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“I always wonder what that moment must have been like. And a movie plays in my mind. Did my people ever wear running shoes to run through the mountains? Or did my ancestors walk barefoot through the thorns? Can you imagine the old women not being able to run?”

Fiorella Anahí Gómez, a young Qom artist and great-granddaughter of survivors, brightens when she talks about this. She lives in the Aboriginal Colony (Chaco), where the Napalpí Reduction operated, the epicenter of the massacre perpetrated on July 19 , 1924.

Her grandmother Matilde Romualdo and her grandfather Salustiano Romualdo were witnesses in the Truth Trial held in 2022. The verdict was simultaneously translated into the Qom and Moqoit languages, and Federal Judge Zunilda Niremperger of Resistencia ruled that the National State was responsible for the Napalpí Massacre. She considered that these were crimes against humanity committed within the framework of a process of genocide against Indigenous peoples . The ruling, among other preparatory measures, urged the National Congress to designate July 19 as the National Day of Commemoration of the Napalpí Massacre.

What happened in Napalpí?

The "Napalpí Indian Reduction" was part of a concentration camp system of subjugation of the native population that survived the "Green Desert" campaigns. There, the indigenous population was subjected to forced labor: while men had to cut down hundreds of thousands of native trees with axes to supply the timber industry and the state itself, women and children were forced to work in the harvest, almost always cotton. Reports from the time speak of violence, disease, hunger, and even torture. These were the living conditions imposed on them by the state. 

In 1924, hundreds of Qom and Moqoit indigenous people gathered in the Aguará area (within the reservation) to protest a decree prohibiting them from working outside that area. They also demanded a reduction in harvest prices, improved health conditions, food, and labor exploitation, among other issues.

Qom chiefs Dionisio Gómez and José Machado, and Pedro Maidana and Mercedes Dominga among the Moqoit, spoke with authorities as leaders of the protest. Meanwhile, the repressive forces of the state, with the support of Creole settlers, unleashed their full ferocity on Indigenous bodies by land and air. It was the first time in Argentine history that an airplane was used to repress the civilian population. 

The persecution continued for days in the mountains. Bodies burned in mass graves. Women and girls raped. Testicular mutilations displayed as trophies. A deep-rooted terror, and silence as a collective survival strategy. 

Viviana: Teaching and learning in a massacred territory

Viviana Notagay is a Qom teacher, mother, and member of the Colonia Aborigen community. She works at School No. 14. “I attended the school where I teach today. I was never told about the massacre. I heard about it within my family, very briefly, because of the fear that existed. I only found out about it in my final year of teacher training, following an incident of discrimination against siblings who were speakers. That led us to investigate the cause of the loss of our language, and that's where Napalpí came in. We are Indigenous, but we were born in a massacred territory .”

When Viviana was a child, “nothing at all” was said about the Napalpí massacre. Like other women, she began asking questions. Families acknowledged the massacre but couldn't identify themselves as Indigenous people. “They had to keep their culture silent to protect our lives together .”

Patricia: “The one who told the story was my grandmother.”

Patricia Villalba, a Moqoit woman, was able to attend school until third grade, but no one spoke to her about it. She is from La Tigra, Chaco. Her grandmother did tell her stories. “My grandfather changed his name after the massacre. And he never said anything. He went, worked, fed us, and that was it. The one who told the story was my grandmother, Dorinda Gómez. She told us that several people changed their names and even their ages, out of fear. It was said that those with white skin decided whether you were left alive .”

She has seven children and is separated. Months ago, she had to migrate to the Buenos Aires suburbs in search of work so they could continue their studies. She lives in Avellaneda (Buenos Aires), caring for a 97-year-old grandmother. Her ex-partner, a Creole, never wanted Moqoit spoken in their home. “I'm just now telling my children the story of Napalpí. And how painful it was, the blood that was shed from our communities, from our siblings, from my grandmother's family. What happened still needs to be made known. Teachers don't know. Not everyone is as lucky as I was with my grandmother .”

How the community research was conducted

In 2008, Juan Chico and Mario Fernández published the first book by Qom people about the Napalpí massacre, "The Voice of Blood," written in Spanish and Qom la'aqtac. Two years later, Juan Chico—an Indigenous historian, communicator, teacher, and activist—mobilized other members of the community to engage in a search for the truth, a collective, community-based investigation into the massacre. 

“In 2010,” Viviana recalls, “we had a conversation with Juan, where he suggested we work on Napalpí, to investigate who we are . That's when the Renacer Napalpí group was born. We traveled around the area, gathering oral histories from people in the community. They painfully told us everything that had happened. My father, for example, said that his grandmother Eme Ventura told him she had to bury half her body in the woods to hide .”

Fiorella: “Our grandparents knew, but out of fear, they didn’t want to talk.”

That investigation reached the home of Fiorella, the Qom artist and great-granddaughter of survivors. “When Brother Juan arrived, my grandmother refused to talk. But she told me that her grandmother, Lorenza Molina, was there and saw how the women were raped and abused. And when she managed to escape, she was shot in the eye. She always showed that her arm had a bullet scar. For a long time, they resisted in silence. It was bad to talk about Napalpí . I saw Creole people coming in to investigate, journalists and historians, and the community itself knew nothing about that story. Those who knew were our grandparents, who didn't want to talk .”

Juan is a key figure in the recovery of Napalpí's memories. "We were privileged to have him born in our territory," says Viviana, becoming emotional. During those searches, they found Rosa Grillo, a centenarian survivor of the massacre . They interviewed her in 2018 with the Human Rights Unit of the Federal Prosecutor's Office in Resistencia, and her statement was incorporated into testimony. Juan died of Covid on June 12, 2021, and did not live to see the Trial for Truth.

Fiorella, for her part, encouraged her grandmother Matilde to testify. That day, the elderly woman asked one of the prosecutors if she would be imprisoned afterward. “They're going to record me and then the police will come looking for me. And what am I going to do? I'm old, what am I going to be doing in jail?” she said. The fear of reprisals, almost a century later, was still intact.

Viviana, Patricia, and Fiorella were at the former ESMA (University of Buenos Aires) campus where two of the seven hearings of the trial were held. When they strolled through downtown Buenos Aires, they confirmed what they suspected: almost no one knew what had happened in Napalpí, nor did anyone know about the Truth Trial.

Indigenous women, representations and leadership 

For all three interviewees, Indigenous women's leadership is relatively new. While Chief Mercedes Dominga is a historical symbol of the Moqoit people , Patricia believes that occupying representative positions "is new for Indigenous women . No one imagines that I went to the Trial for Truth. The community doesn't know much about it. In my neighborhood, they hardly accept who they are: Indigenous peoples. No one speaks Moqoit there, precisely because of history and discrimination."

Fiorella points out that “many people question why we don't speak the language. What do you mean they're from the Aboriginal Colony and don't speak the language? And that hurts because we have a history that explains why our mother tongue was buried: because anyone who spoke it was hunted down .”

Talking about Napalpí isn't easy. "The questions are simple, but they're hard to answer," says Patricia, who feels "a mixture of anger, pain, and helplessness" when recalling the massacre. "There's no explanation for such cruelty, for showing no mercy and killing so many innocent children, grandparents, and parents. I'm proud to be a Moqoit person. To be a descendant of some of the Napalpí survivors. What I would have given to have my grandmother with me and tell her that justice was done, that the truth was known .

All three agree: truth is not a goal but a foundation from which to build a more just life for the community. Patricia emphasizes: “ Murders due to gender violence continue to occur in our community. Some come to light, and others don't. They remain in fear, and no one does anything .” And Fiorella adds that “Indigenous girls are raped, they are thrown away like garbage. In the same news, they say that Creoles go out to 'hunt' Indigenous people. That's very shocking. It's still happening.”

What happened after the Truth Trial

Are the reparation measures indicated in the ruling being fulfilled? Has the life of the Aboriginal Colony community changed? “There is no historical reparation,” Patricia believes, “ if there are no schools, proper streets, a community hall, or drinking water . Our territories are being foreign-owned, small producers are selling their lands, and our natural resources are being devastated. Without a national awareness of the horrendous events in our history, they will continue to take our lands from us .”

Viviana believes that “beyond the resistance, the consequences of the massacre remain intact. For example, in the lack of recognition of access to healthcare, education, and housing. And today we continue to demand dignity for our people. May the State recognize each community's full right to access to justice .”

“Reaching a Truth Trial wasn't easy,” the teacher reflects. “It was a difficult process. We are rewarded by the State's recognition that it committed genocide against our Indigenous peoples, that we are part of a history that was never told. They wanted to exterminate us. And our ancestors remained silent. They remained and resisted. That's why we are here.”

Excerpt from Ayem Napa´lpi / I am Napalpí, by Juan Chico.

This article is illustrated with works from " Embroidering Struggles of Yesterday and Today ," a traveling exhibition by the collective "Embroidering Struggles" that is on display until August 12 at the Ethnographic Museum, Moreno 350 (CABA). It also features fragments of the collective mural that was created at the Paco Urondo Cultural Center as part of the "Napalpí: 100 Years after the Massacre" , organized by the UBACyT Project Memories, Resistances and Political Agencies of Indigenous Communities and Collectives. They were taken by Florencia Marmissolle and Luciana Mignoli.