luxembourgish is most common at home. Still, the study only surveyed residents. Cross-border workers, primarily French speakers from Belgium and France, did not participate.

Nevertheless, the prevalence of Luxembourgish is growing, if slowly, for a few reasons. First, people must take a language test when applying for Luxembourgish citizenship. The streamlining of Luxembourg nationality applications for non-EU nationals has increased with the number of foreigners moving to the country. The flexibility of an EU passport is desirable to many, even if it necessitates learning a new language.

Many non-European expats, including De Sa Santos, explained that the language requirement was a big motivation for eventually learning Luxembourgish. She also wants to understand her partner, who is from Luxembourg, and his friends in social situations.

Mikes echoed the need for the language to enter Luxembourgish social circles, and Fernandez noted that knowing the language can open doors in some professional sectors.

Lorché, who works with immigrant children to help welcome them to the country, says that she interacts with children from all over the world, each with a unique linguistic background.

“This has opened my eyes to the sheer diversity of languages spoken in Luxembourg today,” Lorché said. “Far beyond the three official languages and English.”

Sydney Baker is a travel writer from the Pacific Northwest who has lived in Australia, Québec, Luxembourg, and France.

The post Immigration Is Making This Tiny Country Even More Multilingual first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

For many, the death of a language signals the end of a unique worldview. However, in the digital age, a growing number of activists are turning to social media to preserve their languages. This allows future generations can access languages they might otherwise lose.

The role of social media in language preservation

Platforms like YouTube, Twitter, TikTok, and Facebook have become essential tools for digital activists working to revitalize endangered languages. They provide spaces where indigenous and minority language speakers can record, promote, and even teach their languages, often reaching global audiences who may not otherwise have access to such linguistic diversity.

Social media has also helped once-extinct languages find new speakers and assisted people who want to learn their ancestors’ languages. One example is the Livonian language in Latvia.

The efforts to promote minority languages online have sparked a global movement. Apps like Duolingo offer lessons in languages like Welsh and Navajo. Specialized YouTube channels for language preservation are also critical to prevent the disappearance of half the world’s languages by the end of the 21st century. 

Social media gives visibility to endangered languages and can help speakers and language learners feel a sense of pride. However, while social media can be invaluable, it is not a magic solution for language preservation. Ultimately, people must want to speak a language and have others to communicate with in that language or dialect. 

Fighting stigmatization and linguistic prejudice

Language is more than just a means of communication—it is intrinsically tied to identity and culture. For many communities, language loss is closely linked to historical traumas, including colonization, state suppression, and forced assimilation. Social media, however, has created opportunities to challenge the stigmatization of minority languages and connect individuals worldwide.

For example, students of Irish, a long-suppressed language, use YouTube to promote their language through music. In Friesland, in the northern Netherlands, students use social media to practice and improve their language skills. Basques in the diaspora have also used social media to preserve their culture and language and for political activism.

The digital space can offer a rare opportunity for languages marginalized in the physical world. It helps combat linguistic prejudices and increases the prestige of the language as it gains reach and becomes relevant again. Activists across the globe see social media as a vital space where all languages can exist on equal footing.

Digital activism: case studies from around the world

The story of Oralia Villegas García is a prime example of how social media can preserve endangered languages. A speaker of Mazahua, a language spoken by only 140,000 people in Mexico, García decided to promote her language on YouTube. Her channel, “Maorvi, Aprendamos Mazahua,” teaches the language to Mazahua people who, for various reasons, have stopped speaking it.

In southern Mexico, Manuel de Jesús Pérez uses Facebook to promote the Tsotsil language, which is deeply rooted in local traditions. His work helps raise awareness about Indigenous languages and cultures beyond their native regions.

In the Philippines, Jerome Herrera promotes his mother tongue, Chabacano, a Spanish-based creole spoken by up to 700,000 people, gathering resources from social media sites.

In Nepal, social activist Sanjib Chaudhary has worked tirelessly to preserve Eastern Tharu, a language about 1.6 million people speak. Many young people in urban areas, like his own daughter, struggle to understand or speak the language. Recognizing the need for innovation, Chaudhary has turned to digital platforms to compile proverbs, phrases, and folk stories from the language. His efforts aim to re-engage young speakers and create resources for future generations.

Not all stories are successful. Gyani Maiya is the last speaker of the Kusunda language in Nepal. Her language will die with her. But thanks to Maiya and the efforts of activists and experts, a vast archive of the language will be available online. 

The risks of entrusting cultural heritage to private platforms

Despite the many success stories, there are also significant concerns about relying on private corporations like YouTube or Facebook to safeguard the linguistic heritage of minority communities. These companies have their own economic and political agendas that may not align with the goals of language preservation. The risk is that technological changes or business decisions could lead to the disappearance of this valuable content.

Also, Twitter was recently blocked in Brazil due to repeated violations of local legislation, hindering millions’ access to the social network and the language resources and profiles that promote language revitalization. 

Moreover, access to these digital tools is not universal. In many remote areas, internet connectivity is still unreliable, making it difficult for some communities to engage with online platforms fully.

The future of language preservation

While the Internet may not be a perfect solution for language preservation, it has opened up new possibilities for communities striving to keep their languages alive. Digital activism has enabled endangered languages to reach a global audience, providing platforms for cultural pride and education.

Social media will remain vital as the fight to save endangered languages continues. Whether through YouTube tutorials, language apps, or online communities, the digital world offers a chance to preserve languages and their rich cultural histories.

Even if some languages ultimately vanish, their voices will live on in the Internet’s archives, a testament to the resilience of the people who fought to keep them alive.

Raphael Tsavkko Garcia has a PhD in human rights and has written for various publications, such as Al Jazeera, MIT Tech Review, and Newsweek.

The post How To Save a Dying Language first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

My identity has always been multifaceted. I was born in El Salvador and raised in the United States, where I was an undocumented immigrant. The experience of growing up undocumented colored my life in Los Angeles, California, where I grew up. There were other undocumented people in my community when I was young, and not having a green card was an open secret for many of us. Being undocumented meant having to talk to lawyers, keep tabs on any immigration news that might affect me, and do well in school so I’d be ready to justify why I belong in the U.S. at any given moment.

I didn’t obtain U.S. citizenship until 2012, when I was 24 years old. Today, I live in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where people frequently ask about my dual identity in both English and Spanish.

Expat life in Argentina

I moved to Argentina for the first time in 2013 because a friend invited me to join her when she traveled there for a new job. We were both freelancers, and I thought it would be nice to check out South America for the first time. That was my first trip with a U.S. passport, and I realized how much easier it was to travel. For example, I didn’t have to answer questions about where the U.S. was. 

I began building a freelance writing business in Buenos Aires. While in the city, I also used websites like Couchsurfing and Meetup to meet travelers and locals and make new friends. I met digital nomads, backpackers, and locals who enjoy getting to know people from other cultures. Some were Argentinians who wanted to practice English, and I also met Brazilians who helped me learn Portuguese. 

Over the years, I worked to adapt to some of the local customs. It took a long time for me to get used to eating dinner at 9 or 10 p.m., but eventually, my body got used to it. I also learned to enjoy the taste of fernet and yerba mate.  

Throughout my years in Argentina, I realized I didn’t fit into a neat category like others. 
I had to get used to answering questions from locals and other travelers: do you feel more Salvadoran or American? What’s El Salvador like? I didn’t have answers to these questions because I grew up in the U.S. Sometimes, those questions hurt. My family was busy trying to survive when I was young, so I had little information about my culture. Nevertheless, I’m glad that people asked. It motivated me to visit El Salvador more often and teach myself how to make a few Salvadoran dishes, like pupusas.

On teeth

Because I didn’t have a green card as a child, I didn’t have access to specialized healthcare, including dental care, until I was an adult. Most of the time, I could access the school nurse, get basic dental cleanings, and get vaccines or checkups. But that was it. 

It was during my time living in Argentina that I began to experience some severe problems with my teeth. I had to get regular deep cleanings, a root canal, and have my wisdom teeth pulled. I spent a lot more time at the dentist than the average expat. Still, the cost of these treatments was roughly $40,000 less than what I would have paid in the U.S.

Even so, once, a kind dentist refused to charge me for his services because he knew how much money I would have to spend on my teeth in the future.

A stint back in the states

I left Argentina in 2019 because my long stint in the country strained my relationship with family and other friends I’d left behind. I had been abroad for almost six years by that time. 

The COVID-19 lockdown was a scary time to be a freelance writer. However, I eventually found my footing, received two grants to support my work, and continued to pursue my hobbies, including drawing, playing music, creating sketches, and, eventually, standup comedy.

My original plan was to segway into travel writing and move to Southeast Asia for a few months so I could travel, save up for a deposit for an apartment, and relocate to a city like Atlanta, New Orleans, or Raleigh, North Carolina. My parents lived in Mississippi, and I wanted to be near them, but I also wanted to be in a bigger city where I could pursue more opportunities. None of that worked out.

In 2021, I received some startling medical news. I needed to have all of my teeth pulled because of genetic issues. I was 35, and my doctor recommended implants and bone regeneration to support the titanium nails I’d need for the implants to stay in place. My bone loss was affecting my sinuses and impacting my breathing. The estimated cost for this dental work was $70,000. My doctor didn’t work with insurance. 

I was in Mississippi at the time, so I decided to look for options in other states. Most other U.S. states had a much higher cost of living than Mississippi, and implants would still be unaffordable. But I had another option. I decided to leave the country again.

Migrating for medical care

I returned to Buenos Aires because I needed to find more affordable dental care before my bone loss became so bad that doctors couldn’t operate. I knew that my knowledge of Spanish and experience in the country would help me navigate the medical system there. 

Unfortunately, my former dentist said he couldn’t treat me because I needed an oral surgeon. I found a new doctor who said my treatment would cost $32,000 over two years. That’s a large sum, but I was relieved it was much less than I would have paid in the U.S. 

Still, Buenos Aires had changed during my time away. The city has been plagued by increased rents thanks to the unregulated use of Airbnb, over-tourism, and gentrification spurred by immigrants from high-income countries, who are often called expats. 

Many Argentinian friends don’t see me as a typical American expat because I’m originally from El Salvador and settled permanently in Buenos Aires for medical reasons. Nevertheless, I believe it is essential to understand the privileges my passport affords me and to talk to other U.S. expats about how our presence in Argentina affects the local population.

Becoming a Third Culture Kid

In the years since I moved back to Buenos Aires, I’ve started to form a new understanding of my identity. I’m not a typical digital nomad or an expat who moved to Buenos Aires for a glamorous life. Instead, I prefer to be called a “third-culture kid.” 

A third-culture kid is someone who spent a significant portion of their formative years in a country other than the country of their or their parents’ origins. I believe that describes me well. 

Having a U.S. passport provides me with opportunities. Even though the U.S. and its lack of universal healthcare made me move abroad, U.S. citizenship has also helped me pay for dental treatments. That’s because I can work remotely and earn a living in U.S. dollars. I still have to work long hours, but I can save enough money to pay for everything I need.

Having a laugh

As the child of immigrants, I don’t have access to generational wealth. That means I have to work hard whenever I’m not recovering from my health issues. But thanks to Argentina’s late-night culture, I can still have fun after working hours. I visit museums, spend time with friends, and check out new restaurants whenever possible. I also do standup comedy. 

During the COVID lockdown, The Second City comedy school started offering classes online, and I jumped at the opportunity. After doing a few shows in English, a local comedian in Argentina suggested that I try stand-up in Spanish. He said I could speak well enough to try, which would help me get on stage more often.

Humor helped me approach some of the awkward moments in my life more lightly and gave me stories I could tell friends back home. It helps me deflect when I’m too tired to explain my identity again. Most importantly, comedy has allowed me to turn my third culture kid identity and healthcare stories into entertainment. 

Explaining who we are and where we come from can get annoying, but it’s also helped me have stimulating conversations and continue to meet people in similar circumstances. I don’t have to choose between being Salvadoran or American anymore. Identifying as a third-culture kid gave me another anchor for now.

Ingrid Cruz is a freelance writer, journalist, and coffee connoisseur. She likes to read, draw, and do standup.

The post How To Become a Third Culture Kid in Argentina first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

Mahsa Amini, an Iranian citizen of Kurdish descent, was taken into police custody and dealt several blows to the head. She later died in a hospital in Iran’s capital, Tehran. The young woman’s only alleged crime was not correctly wearing her hijab. Iran’s theocratic regime requires all women to wear a head covering in public. 

In the weeks following Amini’s death, a protest movement erupted across the country. The Woman, Life, Freedom movement – named after the popular protest chant “Jin, Jiyan, Azadi” – pitted women, even religious women who often support the Iranian regime, against the state and its repressive morality police. 

The movement showed the world a new side of Iran, one that is young, female, and defiant. 

In Iran, where freedom of expression is often curtailed, and the Internet is monitored and censored, artists emerged as significant representatives of this new movement. They also played a pivotal role in broadcasting it to the world. 

A new report from the Artistic Freedom Initiative, entitled I Create; I Resist: Iranian Artists on the Frontline of Social Change, highlights the role Iranian artists played in resisting the regime.

“Given the critical role that Iranian art played in inspiring and sustaining the movement, artists were among the first groups to be targeted by the Islamic Republic as the government cracked down on the protests,” the report reads. “From September 2022 to the present, Iranian artists have reported being threatened and harmed for their work in support of the movement. Further, the government has launched numerous attacks on Iranian artists, including work bans, arbitrary arrests and prosecution, torture and the solicitation of false confessions, restrictions on mobility, and transnational repression.” 

Remembering the artists

Johanna Bankston, one of the report’s authors, told Lazo Magazine that calling attention to Iranian artists ensures that the world they want to build isn’t forgotten.

“It’s important to highlight the artists’ contributions because their works were not only legitimate forms of dissent and protest, which are protected under international human rights law, but many of them were also poignant reflections of Iranians’ shared desire to create a future written on their own terms,” she said. “By censoring these works and attempting to imprison the artists behind them, the regime’s disregard for Iranians’ rights and freedoms is more clear than ever.”  

Many of these artists have been forced into exile to avoid persecution.

Here’s a look at some of the featured artists:

Nazanin Noroozi

Noroozi is an Iranian multidisciplinary visual artist living in the United States. She creates films, still images, and collages. She often uses her work to call attention to human rights abuses in Iran.

Jalz

Jalz is an Iranian graphic designer who created an image of Iran’s Azadi (Freedom) Tower superimposed behind Henri Matisse’s dancers.

Roshi Rouzbehani

Rouzbehani is a visual artist who uses graphic design to commemorate performative action and protest. She was the artist behind the 2023 work, My Hair is Not Your Battle Ground.

Arghavan Khosravi

Iranian visual artist Arghavan Khosravi creates art that represents the experience of Iranian women and women who face human rights abuses globally. She moved to the U.S. to study art in 2015. She has been forced to remain in the country ever since the Trump administration implemented its controversial Muslim ban.

Read the full report here.

The post Women, Life, Freedom: On the Iranian Artists Resisting the Regime first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

“For Indigenous communities, land rights are not just a legal issue, but the very foundation of their cultures, livelihoods, and futures,” said the 36-year-old founder of Land Rights Defenders, a non-profit organization that advocates for Indigenous property rights. 

Bonsu argues that Indigenous people and communities have a deeply rooted cultural and spiritual connection to the land. That connection affects their livelihood and subsistence, self-determination and governance, and their determination to protect the environment. What’s more, it also shapes their response to historical injustices, or the systemic and enduring wrongs committed against Indigenous peoples throughout history. These often stem from colonization, dispossession, and forced assimilation.

Bonsu fled his native Ghana for fear of persecution and torture stemming from a land rights dispute. Last year, the United States Department of Homeland Security granted him humanitarian parole. 

As a youth leader and voice of the Benimasi-Boadi people, Bonsu said he was arbitrarily arrested, subjected to six days of agonizing pain, and threatened with death for exercising his rights. Fearing for his life and safety, he was forced to flee Ghana. The United States government recognized the credible threat he faced and allowed him to resettle in the United States.

“After breaking through the cycle of oppression and fleeing my homeland to escape persecution and torture, I felt the calling to institute a global movement that will impact the upcoming generations with the spirit of resilience, courage, and determination,” Bonsu said, describing his decision to start a nonprofit.

It’s a long-term fight

Based in Columbus, Ohio, where Bonsu has made a new home, the nonprofit works to build a world where Indigenous communities thrive on their ancestral lands with their rights fully recognized and protected.

“We believe secure land rights are the cornerstone of a just and sustainable future for these communities,” he said, arguing that this can only be done by empowering communities, raising awareness, building solidarity, and influencing policy.” 

“It’s a long-term fight,” he added. “But by working on these fronts, we aim to create a future where Indigenous communities can live on their lands with dignity, security, and the ability to determine their own destinies.”

Land Rights Defenders empowers communities through educational workshops on land rights, leadership training, and sustainable development projects.

A new home for activism

Bonsu, who moved to Ohio in February 2023. He says he finds solace and strength in his work with Land Rights Defenders. Bonsu spoke before the United Nations on Indigenous land rights. He emphasized the struggle for rights in Ghana and calling for international action to address human rights violations.

“Since arriving [in the U.S.], I have been fortunate to build a strong support network, particularly through my marriage to a U.S. citizen,” he said. “However, the adaptation process has been bittersweet. While I am grateful for the safety and opportunities this country offers, the separation from my community and homeland is a constant source of heartache.”

Bonsu says that everyday people worldwide can get involved in the fight for Indigenous land rights. One way is through a new campaign his organization launched called Art Meets Activism.

“Art can be a powerful way to connect with people on an emotional level, making the issue more relatable and sparking interest,” Bonsu said. “By combining artistic expression with activism, the Land Rights Defenders hope to create a powerful movement that raises awareness, shifts public perception, and ultimately leads to a future where Indigenous land rights are respected.”

Kristi Eaton is a journalist and communications consultant.

The post Indigenous Land Rights Are Under Attack. One Man Is Fighting To Change That first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

In the German capital, where an international art scene is thriving, Ukrainians are resisting Russia’s attempt to wipe their culture off the map by establishing safe spaces for Ukrainian cultural expression.

Eva Yakubovska, an activist with the Ukrainian advocacy organization Vitsche, and Alina Danylova, who helps run the Hotel Continental – Art Space in Exile, are just two of the Ukrainians working to preserve their culture in Berlin. They demonstrate how the existential threat their country faces has fueled Ukrainian cultural expression in the art-centric city.

Berlin as a shelter for Ukrainian culture

Hotel Continental was a place in Mariupol where young artists could thrive, described Danylova, who previously worked in the center for the Kyiv-based multidisciplinary festival GogolFest. Yet, this creative flourishing ended when Russian bombs destroyed the building in April 2022. 

Russia has continued to target Ukrainian cultural institutions since it began its unprovoked invasion on February 24, 2022. But along with the attacks came the urge to protect and defend Ukrainian heritage. 

When the full-scale invasion of Ukraine began, German theater director Christine Dissmann wanted to “support in a small cultural way” a country with which she had professional and personal ties. 

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the demolished art center reappeared in Berlin’s Alt-Treptow district when Dissmann launched the art space in exile. She named it Hotel Continental in honor of the lost building in Mariupol. 

Beginning from scratch in June 2022, diligent Ukrainian Berliners shaped the project alongside Dissmann. 

The war is “very much also against Ukrainian culture, and we need a place to preserve it,” Dissmann explained. 

While Dissmann knows she can’t save every piece of Ukrainian art the Russians have destroyed. Nevertheless, preservation lies at the heart of the endeavor. Numerous Ukrainians in Berlin and their supporters share this ambition. Danylova got involved because she and Dissmann knew each other before the war. She trusted that together, they could rebuild her former workplace’s legacy. 

“Who – If Not Us?” asked an exhibit at the Hotel Continental several months ago. 

That question is “on the table of every Ukrainian artist,” Danylova said. She believes Ukrainian artists must work to keep the world’s attention on the war. That way they resist Russia’s attempt to destroy Ukrainian culture. 

Otherwise, she said, “we can be just erased from the map.”  

Amplifying Ukrainian culture abroad

The advocacy group Vitsche is another Berlin institution that sprang up amid the war to preserve Ukrainian culture in exile. The organization targets decision-makers with campaigns and produces innovative forms of cultural diplomacy, such as concerts and music festivals. 

Vitsche emphasizes the importance of Ukrainian arts production “being seen abroad,” explained cultural manager Yakubovska. Ukrainians are realizing this work of amplification as Russia tries to overshadow their national identity. 

Berlin, home to a cosmopolitan audience ready to embrace cultural discoveries, was the perfect place to promote the work of Ukrainian artists. Bars like Space Meduza offer a physical space in Berlin to showcase Ukrainian-made art. 

In the Western Ukrainian city of Lviv in 2022, twenty-five street artists from Ukraine’s twenty-five regions decorated a shopping mall with their vision for Ukraine’s victory. The United by Victories exhibition traveled around the country. Then, when the curators decided to bring copies of the mural to an international audience, Berlin’s Space Meduza welcomed it.

Transcending war and showcasing diversity

War today is an omnipresent topic. Yet Ukrainian artists go far beyond representations of pain in their work. 

“It’s not always just about the war. It’s sometimes just showcasing good Ukrainian work,” said Dissmann.

Some Ukrainian Berliners have also used these new cultural projects to showcase Ukraine’s diversity. Yakubovska, for example, wants to spotlight how Roma, Crimean Tatar, and other ethnic and racial minorities are also a part of Ukrainian culture. 

When they recently performed a genre-blending hip-hop production in Berlin’s Plötzensee for the sixth Vitsche-organized Ukrainian Sound Garden, the three Fo Sho sisters faced one question over and over again: “Are you really Ukrainians?”

The sisters are Black Kharkivians with Ethiopian and Jewish roots. They understand their role in challenging preconceived ideas about Ukrainian identity and, as they put it, showing “that Ukraine is diverse.” 

Blending art and activism

Berlin is a fertile ground for artistic expression where many of today’s war refugees converge. 

The city and its world-renowned techno scene also witnessed the emergence of Bass Resistance, an artist collective on a mission. They aim to share the “energy of the present-day Ukrainian rave.” But the collective also never misses a chance to raise funds for humanitarian causes with its rousing beats, blending artistic expression with fundraising. 

The recent “Who—If Not Us?” event at Hotel Continental also exhibited homemade pieces by community associations that support Ukraine. 

Atypical exhibitors from the humanitarian organization Berlin to Borders or the Monday Kitchen Ukrainian cooking community could simultaneously showcase their art and activism. 

For example, a model polling station at the exhibit’s window showcases a mock referendum to replace Berlin’s Russisches Haus der Wissenschaft und Kultur (Russian House of Science and Culture) with a Ukrainian cultural palace. The Vitsche-designed piece was originally a tongue-in-cheek response to Russia’s illegal annexation of Ukrainian territories with so-called referenda. But it quickly evolved into a social movement with concrete demands. 

Facing pressures, a combative self-assertion

Since the outbreak of Russia’s war, the Moscow-monitored Russian House has been a center of propaganda supporting Russia’s justifications for war and attempting to cast doubt on Ukrainian identity. 

Determined to fight back against Russia’s imperialist conceptions of Ukraine, activists in Berlin have started speaking out against this hub of Russian imperialism. Activists from Vitsche, together with Georgian, Moldovan, Chechen, and Syrians, are calling for the Russian House to be converted into a Decolonial House. The idea is to provide space for countries “colonized by contemporary Russia,” explains Yakubovska.

She envisions the building’s transformation as an example of transitional justice that would benefit countries that Russia has previously colonized. The group is optimistic that they can sway public opinion through media-savvy initiatives, sticker campaigns, and support from the lawyers involved in the case. 

“I think it’s realistic because I believe in the power of people,” Yakubovska said. 

Throughout Berlin, the Vitsche activists and other Ukrainians vocally condemn instances when their voices are silenced or appropriated. 

Since February 24, 2022, more people understand that Ukraine has an independent culture. Nevertheless, Yakubovska argues that some Berlin cultural institutions prioritize Russian voices over Ukrainians in their discussions about the war. Ukrainian culture is sometimes still marginalized compared to that of its larger neighbor. 

“You can see how Ukrainian art is perceived as some school drama scene for the backstages,” Yakubovska said. 

Berlin’s Ukrainian community plans to continue working to keep Ukraine’s cultural frontlines open. Once a door to the Soviet empire, Berlin now visibly showcases Ukrainian cultural identity on its streets. Betty from the music group Fo Sho sees herself and other artists like her as part of a “progressive young generation” of Ukrainians. In this city, that generation is building its homeland’s tomorrow. 

About the author

Paul Mazet is a French freelance journalist based in Berlin, where he reports on the local impacts of international developments. He studied history, international relations, and social sciences in Toulouse, Glasgow, Paris, Dublin, and Berlin.

The post Ukrainians in Berlin Are Defending Their Culture in Exile first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

But since the COVID-19 lockdowns ended, the area has unexpectedly transformed into a massive weekend dance studio, populated by a burgeoning Santiago sub-culture: K-Pop dance cover bands. 

The groups can have four to fifteen members, depending on the K-pop group they emulate. The choreography is physically demanding, characterized by high-energy moves, dexterous precision, and complex group dynamics and formations with rapid footwork. 

In the world of K-pop, performance is just as important as music. 

“It’s not just about dressing like a character,” said Diego Rodríguez, a 22-year-old physical education student. Rodríguez goes to the financial district every Sunday to rehearse with Masterpiece, a dance group covering the K-pop boyband ATEEZ. 

“There’s the choreography, personification, an intro, outro, a break between. It’s really demanding,” said Rodríguez. 

A booming industry

There’s plenty of evidence of the country’s steadfast craze for K-pop. When pop heroes BTS played their debut in Chile in 2017, they broke records, including one for the fastest show to sell out at Santiago’s Movistar Arena. 

They also broke the record for the loudest sound ever recorded in the venue, as fans’ hysterical screams reached 127 decibels.

The Music Bank World Tour — a South Korean festival that brings K-pop bands to international audiences worldwide — went to Chile three times in its thirteen-year history, more than any other country. 

The group Masterpiece consists of eight members, each assuming the role of a character in ATEEZ. Rodríguez is Wooyoung. He sits in a semi-circle with the rest of his group. They’ve just finished a grueling two-hour rehearsal perfecting moves for ATEEZ’s single Crazy Form.

The building offers shade and mirrored windows for the band to practice their moves. But the temperature is still above 30 degrees (86F).

Still, each group member commits to practicing despite this summer’s record-breaking heatwave. Masterpiece is one of Santiago’s premier dance cover bands. They’ve won top place in the city’s numerous K-pop dance competitions. 

“We do really well in competitions,” said Catalina Contreras, a 24-year-old professional dancer who dances as Yunho in the band. “But it puts pressure on us, and that tainted something that we like doing.”

For Contreras, some of her favorite performances are when ATEEZ fans book them for events. 

“The fans know all the songs. They’re shouting and singing at us. The environment is a real motivation,” she described. 

Korean culture is disruptive

Janice Tapia, an associate researcher at the Korea Comparative Studies Center at Chile’s Central University, says Chile’s sizeable K-pop fandom goes beyond anything superficial.

“Geographically, Chile is as about as far away from South Korea as you can get,” she explained. Tapia argues that this distance is an essential factor in the country’s love of South Korean culture. 

“Chile has been very strongly influenced by the U.S., so there’s an idea that Korean culture is disruptive, something different from the U.S. or Europe,” she said. “Maybe we view South Korea as a more underground or minority culture.”

Tapia also observes that both South Korea and Chile are conservative countries. Chile was one of the last countries in the world to legalize divorce. Equal marriage rights became law only a year ago. Meanwhile, South Korean law does not recognize same-sex partnerships.

Abortion in Chile, a country with Catholic values, can only be accessed in strictly limited circumstances. The government decriminalized abortion in South Korea as recently as 2019, but it remains stigmatized with curbed access for women. 

For many in Chile, South Korea’s pop culture provides a liberating outlet. “The K-pop fandom is mostly composed of women or queer people,” Tapia said. “It’s a place where, a lot of the time, people feel safe and can express themselves. They’re not interested in labels.” 

The example rings true with Masterpiece. While ATEEZ is a boy band, the majority of the dance cover group members are women. 

“It’s about the essence, the vibe of a person,” said Contreras. “You don’t need to resemble them physically.” 

Entertainment and accessibility

The fact that K-pop cover dancers perform primarily in public spaces means it’s an accessible form of entertainment for most Chileans from the country’s middle classes and more vulnerable segments of the population.

The most successful dance cover band in Chile is Solider. Two of their eight members come from La Pintana, Santiago’s poorest neighborhood, including Soldier’s leading member, Martin Silva. 

In 2022, Soldier beat over 400 teams from 100 competing countries, traveling to win the K-pop World Festival in Changwon, South Korea, the most coveted prize for dance cover acts. Their win made headlines in Chile and led to a meeting with Chilean President Gabriel Boric.

Fernando Herrera, a member of Solider, told the newspaper El Pais that Soldier could be “an example” for the neighborhood. 

“We can’t go around drinking or taking drugs. We are changing the community. Even if it’s just one person in 10,000, we can show them that there are opportunities,” he said. 

Tapia stresses that a core part of the K-pop fandom lies in its “meritocratic ideals.” 

“Many of the young people who dance point out that this helped them have a healthy and happy environment,” she said. 

Dancing in the streets

In Santiago Centro, a few kilometers away from Masterpiece’s rehearsal spot, Catch the L1ght is going over its routine in a dance studio. 

The booming popularity of dance cover bands on the streets around Santiago has forced them to book a secured studio slot. 

“It’s been very difficult to find a place to dance during the weekends,” said Victoria Quezada, a 22-year-old psychology student. 

Catch the L1ight is a dance cover band of Kep1er, a K-pop girl band. There are eight members in the group, and Quezada plays Mashiro. She said that this year, they’re looking to win competitions.

“We have to do the choreography, the intros, the wardrobe, make everything ready for a show, to bring it to the competitions,” she said. 

They’ve been working on a dance cover of Kep1er’s song ‘The Boys’ (originally a hit by Girls Generation) for roughly six weeks. 

“We like to compete. It incentives us to clean up the choreography, make it perfect, and up the energy,” she said. 

In 2017, the New York Times wrote about the unexpected rise of K-pop in Chile after the furor of BTS’ arrival in the Chilean capital during their Wings tour. Since then, the passion for the genre has continued to grow. 

“In Chile, there’s a really strong admiration for Asian culture, especially Japan and Korea,” said Fernanda Contreras, a 29-year-old Japanese-English translator (Xiaoting in Catch The L1ght). “That comes down to anime and K-pop.”

Agustin Díaz (Dayeon), the band’s youngest member, remembers hearing a song by the K-pop band Twice when he was only 12 years old. He is now 16. 

“I was like, Wow! I love music that sounds happy and fun. I couldn’t get it out of my head.”

K-Pop is multisensorial

The dancers say the Korean-Spanish language barrier is not a problem.

“K-pop is very visual, auditory, it’s multisensorial,” said Quezada. “There are fans who don’t listen to K-pop songs at home, but dance K-pop because the choreography is super entertaining.”  

The dancers say that K-pop in Chile always had platforms that responded to the budding culture, amplifying its visibility and expanding the fandom. 

“I remember seeing a Black Pink dance cover band on morning television years ago,” said Contreras. “They were just starting, very basic, but we watched that and thought, ‘We can meet up and dance K-pop!’”

No going back

Despite K-pop’s current popularity, the members of the Catch The L1ght have weathered odd looks and mean comments, especially the younger members who began to dance during school breaks with friends. 

“I liked dancing to female K-pop bands, and they called me gay, asked why I danced like a woman, and I just wanted them to leave me alone. It was a bit hard,” said Díaz. 

Paola Brito, who is 17 (Bahiyyih), agrees. 

“There were some not very nice comments at school, and K-pop was hidden for a while because of that,” she said

But the dance cover world is quickly shifting from being part of an overlooked sub-culture to earning appreciation from society. 

The professionalism and popularity of dance cover bands like Solider and Masterpiece have given the groups broader recognition in the country.

“Now I am not so embarrassed to tell people that I dance K-pop. People say, ‘Ah, that’s cool,’” said Sofia Gallardo (Xiaoting), a 22-year-old student. “Before, they used to be like, you do what?”

Back in the shade of the multi-story office buildings, Masterpiece reflects on K-pop’s popularity in Chile and their commitment to it. 

“I always say K-pop is a never-ending hole. There’s no way out!” said Contreras. 

Like other members of the Masterpiece, Contreras gives K-pop dance classes and has successfully professionalized her passion for K-pop.

“It’s such an interesting culture,” she reflects. “Once you fall for it, there’s no going back.”

Charis McGowan is a freelance journalist based in Chile. She writes about women’s and gender rights issues, pop, politics, and everything in between.

This journalism was possible thanks to the generous support of George Mason University’s Mercatus Center and its Pluralism and Civil Exchange program.

The post In Chile, K-Pop Dance Groups Are Wildly Popular first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

However, unlike during the neighborhood’s last heyday 30 years ago, the faces you pass on the street in Kypseli are now more diverse than ever. Next to old traditional Greek cafes and tavernas, there are Polish delis, African hair braiding salons, and Middle Eastern-owned and operated restaurants. 

In a country as monoethnic as Greece, Kypseli is a beautiful anomaly. But for many residents of non-Greek descent, the reality of living here can still be challenging.

Immigration and multiculturalism in Greece

It’s hard to gauge how many people in Greece are of Greek heritage since the country only collects data on citizenship and not ethnicity. According to current citizenship data, 91 percent of those residing in Greece are Greek on paper.

Immigration in Greece is a relatively new phenomenon. The lack of economic opportunity coupled with civil instability in Greece throughout most of the 20^th century provided more reasons for Greeks to flee than for immigrants to arrive. However, that started to change after the fall of the country’s military junta in 1973, the reestablishment of democracy, and the economic growth of the 1980s.

People from neighboring countries started flocking to Greece at that time, especially after the fall of the Soviet Union and the dismantling of the Iron Curtain. 

Additionally, Greece’s relatively porous border (preventing undocumented entry in a country with over 2,000 scattered islands is nearly impossible) made it a common destination for many asylum seekers fleeing war and persecution.

By 2010, approximately 11.4 percent of the Greek population had been born outside of Greece, or 1.27 million people, according to World Bank data. Most migrants were born in Albania, Greece’s neighbor to the north, with smaller immigrant populations coming from Bulgaria, Georgia, Russia, Romania, Pakistan, and Afghanistan.

Kypseli: the center of Athenian diversity

Nowhere is this demographic change in Greek society more apparent than in Kypseli. Children of all races and ethnic backgrounds play together, while traditional Greek tavernas and coffee culture mingle with art and shops reflecting international influences.

But the experience of many people not of Greek ethnicity is less rosy than a stroll through the neighborhood may make it appear. There are significant challenges to inclusion and integration, and Kypseli’s new popularity could endanger the neighborhood’s multicultural nature. 

Robert Ian Kibet Ouko Babu, a psychologist, psychotherapist, and program director with Open Paths Athens, says gentrification is affecting Kypseli. 

Kypseli is “the place to be” for young Athenians, he said. But the neighborhood’s iconic diversity has decreased over the last few years, as rising rents in Athens push many ethnic Greeks to neighborhoods slightly outside the city center.

Gentrification and racism

The question of how to improve a community’s environment without unintentionally excluding the original residents is one that two artists raised in Kypseli – Grace Nwoke and Alex Loggovitis – grapple with. They are spearheading The Documatism project, which focuses on the Afro-Greek experience.

“We are Afro-Greeks,” reads their manifesto. “We started from the neighborhood of Kypseli, which for many of us is our true homeland.”

The two artists work with Greek filmmaker Menelaos Karamaghiolis to organize art events to “make this neighborhood change and no longer be considered a ghetto.” 

“I am afraid that it was considered a ghetto because of us,” the artists added. 

If Greek society perceived Kypseli as a ghetto because of its diverse nature, efforts to upgrade the neighborhood may not protect the diverse families who live there. 

Babu acknowledges that there have been benefits to gentrification. More young people are out on the streets, and there are more efficient government services and more shops. 

“Even the Municipal Market is thriving, where it used to be somewhat abandoned,” Babu said. 

Nevertheless, local families who have lived in the neighborhood for decades are slowly being pushed out. Babu worries that they won’t have any place to go. 

In an economic and political system that presents significant hurdles to integration and opportunities for those of non-Greek descent, the resurgence of Kypseli, accompanied by rising costs and demand for housing, may inevitably lead to a further decline in the neighborhood’s diversity. 

In this way, efforts to improve the area without addressing racism and the lack of socioeconomic opportunity in Greek society may end up driving out the very people who sought to create a better neighborhood for themselves and their families in the first place.

Kypseli’s Municipal Market and inclusive improvement

The Municipal Market is one example of how a revitalization project can be inclusive and benefit multiple people within a neighborhood.

In 2016, the Municipality of Athens renovated the market. The non-profit organization Impact Hub helped set up the market as a new “pole of attraction” to get Athenians from all over the city interested in the neighborhood.

Nia Zoi, who was involved in an educational program at the Municipal Market, said the project aims to create opportunities for people of all ethnic backgrounds in Kypseli. 

“We wanted to give opportunities to entrepreneurs and creators to see how it is to run your own shops for a short while, to understand your customer base, without the financial risks of setting up a brick-and-mortar store,” she said.

Many entrepreneurial immigrants who started a business with pop-up shops now run stores throughout the neighborhood.

The establishments carry some part of each person’s heritage. Their products and services showcase their parents’ culture or their homeland. One example is the multitude of African hair-braiding salons cropping up in Kypseli.

Zoi said she is proud of what her project accomplished. 

“I always loved Kypseli,” Zoi said. “Everyone from all these different immigrant groups was together and interacting. I haven’t seen that in many other places in Athens”.

Obstacles to Greek citizenship and identity

Despite some success stories, people working for organizations that seek to promote diversity and inclusion in Athens often feel they are alone in the fight without government support.

The exceedingly bureaucratic nature of the Greek state and the variable quality of government services are an endless source of frustration for many Greeks, regardless of their ethnic background. That means non-governmental organizations often provide services to immigrants that the state should offer.

New immigrants aren’t the only ones who experience these challenges. One significant obstacle second-generation children in Greece face is that the state grants citizenship through the principle of jus sanguini. That means being born in the country isn’t enough to be Greek in the eyes of the state. You also must be born to a Greek citizen. 

Many immigrants, especially those from low-income countries in Africa, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe, have difficulty acquiring Greek citizenship. That can mean their children also don’t have citizenship despite being born and raised in Greece. 

Living your entire life in a country that does not recognize you as a citizen can create an identity crisis.

As Nwoke and Loggovitis say, “Racism based on color, prejudice, and racial discrimination have made it very difficult for us to define our identity, our homeland, and to feel Greek without being hindered by our origin and color, even though most of us were born here.” 

The issue of identity is especially nuanced for people who look different from the rest of Greek society. 

Babu does not immediately identify himself as Afro-Greek or first or second-generation Greek. Like many immigrants in Greece, he finds the questions that people ask him, like where he is from originally, intrusive. He doesn’t want to be put in a box.

“I dictate my own narrative,” he said. 

Inclusion: a legal, social, and cultural issue

In addition to the obvious legal obstacles to obtaining Greek citizenship, Babu wants to focus on the societal obstacles asylum seekers or second-generation immigrants experience.

“Many specialized people are talking about and working on the issue of paperwork and citizenship for immigrants to Greece. Even those of the second generation,” he said. “But not a lot of people are talking about the other issues which we focus on, like equity of health access, cultural access, and the like.”

In 2019, the center-right government changed the laws regarding healthcare access in Greece. 

The previous law stated that everyone in Greece must have an AMKA, the national identification number that provides access to government health services. 

But the new guidelines determined that only Greek citizens or permanent residents have the right to obtain an AMKA. That left recent immigrants and many second-generation residents without adequate access to healthcare.

Babu believes that one of the best services to provide minority communities is information. Due to both language barriers and a lack of knowledge about how the relatively complex Greek system operates, a lot of minorities in Greece don’t know their rights or what services they can access, leaving them vulnerable.

For example, in Greece, employers must put an official stamp on their employees’ work papers. The stamp is known as an ἐνσημα (ensima), and it gives workers proof of their job history so they can retire with a pension. Some employers, however, exploit an immigrant’s lack of familiarity with the system or language skills. 

Babu speaks to newly arrived immigrants and explains how they can receive the official stamps and the correct insurance coverage. 

“Sometimes employers will tell people they put stamps on their papers when they hadn’t,” he explained.

Perceptions of racism

A deeper and more amorphous hurdle is the refusal of many Greeks to see racism as a problem in their society. 

Greeks are often shocked by news of racist incidents in the U.S. They ask in disbelief how the U.S. can be so racist. The unspoken implication is that Greek society is not racist. 

Babu says that many Greeks see racism exclusively as an American problem and not endemic to their society. They only believe an action is racist when it is extreme and violent or when someone expresses outright hate towards those of a different ethnic background. 

While such examples do exist in Greece, that is not the type of racism most non-ethnic Greeks face every day. 

“Many people do not think of microaggressions as racism,” Babu said. 

The recent national elections in May and June brought these attitudes to light. The center-right party won reelection after passing laws that made life harder for non-ethnic Greeks. Meanwhile, far-right nationalist and anti-immigration parties like the Spartans, a continuation of Greece’s fascist Golden Dawn party, won 4.5 percent of the vote. Anti-immigrant rhetoric was prevalent throughout the campaigns.

But despite all the focus on immigration — especially after the influx of Syrian refugees began in the mid-2010s — the rate of immigration in Greece has leveled off. 

The news often focuses on the total number of refugee arrivals while failing to point out that Greece is just a transit country for most migrants. Most asylum seekers want to move to Germany, Sweden, or one of the wealthier northern European countries, where many have family and potential job opportunities.

Due to the widespread emigration of Greeks, the country is losing more people than it is gaining, leading to an annual population decline. Nevertheless, panicked media reports about an unmanageable influx of immigrants persist.

Countering false narratives

Negative narratives about immigration are pervasive, especially on Greek television, where many older Greeks get all their information. 

For example, many believe refugees come to Greece to live easy lives using state resources. The right-leaning media often repeats that narrative. 

In reality, refugees only receive around 150 euros a month from the government in Greece, far lower than the 780 euro minimum wage. Asylum seekers also don’t have the right to work for the first six months they are in the country. 

As a result, surviving as a refugee in Greece is extremely difficult. Many must undertake black-market work, including prostitution, to make ends meet. 

Younger Greeks have a clearer sense of the reality many migrants face than their parents or grandparents. Today, the children of the earliest waves of migrants, especially throughout Kypseli, grow up in the country. They speak the language fluently and navigate the public education system next to Greek children. People from diverse backgrounds are growing up together as classmates and friends. 

That has enabled greater integration among Gen Z and younger Millennial Greeks than has ever been possible. 

“The new generation will bring the change,” Babu said. “Because they had the chance to actually live with us instead of seeing us through the eyes of propaganda.” 

In the meantime, the reinvigoration of Kypseli, along with organizations like Impact Hub and Open Paths, is speeding up the process of cultural sensitization in Greek society.

Zoi from the Municipal Market says she has found joy and openness in the community of Kypseli.

“We asked the community what they wanted, and part of what they asked for was a festival for everyone,” she said. “So, we held multicultural festivals which included members of the Ukrainian community, Albanian community, the various African communities of Kypseli, and the Filipino community.”

Kypseli: a challenging present and hopeful future

Kypseli’s multicultural community faces hurdles that are as nuanced and varied as those experienced by all people of non-Greek descent living in the country today.

But with its focus on community participation, inclusivity, and empowerment, the various projects and businesses in Kypseli and the organizations working tirelessly in the neighborhood provide hope for a more inclusive city. 

“The first generation [of immigrants] was alone in Kypseli,” Babu said. “In the second generation, the kids were a little more open, a little more dispersed throughout the city. And the third generation seems to have spread through Athens even more, living a more inclusive life.”

Joanna Kalafatis is a writer and actress with a degree in economics from Barnard College. She currently lives in both Athens, Greece and Los Angeles, California. She’s interested in socioeconomic challenges, culture, and travel, and writes about all three subjects frequently. Her work has appeared in publications like Time Out New York, Matador Network, and Greek Reporter. She recently published a travel guide titled “Best of Greece” for Moon Travel Guides, and has a personal blog at LosetheMap.com.

This journalism was possible thanks to the generous support of George Mason University’s Mercatus Center and its Pluralism and Civil Exchange program.

The post On Diversity, Gentrification, and Belonging in Athens’s New Hipster Neighborhood first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

Resilience and coexistence in the wake of colonialism

“Wakhtán,” came the customary greeting in the Kamëntšá language as I entered the house of Batá Margarita Chicunque, 80. Margarita is one of the most highly respected artisans in Sibundoy, locally renowned for her mastery of weaving. 

I had come to pick up a capisayo, a ceremonial poncho, which I had commissioned in the traditional style. 

Margarita waved me into her home with a smile that showed the gaps in her teeth. I sat to watch as she put the finishing touches on her work.

Margarita’s hands seemed to move automatically, drawing the fibers together, interweaving red threads with blue, white, and black — the traditional colors of the Kamëntšá. Even as her hands flew across the loom in a series of movements honed by decades of practice, her eyes were on the grainy screen of the antique television, whose light illuminated the narrow confines of her modest workspace.

The broadcast showed the inauguration of Gustavo Petro, the newly elected President of Colombia at that time — and the favored candidate among the two Indigenous communities of the Sibundoy Valley. 

Petro is one of those rare voices in Colombian politics who has shown concern for the welfare of Indigenous communities, who make up 3.4% of the nation’s population.

When my Kamëntšá hosts in Sibundoy learned that Petro had won the hotly contested election of 2022, they cried tears of joy. Many hoped that Petro’s presidency would mark a turning point in a history marred by discrimination against Indigenous peoples. 

For locals of Margarita’s generation, that history is well within living memory.

When Margarita was a girl, she recalls, few outsiders came to Sibundoy. The area was difficult to access at the time. There was only one road into the valley, built in the 1930s by Indigenous forced labor overseen by the Capuchin missionaries who ruled Sibundoy for the better part of the twentieth century.

Empowered by the Colombian state to rule over a large swath of southwestern Colombia, the Capuchins dominated Sibundoy from 1904 to 1970.

A history of forced assimilation

In the days of the Capuchin rule, children caught speaking Kamëntšá or Inga were beaten in the missionary schools and ridiculed by their mestizo peers. The Capuchins claimed they wanted to “civilize the savages” by stripping away their culture and replacing it with the Spanish language, Catholic doctrine, and the Colombian national anthem. 

The Capuchin fathers, who equated Indigeneity with backwardness and idolatry, hoped that with enough brutality, nothing of the Indigenous cultures they came to “civilize” would survive.

At the same time, the Capuchins sought to populate Sibundoy with mestizo settlers brought in from other parts of Colombia. By the mid-twentieth century, settlers from the neighboring city of Pasto and places farther afield like Antioquia — known as the “Whitest” region of Colombia — came to outnumber the valley’s Indigenous communities. 

With a combination of trickery and theft, the mestizos soon came to occupy the best land in the valley, pushing the Indigenous inhabitants to the marshy base, which floods each season and is ill-suited for cultivation.

Though the challenges faced by the Indigenous communities of Sibundoy continued after the dissolution of the Capuchin Mission in 1970, the resilience of people like Margarita demonstrates that the missionaries did not succeed entirely. 

Seventy years after learning how to weave the traditional patterns from her mother, who learned them from her mother before her, Margarita keeps the ancestral arts of her people alive — as do her daughters and granddaughters. 

But Margarita’s craft hasn’t remained unchanged during the decades she made her living at the loom. 

“When I started,” she told me, “we had only sheep wool to weave and stones as beads. We had to make our own natural dyes with plants, which we had to go out and find.”

“Today, we can buy synthetic yarn and plastic beads in all colors,” she added. “Now that the materials are much cheaper and more abundant, everyone can weave.”

Festival season: a microcosm of cultural and religious pluralism

Even though Indigenous traditions like Margarita’s weaving survived the Capuchin Mission, colonization still changed the Indigenous cultures of the valley. Today, the plaza at the center of Sibundoy is known as Interculturality Park, a nod to the mix of cultures in the region.

Both the Kamëntšá and Inga cultures are irreversibly marked by the experience of colonization and the following decades of coexistence with the mestizo population. Not only does every Indigenous person in the valley today speak Spanish — and many no longer speak Kamëntšá or Inga — but almost all are also practicing Catholics. 

Nevertheless, there is something different about the forms of Catholicism practiced in Sibundoy. One example is the festival of Clestrinÿe, which marks the culmination of the Kamëntšá calendar.

Every year on the Monday before Ash Wednesday, the Kamëntšá don their ceremonial regalia, take up their instruments, and embark on a procession that renews their people’s contract with their ancestors, Mother Earth, and the cosmos. Vibrant colors, discordant sounds, and all manner of sights and symbols converge in this gathering of a people celebrating an annual ritual of resistance and renewal.

Once forbidden by overzealous Catholic missionaries, today, the festival gets larger and more festive each year. 

The meaning of the festival, however, is still a topic of active debate within the community. Some ascribe Christian values to it. Others stand by the ancestral interpretations.

And even though the Capuchins failed to stamp out the festival, their successors rebranded it the “Carnival of Pardon,” claiming that Christian notions of forgiveness from sin are part of the festival’s symbolic acts of communal reconciliation. 

This Catholic gloss conferred legitimacy on the festival for some in the community. It also attracted outside interest in the Sibundoy Valley.

Others, however, rebelled against this cooption, preferring to emphasize the festival’s roots in the precolonial past — a world concerned with ancestral spirits, ancient deities, and the annual renewal of a delicate cosmic balance. Today, both interpretations vie for legitimacy in the tumult of the deeply syncretic Clestrinÿe festival. 

At stake in such debates is the question of what it means to be Kamëntšá following centuries of intercultural contact and exchange. This question permeates every aspect of life for the Indigenous communities of Sibundoy, where differing cultures and identities increasingly converge.

Tourism: a help or a hindrance?

In recent years, the growth of Colombia’s tourism sector has attracted increasing interest in the Sibundoy Valley.

Many of the foreign visitors who come through the valley come in search of yagé — the local term for a potent hallucinogenic brew better known as ayahuasca. 

As in much of the Amazon, the Indigenous communities of the Sibundoy Valley have long used yagé as a sacred plant medicine. 

At a ceremony with an Inga shaman, a French tourist in his mid-30s explained why he had come to seek the sacred brew.

“In the West, there’s no more spirituality,” he told me. “We’ve become disconnected from nature, from ourselves. Yagé helps restore that connection.”

Today, thousands of foreigners — mostly Westerners — flock to the Sibundoy Valley every year to experience the powerful visions produced by the brew. 

The valley’s indigenous inhabitants have mixed reactions towards these foreigners. 

Some members of the Indigenous communities regard the newcomers with suspicion. When I met with the governor of the Kamëntšá council to request permission to take photos and videos during Clestrinÿe, he initially suspected me of spying on the community’s inner affairs. My host family had to intercede on my behalf — with lengthy advocacy spoken in the ceremonial register of the Kamëntšá language — for him to agree. Such reticence is typical among the more traditional members of the community.

Not everyone is so suspicious of outsiders, though. Where some see threats, others see opportunities.

The 40-year-old Rosario Jacanamijoy, currently a government bureaucrat in the Colombian capital of Bogotá, dreams of someday returning to her native valley to buy back the lands that mestizo settlers swindled from her grandparents decades ago. Once she buys back her family’s land, she plans to build a series of cabins to start an ecolodge to promote sustainable tourism.

“We would like the whole world to know our community,” she told me. “Our colors, our weaving, our territory.”

Defending the land for future generations

Despite the optimism of people like Rosario, outside threats to the valley’s Indigenous communities persist in the form of multinational mining concessions, road development projects, and the long-lasting Colombian armed conflict. 

When the Capuchins left, others took their place. First came the oil barons, Western corporations that installed pipelines in the neighboring lowlands, rich in the so-called black gold of the Amazon. In the process, they displaced Indigenous populations and polluted ecosystems.

Then came the guerrillas, narcos, and paramilitaries, who brought the violence of the Colombian conflict up the slopes of the Andes and into the Sibundoy Valley. Locals soon found their family members threatened, or even disappeared, at the hands of these bandits. Such violence continues sporadically.

Today, Western-owned multinational mining companies like Libero Copper continue to threaten the autonomy and health of Indigenous communities and their natural environments. At the same time, projects like the long-stalled San Francisco-Mocoa Bypass, a highway development project, threaten Kamëntšá land claims and local ecosystems.

Even so, Antonio Juagibioy, an Inga shaman, land defender, and former Inga council member, finds cause for hope.

As we walked along a mountain path over the beautiful and verdant Sibundoy Valley with the Territorial Guard — an ethnically mixed Kamëntšá-Inga unit of land defenders who patrol the territory for trespassers — Juagibioy told me that their region has its own soul, life, and air. 

“Why do we defend the territory? For those on the way, the children, the youth, all those still walking behind us,” he said. “For them, we defend the territory so that one day they’ll have a place to say, ‘Thanks to the elders, those who came before, for leaving us this.’”

Rowan Glass is an anthropologist, journalist, writer, and filmmaker based in Colombia. 

This journalism was possible thanks to the generous support of George Mason University’s Mercatus Center and its Pluralism and Civil Exchange program.

The post Cultural Pluralism and the Indigenous People of the Sibundoy Valley first appeared on Lazo Magazine.