12 ː Language on the Ground, ep. III

“We’re going to surprise Jimena for her birthday!” María squealed. We piled into Pablo’s pick-up truck, four in the front row, five in the back, and four in the bed, and sped down the valley road into Baños. We made a pit-stop at the edge of town, where Milena covertly purchased the cake and conceal it in the bed of the truck.

There was a lookout above the city with a swing and the statue of an eagle, popular for photo-ops among tourist crowds. While the young children took turns swinging, Jimena and I stood with the caretaker of the lookout, a tall, mestizo Ecuadorian man. We talked about his business. Tourism had stilled to a halt during the pandemic. Much of Baños had been burnt by the heavy lava flows of nearby Tungurahua a year earlier.

Our conversation eventually turned to my travels. I talked about my host family, referring to Jimena throughout. As we kept chatting, I noticed his reluctance to acknowledge Jimena’s presence. We talked about my Quichua studies and my time in Salasaka, and he responded with curiosity, acting as if a Quichua wasn’t standing with us in the group. That night, I began to understand another level of struggle which this family and the Quichua of Ecuador face.

We dined at a KFC, which is much popular globally than one might expect. The cake came out, and Jimena began to weep. “I do not deserve this. I do not need celebration. Nothing can turn my sorrow into joy.” Her husband tried to console her, but soon he was wiping away his own tears.

It had hardly been a year since both of their children passed. Their son, 24, and daughter, 21, contacted Covid-19. They slept quarantined in a bedroom, where a fire was lit to keep them warm, at the direction of the local healer. The room was poorly ventilated, and the family awoke to the horror of their children lying in bed, asphyxiated.

Central plaza of Baños, a tourist town near Salasaka.

Language affects real people. Language policies have powerful implications on the ground, around the table, in the fields. Language informs identity, transforms character, and forms every aspect of the life of an individual and her community.

This is the story of a language which has faced struggles on all fronts, including those who claim to have the language’s best interests at heart. Taking stock of the history and effects of UQ, we would be wise to ask several questions and allow for margin in our solutions.

The first question I ask myself: Who am I to criticize people’s efforts to revitalize their language?

My time in Ecuador was powerful and formative, but it was hardly a month long. The premature relationships I formed were cut short by my departure, and I have no say in this community. Quichuas, like Indigenous groups world-wide, have suffered under the choices made by outsiders for too long. I hope to work with endangered language groups in the future. I hope to see myself as a guest and as a helper, providing linguistic resources if, when, and how they are requested from the community. “Language on the Ground” is not about me, but it is an opportunity for me to consolidate many of the things I have been learning about the complexity of language revitalization and communicate it with a wider audience. My words are not the final story for Salasaka. I pray and hope that by their continued efforts, their story is written for and by them in the language they value most.

Who holds the real authority in a language?

Language exists on all levels of human organization, from the individual to the family to local institutions to regional and national governments. It is wrapped up in identities, which are formed in relationships. If an individual’s relationship to their family and community is more significant than their relationship with a national group, or a pan-Indigenous idea, which will form a stronger identity, and which will hold more weight linguistically?

Should the traditional values of elder- and community-based authority be taken into account when dealing with language use?[1] Should communities consent to government agencies making sweeping choices about their children’s linguistic education, even if those agencies are run by fellow Quichuas?

How can standardization be done well?

Standards are good! They provide direction, consistency, and a foundation for many languages. As we have seen, however, the desire for standardization can be fraught with misconceptions about the linguistic needs of communities. For the answer to this question, I look to the leading voices in this field. Here are some insights and further questions that I found compelling, even provocative:

· A written form of a language does not necessarily need to be the main avenue of revitalization.[2] Creating a written standard in a primarily oral language has the potential of disrupting rather than reinforcing the ways in which the language has been passed on generationally throughout history. Literacy is a priceless tool, but it is also a very Western tool, looking through the lens of oral language groups colonized by Europeans. How can oral aspects of a language be emphasized: radio, storytelling, neighborhood events? Does Quichua need to have equal footing with Spanish in all areas? Can they co-exist, operating in respective domains?

· Let’s revisit the original goal of creating a local/universal divide.[3] How can educators be trained to teach a useful standard variety while promoting the value of local dialects? The UQ/AQ binary—unified vs. authentic—can the two complement each other rather than be at odds? Could a diglossic standard (literary and spoken, national and local) be stressed going forward, creating space for both unity and authenticity?

· Purism, however enticing, is toxic. The key to a flourishing language is flexibility and adaptability.[4] Let’s throw off that which so easily deters a language from being used, taught, and transmitted. Rigidity precludes resilience.

In asking these questions, I’ve uncovered more questions rather than answers. Language, like those who shape it and are shaped by it, is more complex than we can understand. The diversity of language showcases the sheer creativity and power of human minds, each one an image of the Eternal Mind. Each dialect, each idiom, each tiny variety is to be cherished and honored as such.

Central plaza of Salasaka

They’ve captured the president of CONAIE, Simon’s text read.

We had left Salasaka a day earlier than planned. We heard whispers of a protest, of a series of road blockades organized by the Indigenous coalition. From our motel near the Quito airport, we read headlines and received updates from Simon’s contacts in Salasaka.

I stayed in my room the whole day, held hostage in my bathroom by a stomach parasite for most of the time. To distract myself from my headache and intestinal pains, I watched videos of the protest, now metastasizing to many cities throughout the country. Military officers lobbed tear gas canisters over plastic shields and leveled rubber bullet rifles at crowds of Indigenous demonstrators. Education. The demonstrators, many of them Salasakans themselves, were decrying inequality in education.

Due to the road blockages, my host family ran out of gas for their kitchen and had to cook their food over a neighbor’s wood stove. Ora por mi país, my host mother texted. Pray for my country. So I prayed, and then I left.

After several cancelled flights and delayed departures over the following days, I was home in South Dakota. The Quichua I had learned and used and practiced atrophied rapidly. The language of Jimena, Enrique, Pablo, Milena, María, Efren, Selena—of Salasaka. A language which struggles against forces on all fronts: internal and external, educational and emotional, national and communal, individual and generational, structural and historical. My memory of this language faded, and I spent the rest of my summer never once wondering what it might be like to fight for my language. Not once did I feel the need to encourage my family and friends that our language was worth speaking and preserving.

[1] Grzech, K., Schwarz, A., Ennis, G. (2019). Divided we stand, unified we fall? The impact of standardisation on oral language varieties: a case study of Amazonian Kichwa. Revista de Llengua i Dret, Journal of Language and Law, (71), 123-145. [2] Grzech, Schwarz, Ennis (2019). [3] Hornberger, N. H., & King, K. A. (1999). Authenticity and unification in Quechua language planning. In S. May (Ed.), Indigenous community-based education (pp. 160-180). Multilingual Matters. [4] Hornberger & King (1999).