My name in my mother tongue Shipibo-Konibo is Chonon Bensho, which means “swallow of the medicinal fields.” I am a legitimate heir to the knowledge of my ancestors. I write this text with my husband, complementing each other, as a couple might do when they act according to the ancient teachings. My husband’s Shipibo name is Inin Niwe, which means “scented wind of medicine.” That name comes from the ancients and from the Chaikonibo spirits, and it is only suitable for someone who has been initiated into the ancestral knowledge, who has been treated by the ancestors’ traditional medicine and renewed in the Spirit world. I would not have been able to write this text without his presence in my life, nor would he be able to understand the depth of our ancestral wisdom were he not part of my family. From our indigenous perspective, wisdom is always something that is born from our relationships and is shared with others. Although we write together, it is my voice, as a Shipibo woman, that at times takes precedence in the writing; this does not imply that I know more than my husband about Shipibo-Konibo culture or that my voice has a prevalence just because I am an indigenous woman. What we want to achieve by elevating my voice is to manifest that we are writing from within Shipibo culture and from an inescapable commitment to our affective, cultural, and spiritual kinship. The “I” in this writing, then, has to be understood as a literary first person singular, which involves my husband and me. Therefore, this “I” refers to a “we”.
—Chonon Bensho
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From our perspective, Indigenous nations must always be thought of in relation to a territory. Indigeneity is, precisely, the most primordial consciousness of being, which knows that the human being is not alien to its links with the sacred web of life. For this very reason, we cannot think of Indigenous art, nor of our mother tongue, nor of our ethical and cosmogonic reflections, without taking into account the relationship between culture and territory. For our wise elders, everything that surrounds us participates in a form of language, in a kind of cosmic semiotics that we must learn to listen to. That is why, in my own artistic work, I try to foreground the link between the Shipibo culture and the rivers, the trees, the plants, the different forms of life and the spiritual worlds that inhabit the forest. In this way, my art proposes an anthropological conception in which the human being cannot be thought of in isolation. And I believe that in this I am doing no more than following the reflective inheritance of my grandfathers and grandmothers.
In Shipibo, wise men and women are called Meraya or Onanya. Our maternal grandfather, Ranin Bima, was a great visionary healer; and so were his ancestors, and some of my father’s grandparents too. Thanks to the teachings they have left us, we have walked the paths of the ancient sages and linked ourselves to the spiritual worlds. We have received a light’s blessing that illuminates our soul and our life. Our elders have passed on to us their wisdom and in our dreams we listen to the spiritual Owners of medicine. They have given us their teachings with compassion and generosity. We drink from the aerial and forestry spring with which the ancient Meraya were linked: our thought is strong (koshi shina) and is great (ani shina), and our word has a vibratory force (koshi joi) that can encourage us and lift our spirits. When a Shipibo woman knows the customs of her grandmothers and when she, with her bare feet, treads the ground on which her parents walked, she is not a person lost in the world, without identity, without destiny. She is not like a mahua yoshin ghost, without relationships nor affections. She knows where she comes from and where she is going. In her dreams she can talk to her ancestors and receive advice on how to live in the right way, in order to be a good wife, a good mother, a woman who is fully accomplished in the feminine realm. As such, she can join her husband in balance, to live legitimately and to promote the well-being of her family. It is necessary to know how to live wisely in spite of the confusion and unrest of our modern world.
My mother gave birth to me in our home, in the native community Santa Clara de Yarinacocha, in the Peruvian Amazon. She gave birth to all her children without any medical assistance, without having to go to the health centre. Ancient women were much stronger than we are, because they used plants from their birth, they worked from a very young age in the garden, their food came exclusively from the forest and from what they planted themselves. The day after giving birth, they went back to their daily work. They got up every day before sunrise, sharpened the machete and cultivated the land, cooked, cleaned, looked after their children, modelled pottery, prepared masato and chicha1, and wove. They did everything with good thoughts. And because they lived close to the forest, talking with the plants and the rivers, sailing in their canoes and listening to the songs of the birds, their thoughts were beautiful. They too sang, like the birds of the forest. With their tenderness they overcame any hostility. The women of the family would gather in the evenings to embroider their clothes, to decorate their pottery, to make art and wrap themselves in the beauty of their geometric kene designs; and so do we with my sisters and sisters-in-law. When we work together, we tell each other about the news of the community, of the family, of our children, we laugh and talk about the future. And we also remember our grandmothers, what they told us, what they taught us, their customs and their wisdom. When I paint or when I board, I often feel like singing; and then is when my poems emerge, in which I imagine the beautiful life of my ancestors.
When we are born, our mothers bury our placenta in the family field and place the umbilical cord on the palm roof of the house. This is done to create a deep bond between us and the territory. That is why, when we grow up and leave the community, when we travel or go to the city, we always think of our family, and we need to return. Even when we are far away, our soul travels in dreams to our territory, we join with the plants, we visit our relatives. We women preserve the culture, the customs of the ancients, the ancient dress, the geometric designs and the language. We have to teach our children the teachings of our ancestors and the wisdom of medicinal plants. The life of the indigenous nations is inseparable from the trees, the rivers, the lakes, the songs of the birds. If we distance ourselves from the rainforest, if we do not converse with the trees, the rivers and the ancestors in our dreams, our spiritual strength declines and our thinking weakens. On the other hand, if we practise the teachings of the elders, our thinking becomes strong. Then we know how to converse with all living beings, we know how to respect the life of trees and animals, and we coexist in harmony with all that exists. We know that all beings in the cosmos have consciousness, intelligence and language; that they all form communities among themselves and are animated by the same spiritual breath. That is why we must respect each other; we humans cannot abuse other living beings.
Our mothers taught us about medicinal plants and we are going to teach this wisdom to our daughters. There are special plants that are given to girls to learn the geometric kene designs, which are the aesthetic heart of our culture and spirituality. Sometimes they put drops of the juice of the leaves or roots in their eyes and sometimes they wash their hands with the plants. Those who know and use these plants from their childhood will grow up to be women of great artistic ability and of great thoughts. These master plants make us dream of our ancestors. And in dreams we see ancient women and they show us their designs. Dreams allow us to gain great knowledge. Our culture is not independent of the teachings that come from the plants. Sometimes we dream of old designs (which were more elongated than the ones we make now), and sometimes of new designs, which we have never seen before. Kene designs are born out of a deep dialogue with nature and from our contemplative mood. The designs are inspired by the arteries of leaves, the bodies of boas, the shapes of the bones of fish or game, the shape of the human body, riverbeds, trees and medicinal plants. The kene designs were the “writing” of our ancestors. Those who know how to interpret them can read in them the wisdom and meditative thinking of the elders.
The designs are not static and repetitive, but change over time. The women and men in my family have been, and continue to be, artists and craftsmen, connoisseurs of plants and of the land, healers and wise people. In my family there are great masters of design and embroidery, like my sister Panshin Same; my grandmothers were expert potters and weavers. My contemporary indigenous art proposal assimilates some techniques from Western art, but it does not lose its difference and its particular sensibility under the hegemony of the market. Unlike modern hegemonic philosophy, which establishes an irreconcilable separation between culture and nature, indigenous art dialogues with the territories and expresses the voice of all living beings. My ancestors knew that human beings participate in the sacred web of existence; and that all beings, from birds to the four-legged animals of the forest, from rivers to the sun, are alive, have thought and have affection. We living beings come from a common source, we are related and we must respect our space, each other’s life and not abuse each other. My art tries to express this relationship with nature and with the spiritual worlds; and also an ecological ethic that seeks balance with others. My grandmothers taught me that women artists must participate in the creation of life by generating more beauty, bringing the splendorous beauty of the spiritual realms into our world. The kene designs, which they had inherited from their mothers, were inspired by nature and the spirits; and with these designs they embellished their clothes, their houses, their tools, so that everything they looked at would be beautiful. The rhythmic geometry of the kene always seeks to generate a dynamic symmetry, a balance, a complementation and an order in which each element occupies its rightful place. My art and poetry, like the chants of the traditional healers, is dedicated to beauty and aims to express the radiance of the spiritual worlds, to share with humanity a little clarity, calm, silence and love for the earth, in this era of fear and violence.
As a Shipibo woman, I embroider kene designs. The kene allows me to express my artistic sensibility and the philosophical and affective depth of my thoughts. Although many mestizos and foreigners appreciate the beauty of our designs, few understand the deep affective and spiritual meanings they have for us. For a Shipibo artist, design is inseparable from her mother’s affection, the love of her aunts, the good thoughts of her grandmothers, the afternoons shared with her family, the care given in the early years, the laughter and the advice received. I cannot speak of the kene in the cold and distant language demanded by modern academies: for me, design is affection and memory, and in it is intertwined the wisdom of my mother with the compassion of her gaze; I feel her breathing and the beating of her heart against my chest when she hugged me as a child, the sweetness of her songs, the thread of the stories she told us and which link us to our ancestors. The kene always brings back to me the memory of her care and attention, and even the labour pains with which she brought me into the world. As my mother is already absent, in the kene I remember the tears of separation, the fleetingness of our passage on this earth, but also the certainty of continuity, that one day I will meet my ancestors again. The kene is a symbol of our cultural identity and of our relationship with the rivers and forests of the Amazon.
The master plants teach us the art of design. These plants draw their strength from the breath of the earth, the light of the sun, the moon and stars, and the rain. They also have spiritual Owners who care for them and pass on their knowledge and medicinal powers to those who use them respectfully and wisely. Our grandparents taught us to relate to medicinal plants in the right way. To learn from them, you have to take them and bathe with the leaves; and then you have to fast and spend a long time without eating salt, without chilli, without sex, without drinking alcohol, without oil, without eating the meat of wild animals, without the sun or the rain hitting your body. We have to sleep in the forest, in a small hut far from the family. Medicinal plants purify us. Our blood becomes like the sap of plants and the smell of our body takes on the scent of plants. Then, little by little, the spiritual Owners of medicine, come to us and teach us how to cure the sick, and transmit healing songs to us. After many years of fasting and abstinence, one becomes a wise Onanya. Visionary healers know how to connect with the Spirit worlds. And with the power of their words they summon plant medicine. The vibrations of the Onanya’s chants cures the illnesses of the patients. Although my poems are not healing songs in a strict sense, they are meant to be a contribution to the well-being of humanity; I try that my poems and my art remind human beings about the supra-sensible worlds, because, as the elders taught us, we always need to receive help from the spiritual Owners of medicine in order to live well, and to realise ourselves fully, with wisdom and goodness.
The Onanyas learn from the spiritual Owners of the plants how to elevate their souls. With the power of their thought, the visionary sages converse with the water world, with the depths of the earth, with the mountains and the trees, with the world of stones and with the wind. Some visionary healers know how to clothe themselves in the shining robe of the hummingbird, and with it they ascend to the depths of the sky, to the sun and the stars. And in their dreams and visions, the healers go to visit the spirits of the forest, the Chaikonibo spirits, who live in a beautiful, shining world. These beings are hidden between the jungle’s trees, far from the modern world. They live just like the elders; their way of life has never changed. When the healers in their dreams and visions come to the houses of the Chaikonibo, they see them well groomed, as in the ancient ani sheati feasts, dancing hand in hand, joyful. These perfect beings have good thoughts and never argue with each other. They are expert hunters, canoe paddlers and fishermen. They live in harmony with all that exists. If we meet them in our dreams, we feel very happy to see how beautiful the life of our ancestors was. Today, indigenous nations under the demands of modernity have moved away from our ancestral territories. But if we do not want to change who we are, we must always remember our origins and not lose the teachings of our grandparents. The knowledge of our ancestors is alive; if we listen to the elders’ advice, we can preserve our dignity in the midst of the difficulties and challenges of our time.
We know that trees prevent soil erosion in the rainy season; that when their leaves fall and decompose on the ground, they donate nutrients to the soil; that many small creatures, such as ants and birds, live off trees; we know that trees provide shade and allow us to cool off under them from the inclemency of the hot days of the Amazon; we know that they retain humidity and water; that they purify the air and exhale oxygen. The trees and the territory that our ancestors bequeathed to us are our great wealth. We know how to talk to all living beings and respect them; and this is the knowledge that the modern civilization needs to stop destroying the planet. We take care of the forest because we think about the life and health of our children. When we damage the forest, we damage ourselves; on the other hand, when we are aware that the forest and our heart share the same breath, when our breath is united with that of the forest, our creativity increases and we preserve our health (in a holistic sense). If we continue to destroy nature, our future will be a sick one. We must live generously and respectfully, caring for the earth as we care for our mothers and our own bodies.
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Endnotes
- Masato (made from manioc) and chicha (made from maize) are two traditional drinks that nourish and accompany the work of Amazonian men and women.
Pedro Favaron / Chonon Bensho