| Original Full Text | 1 Copyright by María del Pilar Villanueva Martínez 2024 2 The Dissertation Committee for María del Pilar Villanueva Martínez Certifies that this is the approved version of the following Dissertation: GEOGRAPHIES OF SONIC INTERSECTIONS: MAPPING BLACK AND INDIGENOUS WOMEN’S RAP MUSIC AND ACTIVISM IN CALI (COLOMBIA) AND OAXACA (MEXICO) Committee: Luis Cárcamo-Huechante, Supervisor Jossianna Arroyo Lorraine Leu Robin Moore Laura Gutierrez GEOGRAPHIES OF SONIC INTERSECTIONS: MAPPING BLACK AND INDIGENOUS WOMEN’S RAP MUSIC AND ACTIVISM IN CALI (COLOMBIA) AND OAXACA (MEXICO) by María del Pilar Villanueva Martínez Dissertation Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School of The University of Texas at Austin in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy The University of Texas at Austin August 2024 3 4 Dedication I dedicate this dissertation to all living beings who gave me the strength to walk this path every day, from my husband, friends and family to the rivers and trees that embraced and recharged me every moment. Without their love, tenderness, and company, this would not have been possible. I also thank and dedicate this work to the many women I met in Cali and Oaxaca who inspired this dissertation. This is an achievement that is more collective than personal. 5 Acknowledgements I want to thank all the women from the Aguablanca District in Cali and Oaxaca City who shared a little piece of their lives and stories with me. Thanks to the admirable women of the Casa Cultural el Chontaduro for opening the doors of their space and entrusting me with part of their life experiences, especially Mayora Elvira, Iris, Angela, Mauri, Andrea and the one who allowed me to meet them, Cynthia Montaño. I also recognize and thank Oaxacan women and rappers Yadhii, Doma Press and Mare Advertencia for our long conversations and their profound openness. Thanks also to the artists Daniela, Dayen, Jade, Luna, Mega, Wendy, La Piztola collective and Armarte in Oaxaca for enlightening me with their work. Without all of you, this work would not have been possible. My deepest gratitude to my supervisor, Luis Cárcamo-Huechante, for his support and guidance throughout these years. Thank you for receiving me with kindness and enthusiasm and supporting me since I was a prospective student. I appreciate that you always treated me as an equal while challenging my ideas to make them grow. You showed that it was possible to connect academia and community, making me grow as a critical and socially engaged scholar. You are a great example of a scholar of integrity, consistency and commitment. I am incredibly grateful for all the conversations and meals we shared as those moments permeated this academic life with friendship and community. My deep gratitude to my dissertation committee for reading my work, advising me and supporting me. Jossianna Arroyo, thank you for your openness to discuss my interests and ideas and for your affection and empathy in the face of the difficulties of 6 pursuing a doctorate. Thanks, Robin Moore, for accompanying and motivating me as I embarked on studying music and showing me how wonderful it could be. Laura Gutierrez, thank you for being an example of a scholar who cares about her students, both academically and personally, and for teaching me that it is possible to educate with love and support as well as critical thinking. Lorraine Ley, thank you for your support, attentive reading of my work, and insightful and sharp comments, which always made me reconsider my ideas in new ways. I would also like to thank the professors whose classes were a great source of inspiration for my research and intellectual enjoyment. Thank you, Pavitra Vassudevan and Lisa Thompson from the African and African Diaspora Studies, as well as Kelly McDonough, Paola Canova, and Martha Menchaca, affiliated with the Native American and Indigenous Studies Program (NAIS) at UT Austin. Special gratitude goes to the NAIS community, including staff, students, faculty and elders. This space became a refuge where comradery and community expanded beyond academics, allowing me to create bonds with people from whom I learned life lessons I will never forget. Heartful thanks to Elder Maestra Marika Alvarado and Of The Earth Healing for guiding me with their wisdom in difficult times, for their medicine, and for the women's circles; these were indispensable healing spaces during my years in Austin. Mañumkulen piwkemu lamgen Pablo Millálén, with whom we shared the long doctoral path, meant learning a lot from you and all the rich experiences and adventures we had together throughout these six years. I would not have found the will to continue without your friendship and empathy, especially during our writing sessions. Jéssica Sanchez, thank you for being a great friend and confidant, and for embarking together on the #LasdeAbiayala project. Thanks to my NAIPA comrades Kathy Tairo, Jermani Ojeda, Marial Quezada, Eduardo Gorobets, Apurva Gunturu, Raquel Buelto, Jaime Pérez González, Montserrat Madariaga, Angela Sonquo, Gladys Camacho Rios, Ruth 7 Matamorons, Elybeth Alcantar, Cheyenne Grubbs, Carolina Rodríguez, and Luis Avilés, for the laughter, conversations and organizing together. A deep and loving thank you to my Austin friends, particularly Nicolás Morales, who became one of my dearest and closest friends. You made Austin a safe place to laugh, celebrate, and trust each other. A warm thanks to Juan Tiney and Ana Lopez for their friendship. I treasure with great affection all the moments we spent together. I also embrace and thank with special affection the friends who always lifted my spirits and made me laugh and feel loved with their words and charisma: La Nico, Jessi, David, Sergi, Paula, Seba, Alemania, Constanza, Lucy, Camila, Daniela, Diana, Santiago, Jahaira, Paulina, Juan Pablo, Jan, Luis, Mercedes, Víctor, Cata, Sophie, Gabriel G., Tom, Ryan, Vitor, Rodri, Irene, Franco, Carlos, Jermani, and Kathy. Thanks also to my biological and chosen family, who have been present and supported me in every one of the adventures I have decided to pursue. To my life partner, Mohammed Elnaiem, thank you for your care, infinite kindness, understanding and unconditional support. Being with you makes me want to be the best version of myself. Thanks to my parents, Fabiola and Gustavo, for their unconditional love, to my siblings Matías, Constanza and Sofia for the fun moments and affection, and to my chosen siblings Bianca, Gabriela, Claudia R., Claudia M., Amaro, and Marcela for being my confidants. You all are part of who I am. One of the most essential spaces during my stay in Austin was the Austin Zen Center, which marked a milestone in my life. Thanks to the sangha of this place for their mindful practice and for sitting together, making zazen one of the most meaningful experiences in my life. Rev Choro, thank you from the bottom of my heart for your advice, listening, and loving kindness, which you conveyed to me every time I came to you with questions and concerns. Your words and presence the last two years have 8 transformed my understanding of who we are and what surrounds us. Your teaching will be with me wherever I go. Thank you, Drew, for your kindness, reception and long conversations about zen practice. I am also grateful to Ingen Breen, Rebecca and the Hebden Bridge sangha for their dedicated practice and openness when I came to the UK and for showing me that there will always be a space for zazen no matter where I am. Finally, I want to acknowledge and honor the territories in which this dissertation was produced. It was written primarily in the ancestral territories of Alabama-Coushatta, Caddo, Carrizo/Comecrudo, Coahuiltecan, Comanche, Kickapoo, Lipan Apache, Tonkawa, and Ysleta Del Sur Pueblo lands, which together encompass what is now known as Texas, due to settler capitalist states. My ethnographic fieldwork was conducted in the Zapotec and Mixtec lands of Oaxaca and in the Guanaca, Nasa, Embera, and Eperara Siapidara lands of Cali, where enslaved Africans were also brought. I expand my gratitude to the Indigenous and Black communities and their spaces in these lands. 9 “And life is like a song.” –Etta James10 Abstract Geographies of Sonic Intersections: Mapping Black and Indigenous Women’s Rap Music and Activism in Cali (Colombia) and Oaxaca (Mexico) Pilar Villanueva Martínez, Ph.D. The University of Texas at Austin, 2024 Supervisor: Luis Cárcamo-Huechante This thesis offers a critical study of rap/urban music by Black and Indigenous women in Cali, Colombia, and Oaxaca, Mexico, from a geographical perspective. Specifically, it focuses on the work of Afro-Colombian singer Cynthia Montaño from Cali, Colombia and Zapotec rappers Mare Advertencia, Yadhii (YBOZ) and Doma Press from Oaxaca, Mexico. Through in-depth interviews, community collaborations and an exhaustive literary, sonic and visual analysis, I argue that rap, as a territorially situated practice, weaves together sound, body, space and ancestral Black and Indigenous knowledges to create what I call geographies of sonic intersections. These geographies are framed in Black and Indigenous ways of producing spaces according to their 11 knowledge and, at the same time, it represents a practice of liberation from geographies of elimination –shaped by colonialism, capitalism and patriarchy. The history of the formation of the Oaxaca City and Cali accounts for different systems of elimination based on the domination, dispossession, and segregation of Black and Indigenous women pushed to the margins of the city. The music of Cynthia Montaño, YBOZ, Doma Press and Mare Advertencia is born from these experiences of violence produced by geographies of elimination in their bodies, communities, and territories inside and outside the city. Through voice, sound and body, these artists seek to counteract these geographies by remapping the city and going beyond the urban spatiality that characterizes rap. Instead, through sound and community activism, they bring to the city Black and Indigenous spatialities born from these experiences, knowledges and territories located outside the urban space. In this way, the work of these artists represents sonic intersections to embody raptivism –rap linked to activism– as a geopolitical practice to produce free and safe spaces for Black and Indigenous women in the hip-hop scene, the city, and beyond. This transnational research employs an interdisciplinary and intersectional approach to the study of rap and activism by Black and Indigenous women, contributing to the fields of cultural and human geographies, critical Indigenous studies, Black studies, and related areas. Using decolonizing and feminist methods as well as cultural analysis it provides new ways of approaching and understanding the relationships between sound, space, and Black and Indigenous women's struggles in Latin America. 12 Table of Contents List of Figures ....................................................................................................................15 INTRODUCTION ..................................................................................................................18 Rap and Space ...........................................................................................................21 Black and Indigenous Geographies ..........................................................................27 Feminisms, Space and the Body ...............................................................................36 Methodology .............................................................................................................40 Positionality ..............................................................................................................45 Dissertation Organization .........................................................................................49 PART I ..............................................................................................................................53 CHAPTER 1 ......................................................................................................................53 Sounding Blackness: Mapping Cali Through Cynthia Montaño’s Music and Stories ......53 The Colonial Formation of Cali and the Aguablanca District ..................................59 Cynthia Montaño’s Soundscapes: Embodied Instruments, Rhythms and Flavors ...74 Festival Internacional Petronio Álvarez & Community Responses .........................84 Remapping the Territory, Celebrating Blackness .....................................................96 Conclusion ..............................................................................................................108 CHAPTER 2 ....................................................................................................................113 Cimarrona Strategies: Cynthia Montaño and Black Women Anti-Patriarchal Alliances 113 Black Women in Patriarchal and Racialized Cityspaces ........................................115 Entering Casa Cultural El Chontaduro Through Montaño’s Sounds .....................126 “Cuando sana la tierra, sanamos nosotras”: Black Women and Community Practices of Healing ..........................................................................................142 13 A Cimarrona Geography: Reclaiming the Body and the Territory ........................148 Conclusion ..............................................................................................................155 PART II ...........................................................................................................................157 CHAPTER 3 ....................................................................................................................157 Zapotec Women’s Rap: Community Hip-Hop and Spaces of Domination in Oaxaca ....157 Zapotec Women Rappers in Oaxaca .......................................................................162 A Colonial Space on Zapotec Lands .......................................................................166 City Sounds, Rebel Rhymes: Women ‘Hip-Hop Community’...............................183 Rapping Space: Mare, Yadhii, and Doma Behind the Scenes ................................192 Echoes from Hell: Zapotec Rhymes Against Spaces of Domination .....................199 Recovering the Roots, Contesting Neoliberal Settler Spaces .................................208 Conclusion ..............................................................................................................221 CHAPTER 4 ....................................................................................................................224 Sounding Indigenous Body-Spaces Against Patriarchy ..................................................224 Colonial Patriarchy and Indigenous Complementarity ...........................................228 Women at the Forefront: Social Uprising in Oaxaca City ......................................233 “Oídos Necios Reventando”: Zapotec Rappers Seizing the Mic and the Word .....241 Aesthetics Against Femicide: Space, Body, and Memory ......................................247 The Right to the City amid Gendered violence ......................................................257 Healing the Space-Body Through Zapotec Women’s Knowledge .........................268 Conclusion ..............................................................................................................281 14 CONCLUSION ..............................................................................................................283 Bibliography ....................................................................................................................288 15 List of Figures Figure 1: Posters made and printed by La Linterna Cali Ltda, a Cali letterpress printing shop and center. ...............................................................................53 Figure 2 Map of the Pacific Coast in Colombia, highlighting its 5 Departments and municipalities. Source: ¡Kilele! Cultura e Identidad del Pacífico Sur Colombiano en Cali (1970-2020) by González Riaño (2020). .....................62 Figure 3: Map of Cali between 1882 and 1884, updated in 1945 by Mario de Caicedo. Source: Atlas Histórico de Cali, siglos XVIII – XXI (Eusse González et al. 2019) ....................................................................................64 Figure 4: The maps of Cali as an adaptation by the author, using recovered photos from Atlas Histórico de Cali (Eusse González et al. 2019). .........................66 Figure 5: Formación barrial del Distrito de Aguablanca. Fuente: DAPM, en Unidad de Planificación Urbana 4 Aguablanca, Alcaldía ............................69 Figure 6: Screenshots taken by the author from video clip of "Chontaduro" song available on Youtube. ...................................................................................95 Figure 7: Screenshots from the video clip of "Puro Pacifico" by Cynthia Montaño, taken by the author. .....................................................................................102 Figure 8: Screenshot captured by the author from "Invasión Costeña" music video. Cynthia Montaño sings in Plazoleta Jairo Varela. ......................................106 Figure 9: Sculpture "La Negra del Chontaduro." Photo taken by author in June, 202...............................................................................................................116 Figure 10: Members of the San Fernando Club during a New Year's Eve traditional party. Fuente: El Espectador (Rodriguez 2021) ..........................................118 16 Figure 11: Photograph of the exhibition "El Testigo" by Jesús Abad Rodríguez, taken by the author. .....................................................................................121 Figure 12: Photograph of the exhibition "El Testigo" by Jesús Abad Rodríguez, taken by the author. .....................................................................................122 Figure 13: Photo of the Casa Cultural el Chontaduro from the outside, taken by the author. .........................................................................................................128 Figure 14: Map of the eight geographic regions and districts into which Oaxaca is divided. Source: Wikimedia........................................................................167 Figure 15: Map of the current territories of the peoples and nations of Oaxaca by the Kolectivo Mixe. Source: Koletivo Mixe Twitter (@Colmixe) .............169 Figure 16: SiempreViva album cover. Source: Facebook Mare Advertencia Lirika. ...194 Figure 17: Inside SiempreViva album. Source: Facebook Mare Advertencia Lirika. ..195 Figure 18: EP Vergel, July 2023. Fuente Spotify YBOZ .............................................198 Figure 19: A screenshot of the song "Bienvenidx" video clip by Mare Advertencia, available on Youtube. .................................................................................202 Figure 20: Screenshots of Yadhii MC's "Pandemic" music video, available on his Facebook. ....................................................................................................213 Figure 21: Screenshot of the videoclip "Mujer Maiz" by Mare Advertencia Lirika. Available on Youtube. ................................................................................217 Figure 22: Screen captures taken by the author from Yadhii’s music video “Hoy por ti”.................................................................................................................250 Figure 23: Screen captures taken by author from Mare’s music videos “Incómoda” and “Libres y Vivas.” ..................................................................................256 17 Figure 24: Screenshot taken by the author in which we can see a picture of Jazmín Zárate in the music video “Ella no volvió,” by Ballín, Neto Reyno, and D. Amor. Available on Youtube. ................................................................265 Figure 25: Image made by the author with the screenshots of Mare's video "Luna", available on his Youtube channel. ..............................................................276 18 INTRODUCTION On a hot and humid afternoon in Cali, Afro-Colombian artist Cynthia Montaño and I discussed her music and questions of healing. With a voice sharper than her songs, confident and affectionate, she told me, Well, healing and my music... At first, because of all the needs and difficulties I was experiencing in the territory, I felt that music and art had to be a tool to help transform those social situations in the territory. And that has been achieved with the work, communities, and social organizations. [...] Healing and my music play a vital role because I make catharsis through music and my artistic creation. I do catharsis of many things and try to generate vibrations that move people inside and generate reflections. Those reflections then become the same people's actions, and their lives are transformed.1 Montaño's first words on the question of healing were unexpected. I thought the answer would address a more psychological or psychosomatic approach—revealing my Western perspective on the subject—but her reflection took me into her territory and my role as her audience instead. These elements guided my approach to Cynthia Montaño as she opened her community's doors, spaces, and the embodied history that brings her music to life. Similarly, while conducting research in Oaxaca, I had long conversations with Zapotec rapper Doma Press. When I first met her, hip-hop became a topic at the core of our dialogue. Reflecting on hip-hop, she offered me her Indigenous perspective on this type of musical practice and her social impact, I think it is an updated way of living the oral culture. And I say updated because of how it reaches us [...] Hip-hop speaks of a rescue of the cultures of ancestors... where it was born, it was purely people that needed to hold on to what they were 1 Cynthia Montaño, interview by author, Cali, June 8, 2022. 19 in a context where they wanted to erase them, erase their identity, and turn them into labor or capital, nothing more, human capital for cheap labor. So, it is like remembering that we can, in this context, act as human capital to generate capital, but we are not that. In principle, we come from something, from history, a history that has culture and values in itself. So, I think that if we are going to talk about hip-hop, we must speak about that.2 With her voice somewhat low and severe but simultaneously transmitting an affectionate kindness, Doma Press evokes multiple elements that permeate hip-hop culture in just a few lines. Rap is history, orality, ancestry, unity, and resistance. Although Doma also confesses that rap has been a personal therapeutic tool, a feeling shared by Zapotec rapper Yadhii (YBOZ), who defines rap as an “emotional release tool,”3 she characterizes it through the sense of collectivity. For Doma, rap and hip hop ultimately present an alternative to the current global economic structure. A similar conception is held by Mare Advertencia Lirika, a pioneer of rap in Oaxaca and an inspiration for many female rappers in this and other territories. Although my conversations with Mare were shorter, I could feel her words' power and her voice's overflowing confidence reflecting the anti-history of Oaxaca and hip hop. As she once stated, All the people who have been here know that at any moment, you can have a manifestation, a blockade, a scratch, or something. That helped us to be able to organize ourselves as a hip-hop community or as a youth in these cultural dissidents and also to have a political conscience. I do feel that much of what I can share comes from the context that I went through -as a Zapotec peripheral migrant- and growing up alongside a social movement that I learned from. I learned a lot about unionism and the defense of the territory, but from seeing it, from listening to the people who were fighting, who continue to this day. To this day, the [Indigenous] peoples continue to resist, many organizations continue to 2 Doma Press, interview by author, Oaxaca, August 14, 2022. 3 Yadhii YBOZ, interview by author, Oaxaca, August, 2022. 20 raise their voices, and I feel that it was a little incongruent of me not to be part of this, that is, not to follow this political issue, not to act (2020, 10:47). As I passed through this Oaxaca City, not only did I hear Mare mentioned by many people I talked to and shared with, but the songs themselves came to life as I inhabited the city. I quickly realized that arriving at Mare’s music meant listening to Oaxaca and vice versa. Social movements speaking through walls and women protesting against femicide amidst the tourist commotion of the Guelaguetza were the landscapes that accompanied my route through the rap of Oaxacan Zapotec women and their hip-hop community. In this dissertation, I approach Cynthia Montaño, Mare, Yadhii and Doma, more than “artists of rhythm and poetry”–rap acronyms–as intellectuals and cultural producers who engage politically in land and space relations, challenging dominant power structures to contest them. In this sense, their work is close to what Gramsci (1971) called "organic intellectuals" since they build their work from the experiences of personal and collective oppression in the city and the communities to transform this embodied knowledge into action and social change. However, I argue that the particularity of these women's rap is that it also uses knowledges and practices linked to the Afro-Diasporic and Indigenous peoples of Colombia and Mexico, respectively, to rewrite the urban map. Consequently, even more than organic intellectuals, they become engaged artists who remap and remake urban space and territory to recreate Black and Indigenous geographies through music. Likewise, I seek to unveil how rap becomes a sonic geographic act that aims to denounce, from an intersectional perspective, the colonial, 21 capitalist, and patriarchal power relations in the private and public spaces they inhabit. To this end, I focus on how these women use body and sound –as part of the same phenomenon– as central elements to draw a new map framed on Black and Indigenous geographies, which include oral history, migratory trajectories, political resistance, and the preservation of their knowledges in Cali and Oaxaca. According to the above, the overall research questions that guide this research are: What do the music, political organization, and daily life of Black and Indigenous women rappers from Cali and Oaxaca, respectively, tell us about urban space and the power structures present in it? What strategies do these women rappers use to respond to colonial, capitalist and patriarchal hierarchies in their communities and territories? Moreover, how do these women redefine urban space and the city while engaging with the community from an intersectional perspective? RAP AND SPACE In this study, rap becomes a tool for bearing witness to urban life, particularly the realities faced by racialized women in marginalized neighborhoods in Cali and Oaxaca. Across Latin America, rap has served as a narrative of the enduring consequences of colonialism and neoliberalism, portraying an intimate connection between space and power structures. Acknowledging these power relations also means acknowledging patterns of dispossession and elimination towards Black and Indigenous communities. For this reason, in this study that approaches rap from a perspective of gender, class, race, indigeneity, and sexuality, it is more appropriate to speak of Améfrika Ladina (Gonzalez 22 1988). On the other hand, Native leaders and intellectuals have recovered ancestral ways of naming the continent. Maya scholar Emil Keme suggested the Kuna word Abiayala to name the continent, as it represents the struggle of Indigenous peoples to protect their territory and autonomy. Keme writes, “Renaming the continent would be the first step toward epistemic decolonization and the establishment of indigenous peoples’ autonomy and self-determination” (Escalante 2014, 101). Throughout the dissertation, I juxtapose and interweave Améfrica/Abiayala to critically engage both race and indigeneity, recognizing the history and influence of Indigenous and Black resistance movements against power structures in the region and rap. Rap spread in Améfrika Ladina/Abiayala during the 90s, but its roots trace back to the 1960s and 1970s when it began narrating the unfolding stories within New York's ghettos and gangs, eventually spreading to the West Coast and other U.S. cities. These narratives often tackled themes like addictions, poverty, misogyny, and gang violence, which stirred controversy among the general public. Protest lyrics soon emerged, with N.W.A's iconic track "F**k the Police" garnering significant attention and even FBI scrutiny. Despite the controversies, rap music's influence rapidly expanded, becoming the most famous music genre on the Billboard Hot 100 by the 1990s (The Atlantic) . During this period, the world witnessed the global proliferation of hip-hop culture outside the United States, which was diversified by mass media and migration and explored a broader range of themes. Given Améfrika Ladina/Abiayala's territorial proximity to the United States and shared experiences of a similar economic system, hip-hop culture quickly found a space among marginalized youth in low-income urban neighborhoods. 23 The economic, social, and political circumstances encountered in the Bronx that gave rise to hip-hop culture bear striking similarities to the Latin American context. Scholar Norell Martínez highlights that "the same capitalist forces that caused economic divestment in the South Bronx were integral to a global economic restructuring project that would also affect the economies of Latin America in the upcoming decades." (2018, 64) Indeed, the emergence and dissemination of hip-hop culture in Améfrika Ladina/Abiayala in the 1990s coincided with the violet entry of neoliberal policies with initiatives such as the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) in Mexico or the Economic Modernization Program in Colombia. These policies catalyzed the rise of numerous rappers who found rap music to be an effective platform for articulating the consequences of privatization, militarization, foreign companies' unrestricted access to natural resources, the criminalization of protests, and racial violence. Consequently, across various geographical locations where hip-hop emerged, it was predominantly the working-class, racially marginalized, and impoverished youth who adopted rap as a means of expressing their lived experiences, given their exclusion from institutional and public spaces. Hence, identifying with hip-hop culture stems from belonging to the barrio, a community, or the experience of inhabiting marginalized and often racialized urban neighborhoods—life at the bottom of the social hierarchy. Tricia Rose's seminal work in hip-hop studies, Black Noise, recognized the intimate connection between rap and space. Rose's work emphasizes how hip-hop "replicates and reimagines the experiences of urban life and symbolically appropriates urban space." (1994, 22) However, despite the growth of hip-hop studies and this 24 intimate connection between rap and space, only some scholars have explored rap from its geographical perspective. Perhaps the most prominent work about this relationship is scholar Murray Forman's The Hood Comes First: Race, Space and Place in Rap and Hip-Hop (2002). In this book, the author emphasizes that rap music makes the city an "audible presence" by taking it as the primary basis of its production. Forman focuses on American hip-hop culture to explore how its members articulate "subjective and collective identities, urban experience, racial consciousness, and spatially structured patterns of power” (2002, xviii). His work analyzes rap as a spatial practice framed through race, nation, and the hood, uncovering how hip-hop culture and rappers construct urban space and place discourses. Similarly, geographer Rashad Shabazz (2015) delved into the spatiality of rap to explore how Black men use it to counter white hegemonic masculinity and spatialize Blackness in places from which they have been excluded. The conceptualization of Shabazz and Murray around the production of urban space and the role of rap are undoubtedly vital to understanding and highlighting the spatial discourses of this musical genre and cultural movement. However, as both studies are focused on U.S. rap and mainly from the perspective of the men, this framework is insufficient to understand the rap of Afro-Colombian artist Cynthia Montaño, Zapotec rappers Mare, Yadhii and Doma and the complex web of intersectionalities they weave. For this reason, although I take as a basis this relationship between urban space and hip hop, in my dissertation, I argue that rap not only redefines this space according to the experiences of dispossession in the city but does so through practices and knowledge rooted in the Black and Indigenous 25 communities that inhabit more rural areas. I argue that the boundary between the urban and the rural thus becomes a blurred space in rap, turning this musical genre into a liminal space. Therefore, through action and poetics, the rap and praxis of these artists create a dialogue and interdependency between these two spaces, which are commonly perceived as divided. As hip-hop has spread worldwide, breaking nation-state boundaries, the global scene is often called hip-hop nation. This is defined as a space of transnational expression linked to social consciousness and neighborhood culture and with origins in the struggles of Afro-descendant communities (Tiongson 2013; Imre 2007; Alim 2002; Keyes 2004). This umbrella term has considered the relationships between alternative citizenships, nationalities, and rap (Perry 2008; Baker 2017; Cheney 2005). At the same time, it has assertively characterized the global aspect of hip hop and the local –commonly referred to as the street, the neighborhood, the city–. Now, my research points out that the 'local' encompasses networks of solidarity between Black and Indigenous populations, generating instead hip-hop communities that cannot be confined to the urban space. Thus, although Montaño, Yadhii, Mare and Doma make their music primarily in the city, they are in constant connection with the communities they come from, either by bringing rap to the communities in the 'rural' spaces or by bringing the ancestral knowledge that is woven within them to the city, through music and practices of mutual aid. In this way, the formation of hip-hop communities not only represents groups of rappers who are part of the scene and do similar work but is a way of intertwining the personal and the ancestral forms of collectivity in their space. 26 As part of the scene, hip-hop communities are not free of problems, and one of the biggest has been the domination of male voices and the perpetuation of patriarchal dynamics. Zapotec women rappers told me how some of their experiences represent this patriarchal exclusion in the scene: during concerts, they are put to rap at times with less audience; on posters, their names are in smaller letters compared to those of male MCs; and even some men have insinuated that their presence in the scene is due to affairs with a male rapper. Scholars have explored and affirmed how rap has been constituted as reaffirming and reproducing patriarchal power dynamics (Norfleet 2014; Rose 1994; Cheney 2005). Now, scholar Whitney Peoples expanded on this by acknowledging the sexism of the scene as part of what makes rap an object of consumption in the marketplace, "Much of mainstream rap music has been reduced to a never-ending obsession with monetary gain, appropriation of patriarchal notions of power, material possession, partying, women, and sex, all of which are secured and protected through the hyper-masculine threat of violence. Mainstream rap music is most easily commodified because it represents ideas of blackness that are in line with dominant racist and sexist ideologies" (2008, 24). Many women who enter the rap scene have to cope with these patriarchal power relations but, in the case of racialized women, they also do so while forging race/class alliances with men in their communities. Black and Indigenous Women artists have done something similar in Cali and Oaxaca. They have formed community ties while denouncing gender and sexual violence both in the rap scene and in the spaces they inhabit, including their communities. 27 The musical projects of these artists are far from the mainstream rap logic described by Peoples in the quote above. On the contrary, from the production to the music content, Montaño, Yadhii, Doma, and Mare challenge the millionaire hip-hop industry and its values. They either work independently or sign with independent music labels; they are managers of their artistic projects, and their lyrics and aesthetics denounce not only sexual and gender violence but also the dispossessions of the capitalist-neoliberal economic system and colonial legacies. Rap in this study is understood as constituting territory and safe spaces from the embodied and intersectional experience of women rappers, using and transmitting the traditions of the Black and Indigenous communities of Cali and Oaxaca. Rap thus represents a response to the different types of violence that have shaped space and territorial relations, from the history of land ownership to racial/spatial segregation. BLACK AND INDIGENOUS GEOGRAPHIES “Rap music takes the city and its multiple spaces as the foundation of its cultural production” (Forman 2004, 203), but what are the foundations of these spaces? The cities of Oaxaca and Cali are intertwined with colonial and neoliberal structures. They have served as a foundation for settlers to build their spaces, often using Black and Indigenous labor and making them subjects of land dispossession and exploitation. Black and Indigenous artists have addressed and denounced these power formations, embodying their work with their daily experiences. Their representation of space ranges from the transnational realm of the African diaspora and the global south to local representations 28 such as Indigenous collective lands in more rural areas. A common thread persists in these representations: experiences of dispossession due to neoliberal-capitalist and colonial systems and, simultaneously, the re-signification and production of spaces drawing from ancestral knowledge. In my research, I draw attention to how women rappers produce space in the face of hierarchical and dispossessive socio-spatial relations constituted by systems of power that gave shape to the city. The production of space is a concept by Henri Lefebvre (1991) in which spaces are seen as ‘socially produced.’ For Lefebvre, under capitalism, the ruling elite and urban planners beholden to them tend to dominate how spaces are perceived, conceived and lived on both the cognitive and physical planes. For those who fight for their right to the city, spatial practices can be ways of contesting this domination –a topic that will be developed in depth in this dissertation. In this dissertation, I focus on Black and Indigenous women’s raptivism (the connection of rap and activism) as of spatial practices –forms of socially producing space– which allow them to wrestle with the monopoly over the production of space that neoliberal-settler colonial cities try to maintain. Scholars Wolfe and Lloyd (2015) suggest that neoliberal states and practices should be understood within a settler colonialist framework. Settler colonialism, as Wolfe posits, "consists in a negative articulation between the invaders and the land" (1999, 27), embedding a logic of elimination against the native population. The primary motivation for this elimination is access to land (Wolfe 2006). Chickasaw scholar Shannon Speed (2017) expanded this concept by looking at the specificities of Latin American settler 29 colonialism, pointing out that neoliberalism –as the subsequent face of capitalism–reinforced land dispossession while also continuing to force Indigenous peoples to work the same land that was expropriated to them. The connection between these settler colonial logics and the neoliberal global order now resides in managing surplus populations in the cities, which, while produced by capitalism, also obstruct it. This phenomenon represents a shift from early primitive accumulation, where settlers seized land and resources from Indigenous populations to a new regime of accumulation that geographer David Harvey calls "accumulation by dispossession" (2012; 2017). This new regime of accumulation is characterized by neoliberal economic practices that have led to the reactivation of settler colonial principles, where land, public goods, and even public spaces are subject to privatization and control by a capitalist elite, resulting in the dispossession and exploitation of Black, Indigenous and poor Mestizo populations in the cities. Thus, the logic of elimination produced by settler colonialism that structures space is actualized through capitalist-neoliberal dispossession, which draws on categories of domination of race, class, gender, and sexuality. In my research, I draw attention to how women rappers produce space in the face of hierarchical socio-spatial relations of dispossession and elimination constituted by these systems of power present in the city. Black geographies have emphasized the racialized production of space, which has depended on spatial practices of differentiation that have generated the segregation and erasure of Black people. Scholar Katherine McKittrick (2006) configures Black geographies from a dialectic between "transparent space" –traditional perceptions of 30 space in which hierarchies are positioned– and "subject space" –the disruption of spaces considered geographically 'known'–. Thus, Black geographies represent terrains of struggle, where "the locations of black history, selfhood, imagination, and resistance are not only linked to the production of space by their marginality but also by the ways in which they highlight responses to geographical domination." (McKittrick 2006, 6) Indigenous geographies have similarly emphasized forms of geographic domination through territorial dispossession, particularly as a consequence of settler colonialism. Scholar Natchee Blu Barnd explores Native space-making practices in a dialectical context between "settler spatialities" and "Indigenous geographies," where concepts of land, culture, and agency are shaped through this encounter in the context of the United States. In this sense, Indigenous geographies respond to settler colonialism but also "emerge from relatively autonomous efforts firmly rooted in and ultimately constitutive of native-centered worlds" (Barnd 2017, 5). In both cases, these geographies constitute not only a response to systems of power and domination but also the production of spaces that reimagine and narrate Blackness and Indigeneity from their struggles and ways of knowing the world, tearing down white Eurocentric hegemonies. While Black geographies tend to draw on colonial spatialities, such as the Middle Passage, the Atlantic, the slave ship and diasporic places, Indigenous geographies have focused on geographies of settler colonialism as the root course of territorial dispossession through land ownership. However, both currents are close to the Hegelian dialectic of lordship and bondage. The master, representing an economic and political position, is interdependent with the slave. As the master realizes their dependency on the 31 slave and slavery as an institution, the slave breaks the bondage through their labor and power to transform material nature (Buck-Morss 2000; Hegel 1999). In this sense, freedom can only be achieved through a 'trial by death,' risking life and transforming their surroundings rather than remaining subjugated (Buck-Morss 2000; Hegel 1999). Black and Indigenous geographies highlight the way racial capitalism (C. J. Robinson 2020), neoliberalism and (settler)colonial domination position Black and Indigenous peoples in constant risk of death –dispossession, erasure, and elimination– very much like necropolitics. As Achille Mbembe described it, “As an instrument of labour, the slave has a price. As a property, he or she has a value. His or her labour is needed and used. The slave is therefore kept alive but in a state of injury, in a phantom-like world of horrors and intense cruelty and profanity.” (2023, 21) Following Hegel’s dialectic, these systemic conditions describe the geographies of the master. Of course, there are nuances regarding the geographies of the master and the forms of elimination in the different territories where these power structures have been installed. First, the logic of mestizaje in Latin America served as a whitening nation-state project, which not only justified Black and Indigenous peoples’ erasure but violently subjugated Black and Indigenous women (Moreno Figueroa 2010; Speed 2017; Curiel 2013). Second, settler colonialism, in the case of Latin American countries such as Mexico, did not cause a total elimination of the Indigenous population since their labor was necessary for working the expropriated lands (Wolfe 2006; Speed 2017). However, the development of capitalist neoliberalism in the region updated these practices of elimination by allowing the entry of transnational industries into the territory, such as 32 mining, forestry, and agribusiness, which has led to the destruction of Black and Indigenous communities and activists. The Latin American case is particularly alarming regarding the number of murders of Indigenous and Black activists defending the land and opposing the geographies of the master. In 2022, the NGO Global Witness noted that 88% of murders of land defenders happened in Latin America, with Colombia topping the list (Perez Gallardo 2023). Likewise, in 2023 alone, 77 Indigenous defenders were killed in the region, the majority being Afro-Indigenous people from the Colombian Pacific and Mexico (Cultural Survival 2024). However, Indigenous and Black geographies are not just marked by the risk of death but, perhaps more importantly, by the transformation and liberation of space. Just as Hegelian dialectic presents a dependence on the slave, the geographies of the master depend on the land dispossession and labor exploitation of Black, Indigenous, and poor Mestizx peoples, which opens a fugitive point. Black and Indigenous production of space counters the geographies of the master through practices of everyday life permeated by historical struggles of resistance to domination and pre-colonial ways of knowing and being in space. In this way, Black and Indigenous geographies break the geographic bondage, disrupting logics of elimination in space and liberating the landscape, embodying it with their traditions and knowledge that allow them to reimagine themselves and the space. Characteristic examples of producing Indigenous and Black spaces freed from the geographies of the master are maroon villages and communal lands in Latin America. As a response and breakthrough to the slave plantations and (settler)colonial domination, maroon spaces (also known as palenques, quilombos, 33 Palmares, or mocambos) and ejidos (communal lands) constituted freed spaces from where Black and Indigenous people reconfigure their individual, social, cultural and political existence and subjectivity. These spaces, with all their historical, political and cultural strength and value, have become the basis from which Black and Indigenous geographies counteract updated systems of economic and racial domination. It is within this framework that one can read the history of the territory of Cali –and, in extension, the Colombian Pacific– and Oaxaca. In Colombia, one of the most emblematic maroon settlements is San Basilio de Palenque, located in the jungle territory of Montes de María, near Cartagena. Early in 1680, this palenque tried to negotiate with Spanish authorities to recognize their autonomy and freedom. Although the slave owners of Cartagena objected, between 1713 and 1717, the bishop and colonial authorities recognized the town’s freedom. They granted a general pardon to the people, stating that they would not accept new fugitives (McFarlane 1991). Although this case is the most emblematic in Colombia, there were also several maroon settlements in the Colombian Pacific, such as Las Esmeraldas, between the Buenaventura Bay in Colombia and the border with Ecuador (Juan García Salazar). However, due to the conditions of the slave system in the Pacific, the palenques were not as recurrent as in the Colombian Caribbean (Restrepo 2016). Both San Basilio de Palenque and the Colombian Pacific territories, with a majority Black population, have experienced state, military and economic violence, forcing these communities to migrate to urban centers. Scholar Ana Laura Zavala (2018) analyzes these migratory communities of San Basilio and points out how they create 34 “urban palenques” in the places they arrive, following a logic of Maroon spatial production. Similarly, in my research on Cynthia Montaño's music and activism, the idea of maroonage is rescued by the people of her community who, like her, have their origins in the Colombian Pacific but today seek to territorialize Cali amid spatial racialized segregation and dispossession. In Oaxaca, colonialism established the system of encomiendas and repartimientos, which were based on the division and appropriation of land that depended on the work of the Indigenous people. However, the topography of Oaxaca, marked by mountainous landscapes and the difficulty of working the land, meant that many encomenderos (landowners) could not tolerate the living conditions on their assigned lands, so they resided in what was then called Antequera-Oaxaca City (Martínez Luna 2013; Chance 1986). This agglomeration of the colonists in the urban center favored the autonomy of the Indigenous communities since, by remaining isolated, they could maintain a certain level of autonomy and preserve their traditions and knowledge. For this reason, the Spanish colonists formed cacicazgos to exert control over Indigenous communities through their nobility, granting them land and exempting them from tribute and labor in exchange for acting as intermediaries. However, the Macehuales (the commoners) started to pressure the Indigenous nobility to do communal tasks of lower status. As Macehuales gained more recognition, the land was left for their use (Martínez Luna 2013, 86). These communal lands not only challenged the notion of land ownership from where colonial domination was established, but it was what sustained the existence of the 35 Indigenous community and their collective ways of life outside the logics of domination until today. In the Zapotec communities of Oaxaca, Indigenous ways of life based on collective community organization are known as comunalidad. One of the thinkers who coined this concept is the Zapotec Jaime Martínez Luna, who defines comunalidad as a way of thinking that "is also the fruit of resistance to colonial history." (2018, 45) Likewise, "it is in comunalidad that Native peoples have had the strength to resist the extreme impoverishment caused by land dispossession, environmental destruction and productive reconversion." (Maldonado Alvarado 2013, 27) However, comunalidad is not only resistance but also reconstruction and ways of understanding space from situated and traditional knowledge. For the Zapotec peasant and activist Plutarco Zacarías, comunalidad "is something that has existed since we were born and will exist as long as the people of the countryside are alive" and serves "to name what we feel, what we live, what we express and that comes from our grandparents." (2013, 91) The land is, in this way, the raison d'être of comunalidad, whether for work through traditional agriculture or for the needs that flourish from inhabiting a communal space. As scholar Zapoteca Juana Vásquez Vásquez mentions, "If it were not for Mother Earth, the communal spirit would be nothing" (2013, 99). These spaces of comunalidad represent Indigenous geography, which is present in the work of contemporary Zapotec artists. In my dissertation, it is from this Indigenous geography that the work of Zapotec rappers such as Mare Advertencia Lirika, YBOZ and Doma Press is positioned to navigate and transform the Oaxaca City and the hip-hop scene. 36 In synthesis, Black and Indigenous geographies produce freed spaces from the geographies of the master–and the domination and elimination they entail. However, they remain in a dialectical relationship where the production of space is in constant dispute. The raptivism of Black and Indigenous women enters here as a form of transmission and reinforcement of Black and Indigenous geographies through the reconceptualization of space and body, creating a geography of sonic intersections. Using the boundless characteristic of sound, the history of struggles and ancestral knowledge, space is remapped in sites of dispossession and elimination, challenging domination and reaffirming the liberation of Black and Indigenous peoples and spaces. FEMINISMS, SPACE AND THE BODY In this dissertation, I explore how Black and Indigenous women artists respond to ways in which the production of space is racialized and how it is gendered. I draw upon feminist geography theories that have explored the body and women’s daily life experiences to understand geopolitical relations. Understanding the body as a geopolitical site allows us to unveil how power relations are present and negotiated on the body while also questioning whose bodies can inhabit the space (S. Smith 2012; Neubert, Smith, and Vasudevan 2020). I frame this analysis of the body, space and power in Black and Indigenous women’s reflections on the relationship between their experiences and the production of space. McKittrick (2006) observes that "black women's geographies push up against the seemingly natural spaces and places of subjugation, disclosing, sometimes radically, how 37 geography is socially produced and therefore an available site through which various forms of blackness can be understood and asserted" (p.xviii-xix). Similarly, Maya Kaqchikel community feminist Lorena Cabnal, has asserted that as an Indigenous woman “your body becomes the first contested territory for patriarchal power" (2019, 115). McKittrick and Cabnal recognize space as a contested and sociopolitical arena where their embodied experiences are pivotal in challenging forms of domination. Following this idea, I conceived rap as a spatial-political practice in my research, which becomes part of this arena where women’s bodies are at stake. Black, Indigenous and Native feminisms have challenged white and Western feminism by drawing attention to the multiple forms of violence imposed by systems of domination that affect their lives, bodies and territories. Following Black and Indigenous geographies, colonialism and settler colonialism have been one of the leading causes of elimination of Black and Indigenous women through its intertwining with patriarchy. Maya-Kaqchikel scholar and activist Aura Cumes (A. Cumes 2018) has theorized on this interrelation between colonialism and patriarchy while criticizing white feminism for not engaging with "colonial patriarchy." She colonial patriarchy is "that which is established in the subjugation not only of women but of the Indigenous and Black population, but also reconfigures social relations." For Cumes, colonial patriarchy compels the submission of Black and Indigenous populations through the destruction of communal lifestyles and the murder and persecution of women; therefore, "its place is privileged to observe how forms of domination are structured and operate" (A. E. Cumes 2012, 11). In the same vein, Native feminist theories highlight the importance of making "substantial 38 advances in understandings of the connections between settler colonialism and both heteropatriarchy and heteropaternalism." (Arvin, Tuck, and Morrill 2013). These theories recognize the dependence of colonialism on patriarchy, and as such, "acuerpamiento" as "personal and collective action of indignant bodies" (Cabnal 2015) of Black and Indigenous women, becomes the cornerstone from which to analyze systems of domination. Indigenous and Native feminist ideas resonate deeply with Black feminist theories of intersectionality. Claudia Jones, a Trinidad and Tobago-born activist and Black scholar, stated in 1949: ‟Negro women —as workers, as Negroes, and as women— are the most oppressed stratum of the whole population.” (Jones 1949, 16) Echoing Sojourner Truth’s famous speech “Ain’t I A Woman?” at the 1851 Women's Rights Convention, Jones expressed the notion that the different oppressions that Black women face intersect, and even earlier, the Black communist woman Louise Thompson Patterson called it “triple oppression” (Lynn 2014; Boyce Davies 2007; Weigand 2002). This idea would then become widely known under the term “intersectionality,” coined by scholar, lawyer and Black feminist Kimberlé Crenshaw (1989). In this dissertation, I adopt this intersectional approach, which pays homage to the long struggle led by Black and Indigenous women to understand the work of Indigenous and Black women rappers from a geographical perspective. As scholar and activist Patricia Hill Collins (2019) remarks, intersectionality should be applied in a framework of critical social theory, which has to do with understanding it more as a methodology of resistance than a mere abstract concept. I apply intersectionality critically and consider it 39 as a form of “epistemic resistance” (Hill Collins 2019). For Maori theorist Linda Tuhiwai-Smith, this intellectual practice of resistance “intersects with Maori attitudes to research, and the writings of African American women, in particular, have been useful for Maori women in legitimating, with literature, what Maori women have experienced.” (2021, 170) Applying this Black and Indigenous feminist research approach, the embodied practices of artists such as Montaño, Mare, Yadhii and Doma become sites of knowledge and struggle that inform the everyday violence provoked by the geographies of the master and the ways they challenge them and break free from them. The concept of "territorio cuerpo-tierra," developed by communitarian feminists, is beneficial for understanding how forms of domination in space and racialized women's bodies are interconnected. This concept is central to communitarian feminism, wherein reclaiming the body and the land becomes a critical ongoing struggle against patriarchal systems seeking to control both (Cabnal 2010; Paredes 2010). In a manifesto they published on October 12th of 2011, they claimed to be "In resistance and permanent struggle against all forms of native and western patriarchal oppression, which wants to manifest itself against our first territory-body." What is interesting here is that community feminists position themselves in a struggle not only against colonial patriarchy but also against forms of patriarchal power relations existing in their communities prior to the European invasion, a phenomenon they call "entronque patriarcal." Like the community feminists, Afro-Colombian artist Montaño and the Zapotec rappers are conscious of how Black and Indigenous women, feminized bodies and spaces have been exploited and dispossessed to legitimate patriarchy intertwined with the 40 different systems of power that have been strengthened from it -(settler)colonialism, capitalism, neoliberalism-. In response, through music and community alliances, these artists seek to reclaim and liberate their bodies-spaces from the domination that has produced them as elements to exert control onto, using Black and Indigenous geographies sonically. For this, it was necessary to delve not only into the music, community work and personal history of these artists but also into the very history of the territory(ies) they have inhabited, that is, a geohistory that informs their everyday practices of rebuilding, remapping and struggle. METHODOLOGY This dissertation builds on the material I collected during three months of fieldwork in Oaxaca and Cali, multiple conversations and interviews via Zoom before and after my stay in these cities, sonic, literary, and performance analysis of Cynthia Montaño, Mare Advertencia, Yadhii-YBOZ, and Doma Press’ musical projects, archival research on the cities’ urban planning, and my positionality as a listener, collaborator, and engaged researcher. I interviewed the four artists mentioned above at least two times in-depth and had several follow-up conversations. In addition, I asked for their consent to use their music and stories. Respecting this agreement, I made sure not to include or share anything about their personal lives that they asked me not to or that they were uncomfortable with. In addition to these conversations, I conducted 17 in-depth semi-structured interviews in Cali and Oaxaca with 14 female and three male artists between 18-35 years old who are 41 part of the hip-hop scene (graffiti artists, muralists, and rappers). I also interviewed nine women activists between 30-70 years old who were members of the Afro-Diasporic community of eastern Cali and the Indigenous feminist network in Oaxaca City. These interviews and the age diversity among the women allowed me to recognize the networks of community and sisterhood that Montaño and the Zapotec rappers navigate and forge. In addition, the conversations with the older women in the community, especially in the case of Cali, helped me describe the city's geography by comparing their oral history with the Cali Historical Archive. Similarly, in the case of Oaxaca, talking with Indigenous and feminist women activists residing in the city was also crucial to understanding the influence of rural Indigenous community knowledge and struggles on their practices in the city. As a white-Mestiza working-class woman studying Black and Indigenous communities, I know how essential it is to adopt an intersectional lens along with decolonizing and activist research methodologies (L. T. Smith 2021; C. R. Hale 2001; Speed 2006; Castillo and Aída 2015). For this reason, during the months I spent in Oaxaca and Cali and during this dissertation, not only did I seek to engage politically with the struggles and goals of the artists and their communities, but I sought to practice reciprocity, following the principles of communality. Thus, on the one hand, I practiced an academic engagement that privileges the critical voices and theories of anti-colonial and anti-patriarchal Indigenous and Afro-descendant scholars. In addition, I framed the central concepts that mobilize this research with embodied theories of Black and Indigenous critical scholarship from the same territory of the artists I work with, such as 42 comunalidad and Afro-Pacific maroonage. On the other hand, in the case of Cali, I forged links with the Casa Cultural El Chontaduro on the east side of the city, which corresponds to a highly marginalized and racialized sector. There, I participated in some activities, primarily framed in support of the then Colombian vice-presidential candidate Francia Márquez, which were accompanied by traditional music to the rhythm of the elders’ voices and the characteristic instrument of the Pacific, the guasá. In addition, I conducted multiple free workshops for Afro-descendant women and youth in eastern Cali. Specifically, in El Chontaduro, I led two autoethnographic writing workshops, one for youth and the other for women, where both elders and youth came, and two workshops on Latin American queer literature in the Francisco J. Ruiz and Nuevo Latir public libraries. In the case of Oaxaca, my collaboration focused more on the three artists I worked with, so I disseminated their artistic work through interviews and columns in Latin American magazines such as Zánganos and Endémico. The truth is that even with these collaborations, I would have liked to do much more for the artists and the people who welcomed me in these cities and communities. For me, doing activist fieldwork was one of the pillars that sustained my research. However, I felt the limitations of my own field in cultural studies that, although interdisciplinary, fieldwork is not a requirement, nor are there the academic or financial accommodations to do it. I could relate to the reflections of scholars Debra Castillo and Shalini Puri when they wrote, "We are enriched by the knowledge that we gain through place-based research; yet, this knowledge is often largely incompatible with the conventions of scholarship in which we are professionalized." (Puri and Castillo 2016, 2). 43 On the other hand, this was compounded by the COVID-19 pandemic, which prevented me from traveling to these cities before my fourth year of my Ph.D. which I could do so for one summer due to economic and academic reasons. However, this did not impede me from taking advantage of the technology to keep in touch and maintain the relationships I have built up to this day. Undoubtedly, this experience given by the warm reception of many inspiring women activists and artists is what I treasure most about this research process. The analysis of the songs, performances and sounds of Cynthia Montaño, Mare Advertencia, Yadhii YBOZ and Doma Press is accompanied by this experience in Cali and Oaxaca City. Following Black and indigenous feminist principles, I develop the analysis in critical conjunction with my own listening practice. Stó:lō scholar Dylan Robinson (2020) demonstrates how settler colonialism can shape listening and how it can be critically exercised. According to Robinson, a critical listening position involves "a self-reflexive questioning of how race, class, gender, sexuality, ability, and cultural background intersect and influence the way we can hear sound, music, and the world around us" (2020, 9-10). I developed this research by taking this position into account and using it as a sonic, political, geographical, and poetic encounter in which my experience shapes my listening and, thus, the analysis of the work of these four artists. I call this method escucha acuerpada (embodied listening), that is, the focus not only on the analysis of the work of these artists but also on my territorio cuerpo-tierra to critically position myself concerning their experiences. An embodied listening, under an intersectional angle, requires bodily receptivity. However, I made sure not to focus the 44 analysis on my experiences, which not only distance me from the artists regarding race and indigeneity but also reflect my epistemic limitations as a non-Black and non-Indigenous woman. Thus, embodied listening presents more of a willingness and openness to receive new experiences and practices that may challenge even our researcher’s positions than an analysis centered on my personal history. It is a way of learning and fraternizing with practices of body-space autonomy by listening to sounds and bodies that have experienced and challenged different kinds of violence due to systems of domination. In this dissertation, the sonic, lyrical and performative analysis focuses specifically on Cynthia Montaño's albums Ideas (2016) and Urbano Litoral (2011), Mare's album SiempreViva (2016), plus some singles related to the themes of this album, Yadhii's EP Vergel (2023) along with several of her singles, and the single songs released by Doma Press, as she has not yet released an album. The reason behind choosing these albums is because they were their latest production by the time I started this research and because they were produced at similar times, which serve to represent the transnational conditions portrayed by these artists. The visual and performative analysis is based primarily on the music videos released from the songs within this repertoire and some videos of their live performances on YouTube. The visual analysis was as crucial as the close reading of their lyrics since “en su carácter de práctica corporal en relación con otros discursos culturales, el performance ofrece también una manera de generar y transmitir conocimiento a través del cuerpo, la acción y el comportamiento social” (Taylor 2018). Similarly, the sonic analysis contemplates the geographic history of the 45 instruments and Afro-Diasporic rhythms used by Cynthia Montaño to construct her "urban sound," as well as the sonic intertextual dialogues with local rhythms in the Zapotec rappers' beats. Thus, this interdisciplinary research presents a methodological approach that promotes an encounter based on respect, care and reciprocity. Just as I was able to learn from the artists who opened the doors to know their work in a more intimate way and from the many women who showed me a little of how Black and Indigenous communities inhabit the city, I offer this dissertation as a source of shared learning, which is the fruit of collaboration, encuentros acuerpados, and the conviction that a space free of oppression can be built. POSITIONALITY Consistent with the objectives and spirit of this research, I must delve into my positionality and motivations for carrying out this dissertation. As several critical feminist scholars have already evidenced, all knowledge is situated, and as researchers, we must recognize how our own subjectivity is present when conducting a study (Harding 2004; Haraway 2016). By making our position transparent concerning our research and applying decolonizing/activist methodologies, we can break the binarism between researcher and subject/object. With this, I am interested not only in recognizing the agency of the artists and communities I worked with but also in acknowledging how we construct knowledge through that meeting where the people we meet and share with also reflect and theorize about their work. Furthermore, this transparency in the research and 46 my position within it allows me to recognize how systems of domination do not affect us in the same way as hierarchies of race, gender, class, sexuality, and ability permeate us. I was born and raised in Santiago, Chile. I grew up admiring my mother for her resilience, who, to this day, is one of the strongest women I know. She was a single mother caring for me and my older sister without family support or a university degree. She worked as a waitress, secretary and other similar jobs for many years. In this context, I lived my childhood moving around different low-income neighborhoods. I occasionally saw my father until I was 13 years old. He lived in another city with another family and eventually disappeared from my life. My mother later married who is now my stepfather. He played a significant role in my life after my paternal abandonment. Although he did not have a university degree, he was hardworking, and his presence provided great emotional and financial support, which made it possible for us to move to a middle-class neighborhood. Over the years, my mother managed to gain some financial stability but suffered multiple instances of harassment and misogyny at the workplace, which caused her to quit several jobs. Even as a child, I became aware of the differences between these two types of neighborhoods. Although gendered and sexual violence is present in all spaces, I experienced it more acutely in the marginalized neighborhoods where I lived. When I was five years old, we rented an apartment in some blocks (a type of social housing), and I was sexually abused by a stranger who wandered around the area, which left a permanent mark on my body and on my way of perceiving and inhabiting the space. Having been sexualized and abused as a child made me grow up perceiving public space 47 as a danger zone. This was only reaffirmed as I grew older and moved through more spaces in the city. When I was 12, I started using public transportation to go to school, which was not regulated then. One day, I took a new route, and I asked the bus driver about the way; he tricked me, and I was almost abducted. I sat on that bus for about seven hours, afraid to get off because I did not know the streets the bus went through and trusted the bus driver’s word, saying he passed near my neighborhood. Then, still being a child, something inside me alerted me of the danger, and I decided to get off the bus without knowing where I was. The moment I got off the bus I found a police car, which I approached and with tears in my eyes I asked for help. Probably because I am a white-mestiza woman and not racialized in Chile, the police officers treated me well and took me to the police station to locate my parents since, at that time, we did not use smartphones. Upon telling them what happened to me, the police officers told me that I was lucky I got off when I did, as a few miles further on was the final bus stop, a lonely wasteland. The bus driver had the intention to take me there. After this experience, I assumed that inhabiting the city as a girl, woman and feminized body meant being at constant risk of sexual and gender-based violence, which now extended to public transportation. Moving to a higher-income neighborhood significantly changed my environment, as we were now living in a gated condominium with a guard. As a child, it made me feel safer, and I indeed experienced less violence of this type. However, inhabiting urban public space was still a risk. My adolescence confirmed this when I started going to high school by subway and had to experience unwanted touches by men who took advantage 48 of how crowded the metro was at pick times. As I grew up, I realized that I was not the only one who suffered this kind of violence, but that women in my family, in my school and my environment, also went through similar or, in some cases, worse situations. This led me towards feminism in 2014, where I attended my first march for legal abortion and then joined the anarcho-feminist organization La Alzada. Meeting other women and speaking freely about the violence our bodies are subjected to, and more so with a class perspective, was like a small paradise. I learned new ways to organize communally and understood patriarchy as a systemic structure. While organizing with La Alzada, I participated in several demonstrations supporting Indigenous women, such as the concentration for the liberation of Mapuche Machi Francisca Linconao in the city’s main square in 20164. Although this was the first approach to understanding the struggles of some Indigenous women in the country, the discussion around our differences as women, taking into account race and indigeneity, was not central or the priority in the organization. It was when I arrived in the United States that I had the opportunity to meet and learn from Black and Indigenous women activists who made me question feminism and the different forms of violence that are experienced daily in the space. It was no longer a question of gender and class. However, race and indigeneity were elements that caused domination and violence in the city, which I did not experience as a white-mestiza woman. My reflection on the city led me to ask how urban space operates from their perspective: what are the forms of everyday 4 Machi Linconao is a Mapuche authority and healer who was blamed for the death of the wealthy Swiss-Chilean couple Luchsinger-Mackay and the burning of their hacienda. After a four-year trial, the machi and ten accused members of the Mapuche community were acquitted. 49 violence these women face in space, and how do they challenge them? I wanted to understand their experiences and how the city is permeated by acts of violence of race, gender, class and indigeneity and, at the same time, to know where these 'little paradises' were from where they could subsist and transform themselves and the space. I started rapping in my undergraduate years, but the first more personal and professional song I wrote was during the 2019 Social Uprising in Chile. Being out of the country in such a significant social and political moment was painful. I felt that rap was the only direct tool to "emotional vent" -using Yadhii's words- and to manifest the discontent and become part of this social movement sonically from a distance. Because of that experience, I began to see rap as a result of a personal and collective experience representing an acuerpado act. Thus, I also came to the rap of the Zapotec women and Cynthia Montaño, rooted in their own spaces and experiences. Rap became the phenomenon that linked all the elements of my personal, political and academic questioning, that is, the conjunction between space, body and sound from an intersectional lens. DISSERTATION ORGANIZATION This dissertation is divided into two sections: the first corresponds to the research in Cali, and the second in Oaxaca. This was indispensable because although both cities belong to Améfrika Ladina/Abiayala and share elements, each territory and community within them presents its own historicity in relation to how the geographies of domination 50 were installed as well as the responses and livelihood strategies of Black and Indigenous communities in each city. The first section contains chapters one and two. In one, I delve into the intersectional history of Cali to reveal the power structures behind urban planning, which has produced high racial segregation in the city. In particular, I focus on the city's eastern part, where the Aguablanca District resides. This neighborhood is home to a large Black population displaced and forced to migrate from the Colombian Pacific, including Cynthia Montaño. Through the concept of "sounding Blackness," I explore how Cynthia Montaño's music reshapes space, bringing and producing sound spatialities from the Colombian Black Pacific coast to the city. Community, instruments, rhythms, and self-representation become the fundamental elements of sounding blackness to embody a geography of freedom and claim the right to the city. The second chapter focuses on the organizational networks of ‘Black women of eastern Cali,’ echoing how they self-identify their collectives, from which Cynthia Montaño positions her community work. These women use strategies to 'cimarronear' the space and confront sexual and gendered violence in their racialized bodies and territories. Through everyday practices of liberation, women organize to heal their bodies through the production of safe spaces, aspects that constitute Cynthia Montaño's music. Thus, Cynthia Montaño's music and community work is informed by cimarrona geographies, from which Afro-Colombian women reclaim their bodies and spaces from the historical violence displayed by systems of domination. 51 In the third chapter, which begins the second part of the dissertation, I delve into the political geohistory of the city of Oaxaca to reveal the formation of 'neoliberal settler spatialities' (Barnd 2017; Speed 2017). I argue that these formations were made possible through the logics of land ownership and, thus, the territorial dispossession of indigenous peoples from territory. I argue that the music and embodied experiences of Zapotec rappers Mare, Yadhii and Doma challenge these neoliberal-settler formations by creating a hip-hop community that draws from and recreates ancestral Zapotec knowledges. This hip-hop community departs from the classic notion of hip-hop nation as it is installed outside the market logic of the multibillion-dollar rap industry. On the contrary, this hip-hop community is based on local and independent music production practices, supports networks with other urban artists in the city, and links with indigenous communities in more rural areas through political positioning, echoing their struggles or bringing rap to the youth of these communities. In chapter four, I focus on the patriarchal power relations faced by Zapotec female rappers in the different spaces they inhabit. Through analyzing the music and embodied experiences of Doma, Yadhii and Mare, I describe the sound body-space concept that is born from this as a strategy to denounce patriarchal violence present in the hip-hop scene, the city, and their communities. In the music of these artists, the body becomes a space of geographic action to counter forms of domination of colonial and ancestral patriarchy. They recreate Indigenous geographies of the city and rap, based on producing an intersectional body-space to heal by recreating women's Zapotec knowledge. 52 Through this dialogue, listening and reflection trajectory, my dissertation provides a critical perspective on rap and urban music, linking sound to local activism and network building. Sound expands to represent a spatial-political practice where the city is reimagined, lived, and transformed, giving shape to what I call geographies of sonic intersections. Indigenous and Black geographies are actualized through the artists' work, serving as both preservation and a connection with their roots and forms of positioning in the present and future. In this way, despite the disruption caused by migratory movements and trajectories forced by economic and political contexts, the creative voices and works of Montaño, Mare, Yadhii, and Doma–through their sounds and bodies–plant back seeds of ancestral knowledges in Cali, Oaxaca, and beyond. 53 PART I CHAPTER 1 Sounding Blackness: Mapping Cali Through Cynthia Montaño’s Music and Stories Figure 1: Posters made and printed by La Linterna Cali Ltda, a Cali letterpress printing shop and center. I arrived in Cali during the rainy season in June 2022. I immediately noticed the humidity, the different sky, the air, and a unique smell when passing through the airport exit doors. Despite living in a city with an average humidity percentage of 80% for five years, this humidity felt and smelled distinct. It was a combination of dense air, smoke from numerous old cars and motorcycles, and the intense aroma of freshly baked bono 54 bread from nearby establishments. I had never seen so many motorcycles gathered in just one city before; it was like Cali was the permanent headquarters for an international motorcycle meeting. The mixture of gases, the recently fallen rain that left puddles on the ground, and the aroma of freshly baked bread made for a unique and unforgettable welcome to this city. As I walked through the city center streets, I heard a salsa song blaring from the shops and windows, as if the volume was meant to ensure that everyone passing by also felt the rhythm's strong vibrations. I could not help but recall the common phrase repeated to me when people learned of my upcoming visit to Cali: "You are going to the capital of salsa." Continuing my stroll through the bustling streets of downtown, the soundscape shifted as reggaeton began to play from a small stand selling electronic devices. This instance was a rare exception from the omnipresent salsa. Amidst the lively music, I noticed hundreds of posters devoted to the genre, including the one above (Figure 1). They emphasized Cali's association with salsa, as evident in the main text of the poster reading "Cali, the world capital of salsa," flanked by the drawing of two Black people. Other signs boasted famous song lyrics such as "hagamos lo que diga el corazón" by the renowned band Grupo Niche and illustrations of singers and the names of iconic salsa bands from Cali. Almost all posters shared a commonality of bright colors and traditional printing techniques such as movable-type printing and linoleum. They adorned the city walls, restaurants, hostels, hotels, and even private homes, becoming inseparable from the sounds and noises that characterize Cali. 55 As I roamed the city, I could not help but think, "Okay, everything is really about salsa." However, it didn't take me long to realize that this well-worn phrase held both truth and falsehood. Stepping beyond the comfort of the tourist areas, I explored other neighborhoods and spent time with those who had lived there for decades. Soon, it became clear that Cali was not solely about salsa. Instead, it was a place where gentrification, community, Blackness, resistance, poverty, mourning, resilience, heritage, migration, Indigeneity, violence, and countless other facets intermingled daily in the streets. Writer Ursula K. Le Guin once said, "The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty, not knowing what comes next" (2017, 38). Precisely, that feeling began my stay in Cali. I had already listened to the music of Cynthia Montaño, an Afro-Colombia singer from Cali, which gave me a sense of the place and what I would find in the city. Her music uses a rapping style with beats mixing salsa, dancehall, soul, and local rhythms from the Pacific Coast, which gave me a hint at what lies deep within the city beyond all the salsa and touristic narrative. The closest hint I found was the poster from La Linterna that reads “soy / somos pacífico,” along with the names of different territories from that area (Figure 1). Who is/are the Pacific? Where are these rhythms and narratives? I did not find the answer in the tourist city center, so I ventured east of the city to the Aguablanca District, where Montaño was born and raised. I felt anticipation moving toward the District as I was about to witness a living representation of the city’s complex migration history, racial marginalization, and dispossession. 56 While the city center was teeming with tourists and white-mestizo locals, the streets were now almost devoid of them. Instead, the alleys started to get packed with Black families, their children running and playing as women chatted on their doorsteps and men worked on self-made constructions. The houses became steadily narrow, and many had a second or third floor under construction. The commercial shops were often just the first floor of someone's home, transformed into a dining room or pastry shop. Many streets were unpaved, and the abandoned wetlands had become trash dumps because of the lack of public garbage systems. However, despite the poverty and neglect, there was a sense of community and camaraderie in the air. The music, a potent force in the Black community, pulsed through the streets. The rhythms of the Pacific with the marimba5's prominent beats, some salsa songs, and reggaeton filled the air, while the sounds of children playing and neighbors chatting added to the cacophony. The visual and racial landscape was strikingly distinct from the city center. The Eastside was a Black Cali, where the community built families, forged support networks, and created art to express themselves. It was where women spoke about their families and roots engrained in the Pacific Coast. Where they found comfort and support after experiencing different types of violence and where people grew together in a hostile and impoverished environment. While I was there, taking it all in, I became aware of the existence of all these different spaces and the narratives attached to the same territory. My interest was then directed in this paradigm between the narratives that construct Cali's colonial and 5 Marimba is a suspended xylophone composed of chonta slats, each with a guadua resonator, and played with rubber-covered mallets, accompanied by drums and maracas. For more information, see Sevilla et al. (2008) 57 touristic spaces and the spaces of "las mujeres negras del oriente," to echo the words of the women's group Montaño was part of and I met. With this perspective, I focused on the sounds and spaces to unveil the Cali that Cynthia Montaño represents and builds in her music. During my days in the city, I focused on developing 'embodied listening,' which I conceive as paying attention to how I perceive the sounds around me and engage with them through the social relations that accompany them. For my work, this meant listening to Montaño’s music as well as getting involved with her spaces and the communities she belongs, writes, and sings about, such as the Black Pacific Diaspora in Cali and her neighborhood. At the same time, I expanded this notion by including my critical positionality to engage with these communities, as I do not share the experiences of oppression they have faced. To engage with decolonizing methodologies, I talked to and interviewed community leaders, consulted and asked for permission to work with their stories, and, more importantly, gave back to the community by offering workshops, organizing financial aid campaigns, and disseminating the artists’ work. This chapter explores the geohistories of these spaces within Cali and beyond entangled with Montaño’s music. It seeks to analyze how her work interacts with the community –and me as a listener and a collaborator– and informs racialized and class forms of violence. Therefore, during my stay in Cali, I spent most of my time working and talking to community members and neighbors of the Aguablanca District and the city's Eastside. This is how the concept of sounding blackness came to be, as when I started to localize Montaño’s music and its role within Cali’s sonic and political 58 landscapes, it became clear that Afro-Colombian history and territories were being communicated. Therefore, my conceptualization of sounding blackness refers to the use of African Diasporic rhythms to celebrate and preserve Black traditions and histories within spaces that have been produced through segregation, dispossession, and violence against these communities. Sounding blackness becomes a form of creating contested spaces challenging anti-Black systems of domination. My concept of sounding blackness dialogues with “sonic blackness” theories, which presents two divergent paths within sound studies and musicology. On the one hand, scholar Nina Sun Eidsheim (2011), in her work on African American opera singers, argues that “sonic blackness” is a phenomenon that occurs in the listening ear, which projects a visual perception of blackness into a vocal timbre, racializing sound and reproducing racist practices. On the other hand, scholar Alejandra Bronfman’s approach to “sonic blackness” (2016) refers to an agency displayed by Haitian and Jamaican Creole languages and speakers who rescued broadcast media. Unlike Eidsheim, for Bronfman, sonic blackness resides in the speakers’ presence in the media, and it may collide with both anti-colonial views as well as with the sound of the empire and nationalist projects. Within this conversation, my concept of sounding blackness comes closer to Bronfman’s framework, representing an agency and sound born from the Black communities. However, sounding blackness encompasses much more and offers new nuances by connecting sound to the history of racialized spaces and the communities that inhabit them. Thus, this concept represents a way of constructing, celebrating, and 59 reinforcing blackness through sound and a spatial-political practice to challenge power structures. Within this theoreticl framework, in this chapter I argue that Cynthia Montaño sounds blackness, drawing from Black memories, stories, spaces, and music genres rooted in the African diasporic communities. To do so, I analyze songs and video clips from her albums Ideas (2016) and Urbano Litoral (2011), interviews, ethnographic notes, and the history of urban planning in Cali. Inspired by Edouard Glissant and his perspective on the Caribbean tale, which “outlines a landscape that is not possessed: it is anti‐History” (1989, 85), I delve into finding an anti-history of Cali and Montaño’s soundscapes that may not be possessed. Therefore, I provide a detailed account of Cali's social, political, and racial geographies, focusing on the Distrito de Aguablanca, the neighborhood where Montaño was raised. Furthermore, this chapter explores the connections between the music of Montaño, the land, and the Black diasporic community. By investigating the context of the musical and spatial production connected to Montaño’s music, this chapter contributes to ongoing conversations about space, race, and sound and the critical role of music in challenging urban segregation and dispossession. THE COLONIAL FORMATION OF CALI AND THE AGUABLANCA DISTRICT Upon my first visit to the Aguablanca District and engaging in conversation with Montaño, it became apparent that to comprehend Cali's history fully, one must first understand the history of the Colombian Pacific Coast. Montaño’s family, for instance, 60 originates from two distinct regions, as she explains, “The ancestry of my maternal family is from Huila, which is located in the Andes region of Indigenous Colombia, while my paternal family is Black and hails from the territory of Tumaco, Nariño. These families converged here in Cali, and it is because of this union that I was born.”6 Montaño's family is not alone in migrating to Cali; indeed, hundreds of Afro-Colombian families from nearby departments and towns on the Pacific coast have migrated to Cali due to political violence, armed conflict, and organized crime (Wade 2008). Consequently, the formation of migratory groups or colonias from the Colombian Pacific started to settle in Cali. Historian Santiago Arboleda describes colonias as autonomous social groups built through preserving ancestral knowledge, practices, cultures, and economic dynamics of confrontation and negotiation with modern urban elements. These colonias, such as the colonia guapireña (referring to those who migrated from Guapi) or colonia nariñense (referring to those who migrated from Nariño), are heavily present in the Aguablanca District, which has the highest Black population in the entire urban areas of Colombia (Mosquera, Pardo, and Hoffmann 2002). Therefore, Cali has the largest Black population in the national territory and the second in Latin America, after Salvador Bahía, in Brazil. The Colombian Pacific region spans 47 municipalities across five departments between the western branch of the Andes and the Pacific Ocean (refer to Figure 2). The region's history is deeply intertwined with slavery in Colombia, dating back to the 16th century when enslaved Africans were brought to the region as a replacement for 6 Personal Interview, June 2022 61 Indigenous peoples in industries such as mining, plantations, and domestic work for European settlers7. The departments where slavery was concentrated were Chocó, Antioquia, Cauca, Valle del Cauca, and Nariño, home to most of the Black population and the birthplace of many families who migrated to Cali in the 20th century. Consequently, despite not being technically part of the Pacific coast, Cali is often referred to as "the capital of the Pacific" due to its sizable Black population, proximity and economic significance for the surrounding departments, and cultural importance, particularly the Festival de Música del Pacífico "Petronio Álvarez," established in 1996, which celebrates Black traditions and cultures in Colombia. 7 For more information on early slavery in Colombia and the territories involved,see Barragan (2021) Herrera (2012) 62 Figure 2 Map of the Pacific Coast in Colombia, highlighting its 5 Departments and municipalities. Source: ¡Kilele! Cultura e Identidad del Pacífico Sur Colombiano en Cali (1970-2020) by González Riaño (2020). Cali, located in the Valle del Cauca Department, is Colombia's third most populous and economically important city, after Bogotá and Medellín. Its economic development is rooted in colonial exploitation, as it profited from the labor of many enslaved Africans who worked in mining, plantations, and haciendas for European settlers. According to Nina de Friedemann, "the slaves, who were suitable for the market upon their arrival in Cartagena, were led in small groups by the Magdalena and Cauca rivers to their destinations: Santa Fe, Antioquia, Cali, Popayán, Chocó, and other sites of economic activity." Originally known as Santiago de Cali, the city was built to embody civil and religious life, host the most privileged classes, settlers, and the first commercial 63 shops (Colmenares 1983). Like other economic territories colonized by the Spanish Crown, social, political, and economic life was concentrated around the Plaza Mayor, the main square in the northwest part of the city next to the Metropolitan Cathedral of San Pedro Apostol. This followed the colonial model of the plaza fundacional, as named by scholar Jacques Aprile-Gniset (1992), which sought to exert control and represent the power hierarchy of the conquest. Maps of Cali from the last centuries clearly show how the city was built around this central plaza, Plaza de la Constitución, during colonial times, and is now named Plaza de Cayzedo (see Figure 3). 64 Figure 3: Map of Cali between 1882 and 1884, updated in 1945 by Mario de Caicedo. Source: Atlas Histórico de Cali, siglos XVIII – XXI (Eusse González et al. 2019) Near the central area marked in orange on the map (Figure 3), in the northern region of Cali, on the western bank, the noteworthy Hacienda Arroyohondo once stood as a hub of the city's "civil life" during previous centuries. The hacienda was owned by Spanish slave merchant Clemente Jiménez de la Hoz in 1725 (Colmenares 1983). In contrast, the eastern part of the city, which borders the floodplain of the Cauca River, was predominantly utilized as meadows for colonial settler residents in the northern zone. These meadows and the surrounding lands became homes for enslaved people and their descendants as they settled near the haciendas. This resulted in a racial and economic 65 divide in the city's geography. The area surrounding the central plaza in the north continued to develop over time and became one of the city's wealthiest and most touristy zones. In contrast, the settlements in the east, where enslaved Black people resided and later became workers tied to the same haciendas, continued to be isolated. The geography of Cali reveals a colonial racial formation deeply ingrained in the city's history. From the 17th century, migration from haciendas and sugar cane proletariats contributed to the population of modern cities such as Cali (Friedemann 1993). However, it was not until the 20th century that Cali became an urban center, doubling its population and leading the institutional urban planners to plan its expansion towards the north and south. Monuments were built in the early 1950s, such as the iconic Tres Cruces in the northwest and Cristo Rey in the southwest. They helped shape the city's plan of territorial organization and the imagination of its inhabitants controlling the city's urban space (Eusse González et al. 2019). At this time, the eastern part of the city was deemed uninhabitable due to constant flooding caused by the Cauca River, which affected the colonial city center. The Corporación Regional del Valle del Cauca was the only institution constructed in the east, building a dike known as the "Jarillón" to prevent the river from overflowing into the city during the rainy season (Eusse González et al. 2019). However, the racial segregation within the city's geography became even more evident in the following decades. 66 Figure 4: The maps of Cali as an adaptation by the author, using recovered photos from Atlas Histórico de Cali (Eusse González et al. 2019). 67 From 1950 to 1970, Black migrants from the Pacific coast and some Indigenous groups from the Andes began to relocate to Cali because of the armed conflict. As a result, working-class neighborhoods and informal settlements were formed, many of which were self-constructed and lacked access to public services (Urrea and Murillo 1999). Comparing the maps from the 1950s and on, it becomes evident that the expansion towards the east, which state institutions did not plan, is equivalent to the migratory movements from the Black Pacific coast and the Indigenous Andes, settling until reaching the border of the Cauca River (refer to Figure 4; thick lines near the date represent the Cauca River to the east of the city). This colonial geography reveals how the development of the urban plan, first, did not consider the Pacific Black population displaced by the armed conflict and, second, perpetuated the social reproduction of race and class carried over from a colonial system. Today, the effects of this geography can be witnessed in one of the most characteristic spaces in the east of the city: the Aguablanca District. The Aguablanca District, situated on the eastern margin of Cali, is one of the neighborhoods formed under Cali’s racial geography. The district saw a rapid population increase during the 1970s, with migrants primarily from the Cauca and Nariño departments. Today, it is one of Cali’s poorest and most vulnerable neighborhoods, with a significant presence of violence8. Comprising communes 13, 14, 15, and 21, the district 8 It is noteworthy that another impoverished neighborhood in Cali is situated in the western slope's mountainous region, opposite the east. The Aguablanca District and the western slope are the two areas in the city facing significant resource scarcity. In an analysis of the city combining socioeconomic and racial variables, Urrea Giraldo and Quintin Galez (2000) found that 40% of the Black/Mulatto population resided in the Aguablanca District and its vicinity, while the hillside accommodated 22% of the population, with 68 limits with the banks of the Cauca River (see Figure 5). Therefore, the neighborhood is characterized by wetlands prone to flooding. Cynthia Montaño, who grew up in the area, recollects in her childhood memories the geographical features of this territory, now personified by her experiences: The eastern part of Cali used to be wetlands, which is why it is called the Aguablanca District - because of the water. There were so many wetlands that they grew crops like corn, a tiny seed. I remember the corn, sugarcane, and other crops. When we arrived in Puerta de Sol, there were lots of crops. There were only a few houses and neighbors, and then it slowly became more populated. I remember the streets being entirely made of mud and dirt. When it rained, everything flooded... it was really impressive, the mud, the dirt, the water from the pipes, the ditch, the entrance of the houses, and I used to cry when I had to go to school and cross that water. It was horrible. Later, some friends helped me cross, but it was still difficult.9 Several factors contributed to forming the Aguablanca District. These include the availability of floodplains offered by illegal urban developers, the manipulation of local politicians to encourage occupation of the lands for electoral support, and formal urbanization to prevent the expansion of occupied territories near the riverbank, threatening the local landowners in the southeast of the city (Vanegas Muñoz 1998, 45–46). Cynthia Montaño's account provides a poignant insight into the challenges faced by those who first settled in this area during its formation. From frequent flooding to limited access to land as well as insufficient institutional support for those displaced by local conflicts are that problems persist for Afro-Colombians as a colonial racist legacy. Indeed, the abolition of slavery in 1851 did not entail granting land or tools to the newly only 2% being Black and the remaining 20% being Mulatto. As such, the Aguablanca District is where poverty and the Black population coalesce in Cali. 9 Personal Interview. June, 2022 69 freed black population (Friedemann 1993, 54). In this sense, the Aguablanca District is emblematic of Afro-Colombians' challenges in Cali. Its formation reflects the structural racism and economic inequalities pervasive in the city, where marginalized communities have little access to resources, opportunities, and representation. By examining the history and geography of the district, we can better understand the complex interplay of social, economic, and political factors that have shaped Cali's urban landscape and continue to impact the lives of its residents, such as Cynthia Montaño. Figure 5: Formación barrial del Distrito de Aguablanca. Fuente: DAPM, en Unidad de Planificación Urbana 4 Aguablanca, Alcaldía 70 The analysis of Cali’s urban planning linked to the history of the Black communities in the cities proves an intricate relationship between space, race, and colonialism. This is essential because it sheds light on the power dynamics imposed on Afro-Colombians in the city. Furthermore, the formation of the Aguablanca District affirms the continuity of these historical systems of dispossession against the Black population. This approach follows what geographer Ruth Wilson Gilmore argues: geography should center on race as a category of analysis and a condition of existence, as the territoriality of power is crucial in understanding racism (2002, 22). Similarly, other scholars of Black geographies have remarked on the interdependency between race and space, highlighting how spatial dynamics are governed by systems of racialization (McKittrick and Woods 2007; Mitchell 2000; Leu 2020). The analysis of the demographic evolution of Cali, its history, and its current social order by taking Cynthia Montaño as a start takes us to the same conclusions. Approaching Cali's geography through the lens of history and race exposes a geography of slavery, described by scholar McKittrick as a process that undermines Black struggles through "the walls of the ship, the process of economic expansion, human objectification, laboring and ungeographic bodies, human-cargo" (2006, xi). Following the history of the spaces and routes linked to Cynthia Montaño, we see a link between the slave ship, the economy, and the social reproduction of race and class. Starting with the enslaved people brought to the Colombian Pacific coast and Cali, through the urbanization of the city and the armed conflict, to the formation of the District of Aguablanca, we see how a condition of ungeographic and territorylessness has been 71 imposed on the Black population. Indeed, areas such as the Aguablanca District and its surroundings are often called invasiones as they emerged through informal settlements from communities already displaced from their Pacific regions. As Montaño stated, "Those of us who live in the Aguablanca District come from that displacement; we were the result.”10 In addition to this, many of this neighborhood’s residents commented to me how, once in the District, they again face internal displacement and violence because of drug trafficking and armed violence. In the context of the territorial displacement experienced by the Afro-Colombian community in Cali, this also compounds a “geography of death" (Moreno and Mornan 2015b). The forced deterritorialization not only meant the loss of the land but also having to face the murder of numerous relatives and nuclear family members. Cynthia Montaño is among these families, as her grandmother had to move to the city following her husband's murder. However, death does not stop there. As the community gathers and organizes to improve public infrastructure and services with very low resources, they must face high risks, including death, due to the drug trafficking that is installed in the area. Montaño recalls when she lived in Commune 14 and saw the case of a community leader who was found dead in a reed bed after leading social work in the area. After his death, another community leader who worked closely with him was forced to stop all community work, or he would end up in the same situation. These spatial-racial dynamics have fostered stigmatization of the Black community, as evidenced by the discriminatory discourse that has associated Black 10 Personal interview. June, 2022 72 individuals and youth with criminality and violence (Vanegas Muñoz 1998). Young and adult men have been particularly the target of this racialized stigma. As scholars Quintín and Urréa (2000) observe, there is a greater concentration of young men in popular neighborhoods of Cali, including the Aguablanca District, where Black communities confront elevated poverty rates. Due to the absence of paternal role models and older male figures over 25, young people seek out older male figures on the streets, encouraging competition and virility that may lead to violent conduct in impoverished environments. According to Vanegas Muñoz (1989), criminal activities among youth should be interpreted in the context of identity struggles, territorial defense, aggression, and the face of death (46). Guerrilla groups play an important role in establishing these violent forms of performative masculinity. The M-19 guerrilla established a "peace camp" in the District of Aguablanca, whose presence directly impacted social relations and the lives of its inhabitants. During the 1990s, the recruitment of children by the M-19 became a significant problem as they were transformed into both victims and perpetrators of violence through manipulation and exploitation of the high levels of poverty, marginalization, and lack of education (Moreno 2018; Vanegas Muñoz 1998). Since 2000, the situation for women, children, and youth has worsened and become particularly alarming, as violence and murders against this group have increased dramatically (Moreno 2018). Therefore, while violence is present and critical in the District, it must be recognized as a consequence of intergenerational, colonial, and geographical marginalization, resulting in a persistent racialized dynamic of space and isolation. 73 These are the geographies linked to the story of Cynthia Montaño and her communities. A history marked by the denial of territory and urban space, social stigmatization and segregation. However, it is necessary to add that the presence of Black communities, identities and cultures in Cali are not only associated with a criminal stigma. Due to the importance of music in ‘the salsa capital’, the city takes advantage of the Black cultural legacy for tourism and, therefore, commercial purposes. An example is the famous Petronio Alvarez international festival that displays Pacific rhythms and takes place annually, attracting thousands of tourists to Cali. How does Montaño's music navigate and intervene in this reality? Certainly, as an artist from the Aguablanca District, she must move between both spheres to disseminate her work as an artist. However, complementing her work with her social and neighborhood organization, she maintains the link between sound and the community. Scholar Lorraine Leu proposes the notion of "defiant geographies" to name "interventions into space that can challenge geographies of domination, even if momentarily" (2020, 4). Cynthia Montaño’s work transforms Cali’s cityscapes into spaces for the community to thrive, grow, and support each other, challenging racial geographies of death and domination. Her challenge is multi-dimensional. At the sound level, she incorporates instruments and sonorities from Black communities, including salsa music, which she reclaims from its whitened use by elites and institutions that have appropriated it for tourism, erasing its Antillean origins. Similarly, she sonically follows and recovers the trajectory of Afro-Caribbean and Afro-Latin music that, through the Buenaventura port on the Pacific coast, made its way to Cali. Some of these rhythms are 74 son cubano, guaguancó, and guaracha which laid the groundwork for the city's reputation as the salsa capital (Waxer 2002; González Riaño 2020). Likewise, rap music and hip hop culture arrived thanks to polizones traveling from the port to the U.S and back on maritime vessels (Dennis 2012, 121). Montaño blends these rhythms in her project; the traditional marimba from the Colombian Pacific meets Western instruments, creating a unique sound that updates these traditions and shapes a hybrid identity bridging Cali’s urban and ancestral side. She also defies the geography of domination at the lyrical and visual level by reshaping the meaning the spaces of the Afro-Colombian community in the Aguablanca District, Cali, and Colombia more broadly. Cynthia Montaño’s musical project becomes a "geographic act" (McKittrick 2006) by disrupting the colonial landscapes of her territory, communicating Afro-Colombian ancestral knowledge and practices, and reclaiming collective memory through sound and visuals. Montaño's music becomes a fusion of art, politics, and Black traditions, which serves as a medium to restore the Pacific Coast to the Aguablanca District and Cali. By disrupting the urban public space, her voice, instruments, and performance transform and subvert the public space to reclaim Black contested spaces. CYNTHIA MONTAÑO’S SOUNDSCAPES: EMBODIED INSTRUMENTS, RHYTHMS AND FLAVORS Cynthia Montaño is a multifaceted artist, cultural advocate and social organizer. She has emerged as a powerful voice in challenging the prevailing narratives that often erase Black experiences and histories. Through her music, she employs some of the strategies Black communities have used for generations to transmit local knowledge and 75 reconfigure personal history. Montaño infuses her instruments and sounds with her own life story, deeply intertwined with the territory and community in which she resides. She explained in a conversation, "Everything I have experienced in these territories, what I have seen, what I have gone through, both good and bad, is a part of me, of what I am, and what has shaped me."11 Thus, Montaño's work is a testament to the collective and territorial history she embodies, which resonates through her music, lyrics, stage presence, and even her clothing. Her music brings to life the Black traditions that have migrated through the memories and bodies of those who reside along the coast. As mentioned, Cynthia Montaño’s lineage extends beyond the boundaries of her hometown of Cali, with roots in Nariño and Huila. Despite having visited Tumaco, Montaño has been unable to meet her family due to difficulties accessing the territory caused by the armed conflict and family complications that have severed her connection to her family in this region. As she stated, "I've been there for work reasons or cultural purposes that allow me to make connections there, such as making documentaries or having meetings with communities. But I haven't been able to meet my family."12 Montaño, on the other hand, has not been able to reconnect with the territory and family on her mother's side in Huila due to her mother's difficult life story. My mom and my grandmother arrived displaced in Valle del Cauca, so the connection with the family was completely lost due to that displacement. My grandma had land, had everything, and all of that was lost, but what's relevant is that the connection with the culture, knowledge, ancestry, and family was lost too. 11 Cynthia Montaño, interview by author, Cali, June 2022. 12 Montaño, interview. 76 Both lineages and connections with her Black and Indigenous families were cut due to Colombia's political and social situation, which affect particularly these communities. Nevertheless, Montaño did not resign herself to the loss; rather, she reconnected with her lineage and ancestry through music and her community work with other migrant families in the Aguablanca District. The hundreds of families from the Pacific region that migrated to Cali due to forced displacement enabled her to reclaim her family's knowledge, history, practices, and traditions. The migratory movement brought the Pacific back to Montaño. By using music, she started recovering the culture and knowledge of the Pacific. She ensured the transmission of these traditions, memories, and practices to others who are part of this “urbano litoral.” Montaño's life and that of the Pacific coast families are embodied in her two albums: Urbano Litoral (2011) and Ideas (2016), and her latest EP “Live Sessions,” which includes some of the most popular hits from both albums. Through her music, Montaño creates a unique sonic and geographic context that spans from the Pacific to Cali and back again, tracing an emotional map of memories, movements, knowledge, and practices. By combining urban rhythms such as rap, reggae, soul, and traditional sounds like currulao, danzón, chirimía, and abozao13, Montaño's music is a rich sonic encounter. 1313 Currulao encompasses traditional dance and music from the Pacific coast, whose origins are in the African continent (Londoño 1985). It is characterized by a 6/8 meter; the singing is usually accompanied by a polyrhythmic instrumental ensemble featuring marimba de chontaduro (palm wood marimba), male and female conical drums called cununos, and tubular shakers known as guasa. For more information on currulao see Varela (2011). Chirimia and abozao are also rhythms from the Colombian Pacific coast. Chirimía usually refers to a woodwind instrument similar to an oboe made of guadua bamboo and the band groups that use it for their music. Abozao, on its part, refers to the dance and music characteristics of Choco and presents a 6/8 or 2/4 meter using an organology based on cymbals, tambora, redoblante, clarinet and bombardino, For further details on abozao see Lozano Castiblanco (2015). Danzón is a creolized 77 Currulao, chirimía and abozao are traditional dances and music from the Colombian Pacific coast. They use both instruments made out of the materials found in the territory and western ones to enhance their sounds. These sounds accompany Montaño’s poetry and her vocal style, encompassing melodic singing, slam poetry, and rapping. In uniting urbanity and tradition, Montaño's music represents the story of thousands of Afro-Colombians who have constructed their history through forced displacement, creative survival strategies, and attachment to community and ancestry. Just as the chontaduro marimba, cununos, guasá14 –traditional instruments from the Pacific coast– are prominently featured throughout the albums, Montaño incorporates sounds born from the African diaspora in the United States and the Caribbean. The incorporation of rap reflects Montaño's continuation of an oral tradition that spans multiple geographic and cultural contexts in which African diasporic communities have thrived. There are different views regarding the ‘Africanness’ of rap music. For instance, hip hop studies scholar Andrew Bartlett (1994), who acknowledges a connection between hip hop and African and African diasporic aesthetics through its rhythmic matrices and communicative nature. However, scholar Kofi Agawu's work (1995) challenges this view by arguing that the concept of ‘African rhythm’ stems from a colonial perspective that sees Africa as "the Other" through a Eurocentric lens. While Agawu's analysis of scholarly discourse dismantles this colonial view of an African rhythm, he does not address the particularities of hip-hop. In fact, most scholar agree on hip-hop being an music and dance from Cuban born in 19th century, which uses a vast range of instruments such as piano, clarinet, violin, among others. For further references about danzon see Madrid & Moore (2013). 14 See previous note for instrument description. 78 African American and Latinx form of expression which is born as a response to white supremacy and police brutality in the United States (Keyes 2004; Cheney 2005; Rose 1994). As Bartlett (1994) notes, following Baker's genealogy of hip hop, this music, known as "the rap race," can be traced back to Deejay Kool Herc, a Jamaican immigrant in the U.S. Kool Herc brought Jamaican dance hall and recording techniques such as "dub" and "talk over" to New York in 1967, which have since explosively invigorated popular culture in the United States (Bartlett 1994, 646). Similarly, scholar Paul Gilroy argues, "In conjunction with specific technological innovations, this routed and re-rooted Caribbean culture set in train a process that was to transform black America's sense of itself and a large portion of the popular music industry as well.” (1993, 33). As rap, reggae music is also linked to Jamaica as a variation of ska music, significantly influencing Montaño's music. Scholar Ken Bilby (2016) notes that ska appeared when Jamaican urban musicians experimented with R&B which arrived through radio broadcasts and imported records. Both reggae in the 60s and hip hop in the 70s developed with Jamaican migrants who were influenced by new sound systems and technologies, such as turntables and amplifiers. Therefore, while considering rap or reggae as simply an "African rhythm" may be limiting, they are undoubtedly a Pan-Caribbean and Pan-African cultural production, part of Montaño’s soundscapes. Montaño possesses a profound comprehension of the history of rap and has a well-articulated perspective on the genre. She shared her insights with me during a discussion about music on a rainy day in Cali. As the rain pounded fiercely on the roof, 79 Montaño's passion matched its intensity. At that moment, she leaned in, gazed at me with a perceptive glint in her eye, and stated, "Rap is black, and rap is also ancestral." Her words resonated with a deep and authentic truth, acknowledging the Black origins of hip-hop and recognizing its connection to oral history, which has a longstanding tradition. Hip-hop studies scholar Tricia Rose expounds on how technology and orality are intertwined within African American hip-hop, stating, These hybrids between black music, black oral forms, and technology that are at the core of rap's sonic and oral power are an architectural blueprint for the redirection of seemingly intractable social ideas, technologies, and ways of organizing sounds along a course that affirms the histories and communal narratives of Afro-diasporic people. (1994, 85) Montaño leverages this architectural blueprint surrounding rap and expands its reach by utilizing a variety of sonic influences with Black history, not only from Colombia's Pacific coast but from around the world, such as reggae, salsa, and R&B. By reclaiming these influences and permeating them with Black history, Montaño has resisted the whitewashing of the music industry. Scholar Christopher Dennis argues that Black communities in Colombia have used music and dance not only for leisure but also as a means of self-expression, communication, and testimony. Thus, music has meant a tool for recovering and maintaining Black histories and social identities (Dennis 2012, 22). Similarly, the African heritage present in Afro-Colombian communities has been thoroughly documented by multiple scholars, with a focus on the use of oral traditions in music and poetry, the employment of drums or marimbas, polyphonic techniques, ancestor worship, and singing during funerals and novenas (Cuesta and de Córdoba 2003; Jaramillo 2006). 80 Montaño's Ideas and Urbano Litoral albums draw from many of these sonorities and techniques to uphold the orality of Black music tradition and express a collective history representing the memories of generations of Afro-Colombians in Cali. Due to forced displacement, their souls are divided between the outskirts of the city and their knowledge of the Pacific. The chontaduro marimba, cununos, guasá, tambor, guitar, bass, and other instruments create a sonic and geographic landscape that enables Montaño to bring the African heritage and the particularities of the experiences of Black communities in Colombia to the city's forefront of reflection. The album Urbano Litoral commences with the song "Sonata de ritmos negros," which, as a prologue, presents the sonorities, voices, and instruments that will weave the geography and symbolism of this album. The opening is marked by a piano and synthesizers playing harmonically extended arpeggios against a guasá. This sonic background is quickly joined by the sound of a tenor saxophone, which references African-American jazz and R&B, as does the wordless chorus sang by a choir of female voices following the melody. This communicates Montaño's first sonic landscape; for her, the urban rhythms that make up her album evoke African American and Black Caribbean styles. However, she reappropriates these rhythms by combining them with the soundscape of the coast. That’s why after these instruments the marimba enters and Montaño breaks into song and begins to recite poetry, introducing each element of the album: Una sonata con aires musicales del pacifico con el alma del rap 81 el reggae, el dancehall se hizo una con el verso recitado el saxofón el clarinete el cununo el guasá la marimba e` chonta y urbano litoral es el resultado. From the beginning, Montaño clarifies these combination of African diaspotic rhythms and asserts that "aquí/negro es más que el color de piel," giving space to the song and anticipating the community reconstruction and reimagining of the Colombian Black race that she will undertake in the album. These intersection between sound and race represents Montaño's history growing up in Cali while looking at her roots in the Pacific and, more broadly, Africa. Additionally, along with this introduction, Montaño guides us on the listening positionality we should adopt: “oir esto con la sabiduría del corazón/ con inteligencia,” appealing to an affectivity and openness from the listener. The song "Intro" opens the Ideas album and transmits a similar atmosphere. The song presents an instrumental arrangement that combines popular ensemble sounds such as the electric bass and saxophone, and the same traditional instruments of the Pacific from the previous song such as the marimba and, in this case, the traditional Cuban bongos are added. This “Intro” does not include lyrics and sets an energetic and celebratory tone, given by rhythmic and melodic patterns, with influences from the chirimía and abozao genres traditionally used on festive occasions. This rich combination of local sounds, traditional to the territory, is reinforced by modern instruments, as the 82 saxophone not only adapts to the Pacific rhythms that form the core of the song, but also imitates the sound of the chirimia wind instrument15. The initial tracks on these albums successfully establish a unique identity for the listener, creating an inter-sonority that sets the tone for the remainder of the songs. The subsequent tracks explore the distinctive soundscapes of the Afro-Colombian communities and reclaim a sense of connection to Africa. This belonging is built through the lyrics and instruments used in the albums, becoming a fundamental piece for Montaño’s sound of Blackness. For instance, the prominent use of the marimba throughout Urbano Litoral and Ideas is a potent geographic symbol representing the fusion between Africa, the Pacific coast, and eastern Cali. Musically, the marimba is an instrument that forms part of the "acoustic territory" (LaBelle 2019) of the Black communities in Colombia since the XVIII century. It is a part of a historical Black soundscape as an instrument originally from Congo and brought to the Americas through the arrival of enslaved African people during the Spanish Conquest. Some scholars have pointed to early references to the marimba in 13th-century Mali texts and connections to various African countries such as Angola, Senegal, Gambia, Uganda, Ivory Coast, and Sudan (Pena, Anglès, and Gavaldá 1954; Kaptain 1992; Kilby 2015). As the marimba spread worldwide, some materials have changed, and the tuning has presented some variation. 15 Over time and with the disappearance of this instrument, ensembles that included it began to be called chirimía. However, in the Cauca and Nariño territories (refer to figure 1.2), they still call cane flutes chirimia. For more information on the story of this instrument, refer to Arango & Valencia (2009). 83 Montaño’s albums feature the traditional marimba of the Black Pacific coast, which bears a striking resemblance to the African Balafon. This instrument is constructed from materials unique to the jungle, including the Chontaduro palm, and is commonly referred to as "the jungle's piano.”16 Only in recent decades has marimba music and bands gained popularity and appreciation among white-mestizo Colombians and the state. It was not until 2010 that marimba music from the South Pacific coast of Colombia was recognized as part of the country's cultural patrimony, and in 2015, it was designated as an intangible cultural heritage of humanity by UNESCO. Despite its rich historical and cultural significance, marimba music has been historically undervalued and under-recognized in Colombia, largely due to its association with impoverished Black communities. In fact, various musical styles associated with Blackness have been persistently viewed as "primitive" in the country while simultaneously being celebrated as "exciting" by non-racialized individuals (Wade and Yelvington 2006, 356). This tendency has led to the whitewashing of Black traditions and music to make them more palatable to the white/mestizo elite and align with the national discourse. In his work, Wade and Yelvington contend that the nationalist ideology of mestizaje insinuates the eventual disappearance of the original stocks that created the mixed nation –including Africans, Indigenous Americans, and Europeans– while simultaneously asserting their existence (2006,357). This suggests that Black communities and their cultural expressions are valuable only as long as they serve the 16 For further reference, see the documentary La marimba: el piano de la selva by Anthony Gonzales Canga 84 nation in differentiating itself from others. This is accomplished through the adoption of select traditions that contribute to the mixed narrative while conveniently maintaining power structures of racial division within the nation's borders. Therefore, the total erasure of Black culture, traditions, and communities is not feasible for the mestizaje narrative of the state. Instead, these traditions are whitewashed and stripped of their Black roots, thereby marginalizing the Black communities that have preserved these traditions for decades despite colonial violence, constant displacement, isolation, and urban impoverishment. The song "Sonata de ritmos negros,” then, configures not only the album's embodiment but also Montaño's sonic response: to intervene in the process of whitewashing and stripping of Black traditions and rhythms in Colombia, thus reclaiming and emphasizing the origin and ancestral heritage of the Black communities of the Pacific. FESTIVAL INTERNACIONAL PETRONIO ÁLVAREZ & COMMUNITY RESPONSES The famous Festival Internacional Petronio Álvarez to celebrate Black musical traditions is not exempt from the complexities of the national use of mestizaje, which scholar Monica Moreno defines as a whitening project (2010). However, Cynthia Montaño has used the festival to showcase her music and highlight the Black roots of the festival and the sounds she presents. In this sense, it is important to view the festival from both perspectives: to promote Black Pacific traditions and a tool for the mestizaje discourse, which has historically co-opted Black culture for the benefit of the state and criollo elites. The festival's establishment in Cali was driven by national initiatives to 85 boost the music and tourism industries, but its origins lie in the Black traditions of the Pacific coast. According to Angela Ramirez, an Afro-Colombian activist who migrated from Tumaco and settled in Cali at 12, the original event, organized by musician Petronio Alvarez, took place in Buenaventura. Alvarez, a railroad machinist from a humble family in Buenaventura, had to sell bread and empanadas to support his passion for music. Ramirez recounted that the festivity in Buenaventura aimed to hold a competition for traditional musicians exclusively from the Pacific, allowing them to showcase their music in the city. However, as Ramirez notes, "when the author died, his children sold the festival's rights to the municipality of Cali and that's when it lost its roots, although others have a different story."17 The festival was established in Cali in 1997, following the original structure of a contest, which aimed to connect the music of the Pacific coast to the city, especially to Cali, as it has the largest settlements of migrants from this coast. However, the festival's primary goal was a governmental initiative to encourage renowned Colombian musicians to include these sounds in their repertoire and make music from the Pacific a new cultural resource to strengthen the nation's identity narratives (Marín 1997; Salgar 2007; Valverde 1997). Angela laments the loss of the festival's roots and its current dynamics, as traditionally, only musicians and cantaoras (female singers) from the Pacific participated. Now, artists from other cities or with consolidated orchestras without connection to the 17 Angela Ramirez, Personal interview, June 2022. 86 Black Pacific communities are involved. As a result, the festival's original purpose, “to encourage people and musicians from the Pacific who did not have opportunities to showcase their knowledge"18, has been modified. Currently it serves the mestizaje narrative under a homogenized construction of Colombia as a "multicultural nation," without improving the social conditions and lives of the creators and preservers of this knowledge. In addition to music, traditional gastronomy from the Pacific, is another key element of the festival, displaying several stands selling local drinks and food such as viche, fish sancocho, endiablado, arroz marinero, jaiba, piangua, among others. On the contraty of Angela Ramirez’ views on the festival, scholar Carlos Andrés Meza conceptualize this market within the festival as “etnoempresa.” In his words, the festival is “is an income opportunity in the face of problems such as displacement or unemployment and, at the same time, a way to make visible the contributions of Afro-Colombians in the multicultural nation.” (2014, 337). While Meza writes in alingment with the multicultural national discourse, Elder Mayora Elvira, an activist and cantaora from the Pacific based in Cali, thinks the opposite. In an interview, Mayora Elvira highly criticized the gastronomic element of the festival, as someone like her, who has been making viche and other types of traditional food for decades, cannot participate due to the high cost that the organizing platform requires to have a stand. She claims that, 18 Angela Ramírez, personal interview, March 2023. 87 what they do is get Black people to come and cook, having Black women in the kitchen stands, and the paisa [white mestizo Colombians] get all the money, all the privileges, all the praise, and takes it all to their pockets. Black women are left tired and exhausted because supposedly it is a Black festival, but no, it is a festival of others to enrich their pockets.19 She also recounted her experience when she was part of these stands and heard many women complain because they received less money than they were supposed to. Additionally, to be in the stands, Black women must give away their recipes, or they cannot participate in the festival. Just as Angela Ramirez mentioned, Elvira pointed out how individuals who lack connection to the Pacific Coast have increasingly taken over the festival. “They go to the Pacific territories, learn our recipes, and then create their own businesses stealing what is ours," she said.20 Consequently, this practice reinforces the extractive exploitation of ancestral knowledge from Black Pacific communities, as these communities do not primarily benefit from this so-called ‘etnoempresa.’ Mayora Elvira, however, had a different perspective regarding the musical aspect of the festival. She stated that, our music is political; it is handmade music that conveys a message and embodies the struggles of Black people. Our lyrics recount our history and express our desires. Through our music, we share our experiences and sing out loud because, historically, Black people have been silenced. Thus, we use our music to speak up and speak out. Mayora Elvira highlights the importance of the politics of the voice. The power of tradition and oral history embedded in Black Pacific communities' music are key for preserving knowledge and Elvira’s connection to her roots. Perhaps because of the same 19 Personal interview, June 2022. 20 Ídem. 88 reason, despite the complex ambivalence that characterizes the festival's celebration of Afro-Colombian ancestral knowledge and the use and exploitation by the state and elites, as an artist, Montaño decides to mediate between these two spheres. Montaño does so by recovering the history of this music genre, communities, and spaces while engaging with the diverse audiences that attend the festival, with particular emphasis on the Black Pacific community. During the festival, Montaño often plays her song "Vamonos pa'llá," included in the album Urbano Literal, a tribute to the festival's roots and history. The song begins with synthesizers, followed by the introduction of the marimba and the tenor saxophone, which imitates the sound of the wind instruments of the currulao. The lyrics begin with a vocalization that resembles the style used in reggae and dancehall, and establish a geographical journey between Africa, the Colombian Pacific region and Cali: Mama África lo parió entre la selva y el tambor Litoral y su padre lo recibió Petronio Alvarez le llamó. Para recordar Al hombre que dejó En el folclor del pacifico Y el pacifico Crecio en su tia Cali Con las raices del manglar El olor y el sabor de mar The lyrics emphasize the African roots of the people of the Pacific coast by creating a genealogy with these territories and personifying them with familiar figures. This territorial genealogy is reinforced on a sonic level, as the song uses instruments from the region that have African origins, such as the marimba, bombo, cununos and the guasa. 89 Likewise, as for the rhythmic base, Montaño works with variants of the cinquillo rhythm and with tresillo, present in many Afrodiasporic styles. Montaño localizes musician and train driver Petronio Alvarez within this genealogy; Africa is the mother, the Pacific coast is the father, and Cali is a sister who welcomes both the festival and the musician. This route represents the territories linked to the festival and to Petronio Alvarez himself, because as his biography suggests, he also had to migrate to Cali in search of better opportunities. Thus, Montaño revives the festival's oral tradition and history and offers communities from the coast an opportunity to reconnect with their roots. As the voice proclaims in a rap-style delivery, “tiene la magia herencia/ de la música y la danza/ es negra identidad/ tradición oral.” And while the focus of her song is homage to this Pacific leader and musician, Montaño doesn't forget her foreign, white, or mestizo audience. Instead, she includes them as an invitation to value and recognize this knowledge, communities and history: Al indio, al blanco, al negro lo une el repicar de un cuero musica que toca el ama que se sale por los poros del pacifico es el oro conocimiento para que aprendamos todos. After the chorus, in the following verse, the voice again appeals to her audience and guides them on the positionality with which they should listen to this music: “ven y conoce/ mira más allá de la fiesta/ ven que hay libertad, lucha, fuerza/ saber en el ritmo ancestral/ que viva siempre/ se escuche siempre/ no solo casualmente/ en un mes, la cultura.” Critically Montaño points out the way we should listen to these rhythms and, 90 more importantly, calls us to do the work of learning about them and their importance, beyond attending the festival. "Vamónos pa' allá" demonstrates that Montaño is aware of the other side of the festival's coin, which involves the national multicultural discourse, the extractivism of Pacific communities' knowledge and the profiteering of the wealthy classes. However, the festival's broad national and international reach also represents a unique opportunity for its growth as a musician. Therefore, Montaño chooses to perform but strengthening the history and origin of this knowledge display at the festival while simultaneously delivering a critical message to the audience that does not belong to this community. The voice explicitly expresses this concern in the last stanza: Que el artista viva del arte que valoren lo que el ancestro vino a dejarte que es de la gente que es pa’ la gente que otros no la roben y tú la valorices siempre cosas del Petronio con conciencia corazón, espíritu y mente. Montaño’s message then transcends the festival to create a reflection on the structure that has caused these rhythms and the Afro-Colombian communities to be discriminated against for decades. On the one hand, by incorporating this song into her album, Montaño reinforces an Afro-Diasporic identity linked to the Colombian Pacific and Cali. On the other hand, by presenting the song at the festival, she transforms this public space, permeated by the neoliberal multicultural discourse, into a sonic-political 91 Black space that transmits an oral history of displacement and how the community reterritorializes using sound. As previously mentioned, Montaño’s use of the chontaduro marimba is a crucial element of her musical project and one of the Pacific region's most iconic symbols. Montaño honors and transmits the instrument's history by linking it to one of its most prominent players, Justino García. Her song titled “Memoria de Justino García” introduces him by saying, Señor Justino García un hombre muy popular con su marimba en la mano puso a temblar el litoral The song is a tribute to the original composition by Afro-Colombian singer Inés Granja, who was deeply moved by García’s talent playing the chontaduro marimba in Timbiquí, in the Pacific coast. According to a note in El Pais newspaper (2021) after the meeting between Granja and García, she composed this song for him in 1981. In her rendition, from minute 1:30 to 2:24, Montaño sonically reproduces the traditional currulao, in which the marimba takes a protagonist role, and then the chorus states, “Como tocaba, como se oía/ como replicaba esa marimba.” In this way, Montaño sonically and poetically makes us pay close attention to the sound of this instrument which plays a central role for Afro-Pacific communities and traditions. Montaño connects the marimba to traditional local tools such as canalete, a wooden instrument like an oar; potrillo, a small single-log boat; catangó, an ancestral fishing tool crafted from guadua cane; and even canchimala, a type of fish that is 92 commonly caught in the Colombian Pacific. In 2019, in a post by Etiqueta Negra News, a fisherman states, "fishing and eating canchimala is a family tradition passed down from our fathers”. Similarly, her song “Pal otro lao” (Urbano litoral) highlights the use of canalete on a journey towards “the other side”: Yo ya me voy con mi canalete hoy volvi por ti yo quiero tenerte no quiero dejarte con mi canalete hoy volvi por ti It is unclear to whom the voice is talking in the song, but the use of the canalete and its connection can be perceived as a return to the Pacific. In this way, Montaño takes us into a sonic journey through the ancestral traditions of Afro-Pacific communities. She configures the Pacific's soundscape, rescuing the place's oral history, its community leaders, and their traditional practices to sound blackness in her work. Food also becomes part of this sonic tapestry. In her album Urbano Litoral, Montaño dedicates a song titled “Chontaduro" to the fruit of the same name. This fruit, cultivated in the Pacific coast, Andes, and Amazonia regions, has been an essential part of the diet of Indigenous and Black communities in Colombia for centuries. In Cali, chontaduros are frequently sold on small food carts in the city center by mainly Black women. Talking to Mayora Elvira, she recounts how selling chontaduro became her most dignified and secure option during a period of homelessness and work exploitation in Buenaventura. In her words: A friend let us stayed with himm for a while, but that friend's mother threw us out of her house all the time, until we finally got a job. We got the job but without 93 pay, there was no pay there because it is a territory of Black people and there people do not pay or pay little for a house. That is why it is better to sell your chontaduro, sell your things, work with whatever you can.21 The fruit has become identified with Black and impoverished communities in Colombia, and although it has a high nutritional value, it is considered a “marginalized fruit” (Carrero Farias 2018) due to its remote production locations, complicated transportation, and lack of standardization by the Colombian Institute of Technical Standards (ICONTEC). People who cultivate chontaduro require a middleman to sell it. As there is no control over the price, the middleman receives a large percentage of the profit, while farmers receive an insignificant portion (Finnis 2012; Carrero Farias 2018). Montaño's song seeks to resignify the negative connotation associated with this fruit and the black communities of the Pacific that cultivate it, demonstrating instead its cultural, historical and social richness. With influences from Jamaican dancehall rhythms, the song "Chontaduro" begins by creating a celebratory atmosphere around the fruit. The lyrics state: Alza la mano que el pacífico está en fiesta celebrando estamos con la banda y con la orquesta el sabor que a mis arrabales se remonta traigo chontaduro en esa bolsa. […] Chontaduro pa’ ti con marimba de guapi [...] Chontaduro hay mango y viche les traigo para el corrinche agua de coco y pescado 21 Personal interview, June 2022 94 para que bailen mi tumbao. […] Soy la negra platonera chontaduro cargo fuente de esperanza fuerza y trabajo de la gente negra y su tenacidad con la que se mueve el campo y la ciudad un chontaduro afrodisiaco un sabor a currulao es la esencia de natura. The song plays with the senses and makes the flavor of the chontaduro sonorous through the connection with other ancestral traditions from the Pacific, such as the marimba music, viche and fish soup preparation. Likewise, Montaño vindicates the figure of "la negra platonera" through her voice as an Afro-Colombian woman with roots in Cali and the Pacific coast. Through her voice and using the first person "soy," Montaño evokes the Black chontaduro vendor, embodying this figure to elevate her and show her as a symbol of strength, pride and respect. Faced with the racialization of this fruit in Colombia, considered "a Black fruit" and therefore less valuable commercially (Carrero Farias 2018), Montaño dignifies the community, the woman and the fruit through her song. She counteracts racism towards Black communities and the sale of this fruit, rescuing its nutritional value and its role in the preservation of ancestral practices of the coast. Finally, in the song “Chontaduro,” the fruit also becomes a symbol of geographic trajectories traveling from "el campo a la ciudad," as do the communities of the Pacific. The music video shows the chontaduro in three spaces: in the stand of a Black woman in 95 downtown Cali with whom Montaño sings and sells it, being transported by river and rails from the Pacific, and in the hands of people who sell it on a street or highway (see Figure 6). Figure 6: Screenshots taken by the author from video clip of "Chontaduro" song available on Youtube. Montaño intertwines the imaginary around the chontaduro fruit through these images, connecting space, flavors and sound. The artist creates a sensory territory by using the fruit as the center of the narrative and accompanying it with the musicality of the currulao. This territory is traced through the journey of the chontaduro and the people who grow and sell it as a symbol of power and ancestral knowledge. Through this journey, the knowledge of Black ancestors of the Pacific is transmitted, knowledge that Montaño now communicates orally. As the voice says in the last verse "Chontaduro son/ mis antepasados negros/ y su alegría." In this way, Montaño counters the racialization of 96 this fruit by proudly portraying the stories behind its harvesting and powerful properties. It becomes a symbol she uses to celebrate the traditions of the Afro-Colombian communities from the Pacific and the presence of its diaspora in Cali. REMAPPING THE TERRITORY, CELEBRATING BLACKNESS The celebration trope is evident in many of Montaño's songs. In the context of violence, forced migration, and dispossession resulting from armed conflict, colonialism, and neoliberal policies, celebrating becomes a potent tool for resilience and resistance. In the short film Danzas de Valle, Mar y Montaña (Tapiero 2020) currulao rhythms –featured in many of Montaño’s songs– are said to be created by Afro-Colombians from the Pacific coast as a means of survival. Chirimia also represents the history of Black Pacific people, who appropriated European instruments to create their music, breaking away from its use by the Catholic Church, which considered this music "inappropriate, grotesque, and vulgar" (Arango and Valencia 2009). Both currulao and chirimia are played during local and official festivities, which have come to represent how Black communities reappropriate the tools of the conqueror, in this case, the instruments, to resignify and celebrate their heritage. Montaño's music seamlessly blends this cultural heritage with contemporary Afro-Diasporic music styles, reflecting the influence of globalization and urban migration on the current generation. She reaches her people, telling them that “Blackness is more than a skin color” (Montaño 2011). Rather, it is an ancestry that they need to be proud of. Montaño imparts this joy amid harsh socio-political realities that extend to the city. 97 Montaño's album, Urbano Litoral, features a song titled "Quilele," a term used in the Colombian Pacific to express happiness, celebration, gozadera, and rumba22. This expression became well-known after Grupo Bahía –an emblematic music band from the Pacific– created a song with the same title, making it an anthem for Festival Petronio Alvarez (González Riaño 2020). Montaño pays homage to this original song, featuring musician Markitos Micolta from Buenaventura. Micolta dedicated his life to traditional music from the Pacific, transmitting the daily life of his people and territory through his lyrics and poetry. He opens the song "Quilele" with the same emblematic verses of the original song: "todo el mundo está bailando/ quilele/ yo también lo sé bailar/ quilele/ como bailan los demás/ quilele." Then, the chorus, composed of collective voices, also replicates the original song, with a slightly faster rhythm characteristic of the Colombian chirimia. Following this chorus, Montaño's voice appears. She creates a sonic landscape describing the region's sorroundings, people, and knowledge, following the traditional content of verses that describe life in the Pacific. The voice states, Ay mi bello litoral Quilele tiene bosques y manglares quilele tiene rios y veredas quilele y una gente muy amable quilele que canta y baila el folclore quilele que es el saber de mi pueblo quilele que dejaron mis ancestros 22 Words of Cuban origin used to denote party, celebration, and joy. 98 quilele y que ahora canto yo Through her lyrics and a sonic dialogue, Montaño positions herself within a Black ancestral lineage that narrates a collective history through folkloric expressions, which "she now sings." As someone from a family forced to migrate and leave their territory, extended family, and community, Montaño's vocalization of history and geographic trajectories are not confined to the Pacific region. She incorporates her experiences and those of the Black community in Cali, particularly in the Aguablanca District, into her music. In the second stanza of Montaño's song, the voice changes the landscape of the Pacific and states, Por allá donde yo vivo que es en otro lugar, donde toditos los días mi gente va a trabajar donde se sale adelante a pesar de lo difícil ese es un lugar hermoso en el oriente de cali ay ese es mi Distrito mi Distrito de Aguablanca. We are no longer in the acoustic territory of the Pacific. Instead, the voice constructs the District's sense of space through the description of the daily lives of the neighborhood's people. It characterizes the residents as hard-working, thriving people in the midst of difficult conditions, countering racialized notions of the territory that only imply criminalization, poverty, and danger. 99 The Pacific and the Aguablanca District merge through what embodies these two territories: the community. The lyrics state, Por eso orgullosa mi gente levante la mano mi gente porque mas que un color de piel esto de ser negro se siente las mujeres gritan y los hombros gritan y todo el mundo grita que se escuche fuerte. Simultaneously, at the sonic level, Montaño moves away from the more traditional chirimia melodies and rhythms to start rapping, a widespread artistic expression within the Aguablanca District. This stanza then not only plays the role of combining the two territories at a lyric level but also at a sonic one. The voice makes it explicit that her audience is her people and repeats what she stated in the album's introduction: "Blackness is not just a skin color” but something that "se siente." Montaño sounds an embodied experience of being Black, calling for an understanding beyond hegemonic racialization to conceive Blackness. She portrays Blackness as an embodiment of ancestral knowledge, resilience, community, creativity, and territory. The voice follows this call to the community to raise their hands, emphasizing that everyone should yell, acting as a powerful metaphor for the desire to be heard within a context of highly spatial and racial segregation in Cali. One of the stigmatizations of the Aguablanca District deeply rooted within the popular language in the city, is the denomination of the Black informal settlements as “invasiones.” In Cali, 90% are against migrants who settle in the city, mostly in these 100 invasions, while less than 1% recognize invasions as the only option amid the lack of resources and impossibility to live in other regions (Bejarano 2016, 71). According to Suavita Bejarano, an invasion concretely refers to “una ocupación por vías de hecho, de espacios públicos o privados, tomados por la fuerza por un grupo de personas, que en pocas horas o días levantan viviendas en materiales reciclados o de desecho (cambuches).” (2016, 73). En el documental “Negropacífico.” (A. Arboleda and Muñoz 2011) produced by Cynthia Montaño, we can find testimonies about the beginning of the District that confirm this description. One of them is Doña Doris’s description of the invasions: All this is a district. All the people made the decision to turn it into an invasion. That is, to make little houses to survive, and this was a pasture, a lagoon. And this was how we lived here: dirt floors, mat fences... everything was made of mats, cardboard roofs. This is the Aguablanca District Montaño takes back and reframes through her music. She counters classist and racist perceptions of this territory and its people by reimagining the idea of "invasion" as a community action to reclaim territory, culture, and history. In her song "Invasion Costeña," (2016) Montaño reappropriates the concept of invasion, asserting a legitimate occupation of the land for Black communities to the practice their traditions. The lyrics point out, Comunidades negras que ocupan la tierra pa' ti en las zonas rurales, ribereñas también danzan [...] Negros que practican la tradición 101 que es el folclore Con canto y mucha danza es la más grande expresión Pa' no dejar morir lo que el ancestro nos dejó. The lyrics emphasize the history of this community, highlighting its cultural expressions and some of the traditional roles of community leaders. Some of those mentioned in the song are curandero, who cures the child's eyes; comadrona, who assists in childbirth; and buen batea, who searches for gold in the rivers. These are the traditions and community members we find in the so-called invasions of Cali, people who are living memory of the Black heritage of the Pacific. Although invasions occur in Cali's urban area, Montaño sings "invasión costeña soy, que viva Guapi y el Choco," including the Pacific in her embodiment of the occupied territory. This gesture provides a historical and tangible dimension to the settlements, transforming them into a source of pride for Blackness and a legitimate existence in the city. After the second chorus, the voice says, Voy a contarte lo que de boca en boca ha llegado hasta mi generación que a esta tierra trajeron mis abuelos es el distrito donde vivo yo. Montaño's song, thus, transmits an oral history sounding a territorial genealogy that goes from his life experience, that of his family, the district, the Colombian Pacific and his ancestors. Similarly, the song "Puro Pacífico" (Montaño 2016) also seeks transform discriminatory images of the District by evoking a territorial triad of Cali-Pacific-Africa 102 and connecting celebratory tropes with expressions of freedom. The voice opens the song by announcing a journey, the beginning of a story that will be told: "No ha sido fácil pero yo sigo aquí/ no es pa’ cualquiera/ son mis raíces y me siento feliz." In the music video, as we hear these verses, Montaño appears smiling next to a Black woman selling chontaduros on the pedestrian area. She offers a brown drink labeled "Puro Pacífico" to a white woman tourist walking by in the city center of Cali (see Figure 7). As the woman tastes the drink, Montaño's song becomes that drink that builds and transports us to a sensory space, marked by flavors, rhythms and visualities of the Pacific, present in Cali and the District. Figure 7: Screenshots from the video clip of "Puro Pacifico" by Cynthia Montaño, taken by the author. While in the beginning of the video Montaño wears more casual clothes and covers her hair with a turban, after the drink, she appears with braids and a long tribal dress. She directly tells the white woman: Con mi pelo en trenzas símbolo de lucha, fuerza, de liberación colores tribales bailando en mi vestido lenguaje del alma de antepasados vivos puro pacifico con su sabrosura consciencia de etnia, riqueza y cultura. 103 At the same time, we see children playing around in the Aguablablanca District and canaletes and potrillos in the Pacific waters. In the video, Montaño teaches this white woman about Black culture and landscapes, using her physical appearance, instruments, and surroundings to underscore the cultural heritage that connects Cali, the Colombian Pacific, and the Aguablanca District. The song's chorus repeats the phrase "Esto es puro pacifico/ puro pacifico," which frames the Aguablanca District as an extension of the Pacific region and integrates it into the center of Cali. The voice in the song then personifies the land and traditional instruments, granting them agency. The drums are depicted as opposing violence, while the marimba is portrayed as crying out in sorrow and struggling with joy when it has strength. As the lyrics state, Esta cultura mía es fuego que grita porque la tierra al negro y al indio le grita es de cuero, cuero, cuero del tambor se opone a la violencia y discriminación la marimba llora por tanta pobreza por alegría lucha cuando le sobra fuerza puro pacifico, afuera el racismo saldremos adelante unidos por lo mismo. In Montaño's music video, Black Pacific culture is brought to life through her body, voice, sounds, and images, all shaped by her experiences in the territory and the community she inhabits. Montaño hints at her mother’s heritage by including Indigenous peoples in this stanza. This acknowledges the connection of these communities to the land, much like Afro-Colombians, while calling an end to racism. The drum symbolizes the power that can unite and counter-violence and structures of oppression, underscoring 104 the political significance of Montaño's musical message. In expanding the notion of community to include not only the Black Pacific and its diaspora but also Indigenous peoples, Montaño creates networks of solidarity between two communities that are highly affected by racist structures of power in Colombia. The final two stanzas of the song serve as a call to action for Montaño's people to keep moving forward and evoke their collective ways of life as a community that preserves their own traditions of music, knowledge, and the struggle for life. The lyrics state, "Y como vive mi gente en el pacifico/ con la marimba mi gente del pacifico/ como es que lucha mi gente en el pacifico/ vamos palante mi gente del pacifico." During these verses, the music video shows Montaño and the white woman walking through the impoverished streets of the Aguablanca District, as if Montaño is once again teaching and showing her the traditional ways, the "real" face of her territories. This is also perceived and appreciated by her audience, as we can see in one of the comments of the videoclip that states “Mi gente que vacano esto y más la integración de el centro de cali con el distrito para que el mundo vea que no todo lo de el distrito es malo.” The voice concludes the song by naming these territories, their connections and trajectories, from where music, senses, knowledge, community, and history have been transferred. The voice alternates with the phrase "puro pacifico" and states, desde la mama África hasta Latinoamérica y desde Cali hasta el Chocó porque el pacifico sos vos y aunque olvidado en un rincón lucha y fuerza pacifico. 105 In naming her territories, Montaño is reclaiming and staging Black spaces. Scholar McKittrick points out, “acts of expressing and saying place are central to understanding what kinds of geographies are available to black women.” (2006, xxiii) She positions herself as a geographic subject and echoes Black historical trajectories, from the slave ship to Latin American coasts and from the Pacific to Cali, providing an embodied perception and history of the territory. She states, “Pacific is you," to strengthen this embodiment, evoking a sense of empathy, similar to the gesture of speaking to the white woman in the video. In this sense, Montaño builds a Black space building a sensorial territory drawing from traditional knowledge and cultural expressions that can be accessed through her musical work. When the song ends in the video, the white woman finishes the "puro pacífico" drink and is back in the city center of Cali. She is left only with the street noises, the drink in her hands, and the woman selling chontaduros and Montaño disappeared. This performative gesture at the end of the video is paradoxical. Just as Montaño and the chontaduros woman disappear from the city center, the Black communities are isolated and segregated from this space, too. However, not everything disappears. The Pacific drink remains in the hands of the white woman, representing an invitation and opportunity for white/mestizo people to access and recognize the Afro-Colombian presence in Cali. Montaño's music becomes a gateway for this appreciation and knowledge of the Afro-Colombian Pacific traditions, reflected in my own work with her music in this dissertation. 106 Montaño also transforms Cali’s city center in her “Invasión Costeña” (2016) music video. She is depicted singing on the beach, walking barefoot, and performing the song live in different settings, including playing the traditional guasa and singing from the iconic Plazoleta Jairo Varela in Cali (see Figure 8). Figure 8: Screenshot captured by the author from "Invasión Costeña" music video. Cynthia Montaño sings in Plazoleta Jairo Varela. Interestingly, this location provides a contrast with Montaño’s music. The space was consolidated in 2010 with a monument that stands 8 meters tall and depicts elements of wind instruments such as trumpets and trombones, which spell “Niche” as a tribute to Grupo Niche and salsa's significance for Cali’s identity. This location is often called the “Plazoleta de la caleñidad,” reinforcing this official narrative around salsa in Cali. However, Montaño chooses to sing her song, which, instead of salsa, utilizes rhythms from afrobeat, bambuco, and currulao in the middle of this place. This creates a powerful 107 resonance and interference with the hegemonic acoustics of a whitened salsa and the segregation of the Black population from Cali’s city center. In the video, Montaño stands in the middle of this space, but the Niche sculpture is not shown. Instead, the camera captures the building that houses the Centro Administrativo Municipal (CAM), from where the flags of Cali and Colombia can be seen (Figure 8). Although salsa also originates in Black communities, this time Montaño's gesture invites us to listen to and focus on the rhythms of the Pacific. These rhythms, now combined with urban and Afrodiasporic sounds, performed in the city center reinforce the presence of Black communities in Cali. Her song disrupts the acoustics of the space, along with the colonial history of the city, which depicts Black people as inferior under racist constructions. Moreover, CAM is one of the buildings that house positions of power, including the mayor’s office and has become a common location for protests. In October 2022, for instance, a protest led by the communities of Commune 13 (Aguablanca District) against violent evictions in their territories was right in front of this building. By standing in front of CAM and singing as a Black woman from the District, Montaño makes an act of defiance, defined by scholar Lorrain Leu as “the creative capacity to invent and adapt spatial practices that persistently introduced black bodies and subjectivities into prohibited spaces.” (2020, 5). She vocalizes her history and community through song and performance, reclaiming the space and turning music into a geographical-political act. This act remaps space to assert Black people’s right to the city, celebrating Blackness and making a political intervention to gain visibility and new meanings to the city’s long colonial history. Music becomes an 108 expression of freedom, building a safe space through sonic and sensorial experiences for Black people and where the community can embrace their ancestral legacies. CONCLUSION Ancestral knowledge is the basis of Montaño's efforts to reimagine, restructure, and sound Black spaces. Urbano litoral, the title of one of her albums and songs, reflects well the musical project of this artist. Her work successfully builds a sonic fusion between the Afro-Colombian traditions of the ‘litoral’ and contemporary ‘urban’ rhythms, which represent Afro-diasporic rhythms from the Caribbean and the United States in her work. The album's homonymous song concentrates on preserving Black history, their struggles and knowledge in Cali. The lyrics say, Hombres y mujeres armados con palabras luchan por cambiar el mundo leyendo las letras del cielo el agua, el mar y los cocoteros en el corazón del mar dentro de la selva a la orilla del rio cuentan las historias que en las escuelas por alguna razón, ocultan, no cuentan por ejemplo, la lucha por la libertad en medio de la trata negrera por ejemplo, el verso, el cuento, enseñando donde no hay escritura. Just as the metaphor of these verses connects words to landscape, Montaño's work transports and uses the power of the sea, the land and sky of the Pacific, and the streets of Cali to make visible the history and traditions of Afro communities. She reclaims the 109 power of orality –embedded in Black traditions and cultural expressions– to transmit history and local knowledge. At the same time, she criticizes the institutional history that has erased the struggles and traditions of Afro-Diasporic communities. Montaño's music transmits the trajectory of black communities and the preservation of their traditions, marking a route from Africa, the Colombian Pacific and the segregated neighborhoods of Cali. The celebration and valorization of these Afro-diasporic cultures amid colonial and capitalist structures of dispossession constitutes Montaño's music. As her lyrics state, there are “plantas curando las enfermedades/ donde no hay hospitales," asserting the struggle to preserve them, “es luchar por vivir con cultura natal/ con saberes ancestrales" (Montaño 2011 “Urbano litoral”). In our interview, when I asked her about her views on Black ancestral knowledge, Montaño stated, “It is what feeds or nourishes this culture, these cultural expressions. So it is involved here, immersed all the time, and is part of our languages; it becomes part of our spirits, cosmovision, artistic creations and, of course, community interventions.”23 In this way, Montaño's work and personal history are a sample of the strategies the Afro community uses to stay united, connected to the territory and survive in contexts of dispossession. Montaño’s song "Urbano litoral" takes us on a sonic journey from the Colombian Pacific to the modern city and vice versa, much like her music project, highlighting the resistance of Black cultures. "Negros que emigraron por necesidad" says the voice in the last verse and vindicates once again the pride of being Black "de tu cultura, no te de vergüenza/ negro más que rumba/ negro también piensa/ no te de vergüenza." Montaño 23 Personal interview, June 2022. 110 forms an image of Blackness beyond racialization and criminalization of the Aguablanca District and its communities, countering colonial and racist perceptions of Blackness. In the words of Frantz Fanon, these colonial ideas reproduce that "the Negro is an animal, the Negro is bad, the Negro is perverse, the Negro is ugly" (Fanon 2008, 81). Thus, through a reinforced construction of a sonorous and communitarian territorial identity, Montaño reconfigures the urban experience of Afro-Diasporic communities that have been racially and spatially segregated and displaced from their territories, The act of sounding a Black space in the city is a geographic and political response to the "displacement of difference" (McKittrick 2006) and thus to the colonial structures of space. Fanon clearly states how colonialism shapes space by attributing negative perceptions to the land and its people. He says, “The town belonging to the colonized people, or at least the native town, the Negro village, the medina, the reservation, is a place of ill fame, peopled by men of evil repute. They are born there, it matters little where or how; they die there, it matters not where, nor how" (Fanon 2021, 37). Although decades have passed since his statement, this coincides with the geographies haunting the Aguablanca District. The neighborhood presents one of the highest rates of death in the city, largely due to police brutality and the reproduction of vulnerable ways of living in this territory (Moreno and Mornan 2015a). This was also attested by the women I interviewed during my fieldwork, where all four of them mentioned at least one violent death within their close families when talking about their life stories. Afro-Colombian activist Angela, for instance, told me, "In total, I have four people who have died in Colombia's armed conflict from violent deaths caused by the 111 guerrillas."24 These four people refer to three of her siblings and her father. Furthermore, her mother, who was the president of the neighborhood assembly, was shot in the head in Commune 14 and luckily survived. Hundreds of similar cases in the Aguablanca District still need to be solved, as people do not have the funds to initiate an investigation, and the authorities do not get involved. Thus, when Montaño claims that "Afrocultura en las ciudades/ también es la resistencia/ la injusticia y la pobreza/ es la alegría viva/ donde abunda la tristeza," she knows this context very well. Therefore, thriving and communicating happiness amid a colonial anti-Black scenario becomes her music's most potent tool, an exercise of sounding blackness. Her work embodies the aesthetics of the struggle for freedom and her right to inhabit the city. As seen through the analysis, this feeling of freedom is intimately attached to the re-conceptualization of the territories the community inhabits and the transmission of Black knowledges and histories as well as a sense of belonging to the space they currently inhabit. Cynthia Montaño navigates between institutional cultural spaces, such as the Petronio Alvarez, and community spaces to stage sonic blackness through her music. As an artist working with independent labels, she must use the tools at her disposal to develop her career. Therefore, she transits and negotiates between both spaces, keeping her project deeply rooted in the Afro-Colombian community. Today, many of her songs are used in both local independent and governmental cultural productions to talk about the Colombian Pacific communities in Cali. For example, the Secretary of Culture of Cali 24 Personal interview, March 2023. 112 has invited her to events related to the Afro-Pacific diaspora and has used her music to accompany videos that promote their traditions. Likewise, independent documentary productions such as "Negropacífico" also use her music to accompany the stories of the people and the territory. This has made Montaño's audience quite diverse, not only the same community she belongs to. Therefore, knowing that part of her audience is white, she uses this opportunity to transmit the critical listening positionality with which she wants us to approach her music. In addition, Montaño actively participates with her music in protests and marches, as was the revolt of 2021, which keeps her artistic project politically current and linked to the street. His music envelops us in a sensory territory beyond sound, bringing flavors and visuals to build black spaces. These contested spaces challenge Cali's urban hegemonies regarding class and race, using a referential framework of the Pacific coast and afro-diasporic rhythms, especially the most popular in the district: rap. 113 CHAPTER 2 Cimarrona Strategies: Cynthia Montaño and Black Women Anti-Patriarchal Alliances Cynthia Montaño is one of the many women with roots in the Colombian Pacific who reached Cali due to territorial dispossession. However, living in the city did not mean an alternative to racialized neoliberal dispossession made her confront a new face of it in the context of urban space. Afro-Colombian scholars and activists Vicenta Moreno and Debaye Mornan assert that the conditions of impoverished Black women in the city represent a second slave trade given by banishment. This banishment "kidnaps black bodies, exploits them in the city, segregates them in the hillsides and slums, mutilates them, murders them in homicidal violence and dumps them in landfill.” (Moreno and Mornan 2015b) This reveals a geography of elimination in the city, which is permeated by race, gender and class, affecting particularly Black women from poor neighborhoods such as the Aguablanca District. However, based on their experiences and the testimonies of other women in the district, these scholars highlight that this context has also mobilized Black women. Cynthia Montaño us one of them, who has organized with other Black women from the neighborhood to fight and build alternatives in the face of structural dispossession. Many scholars have studied Maroonage from a geographical perspective, pointing out how it links contemporary and historical struggles of Black communities in space 114 against systems of power (Zavala Guillen 2021; Malm 2018; Bledsoe 2017; Winston 2021; Thomas 2020). In this sense, maroonage represents a method to produce space (Winston 2021) and a practice of alternative mapping (McKittrick 2011). Now, from the perspective of Black women, this method means not only defying geographies of elimination but also engaging with geography as "social processes that make geography a racial-sexual terrain" (2006, xiv). In this chapter, I understand Maroon geographies from this framework that rescues the spatial practices of liberation of Black communities, and I expand it by unpacking the forms these geographies take in the everyday practices and experiences of Black women from the Aguablanca District, including Cynthia Montaño's music. Montaño's music linked to her activism similarly creates a sense of place rooted in her own life experiences, the histories of the women in her community, and the history of the spaces they inhabit, creating a ‘cimarrona geography.’ In this chapter, I argue that this maroon geography, from the point of view of Black women in eastern Cali, serves to reclaim the body and produce safer spaces through the deployment of cimarrona strategies. Some of these strategies are comadreo, an ancient healing practice of Black women, and ubuntu, a word from the Zulu and Xhosa African languages that translates as "I am because we are" and presents a philosophy of good living for the existence and re-existence of Black communities (GAIDEPAC and PCN-Equipo Yembé 2014). The Afro-Colombian women of the District of Aguablanca use these cimarrona strategies to liberate their bodies and territories, and Cynthia Montaño, as part of this organizational network, recreates them through the transmission of embodied sound spaces. Thus, 115 Montaño uses these spaces to denounce gender, class and racialized violence against Black women while recovering their history of struggle against the geographies of elimination. Ultimately, her music embodies this weaving of marooning networks, where Black women's stories are vocalized to transform public and private spaces. BLACK WOMEN IN PATRIARCHAL AND RACIALIZED CITYSPACES One day in Cali, I was walking in the historical city center when I stumbled upon a sculpture of a Black woman called "La Negra del Chontaduro” (Figure 9). Its sheer size and weight –1,700 kilos of bronze– made it impossible to ignore. The statue depicts a woman with afro hair, which is covered by a handkerchief, and wearing an off-shoulder dress that reveals a large cleavage, where half of her chest is exposed. She is seated before a big bowl of chontaduros and holds one in each hand at the same chest level. According to a note in El Tiempo in 1991, this statue was erected to pay homage to "este pintoresco personaje, sencillo y autóctono que enaltece el valor de la economía informal y expresa los valores de la raza negra, [then] nadie más apropiado que una escultora caleña." Indeed, the author of the sculpture was Alicia Tafur, an upper-class white woman from Cali, the daughter of a lawyer and an Italian descendant woman from Bogotá. The story says the army donated 900 kilos of bullet casings from the polygons while the youth committee procured other bronze implements for casting. The San Fernando Club sponsored it, and the statue spent many years inside this club’s facilities until it was deemed "unfair” and moved to the upscale Hotel Dann Carlton, where it is now. As I gazed at this imposing statue of "La Negra del Chontaduro" in the heart of 116 Cali's affluent colonial district, it became a powerful symbol of the relationship between Cali and Black women’s lives. Figure 9: Sculpture "La Negra del Chontaduro." Photo taken by author in June, 202 Both this sculpture and its context of production and location reveal some of the social, racial and gender issues within the city. First, the sculpture insinuates a sensuality in this woman, as her dress shows half of her breast and one leg while holding chontaduro, a fruit known for its aphrodisiac properties. This representation of Black women selling chontaduro contrasts radically with that of Cynthia Montaño in her song "Chontaduro" (analyzed in the previous chapter). While Montaño emphasized this figure as a symbol of admiration for the hard work it signifies, in Tafur's representation, 117 sensuality seems to be a characteristic element. It might be surprising that the sexualization in the sculpture is the work of a woman and not a man. However, this phenomenon coincides with the dynamics of racialization that were imposed since colonization and slavery. As bell hooks stated, As white colonizers adopted a self-righteous sexual morality for themselves, they even more eagerly labeled black people sexual heathens. Since woman was designated as the originator of sexual sin, black women were naturally seen as the embodiment of female evil and sexual lust. (2015, 27) The racialized and sexualized representation of Black women in the sculpture reproduces the colonial legacy that bell hooks speaks of. At the same time, it coincides with what scholars have pointed out regarding the treatment of Afro-Colombian women, who are constantly sexualized, victims of sexual harassment and racism, and disrespected in public spaces (Nunez Basante 2020; Viveros, Arango, and Meertens 2008). The contrast between Tafur's representation of the Black woman who sells chontaduro and Montaño's representation in her music is evident. As analyzed in chapter one, Montaño's music evokes the chontaduro vendor as a hardworking Black woman, committed to her Pacific roots and seeking autonomy within spatial and social conditions of dispossession. While the sculpture not only sexualizes but romanticizes the poverty of Black women who must be street vendors, Montaño turns her into a symbol of respect while denouncing the impoverishment they face. This reveals the importance of community-born representations of Afro-Colombians, such as Montaño’s. Second, regarding production and spatialization, this sculpture was founded by the San Fernando Club and was located within its facilities. This club was emblematic in 118 the 60s and 70s in Cali, as it was the main entertainment space for the city's white/mestizo elites (see Figure 10). The club came to be recognized by various figures and artists, such as the Colombian singer Lucho Bermudez, who wrote a song with the same name for the club. The song emphasized that “es el club más popular/ de esta tierra soberana/ es del valle la sultana/ donde se puede gozar". Why would this elite club have a sculpture representative of an informal job common among impoverished Black women? Perhaps that is why it was branded as "unfair" to have it within the San Fernando Club and was moved to Cali's historic center, outside the hotel. However, this territory is not much more representative than the club since, as we have seen, the historical center is a highly touristic neighborhood that either excludes the Black population or integrates them as part of the neoliberal and multicultural national discourse. Figure 10: Members of the San Fernando Club during a New Year's Eve traditional party. Fuente: El Espectador (Rodriguez 2021) 119 Scholar Nunez Basante remarks, “the rise of informal vendors in the city is continuously growing together with Cali's urban regeneration spatial policies that seek to redevelop public space for the safe use by its citizens and tourist by "recovering" public space from illegal use and disorder.” (2020, 87-88) It is interesting that ‘recovering,’ in this context, means to police and punish Black bodies who are using public spaces in ways that are deemed “illegal,” such as selling on the streets. Thus, the existence of this sculpture confronts us with the great spatial paradox of the city. On the one hand, the sculpture of a Black woman selling chontaduro is celebrated and allowed; and on the other hand, real black women are criminalized and excluded from public space. This paradox is revealed by observing the economic pillars that guided the racialized spatial production in Cali. Cali has followed Colombia’s neoliberal urban policies, which seek to “maximize profits through the improvement of public space aesthetic for elite consumption and capital accumulation.” (Nunez Basante 2020, 88) In this context, the bodies of Black women who are street vendors are rejected and policed in the public space, at the same time that they become objects for tourism. These two phenomena are directly related to Colombia's neoliberal turn with the 1991 Constitution, which promoted multiculturalism at the same time as the privatization of national industries and services. Unlike the previous one, this new Constitution recognized the rights of Black and Indigenous peoples in the country, which became a double-edged sword. Instead of giving autonomy to these peoples, this recognition focused on granting cultural rights approved by state policies. This resulted in new restrictions on the most radical activism, the reinforcement 120 of the power of the nation-state through a re-articulation of racial hierarchies and the control on granting people’s rights (Dest 2020; C. Hale 2005). The armed conflict also played a pivotal role in the state’s neoliberal goal as it facilitated the control over Indigenous and Black peoples and their territories. This meant the decrease of autonomy struggles to become part of the neoliberal multicultural project, the displacement of thousands to Cali and other cities, and the accumulation of land and mining licenses in the Colombian Pacific by agribusiness industries and extractive corporations (Dest 2020, 373–74). The impact of the armed conflict on women is represented in the "El Testigo" photographic exhibition by Jesus Abad Colorado. As I made my way to the San Augustin Cloister Museum in Bogota, where the exhibition was held, I could not help but feel uneasy as I passed through the heavily guarded quadrant. The military presence was a poignant reminder of Latin America's tumultuous past marred by armed forces. After a police officer inspected my bag, I finally entered the museum beside the presidential palace. Although I was initially apprehensive due to the presence of numerous police and military personnel, that feeling was quickly replaced by profound sadness and frustration. As I moved through the exhibition, I became a witness too of the devastating consequences of Colombia's armed conflict: In the middle of the jungle mountains of Antioquia, northwestern Colombia, lay a closed coffin on the damp earth. The visibility of the nails and the type of wood of the coffin revealed its improvised construction. On the left side, a man was kneeling on the ground, resting both elbows on the coffin and using his hands to hide the suffering on his face, which still managed to seep through his 121 fingers (see figure 11) It was the portrait of Aniceto, who was mourning Ubertina, one of the many women who were victims of the armed conflict. Walking through the haunting corridors, I held back sobs and tears that had already reddened my eyes. Figure 11: Photograph of the exhibition "El Testigo" by Jesús Abad Rodríguez, taken by the author. The exhibition's photographs painted a harrowing picture of the conflict's brutality. According to scholar Bernal Benavidez, Abad’s photographs foreground survivors refuting the attempt to erase the war in Colombia and its history, especially from the elites and paramilitarism who have tried to write a ‘conflictless history.’” (2022, 179) In this context, sexual violence was one more story that was tried to be erased. The victims of sexual violence were mainly women, children, and youth from Indigenous and Black communities. In the gallery walls, we could read that the official number of victims of sexual violence was 15,738. However, this figure did not account for unreported cases due to the severe social stigma surrounding sexual violence. Indeed, this violence meant more than just a means of killing; it was an instrument to humiliate the enemy and spread terror in 122 the community. One of the videos included in the exhibition showcased drawings found in places where armed groups took shelter, such as houses and schools. The drawings show obscene figures alluded to sexual violence, a chilling reminder of the trauma inflicted on the victims. One photograph even showed a woman's forearm with the letters "AUC" carved into it using a knife (see figure 12). According to the United Nations, the AUC, the largest group of extreme right-wing paramilitaries and drug traffickers, was responsible for 80% of the killings and torture of civilians during the conflict. Businessmen and landowners funded the group to eradicate the insurgent guerrillas. Over time, the hidden agreements between the AUC, the military, the ruling class, and the government of former President Álvaro Uribe have become increasingly apparent. Figure 12: Photograph of the exhibition "El Testigo" by Jesús Abad Rodríguez, taken by the author. Although the armed conflict originated in the country’s interior regions, including the Pacific, it spread to major urban areas, such as Cali. This expansion significantly transformed the social dynamics of marginalized areas, such as the Aguablanca District. In an interview, Montaño recollects her childhood during the 1980s, when "invisible 123 borders" controlled by gangs protected the neighborhood and its residents, ensuring that no one engaged in illicit activities. “Despite the pervasive poverty, the environment was protective,”25 she emphasized. This period coincided with the M-19's establishment of a peace camp in the district to maintain security, suspend drug sales and consumption, conduct selective trials and executions, establish militias, and conduct raids on cargo trucks to distribute food to those in need (Vanegas Muñoz 1998, 184). However, this changed when drug trafficking arrived in the neighborhood, leading to a violent border dispute and encounters between armed groups, police, and military that endangered the civilian population. Montaño recalled a traumatic incident that took place during this time of dispute between different armed forces. The police raided her home while her pregnant mother cried as the house was being demolished, leaving them with no roof. As a six-year-old, Montaño wondered why the police treated them so poorly when they were supposed to protect them26. Unfortunately, such scenes became commonplace for her and her family. Over time and with the help of human rights organizations, Montaño and her family moved to Puerta del Sol, leaving Commune 15 for Commune 14 (see Figure 5). However, this forced deterritorialization did not change over time. Around seven years ago, Montaño and her mother were displaced once again after receiving several death threats due to their community work and Montaño’s refusal to allow her son to be recruited into drug gangs and armed groups. 25 Personal interview, June 2022. 26 Personal conversation, June 2022. 124 Montaño, like many women in the district, must navigate this space permeated by police surveillance and control and drug trafficking. In his analysis of race and space in Chicago, Scholar Rashad Shabazz developed the concept of "prisonized landscapes" (2015) to refer to these techniques of policing, surveillance and border creation in a territory. Although the author focuses on the effects of these carceral techniques on Black masculinity, his conceptualization of the geography of confinement is relevant to the case described by Montaño in the Aguablanca District. Montaño and the Black women of the district, aware of the geography of confinement they face, have generated strategies to protect themselves and create safe spaces in which they can meet and dwell. In these spaces, women not only address this type of armed violence but also the gender-based violence that many of them experience in their homes at the hands of the same men in the community. Montaño's identity as a Black woman artist and community organizer gives her a unique perspective on the intersection of race, space, gender and class, which allows her to position an anti-patriarchal vision within black communities in the district. This is a fundamental aspect of her work that dialogues with the historical struggle of Black women. As bell hooks once acutely noted, "Black men can be victims of racism, but at the same time act as sexist oppressors of Black women......" Black male sexism existed long before American slavery." (2015, 57) Interestingly, Indigenous women who are part of the community feminism strand have made similar points regarding patriarchy in their communities. They conceptualize as "entronque patriarcal" the phenomenon in which precolonial sexist practices were reinforced within communities with the arrival of 125 colonial patriarchy (Cabnal 2010). This is why women's bodies have been subject to external colonial-economic as well as community dominations. Scholars such as Rita Segato have rightly pointed out how women's bodies have been crucial in maintaining group cohesion and community identity. Segato states, "it is in the female body and its control by the community that ethnic groups inscribe their mark of cohesion. There is a balance and proportionality between the dignity, coherence and strength of the group and female subordination." (Segato 2003, 140) This reality is reflected in the experiences and testimonies that Black women in the Aguablanca District have shared with me during my stay in the city and that Montaño vocalizes in several of her songs. These women meet and organize daily to talk about this violence and heal together. At the same time, they seek to transform these spaces of dispossession, building a community geography capable of changing their realities. Katherine McKittrick has aptly observed that "black women's geographies push up against the seemingly natural spaces and places of subjugation, disclosing, sometimes radically, how geography is socially produced and therefore an available site through which various forms of blackness can be understood and asserted" (2006, xviii–xix). This definition of Black women’s geography is useful to illuminate the complex networks and strategies Afro-Colombian Black women employ to survive, build and sustain themselves in the Aguablanca District. Rather than being passive victims, these women demonstrate a deep understanding of how gender, race, and class intersect to create barriers that limit their access to urban spaces (Moreno 2018). To overcome these barriers, they have established and led numerous social organizations, including Casa Cultural el 126 Chontaduro, Asociación Forjadores de la Vida, Centro Comunitario Yira Castro, Fundación Lila Mujer, Fundación Girasoles, and the local radio station Oriente Estéreo 96.0. Political organizations led by Afro-Colombian women engage in popular education initiatives using various art forms to empower and guide women and youth. Cynthia Montaño herself has been an organizer for two such organizations: Casa Cultural el Chontaduro, which provides a space for the community to come together and build a more equitable and just society through artistic and political reflection, and Fundación Lila Mujer, which promotes sexual and reproductive health for HIV-positive women while also advocating for their rights. Through their collective efforts, these organizations demonstrate the transformative power of community-driven initiatives that center the experiences and needs of marginalized Black populations, with a particular focus on Black women. As an active member of the Casa Cultural del Chontaduro, and with her leadership in Fundación Lila Mujer, Montaño has transferred the experiences of many women to the embroidery that composes her music and work. ENTERING CASA CULTURAL EL CHONTADURO THROUGH MONTAÑO’S SOUNDS The Casa Cultural el Chontaduro was established in 1982, around the same time as the formation of the Aguablanca District. Its origins are linked to the Catholic Church, as noted by Afro-Colombian activist Iris in a personal interview conducted in 2022. Visitors from Germany, the United States, Switzerland, and Spain, along with the church, established this space as a meeting place to enhance community organization and cultures 127 (Mañunga Arroyo 2015). As time passed, the Casa Cultural el Chontaduro (CCC) administration was transferred to community leaders and neighbors in the district, transforming it into a space for popular education and the development of support networks. Located in a narrow passage in the heart of the Aguablanca District, in a neighborhood called Marroquín III, the CCC has two spaces located opposite each other. The first consists of a multifunctional room painted on the outside with a mural depicting seven Black women and a young man gathered around a plant about to be planted (see Figure 13). Across the narrow street is the second space, which consists of a house with a popular library on the second floor and a terrace on the second floor to host smaller events. Immediately, we can see the contrast in the representation of Black people in the city's center (Tafur’s sculpture or La Linterna’s poster at the beginning of chapter one). Here, we see a representation linked to the land, the community, and women’s comradery. 128 Figure 13: Photo of the Casa Cultural el Chontaduro from the outside, taken by the author. As home to most of the deterritorialized Afro-Colombian population, the Casa Cultural el Chontaduro focuses heavily on preserving and transmitting the Afro-Pacific roots. This provided a bridge for new generations living in the city to remain connected to their ancestry and history. Montaño is one such individual who recalls her experience: "When I arrived at the Casa Cultural el Chontaduro, listening to the elders, singing and telling their stories, it immediately brought back memories of my grandmother doing the same thing.” In this sense, the CCC has served as a medium through which women can build safe spaces, and generations can share and pass on their knowledge and experiences. 129 In recent decades, Casa Cultural el Chontaduro has strongly emphasized working with women from the territory. According to Iris, most people who have come and stayed are women. This led to the formation of the Mujeres Escritoras group, where women learned to communicate their own life stories and, for many, how to use a computer for the first time. This group later gave rise to the Escuela Sociopolítica de Mujeres, which, in Iris' words, is "a political space, a commitment to empower women and give them a voice and put these voices out. It is a political space built from affectivities."27 From this perspective, politics is separate from political parties or other state institutions. Instead, it means "the construction women have made over time and their heritage, the resistance we pursue. We have this lineage as women"28. To this end, the voice has been one of the most important instruments for empowering women who come to the CCC. Before countering any type of violence experienced, women must speak about what they are going through and then find the ways and resources to help them. Iris is clear on this matter and says that "no one is forced to speak," but rather, it must come from within. Elder Elvira Solis, who is part of this group, also highlights how important was for her to "sacar la voz" (speaking out). She said, "I didn't speak, I was a voiceless woman, I didn't have an opinion, I didn't say anything"29. As the women's group grew, coordinated by Iris, more and more women started to share their experiences, life stories, and problems, and it became evident that domestic violence was a recurrent type of violence experienced by women. 27 Personal interview, June 2022. 28 Idem. 29 Personal interview, June 2022. 130 During a conversation with Elder Elvira Solis, she bravely shared her experiences of enduring repeated instances of domestic violence and sexual assault at the hands of men she had been romantically involved with, including men who shared her heritage. This sentiment was echoed by Iris, who recounted a woman's experience of "going through all kinds of violence, and if she left the house, her partner would beat her again and again."30 One day, this woman arrived at the CCC trembling and shared her experience: in the presence of her two children, she stood up to her partner, and when he was about to beat her again, she told him, “If you touch me, I will sue you." After this incident, the woman felt empowered to take care of herself. Iris recalls that “she put a stop to this and said, ‘If it weren't for this space, I wouldn't have been able to stand up,' because she felt it was normal."31 As the facilitator of Black women's groups and healing circles within the house, Iris reported that this was a common issue faced by many women in the community. It was only through the supportive environment provided by these circles and spaces that women could reclaim their voices and speak out against such gendered forms of violence. As a community activist in the Casa Cultural del Chontaduro and other women's organizations, Montaño's music communicates the urgency of speaking out against gendered violence. She echoes women’s testimonies in her song “Excusas,” featuring a rap style influenced by funk and accompanied by piano, guitar, and drums. When I first heard it, it felt like a powerful mandate. The lyrics emphasize the importance of women 30 Idem. 31 Idem. 131 breaking their silence and speaking out about experiences of domestic violence. The voice transforms words and sounds into a clarion call to action, using imperative verbs and interjections to address these women directly with a commanding and pressing tone: Habla, deja el miedo, rompe el silencio hasta cuando piensas callarlo ¡Cuánto más vas a ocultarlo! ¡Cuánto más a justificarlo! Cuánto más vas a vivir bajo la excusa del amor Si a quien amas, solo te paga con dolor Cuando los gestos del amor se convirtieron en golpes Como cristal en pedazos tu vida se rompe Pues con golpes él pretende educarte El interlocutor de Montaño se vuelve justamente una mujer que está sufriendo esta violencia en su vida actual. Le da herramientas para romper ese ciclo haciéndose énfasis en la desarticulación entre el amor y la violencia física. In this song, Montaño furthers her critique of gendered violence by moving beyond the private space to address patriarchy at a society structural level. She sings against societal beauty standards that objectify and sexualize women, creating a link between these two types of violence that fall into women. The lyrics suggest that society and the economy are responsible for creating so-called “perfect women” who are expected to engage in sex, consume, and lack independent thought: La sociedad y el negocio fabrican en sus laboratorios a las que compran, que consumen sexo meten, y no piensan a las tontas bellas. 132 This message is reinforced through the repeated background chant of rompe (break) as the leading voice urges women to break from this culture that perpetuates their passivity and harms their bodies. For instance, right after we hear rompe the voice sings: La excusa que te hace carne de mercado […] Modas que matan tu naturaleza/ busca en ti/ tu verdadera belleza, /no esa que te hace vacía y lastima tu cuerpo.” Through the song, Montaño reclaims women's bodies from different types of violence that are perpetuated in both private and public space. One represents physical violence by male partners and another by the hegemonic beauty industry, which imposes and perpetuates patriarchal dynamics. Montaño's song presents us with the double violence that women face, that is, within the community and within society, which in the latter also becomes a racial issue. Communitarian feminist Julieta Paredes suggests that beauty standards are rooted in white colonial aesthetics. Therefore, it is vital to reject the frivolous spectacle of bodies exhibited for macho consumption, which is part of the cult of appearance that neoliberalism has imposed (2010, 101). Yaneth Valencia, an Afro-Colombian activist from Cali, who like Montaño worked with the organization Lila Mujer supporting women who are HIV positive, has a similar critique. In an interview for Volcanicas, she said, “We got it into our heads that the only thing that had value was the canonical white body with its upturned noses and straight blond hair; those of us who did not fit into that prototype were second hand, the ugly, the poor, the black.” (Valencia 2023) Valencia sharply points out the connection between colonialism and the beauty standards, which enhances the multilayer oppression on Black women. The lyrics of Montaño put this discussion in dialogue with the violence women experienced at home. 133 She seeks to empower women and counter the violence they face by redefining the concept of love outside the realm of pain and violence while encouraging them to have a positive self-image outside the capitalist industry of beauty standards. In contrast, she promotes the need to recognize beauty in intelligence, strength, and perseverance to honor and reclaim the feminized and racialized body from the abuse of power and patriarchal dynamics. According to the Observatorio de Feminicidios en Colombia, Cali is the third city with the highest rate of femicides in the country. In 2023, the east of Cali, specifically the District of Aguablanca, presented the highest rate of gender violence in the city (El País 2024). This rate reveals how this type of violence falls most heavily on impoverished and racialized women in the city. Because of this, the Red de Organizaciones de Mujeres Negras del Oriente de Cali (ROMNOC), which houses the work of many women in the district, has mobilized to counteract this violence through informative talks, protests, and women's meetings, among others. In December 2023, the website of the Casa Cultural el Chontaduro uploaded a declaration from ROMNOC denouncing gender violence against girls and women. This declaration is born from the bloody femicide of the Afro-Colombian teenager Michel Dayana Gonzalez Sierra, who was 15 years old. The culprit was Harold Echeverry, a white-mestizo man, who locked Michel Dayana in the paint shop where he worked, where he raped, murdered and dismembered her. This macabre femicide exposed the geographies of elimination and death that racialized women in Cali face daily. Aware of this, in their declaration, they state how murder represents the structural violence they face adding that, 134 Al ser parte de esta geografía racializada y empobrecida, nuestras corporalidades viven desafiando aquel sentido de “propiedad” que la ciudadanía blanco-mestiza se arroga para instrumentalizarnos, vaciarnos y aniquilarnos, incluso mimetizándose en el discurso más “elevado” de las instituciones y organizaciones sociales. The women of RONMOC and the district not only communicate sharply the systemic and structural violence that surrounds them, but they are also in constant struggle to transform it. Cynthia Montaño also participates in this women’s network –an experience she has shared through photos on her social networks– and transmits this struggle against femicidal violence in her songs. Montaño's song "Las mil y ningun mujeres" draws attention to this problem by reinterpreting Hanan al-Shayk's famous tale of One Thousand and One Nights. This powerful metaphor represents the countless stories of women murdered by their partners, as exemplified by the lyrics: "el que fue su esposo/ el que a golpes la acariciaba/ el que de SIDA la enfermó en su cama." By referencing a woman infected with HIV by her violent husband, Montaño also brings her experience working with the organization Lila Mujer into the song. The song begins with a soft blend of traditional and contemporary drumming, slowly introducing a bass, an electric guitar, and a saxophone creating a dark and somber atmosphere. Montaño's low voice then pierces through, utilizing a second-person point of view to immerse the listener into the story: escuchas sus fuertes pisadas tu corazón se agita eres presa de una hambrienta manada corres más más por la húmeda selva es imposible pero esperanza de vivir conversas. 135 The listener is then depicted as the main character, a feminized person trapped in an abusive situation who seeks to escape control over their body. By stating, Porque te colmaron los abusos a tu cuerpo te obligan a abortar, te pesa ese recuerdo está decidido, serás libre o morirás en el intento aunque pocas triunfan, y más han muerto y el fin de tu vida lo defina una bala en tu cuerpo. The song communicates the urgent situation of gender violence and the devastating impact of femicides in the Eastern side of Cali and beyond. The voice creates empathy in the listener; it tells the story of a woman facing gender violence by putting the listener in the role of this woman through the conjugation of the personal pronoun "tu". In the song’s second stanza, the narrator's voice shifts to a first-person point of view to recount the tragic story of a 16-year-old girl who was murdered and tortured for standing up for her rights. The narrator emphasizes that this experience affects all women, as the victim's murder was meant to reinforce control and maintain silence: Sus pechos mutilados exhibieron ante la gente para que obedeciéramos el control para que huyéramos en silencio. The young girl’s story is not unique but part of a collective experience many women share. Montaño aims to transmit this shared experience by retelling the girl's story, using her voice and music to breathe life back into the victim. Despite the voice’s statement, "esta historia no cuenta ella," Montaño retells this story through her song, conveying that this is an everyday occurrence for women. When I 136 asked Montaño about this song's origins, she said it was a terrible story that happened and was told in the community. Montaño ensures that these women’s voices and stories do not disappear and become the reason to continue fighting against patriarchal violence. Going beyond the Aguablanca district, Montaño invokes women from diverse social, economic, and racial backgrounds to highlight that all women are potential victims of femicide. As she sings, Es otra ama de casa otra obrera otra prostituta otra guerrillera otra madre soltera otra sindicalista otra de derecha otra izquierdista otra blanca, otra negra otra india otra joven otra niña otra desplazada otra periodista otra mujer más que muere. At this moment, the song speaks for all women, regardless of their socio-economic status or racial identity. It becomes a collective voice and history, building a unity of diverse women facing gender violence. This connects the broader feminist movements in Latin America such as Ni Una Menos, which fights against femicide. The songs "Excusas" and "Las mil y ningún mujeres" also contribute to this movement by placing women’s experiences of everyday gendered violence at the center. Thus, these songs and Montaño’s voice become a powerful and creative tool to counter the silence 137 and impunity surrounding gender violence and femicides. Her songs linked to her community work amplify the struggle against patriarchy with a perspective grounded on the experiences of Afro-Colombian women from low-income neighborhoods. Montaño's inclusion of the song "Lunas y soles" on her album adds complexity to the landscape of feminist networks, locally and globally, by including the history and defense of transwomen and gay people. It is well-known that global feminist organizations and demonstrations, such as March 8th (International Working Women's Day) or September 28th (Global Day of Action for Legal and Safe Abortion), have both anti-trans radical groups as well as trans-feminists and allies. Examples of these internal conflicts within the Latin American feminist movement include fights and disagreements with TERFs (trans-exclusionary radical feminists) at women’s marches or other feminist spaces. In this sense, Montaño's gesture of including a song that highlights the story of trans and lesbian women as well as gay men and the violence they face conveys her positionality in support of these communities. With a rapping vocal style, "Lunas y soles" begins by introducing a the first story: a woman who is judged for transgressing the heteronormativity of and sexual desire, nació mujer se llama Norma curioso rompe reglas de toda forma rechaza la orma de ser como otras mujeres aunque faldas y collares es lo que prefiere sabe lo que quiere aunque la señalan 138 porque en su cama a hombres y mujeres ama. The voice repeats this last verse, emphasizing the woman's bisexual desire to make it visible and normalize this sexual preference. With a metaphor of moon and sun to portray sexual diversities and move beyond the common binary identity of men and women, Montaño sings " todas las lunas y soles se aman/ dos mujeres hermosas/ que dicen ser hermanas/ esconden su amor entre versos y sabanas," showing the context in which lesbian love needs to hide due to social stigma. In the context of Cali, dissident sexual preference, located outside the margins of heterosexuality and hegemonic heteronormativity, continues to be taboo, silenced, and an object of violence. For this reason, the community organization of lesbian and bisexual women of Cali, Colectiva Feminista SAFO LB, places the visibility of their sexual preferences and identities at the heart of their work. On their Facebook page they say, Como mujeres lesbianas tenemos la tarea de visibilizar día a día y en todos los espacios (políticos, sociales, culturales, deportivos, etc.) nuestros sentires, luchas y sueños, reafirmándole al mundo que no está mal amar a otra mujer y que en este caminar no estamos solas, que existimos y resistimos ante los obstáculos de la heterosexualidad obligatoria, la discriminación y los prejuicios impuestos históricamente por una sociedad doblemoralista, machista y patriarchal.32 Likewise, Adriana Moya of the Lesbian and Bisexual Women of Cali, tells how the fight against street harassment is one of their main concerns within their activism. Moya affirms that "when we go hand in hand with our partner [in the streets], there is always someone who yells at us if we want to have a threesome; we can't have 32 SAFO Colectiva Feminista LB, Facebook, April 26, 2021, https://www.facebook.com/safocolectiva/ 139 expressions of affection like any other [heterosexual] couple without receiving aggressive comments" (Giraldp 2023). In her commitment to making visible sexual and gender diversity in her songs, Montaño introduces a second story. This time is the story of a transgender woman named Ana, previously known as Samuel, and an activist gay man named Alvaro Miguel: Ana le llaman pero en realidad es Samuel prefirió ser ella antes que él [...] Tiene un amigo Alvaro Miguel que lucha por los que son como él inteligente hombre, apuesto su gusto es otro, no el sexo opuesto. Alvaro Miguel's story is based on a real-life event. Álvaro Miguel Rivera was a gay activist man who was violently murdered on March 6, 2009. According to the World Organization Against Torture, Alvaro Miguel "was found dead in his apartment, handcuffed, gagged and with blows to various parts of his body and head.” (Organización Mundial Contra La Tortura, OMCT 2009) Before this, he had already denounced cases of violence against members of the LGBTQ+ community and received threats due to this work. Montaño’s song recovers stories such as Alvaro Miguel’s case to highlight and strengthen the struggle of the LGBTQ+ community for their rights and safety. The song "Lunes y soles" recognizes this context of sexual and gender violence faced by the LGTBQ+ community in Cali and Colombia. For this reason, Montaño adds 140 a chorus that contains a more pessimistic tone which is composed of several voices that invite reflection: no hay respeto al ser humano si todos somos hermanos por qué nos matamos She hints at the violence that will be portrayed in the next stanzas as the song moves from people’s stories that highlight diverse sexualities and genders to the tragict ends this community find. The lyrics convey a rhythmic and enraged tone as the voice describes, Detrás de la puerta escondida Diana derrama lágrimas que el miedo ahoga n su amada Julia al ser juzgad dejó su vida en una soga nada pudo hacer Miguel pues gente de poder le golpearon, torturaron hasta hacerle padecer. Montaño articulates that the reasons behind these murders are hate speech and practices, such as homophobia, que decantan en una geografía de eliminación que aisla a esta comunidad negándole el espacio público y también el privado. "A Norma, la asesinó la homofobia/A Ana la desterró la sociedad que agobia," dice la canción trayendo una territorialidad a esta violencia sexual y de género. No es solo el acoso sexual en la calle al mostrar afecto al que deben enfrentarse personas pertenecientes a la comunidad LGTBQI+ sino que también a la violencia psicológica y social que decanta en el suicidio. 141 Colombia is the third Latin American country with the third highest rate of murders of trans persons, due in part to the prevalence of Christian beliefs and the consequences of the armed conflict (Sánchez-Fuentes et al. 2021). Likewise, the current situation of the LGBT community in the country is "an invisible tragedy" (Organización Mundial Contra La Tortura, OMCT 2006). Montaño is very aware of this reality because due to her community work she has heard testimonies and stories of young people, women and Afro-Colombian community that reflect this type of violence. For this reason, the artist frames her work also in this struggle for the visibility and rights of diverse sexualities, while denouncing the violence she faces. As the last verses of the song say, Matar por condición sexual, excluir, discriminar quiénes somos nosotros para juzgar respeto para el que ama al mismo sexo respeto para el que ama al sexo opuesto entendamos, que el sexo es más que placer que valga tu ser, tu sexualidad, que valga tu ser respeto, lo que vale es el ser humano. By concluding with a unifying notion by alluding to the human being and unconditional respect, Montaño reinforces the feeling of empathy that runs throughout the album. Montaño returns to the use of the second personal singular "tú" to address the listener directly and urge change. By presenting her songs in different social contexts in and out of community spaces, her voice becomes a political action embedded with this denouncement and statement in defense of sexual diversity. Her work rooted in 142 community actions constitutes her musical repertoire, which interferes in the space and social dynamics where Montaño performs and listens. Likewise, her music contains and transmits a sound archive of the experiences and stories of diverse women from popular neighborhoods who have experienced racial, class, sexual and January violence. Thus, Montaño's work becomes a tool for healing from this violence for her and this community, with which she shares stories, spaces, meetings and artistic creations. “CUANDO SANA LA TIERRA, SANAMOS NOSOTRAS”: BLACK WOMEN AND COMMUNITY PRACTICES OF HEALING Raising and communicating stories of violence, both personal and familial, is a major psychosocial effort, especially when dealing with the violence that impoverished Black women have had to bear, in many cases, for generations. The Casa Cultural el Chontaduro (CCC) leads women’s healing circles where they can have cathartic processes through autobiographical writing and artistic creation, accompanied by elder women healers who guide these practices. Iris says these healing processes "are built by caring for how we connect, heal, and grow together as women."33 Angela, a healer from the Aguablanca District and member of the Association of Displaced Afro-Colombians and the CCC, mentions that some of the gatherings that are organized around these healing and community practices are called ubuntios, "an African word for a get-together."34 Within this, when it comes to spaces specifically between women, Angela mentions comadreo. The comadreo is an ancestral Afro-Colombian practice where Black women support, protect, listen, and advise each other to improve their lives. Many of 33 Personal interview, June 2022. 34 Personal interview, March 2023, online. 143 their practices within the comadreo are based on ancestral knowledge and traditions of the African diaspora in Colombia. Scholar Edna Carolina Gonzalez Barona (2022), who has been part of CCC, conceptualizes healing practices of resistance against structural violence displayed by Black women as acts of “resistencia-ritual.” These practices are shaped by “cimarronear el presente” and “recrear el ejercicio del uso de la palabra y del pensamiento ancestral.” (Barona Gonzalez 2022, 122) In this context, “La vida en el arte, la pintura, la radio, los alabaos, los rituales, tambores y las formas de interpretar la realidad son elementos definitivos para la resistencia-ritual y los rituales de sanación negra” (Barona Gonzalez 2022, 127). Here, voice and sound become one of the most potent tools to sound blackness and intervene in the present. Voice, as the body’s microphone, and sound, with the need for air to travel through waves, constitute and intervene in the present moment. Montaño 's music is framed within this personal and collective healing practice. As she noted in our interview, I have directed my artistic creations to heal myself and so that other people can also perhaps find refuge there. I release my songs with that purpose of healing and reflection, and in fact, many times, I have had to go to my own work to find encouragement and inspiration and to lift myself.35 Her music becomes a part of these comadreo networks and resistencia-ritual that places Black women’s needs in the front using her voice and strengthening their ancestral knowledge. Thus, Montaño is “cimarroneando” the space embedding her music with these healing practices, Black women’s stories, bodies and landscapes. 35 Personal interview, June 2022. 144 Montaño’s album Ideas culminates with the song "Quiero sanar," which had been previously released as part of the "El llamado de nuestra tierra" project by the Unidad de Restitución de Tierras (Unit of Land Restitution). This consists of a governmental program established under Law 1448, title 3, article 2 to support victims of land dispossession and forced displacement in reclaiming their territories. Montaño's personal and collective experiences of the armed conflict and the process of losing and attempting to recover her land are deeply ingrained in this composition that seeks healing. The song commences by contextualizing the war, from which the voice expresses profound pain and sadness: Quiero encontrar el camino para dar paz a mi alma después de tanta guerra quiero respirar en calma mis lagrimas recuerdan la crudeza de la guerra cuando los violentos me sacaron de mi tierra. In these starting verses, we perceive the embodiment of the war's cruelties through the voice's body, where tears become memories of the war and a soul is wounded due to deterritorialization. “Quiero sanar” features Montaño's melodic voice following a four-measure progression, singing about the harsh realities of war, displacement, and the pain left by these two dispossession processes. Montaño states, Recuerdo mi tierra, tantos desplazados violaciones, torturas lideres asesinados 145 los niños reclutados para servirle a la guerra las minas que volaron tantos brazos y piernas tantas cicatrices que causaron en mi alma, quiero superarlas, quiero sanarlas. The voice narrates the war's episodes from an embodied experience and voice that takes us back to the Pacific coast through memories of the war and seeks to heal. These verses by Montaño bear a stark resemblance to the photographs in the exhibition "El Testigo." It is as if Montaño now narrates what we received visually in the pictures. And the fact is that the Colombian Pacific zone has been one of the most affected by the armed conflict. One of the bloodiest events occurred in Bojayá, in the department of Chocó, where the Atrato River was transformed into a mass grave due to the thousands of deaths that these waters witnessed. Occurring on May 2, 2002, the "Bojayá massacre" left around 100 dead and 98 wounded, including children, peasants and civilians. It was caused by a cylinder bomb triggered by a confrontation between FARC guerrillas and paramilitaries. Bojayá, like many of the main towns affected by this conflict, was/is inhabited by indigenous and Afro-descendant peoples. During colonization, people from Africa were enslaved and brought to the mining areas of Barbacoas, Quibdó, Nóvita, Tadó and Lloró. In the tributaries of the Atrato River, those who managed to flee settled in Bojayá. This Afro-descendant community has been burdened with the historical trauma of slavery in the Americas, only to return in 2002 to face a massacre in which their lives are perceived 146 as "disposable" in the context of the conflict. The Afro-Colombian composer from Bojayá, Domingo Chalá, was interviewed for the documentary “El Testigo,” (Horne 2018) inspired by the photography exhibition that bears the same name. Chalá was a survivor of this massacre, and with his voice, he sings the story of this massacre, Cosa que causó tristeza lo que pasó en Bojayá la muerte de tanto inocente que jamás se me olvidaran Thus we see the music and the voice become a traditional oral practice to communicate the territory's history. Montaño, from the urban space and inserted in the networks that connect the Afro-Colombian diaspora, replicates this practice in his song. In the context of the armed conflict, it is women who bear the brunt of the role of caregivers and community unity who suffer the most. Afro-Colombian activist Luz Marina Becerra and president of the Coordinadora de Mujeres Afrocolombianas Desplazadas en Resistencia "La Comadre", states that Women are the worst victims of this armed conflict, of all the atrocities that we have had to experience, not only in terms of forced displacement but also due to the loss of our loved ones, the forced recruitment and disappearance of our children, husbands, and brothers, the sexual violence that many women have suffered, but also because of the cultural damage that we believe is a very strong effect that we have experienced as black women when fleeing our territories (Comisión de la Verdad 2021). These pains highlighted by Becerra are also portrayed by Montaño in her song, making the war atrocities the central theme. This gesture constitutes an act of remembrance as a possibility for healing through speaking out, sharing their story, and lamenting the land. 147 Iris emphasizes the significance of sharing stories and painful events for women in the district, stating, "as women tell their stories, they heal, but when they write, it helps that healing happen a little faster."36 By incorporating semantically related terms, such as scars, healing, soul, justice, and freedom, Montaño's voice expresses the memories of those who have undergone traumatic experiences and have yet to find justice. Through her song, Montaño strives to inspire a healing process in which the voice empathizes with others, the land, and finds closure. The voice's approach is not just a cognitive understanding of these stories, but a visceral emotional response, rendering the speaker's remembrance ubiquitous and tangible as a corporeal and psychological injury. “Esto está pasando y quiero que tú lo sientas,” the voice exclaims, delivering an embodied soul that bears scars on both the body and the land: “quiero mi tierra porque en ella esta mi alma,” the voice declares at the song's conclusion. Here, the territory becomes the body, and the body becomes the territory, echoing the metaphor of the renowned writer Ursula Le Guin: "The one that is two, the two that are one." The connection between the land and the body is deeply intertwined with the healing process Montaño describes and that Black women practice in the CCC. One of the Escuela Sociopolítica de Mujeres modules was called "Soberanía Alimentaria," which focused on working with seeds and empowering women to grow their food. However, the core of this module was not simply to grow different vegetables. Still, the project allowed them to experience joy and maintain their connection with the earth, facilitating healing. 36 Personal interview, June 2022. 148 As Iris, the guide of this group, noted, "When the land heals, we heal."37 She shared a beautiful example with me about how this process of caring for the land reflects our self-care practices. Her family memories inspired this lesson: My grandmother taught me that we have been taught to uproot and destroy everything, but we have never considered that when we pull out a plant, it has life. I have had the same experience. Every time I harm someone, I harm myself, and when I uproot nature, I harm it, too. So, the first step is to make the land fertile, beautiful, and receptive to that energy. While I sow, I also heal myself. And so, healing, planting, and connecting with the plant's essence is also connecting with myself, allowing me to transform life. It is about healing the land, nature, and myself as part of nature.38 These women's healing practices redefined the space and their relationship with themselves and their surroundings. An embodied and cimarrona geography is built where the body and territory, both permeated by dynamics of race, class, gender and sexuality, become tools for creating new Black spaces. They reframe the space around them, building community and preserving Afro-Diasporic practices and knowledge. As Iris remarks, "We dream ourselves" in this process. A CIMARRONA GEOGRAPHY: RECLAIMING THE BODY AND THE TERRITORY The concern for the healing of the land and the body echoes the work of several Afro-Colombian women and their ancestral practices. Black women have organized to protect the territory as an elemental part of life, community, and human coexistence. A symbolic example occurred in 2014 when Afro-Colombian women organized the Movilización por el Cuidado de la Vida y el Territorio Ancestral. Women from the 37 Idem. 38 Idem. 149 community council of La Toma, Cauca, marched from their land to the city of Bogotá, denouncing invasive and illegal mining in their region. According to the newspaper Vida Nueva, of the 60 thousand hectares of the Community Council of La Toma, 34% have been acquired for exploitation by multinational companies, and 57 percent are waiting for titling. Furthermore, “environmental damage, linked to the use of mercury and cyanide, is manifested in health problems for the region's inhabitants, and there is a presence of armed actors who threaten those who raise their voice in protest." (Estupiñán 2014), Another similar case is that of Palenque Alto Cauca by the Proceso de Comunidades Negras (PCN) to eliminate backhoes in their territory. In October of 2014, the government did not comply with agreements regarding territorial sovereignty; more backhoes arrived in the north of Cauca. Not only that, but an underage girl from the La Toma community was a victim of rape by miners, representing just one more case of the irreparable damage that mining has generated both in the territory and women, especially regarding femicides and infanticides (Mina Rojas et al. 2015). Thus, external control over individuals and their bodies in Colombia falls heavily on Black women and even more if they try to reclaim it and struggle. This control extends and connects to the state of the land itself. Montaño's songs "Invasion X," featured in two of her albums, explicitly address the struggles over the territory. The song is inspired by rap music from the 90s and combines different urban rhythms, such as nu-metal and rock, using machine drums. The voice declares, Veo en sueños la tierra agonizar 150 por las invasiones a la naturaleza por la ambición de hombres sedientos de oro que hicieron de bosques recuerdos, de ríos lodo de la tierra un horno que derrite polos que cosechas se inunda, una tierra árida [...] químicos radioactivos contaminando el agua, el aire, el suelo The song immerses listeners in a chaotic and dystopian reality. Personification techniques are used to bring the land to life, highlighting environmental degradation, extraction, and the actions of large agricultural companies. The image of "men thirsty for gold" recalls the case of La Toma, as the mining project that triggered women's mobilization settled on the shores of the Ovejas River for gold extraction. The song also references the monoculture and agroindustry of African Palm, which poses a significant threat to the rich biodiversity of the territory and exacerbates the cost of living. Arboleda Montaño's (2008) research indicates that the expansion of the African Palm agroindustry results in land dispossession, violation of territorial rights, displacement, and a shift away from traditional ways of living, preventing the Afro-Colombian community from creating their development within their communities. Moreover, in the 20th century, extraction was reinforced through government agreements with foreign companies to establish operations in the region, with the wood industry being one of the largest since 1940 (Leal and Restrepo 2003). As a result, the Pacific’s woods became a leading provider of wood for the entire country. Montaño inverts the concept of invasion, commonly used to denote the informal settlements of the Black diaspora in Cali, to denounce instead and provide a testimony to unveil the colonial and capitalist control over Black spaces and bodies that persists today. The chorus states, "es 151 la misma humanidad que destruye la tierra," emphasizing that there is an actor to blame for this land invasion. The invasion, therefore, no longer refers to urban settlements of poor Black people in Cali but to the destruction of the territory, which erodes the community and their ways of living. The situation in the Aguablanca District regarding land control is no different from that of the Pacific area. As previously mentioned, the Colombian state has implemented a significant police presence in the neighborhood to combat gang violence and exert control over the territory. This has resulted in increased repression and fatalities among the local population (Amparo Alves, Moreno, and Ramos 2014), which sets a geography of elimination in the territory. Families on the city's east side must face continuous evictions, surveillance, policed spaces, and precarious public infrastructure. The song "Amor en compraventa," which closes the Urbano litoral album, reflects on the scarcity experienced in the District and the desolate conditions the voice embodies to convey the territorial conditions. The song uses a combination of machine drums, marimba, bass, cununos, and bombo to fuse dancehall, afrobeats, and reggae styles to tell a story set in the district. These rhythms are intended to resonate with younger generations, making the song more effective in conveying knowledge and raising awareness of the racial, sexual, and political conditions affecting the space. The lyrics begin with the voice expressing a state of emotional desolation and territorialization, conveyed through the act of walking and the context that gives rise to these affects: Voy caminando por esta vida 152 respiro angustia casi vencida la esperanza se ahoga mi llanto miro el quebranto del mundo es tanto. From there, the voice tells us about the problems that the territory and its people face, highlighting the power structures that cause them: En el corazón del poder egoismo y ambición causa de gentes con hambre sin salud ni educación viviendo con cancer de miedo conformismo impunidad With this beginning, the song’s central theme seems to be poverty and conditions of dispossession in the city. However, it focuses on sexual work, which for Montaño is a consequence of these social, cultural and political circumstances imposed on Black communities in Colombia. While acknowledging the existence of sex work because of structural dispossession, the song's refrain conveys a more positive message: si hay amor en compraventa pues luchemos y propongamos que ese mundo se nos desgaja solo con esfuerzo lo arreglamos. The desolation becomes hope for change, driven by the struggles and organization that characterize the space. The use of traditional Pacific instruments in the song simultaneously serves as a tool to root this sound in the communities of these territories that inhabit the city today. In the second part of the song, where Aguablanca District 153 singer Alexis Play participates, the connection between the Pacific and the city becomes more evident. Alexis Play traces a migratory path "from the Chocó to the valley [Valle del Cauca]," which is marked by the conditions of structural violence the community faces. “Sin comida/ viviendo en la acera/ por eso y más/ muchas familias se terminan/ por disputas/ hijos delincuentes/ e hijas prostitutas” says the voice reinforcing Montaño's argument about sex work as a consequence of precarization. Rather than falling into the criminalization discourse of their people, mentioning crime and sex work is a political strategi to make visible the social problems within the community. Sex work and robbery happen due to the conditions of poverty, racial and spatial segregation, and the lack of opportunities for Afro-Diasporic communities that have been deterritorialized and arrive in the city. Although sex work in Cali has not yet been extensively studied, some scholars confirm that it is mainly motivated by economic needs and situations of precariousness (Florez FLorez, n.d.; Castaño Tafur 2018). In this context, due to the impoverishment of the Black population in the city, a large percentage of the people engaged in this work are Black trans women. This means that “las dinámicas de construcción radical del género en las clases populares a través del mercado de trabajo del intercambio erótico/sexual, se entrecruzan con dinámicas de racialización” (Urrea Giraldo and La Furcia 2014, 128). This reality is represented in Montaño and Alexis Play's song, which, although it does not advocate for the regulation and recognition of labor rights for sex work, it does bring to light the context of racialization, sexualization and precariousness that forces many people to engage in this work within Afro-diasporic communities in Cali. 154 Montaño's voice describes this reality, almost as an enumeration, so that the listener understands what is behind sex work: Si me cansé ya de ver sufrir al hombre y a la mujer en esta pobreza, en esta guerra [..] madres trabajan por bajos salarios hijos desesperan en hogares solitarios se educan en las calles ahora más violentas porque hay más hambre aumentó la delincuencia debajo las luces de los semáforos trabajan niños por un centavo se exhibe el sexo en las aceras. The voices of Montaño and Alexis embody and describe this reality as a territorial problem in the public and private spheres. They construct the soundscape, referring to homes, streets, sidewalks, and traffic lights and denouncing the hunger, violence, labor exploitation and marginalization experienced within these spaces. The geography of elimination is the prelude to crime and sex work in the neighborhood, which leaves many people in the community with no other options. Alexis Play and Montaño end the song saying "echaos pa’lante/ pa que cambie todo el semblante" and "aún así mi pueblo lucha segundo a segundo/ por vivir lucha pueblo segundo a segundo," respectively. The phrase ‘echaos pa’lante’ is a very common colloquialism used in the community to refer to peoples’ perseverance and resilience. Montaño's verses encourage transformation by recognizing her people's struggles as they represent the possibility for change. Thus, although poverty and the problems that the 155 people from the district face are exposed and denounced, the construction of a narrative demonstrating admiration for the community is maintained. Segregation and poverty are understood from a systemic aspect that has to do with the hierarchy of power and the racial segregation of life in Cali. As Iris from CCC said, the district is a “territorio ennegrecido,” which represents the marginalization and racialization of the space in eastern Cali, where most of the Afrodiasporic community lives. However, the narrative moves away from victimization and, on the contrary, calls on people to move forward in a collective struggle. CONCLUSION In his analysis of the Caribbean Discourse, Martinique scholar Édouard Glissant (1989) argues that musical styles that emerge and become established are creations of places where entire communities struggle against a major, unrelenting threat. These places are not in a state of sustained oblivion but are facing profound challenges, such as the slums of Kingston, where reggae takes shape, or the ghettoes of New York, where salsa burst into life (Glissant 1989, 111). McKittrick (2006), on her part, also reflects on this phenomenon, stating that contemporary music and music-making contribute to the spatialization of blackness. I conclude that Montaño's activist and musical work –as one whole phenomenon– constitutes a way of unifying and producing Black women’s spaces in Cali. Just as Gonzalez Barona (2002) recognized Afro-Colombian women's music as a ritual-resistance and McKittrick (2006) as a way of spatializing blackness, this analysis serves to understand the geographies that the music of artists like Montaño constructs. 156 Through sound, voice, and music, Montaño maroons the landscape, moving territory and community away from racialization and toward Black culture and ancestral traditions. In hostile cities with high spatial segregation and racial, class and sexual violence such as Cali, Montaño's work is key to transforming everyday experiences of dispossession and violence by intervening in space. Montaño's soundscapes challenge "landscapes of power, oriented around its brand-new monuments and avenue" (Leu 2020, 131) to create a Black landscape within the city where the community thrives. The Chontaduro Black Woman in Montaño's music is not a mere tourist attraction, as the sculpture mentioned at the beginning, but a symbol of survival and resistance for Black women who struggle to exist in Cali with limited resources, opportunities and access to space. Montaño extends and strengthens Black women’s networks, making her music an expression of the ancestral practice of comadreo to transform the urban landscape into safe spaces for them. She is cimarroneando the space, which consists of a sonic-political action based on affectivities born from the bodies, histories and experiences of Afro-Colombian women. These new spaces can confront the geography of elimination that extends into their territories and rewrite history. Echoing Glissant's words, "The individual, the community, the land are inextricable in the process of creating history," (1989, 105) and in Montaño's artivism, these three elements become one to stage Afro-Colombian women's voices and alternative sonic geographies of Cali. 157 PART II “La comunalidad es algo que une a la gente como nosotros, es lo que nosotros sentimos desde hace tiempo” Plutarco Aquino Zacarías “Somos la mala semilla que pensamientos va creando vamos avanzando contra la corriente hacienda del arte nuestra herramienta más potente” Mare Advertencia Lirika CHAPTER 3 Zapotec Women’s Rap: Community Hip-Hop and Spaces of Domination in Oaxaca Rap and, more broadly, the hip-hop scene reached Oaxaca in the 1990s. In the early 2000s, Mare Advertencia Lirika emerged as the first Zapotec and Oaxacan female rapper, who carved out a space within the scene along with Luna and Itza MCs. Mare, now internationally renowned, created and opened a gateway for other women like her to enter the realm of rap. Zapotec rappers Doma and Yadhii (YBOZ) were still young girls during Mare’s beginning. During my conversations with these rappers, without prompting, both Yadhii and Doma mentioned Mare's inspiration and influence on their decision to embark on their rap careers. On one hand, Doma worked as Mare's assistant, which allowed her to learn and become intimately acquainted with the rap circuit. Yadhii, on the other hand, when just starting to rap, reached out to Mare to share some of her 158 songs. Surprised and elated by Mare's response, Yadhii vividly recalls how Mare encouraged her to keep rapping, acknowledging her talent and offering support. Given her admiration for Mare, this encouragement was critical for Yadhii to continue her rapping career. As Yadhii gained more experience and established a place within the rap scene, Mare invited her to rap alongside her, the Argentine rapper Karen Pastrana, Doma, and other female rappers and DJs within the circuit. This collaboration marked a significant turning point and propelled Yadhii's career forward. What unites these rappers beyond their common identity? What does their music tell us about the territory? How is their work articulated amid power relations in Oaxaca, and how are they confronted? These questions guide this chapter, which delves into the territorial history of Oaxaca, including colonial invasions, religious control, and dispossessions of a capitalist-neoliberal economic system. At the same time, it explores the history of collectivism and communal organizations, which have survived and resisted these power structures. How does the rap of Yadhii, Mare and Doma become part of this story? The Oaxacan Zapotec rappers navigate this intricate scenario by confronting geographies of domination within the hip-hop scene and in the city, drawing inspiration from community practices and the political movements of the territory. For this, it was crucial to meet the artists, to have several conversations where they told me about their lives, families, and work, and to have their consent for this study. In addition, I interviewed other artists from Oaxaca City from a similar background to see how the rappers weave a 'hip hop community’ forging networks of solidarity with other 159 Indigenous women recovering the urban space. The artists rearticulate the relationship with the territory and the community that inhabits the city. In this chapter, I frame Oaxaca’s history drawing from the concept of settler colonialism developed by the scholar Patrick Wolf (2006; Lloyd and Wolfe 2016). Wolf elaborates on "settler colonialism" to capture more precisely the logic and dynamics under which colonial social relations were configured. This concept acknowledges the enforced structures that perpetuated a logic of erasure and elimination of Indigenous populations without necessarily being genocidal, although it may include it. Moreover, it underscores that colonialism represents an enduring presence of settler colonizers rather than a singular invasion event, thus forming the foundational structure of the new settler-colonial society established on expropriated land. The division of native territorial rights into individual properties available for sale, granting native citizenship, religious conversion, and other strategies (Wolf 2006) form the territoriality and space of settler colonialism. In the context of Latin American countries, Chickasaw scholar Shannon Speed recognizes a distinctive characteristic of settler colonialism. For Speed, colonialism in this region is marked by "land dispossession and labor extraction, to which indigenous peoples were simultaneously subjected" (2017, 784). Thus, land relations around land ownership are produced by the dispossession of Indigenous communal lands and the labor exploitation to maintain them. The encomienda, the system of repartimientos, the latifundios and the sale of land titles to large corporations within the neoliberal system are how this dispossession is (re)produced in Mexico and Oaxaca. 160 This chapter probes the formation of "neoliberal settler spaces and spatialities" (Barnd 2017; Speed 2017), which imposed colonial social relations on land to reproduce racialized and gendered hierarchies. In this way, my analysis expands the theorizing on neoliberal settler colonialism to account for how both the colonial and neoliberal enterprise rested not only on the possession of land and Indigenous labor but also on the imposition of a patriarchal order. Thus, exploring the geopolitical history of Oaxaca from the embodied experiences of female rappers, I seek to portray how power structures were imposed on the conceptualization of land and territory to constitute 'spaces of domination' in the city. I also examine how Zapotec rappers Yadhii, Mare and Doma respond to this domination, deploying community strategies through music and political work that preserve ancestral Zapotec knowledges. By interweaving gender, class, and indigeneity in their creative works and practice, they produce Indigenous geographies of sonic intersections. The rapper’s work is conceptualized through community and "communality," a concept born from the Zapotec territory and people. One of the quotations that opens this chapter corresponds to the words of the Zapotec peasant and activist Plutarco Aquino Zacaría, who emphasizes this concept's sense of unity and ancestry. He also says, "It is a relatively new word for us, even though comunalidad has always existed among the Zapotecs. It is something that has been present since we were born and will continue to exist as long as rural people live" (2013, 91). In a similar vein, Zapotec scholar Juana Vasquez Vasquez (2013) reflects on the importance of women within the community and the exercise of comunalidad in the territory. She affirms that comunalidad starts from the 161 land, conceived as the mother that makes community life possible. Within the community, "mutual aid" is one of the basic principles, which means reciprocity where "I help you, then you help me." (2013, 102) Women's role is essential in mutual aid practices as they maintain traditions, coexistence and unification. However, Vasquez Vasquez notes there is still work to be done regarding women's representation in community assemblies, leadership roles, and self-perceptions of value within the community. For that reason, women are increasingly carving their spaces, both in the countryside and the city. Within this framework, this chapter argues that the Zapotec artists construct what I conceptualize as 'communal voices,' which inform new territorial relations that unfold in the city and whose origins are on Indigenous communal ways of living and organizing. The communal voices reclaim the territory from the framework of land ownership, in which spaces of domination were constructed, to produce instead Indigenous spaces. In the rapper’s work, comunalidad becomes a practice that guides their way of relating to, producing, and navigating urban space and the hip-hop scene. Zapotec rap turns comunalidad into a sonic, political and geographic act to forge ties between Indigenous artists and activists within the city and with communities in the rural areas. As a sonorous and poetic act, Zapotec territorial rap amplifies collective struggles. It challenges the neoliberal settler colonial logic that has shaped the city of Oaxaca and marginalized Indigenous people and Zapotec women. 162 ZAPOTEC WOMEN RAPPERS IN OAXACA I sat in a café on the outskirts of downtown Oaxaca, waiting. It was a humid and warm day, so I settled on the terrace. The café was filled with young people enjoying milkshakes and beers, although a few families could be seen savoring pizza or cake. A few drops fell, and soon, it started to rain, forcing all of us to seek shelter under the small roof on the terrace. At that moment, Yadhii entered, running excitedly through the rain, her long black hair already damp, bursting into the space with an undeniable presence. Our eyes met, and I immediately recognized her as she recognized me. With a loud voice that sought neither concealment nor whispers, she said hello and gave me a warm embrace—a hug that leaves no space between bodies where you can feel the warmth of the other person. Yadhii was familiar with the café; she suggested meeting there. She led us to the second floor, where there were fewer people. Unlike the cement on the first floor, the construction was wooden, and some plants adorned the surroundings, giving me a sense of homeliness and closeness. Her big black eyes, ready to tell a story, her tall and imposing figure that occupied the space, her strong voice, and her easy laughter made the conversation flow naturally. As I set up the recorder on the café table, Yadhii leaned in and turned it into her microphone. Instead of answering the first question about her biography, Yadhii said, "I'd like to share with you a piece of a song that I really love," and she began to rap a cappella in the middle of the café: De verdad, les juro, esto es algo crítico. Lo he intentado dejar, pero no quiere el corazón. La música alimenta mi cerebro y espacios que no se han llenado 163 con la tinta que derramo hoy. Por eso yo les juro entre las horas y minutos y si esto es amor eterno no me importa morir juntos siempre y cuando la pasión y el deseo sea mutuo. Será un gusto conversar a solas y que estemos juntos. Ayer, me sentí extraña y lo escribí cada vez que yo me siento mal me he refugiado en ti. Para mí no ha sido fácil no poderte compartir. El no poder grabar no deja tocarte ni oír. ¿Cuánto tiempo ha transcurrido desde la última canción? Los versos se han podrido y con el resto florecido hoy palabras en semillas han retornado, he dejado al fondo de este beat todo lo malo.39 While listening intently to that deep voice that filled the space and even turned the family sitting right next to us into her audience, it was challenging to focus on the words. The texture of her voice and the power of the sound that surpassed any other noise in the space pierced through my ears, putting me in a mental state that followed only the rhythm formed by consonant and assonant rhymes. "This a cappella embodies everything that music means to me," Yadhii said after finishing her rap. Yadhii primarily grew up in Oaxaca de Juárez, but her family is Zapotec from the Isthmus region, with connections to Juchitan and Tehuantepec. Like many other female rappers who share this story, rap became her refuge, a tool to confront and overcome 39 Persona interview, August 2022. 164 gender, racial, and class violence. Above all, it became the space to raise her voice and "express myself, what I feel, and what I think"40 using her own words. Yadhii is not the only Zapotec woman who has succeeded in unearthing and projecting her voice through rap. Doma Press, belonging to the same generation as Yadhii, stands as another Zapotec lyricist who drew her first breath in Oaxaca City. Her lineage traces back to the Istmo of Tehuantepec (territory on the border of Veracruz and Oaxaca states, which goes from the Pacific to the Atlantic), where the ancestral roots intertwine with the ports of Salina Cruz and Chahuites. While she grew up amidst the urban landscape, her childhood was imbued with the constant comings and goings of the Istmo, a testament to her deep-rooted connection to this territory. As a rapper, Doma continued these journeys, now venturing to other regions of the state for educational purposes, conducting workshops for young people focused on the practice of rap. "These ventures into different regions became my guiding light in shaping the very essence of my rap," she disclosed in one of our conversations. I met Doma in another café in the city center, where we talked for over an hour, although my questions in this first encounter amounted to no more than three or four. Her voice flowed like a calm river, yet carrying a vast water spring, moving from one topic to another, woven together by personal stories and experiences. Her stories revealed her critical spirit, as she had no reservations about adding her viewpoints and political stance regarding the city, identity, and the power dynamics to which she has been exposed. Although initially seemed somewhat introverted, Doma displayed her charisma and 40 Idem. 165 openness as the conversation progressed. I observed her while she sipped her lemonade and confided her interests. She had a moderately volumed voice and a slightly shorter stature than Yadhi. Her black, straight hair matched her big, black eyes that felt like a complete scanning every time she looked directly into my eyes. Occasionally, she glanced at the people around us —primarily tourists— and then returned to stirring her lemonade. Doma had a distinctive mole near her mouth, which became a topic of our conversation since, for her, it meant the sexualization of her childhood. “Ese lunar que tienes, cielito lindo, junto a la boca/ no se lo des a nadie, cielito lindo,/ que a mí me toca,” says the chorus of the Mexico’s most popular song and the unofficial anthem "Cielito Lindo" by Quirino Mendoza y Cortés (1882). For Doma, this song has a different meaning since young and adult men used to sing it to her when she was only eight years old, becoming a form of sexual harassment and sexualization of her childhood. Although Doma graduated in Fine Arts, her calling and labor gravitated toward the sonic realm encompassing rap's art form. Within this genre, the rapper discovered the conduit to transmit and shape her voice, partly propelled by the cultural vitality that permeates this scene and by the emancipation it afforded her to delve into a myriad of topics. "The act of provocation amuses me; I cannot say if I will ever cease engaging in it, for it carries consequences that may not always be pleasant. Yet, there is an exhilaration in articulating something we all know, hear, and perceive," shared Doma, emphasizing her praxis in rap41. It sets her apart from the patriarchal dynamics that have characterized the hip-hop landscape, particularly within the domain of improvisation, 41 Personal interview, August 2022. 166 where many men proclaim, ‘to be above everyone’ and engage in sexualizing and offensive language. Doma ventures beyond such self-aggrandizement, asserting, "To me, rap embodies a contemporary manifestation of oral tradition,"42 a thoughtful remark that emerged as our conversations reached their culmination. Her statement unfolds multiple layers: Doma's profound knowledge of rap's history, its inherent orality, and an emphasis on rap as a cultural-political production in Oaxaca. A COLONIAL SPACE ON ZAPOTEC LANDS Oaxaca, situated in the southwestern region of Mexico, is predominantly characterized by its rural and mountainous terrain while boasting a coastline bordering the Pacific Ocean. Within this region, the Eastern and Southern Sierra Madre Mountain ranges intersect. The state is administratively divided into 570 municipalities, representing 30 districts. Oaxaca is classified geographically into eight distinct regions: Mixteca, Cañada, Cuenca del Papaloapan, Sierra Norte, Valles Centrales, Sierra Sur, Istmo, and Costa (see Figure 14). Despite ranking as the fifth largest state in Mexico, Oaxaca faces high rates of poverty and violence. The social problems affecting the state today result from a social, economic, and political structure in the region since colonial times. The early colonial economic and social system of the region built upon encomiendas (land grants), cacicazgos (local power structures), and repartimientos (forced consumption and labor). These systems allowed the consolidation of a social structure based on conditions of domination and 42 Idem. 167 dispossession against the indigenous communities of the territory. These conditions were consolidated and replicated with the development of the modern state. Thus, the region and its population have faced state abandonment of this region, the application of neoliberal policies during the 1980s and 1990s that reduced community lands, and foreign intervention and investment for mining in the territory. Figure 14: Map of the eight geographic regions and districts into which Oaxaca is divided. Source: Wikimedia https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Regiones_Oaxaca_nombres.png The state is internationally known for its rich cultural diversity, numerous languages and vibrant indigenous communities, which have survived and preserved their traditions since before Spanish colonization. Oaxaca is home to sixteen Indigenous 168 groups, making it the state with the largest population of native language speakers and ethnic diversity. However, the maps and this territorial division of eight regions have yet to consider the organization and presence of these peoples and nations. For example, the Kolectivo Mixe created a new map of the peoples and nations of Oaxaca based on the Indigenous communities that historically inhabited this territory (see Figure 15). This map includes communities that still speak their language and those who have lost it due to Spanish language policies. In this sense, the map of the Mixe Kolectivo also criticizes linguistic maps that, although they have recognized the presence of Indigenous groups in the territory, do not count the communities according to their self-recognition status. This geographical gesture of remapping the territory according to the presence and organization of the Indigenous communities is also a political act. It puts in check the colonial history and policies of elimination against the Indigenous peoples within the territory. As the Kolectivo Mixe stated next to their map on their Twitter account, "If maps are discourses, we deserve our discourses to be well written"43. This map, as a discursive, political and historical act, is the perfect entrance to the analysis of the social structure that gave life to the city of Oaxaca de Juarez and to explain its current conditions. Before the Spanish invasion in the 15th century, several communities within the state were under the domain of the Aztec Empire, to whom they paid tribute. However, as historian John Chance (1986) noted, parts of the state in the early 16th century remained 43 Kolectivo Mixe (@Colmixe), Twitter, Mar 21, 2023, 5:58pm, https://twitter.com/Colmixe/status/1638314243471622147 169 independent from the empire. Most communities managed to preserve their traditions, as the Aztec influence in culture and society was not widespread. Given the limited information available about this period, it is believed that within the more established settlements, there may have been a stratification based on hereditary nobility or chieftains who held absolute power over their respective towns (Chance 1986; Whitecotton 1977). Zapotec scholar Martínez Luna (2013) argues that insufficient evidence supports that such nobility came from ancestral Zapotec lineage and suggests that these roles were most likely related to preserving knowledge about nature cycles. Figure 15: Map of the current territories of the peoples and nations of Oaxaca by the Kolectivo Mixe. Source: Koletivo Mixe Twitter (@Colmixe)44 44 Idem. 170 The conquest of the territory encompassing the present-day city of Oaxaca took place in 1521, four months after the capture of the capital of the Aztec Empire, Tenochtitlan (current Mexico City). Unlike other territories in the central part of the country, the conquest of Oaxaca City is commonly referred to as a more expedited process. However, due to the geography of the rest of Oaxaca territory and the resistance of some of the peoples inhabiting the coast and the northern part of the Sierra, the conquest of this area was more complex and was not achieved until 1550 (Chance 1986; Chance and Taylor 1977; Olivera and Romero 1973). The city was built in the Aztec ruins of Huaxyaca (a Nahuatl word referring to the guaje trees, which gave way to the current name) and was titled Antequera. Like most major cities founded by the Spanish in Latin America, it housed colonial institutions, which, in the case of Oaxaca, relied primarily on Indigenous communities and practices. Once settled in Antequera, the conquistadors divided power into alcaldías and corregimientos, which, with assigned officials, began imposing tribute payments on the Indigenous population, initially consisting of crops, grains, or animals. This marked the beginning of the encomienda system and, later, the repartimientos, which divided the land and introduced the concept of ownership. However, many encomenderos (early landowners) could not manage the living conditions of their assigned lands, so they resided in the city of Antequera and had little interaction with the Indigenous people (Martínez Luna 2013; Chance 1986). As a result, the contact between the Spanish colonizers and the Indigenous communities was not as decisive, allowing the communities to maintain a certain level of autonomy and preserve many of their 171 traditions and knowledge. The influence of the Church was undoubtedly stronger in terms of community life, especially the changes brought about by the Dominicans, who, in their efforts to evangelize the Indigenous populations, established new spaces to gather the scattered communities –forcing a separation from their original communities– and facilitate the collection of tributes. Although the establishment of land ownership was introduced, it was not a primary focus for the conquerors in Oaxaca due to the challenging terrain that made cultivation and life more difficult than in Antequera. To acknowledge Indigenous nobility and exert control over the Indigenous communities, some land was also granted to caciques (ruling families) and principales (priests or tribute collectors) on behalf of the Spanish crown. This led to cacique-states forming, where caciques acted as intermediaries between their Spanish conquerors and the Indigenous communities, initially holding absolute power over their settlements and helping the colonial invasion. Consequently, the Indigenous nobility enjoyed special privileges, exempt from tribute payments or labor. At the same time, the Macehuales —the common people, primarily farmers— were burdened with heavy and forced labor for tribute obligations. However, there were regions like Rincon and specific Cuicatec communities where the concept of land ownership was not established. Chance (1983) highlights that in these cases, caciques were responsible for smaller portions of land, thereby reducing the disparities with most Macehuales. The situation in Oaxaca underwent significant changes as the Indigenous population drastically decreased due to the introduction of new diseases and the 172 exploitation of Indigenous labor during colonization. Therefore, by the 16th century encomienda was no longer possible as the massive Indigenous population forced to work needed to be more, and the pastoral agriculture in haciendas was introduced. At the same time, Indigenous people were taken to villages or congregaciones breaking up their pre-conquest settlements and communities. Following that, by the beginning of the 17th century, the Spanish ceased recognizing the prestige of caciques and implemented elections and cabildos (town councils) (Martínez Luna 2013; Chance 1986). Along with the growing mistrust of the Macehuales towards the Indigenous noble castes and their access to the cabildos, the nobles "found themselves pressured by the commoners to carry out communal tasks of supposedly lower status. Their supposed lands were left for the use of the commoners" (Martínez Luna 2013, 86), who already practice the use of collective lands. As a result, the Macehuales began assuming representation roles, such as governor or mayor. Through their participation in the cabildos and the early years of the independence period, principales and Macehuales took on most of the representative roles within their communities. The supposed properties of nobles and caciques disappeared, and communal territories were confirmed. These conditions set the stage for Zapotec and other Oaxacan communities to develop their communal practices, adapting and transforming them according to the needs of the land and its people and later on, in response to the influence of foreign and global capital within the state. 173 CHRISTIANISM AND CAPITALISM: THE THREAT TO COMUNALIDAD Since the emancipation of the Macehuales and, to some extent, before the Spanish invasion, the organization around community and collective work has been the main way of life for the Zapotec and many other Indigenous peoples of Oaxaca. Since 1995, 418 municipalities (out of the existing 570) are classified as "municipalidades de usos y costumbres" (municipalities of customs and traditions), indicating that they are politically organized according to an internal normative system that operates autonomously from political parties and other government institutions. Martínez Luna (2013) characterizes comunalidad based on the principles of labor, reciprocity, and respect. From these principles, he identifies four main elements as part of the internal normative systems: "all municipalities with normative systems are communal," "the municipality has political but not necessarily agrarian significance," "internal contradictions within each community have an origin," and "conflicts that require the intervention of electoral authorities." (Martínez Luna 2013) Thus, under the umbrella of comunalidad, ancestral organization practices among the Indigenous peoples of Oaxaca can be found, allowing for their survival, unity, and life within the territory. Colonialism has not been the only threat to communal life in the region. Christianity played a significant influence, particularly through the control exerted by the Dominican Church since the colonial period. The friars imposed a distinct form of forced acculturation that well surpassed the disruptive effects of Spanish labor practices, leaving a lasting impact on the Indigenous population (Chance 1986). The Church, through its 174 evangelistic mission and tribute demands, provoked displacement and exerted control over Indigenous labor. While there is limited scholarship on the cultural impact of religion in colonial Oaxaca, the influence and power of the Church cannot be ignored. Despite this control, by the 18th century, traditional spiritual practices still persisted in communities situated in the Sierra. Like Indigenous peoples in other regions, the Zapotecs, Mixes, and Chinantecos in Oaxaca displayed a fusion of Christian elements with their own beliefs and traditions. Martínez Luna (2013) notes that this syncretic practice continues to this day, evident in rituals that incorporate Indigenous and Catholic elements within Indigenous communities. Following the Mexican independence in 1821, the Catholic Church continued to have control and influence over Indigenous communities and territories, impacting both the ideological and material aspects of their lives. The manipulation of cultural and ideological practices, alongside the dispossession of land, wealth, and resources, constituted significant challenges. One of the most prominent ideological and cultural impositions by the Catholic Church that persists to this day and has had a particular impact on women is the institution of marriage. In her study on sexuality and gender in Zapotec communities in Oaxaca, scholar Lynn Stephen (2002) highlights the presence of premarital chastity as an ideological element introduced to Zapotec communities during and after the colonial period. This imposition shaped notions of gender and sexuality according to Spanish colonial values, emphasizing the preservation of virginity, monogamy, honor, and a reproductive-focused understanding of sexuality. As a result, women's bodies were subjected to a dual form of control. On the one hand, families sought to safeguard their 175 honor by ensuring the chastity of their female members. On the other hand, Spanish officials and the Church, driven by concerns of racial purity, closely monitored the chastity and premarital virginity of Christian women both before and after marriage. While migration and the influence of younger generations have brought about changes in gender and sexuality conceptualizations, many individuals who remain under the religious authority of their parents are still compelled to conform to these practices. Yadhii’s life story is an example of the imposition of these Christian authority and values. She was coerced into marrying a 20-year-old man when she was only 13 due to her mother's belief that having a boyfriend was sinful. This decision led Yadhii to endure the most challenging period of her life, marked by domestic violence, as she shared in our interview: I had a boyfriend… my mother is going through a process of deconstruction with deeply rooted religious and somewhat sexist beliefs. So, when my mother found out about my boyfriend, she said, 'You're getting married. I don't want you to have any more men or for people to judge you because of this.' But I just wanted to go to the movies and do typical things couples do. [...] I got married at the age of 13. They took me to another place here in Oaxaca, where they can validate a marriage at that age. In the city, you can't do that; the minimum age is 15. I had a daughter and was married for two years before separating at 15. Many things happened during that time that I prefer not to mention, but all those experiences from the ages of 13 to 16 made me realize that what I was going through was not normal. I wondered: 'Do other people experience this, or is it just me?' So, when I was 15, about to turn 16, I said, 'What I'm going through with this man is not normal, and I don't want him to harm my baby.' I had been through many, many terrible, horrible things that gave me the courage to say, 'No, I don't want this,' and I left. And when I left, completely broken, I had several suicide attempts. I couldn't bear all this that was tormenting me. 176 Yadhii's family migrated to the outskirts of the city of Oaxaca when she was young, which certainly exposed them to new understandings of sexuality and pleasure. However, their ties to the evangelical church were stronger and contributed to upholding the practice of marriage linked to notions of honor and purity. Although religious practices were shaped through syncretism as a form to preserve Indigenous knowledge, we can see that Christian ideology, rooted in colonial times, continues to affect Indigenous peoples and youth. When examining the material aspect in which the power of the Church extends, it becomes evident the influence and wealth they accumulated in the territory. However, the Church’s extensive holdings of haciendas experienced a decline during the mid-19th century, notably due to the independence war and future reforms. At that time, as scholar Charles Berry (1970) points out, the Church retained ownership of seven of the 18 haciendas in the Central District's rural regions. Its wealth was primarily concentrated in Oaxaca, where it controlled an astonishing 72.5% of the city's housing. From 1856 to 1867, the Reform period aimed to diminish the Church's power and control over properties. Specifically, the Lerdo Law of 1856 sought to limit the authority of ecclesiastical and civil institutions by disamortizing45 non-productive lands and breaking up large estates across Mexico. As a result, during this period, 1,102 dwellings owned by the Church in Oaxaca City accounted for 79% of the 1,380 properties disamortized (Berry 1970). These statistics provide an overview of the extent of Church control and wealth during that time and their reliance on Indigenous labor. 45 The expropriation of land or property deposited in “dead hands”, i.e., ‘non-productive’. 177 Despite the original intentions of the Liberals to promote agriculture and strengthen the economy by creating a rural middle class, the disamortization and the emergence of a new real estate market resulted in the formation of large estates known as latifundios. Many of these reforms were led by President Benito Juarez, who served from 1858 to 1872, from Zapotec origins. He led to a significant transfer of Church properties into the hands of foreigners, hacendados (wealthy landowners), military officials, and some politicians, thereby reinforcing the latifundista class. Consequently, the Reform promoted a concept of land ownership in Oaxaca that favored private property and encroached upon communal lands, gradually weakening communal property rights. Furthermore, during the Porfiriato (the dictatorship of Oaxacan general Porfirio Díaz between 1876 and 1911), there was an increase in efforts to privatize and divide communal lands, driven by the growing value of productive land in capitalist markets, thus further threatening comunalidad. It is important to note that the presence of a capitalist economy in Oaxaca did not begin solely during the Porfiriato or with the process of disamortization. Its roots can be traced back to Spanish colonialism in the 16th century, characterized by exploitative practices such as encomiendas, forced labor, and the imposition of head taxes, all under a hierarchical structure that favored conquistadors (encomenderos and officials) as the primary beneficiaries (Chance and Taylor 1977; Bakewell 2002; Chance 1986). The repartimientos de efectos played a significant role in promoting commercial capitalism by enforcing forced consumption and production. (Carmagnani 1978). The cochineal trade and textile production, combined with the open market and the dependency on 178 currency exchange created by the repartimientos, integrated Oaxaca into the larger economic system of the colonial powers in the Americas. Paradoxically, while this early capitalist system led to class divisions, it allowed for the preservation of some autonomous communities since the Spanish colonizers controlled the profits. Therefore, Macehuales and the common people of the communities could maintain alternative economic systems based on land labor and communal forms of organization. It was after Mexican independence in 1821 Oaxaca "changed from a proto-capitalist export economy into full-scale commodity production" (Milstead 2019, 285). During the 19th century, the Spaniard José Zorilla and the Scot Tomás Grandison established the first textile factories in the region in 1873 and 1883, respectively (Velasco Rodríguez 2011). They formed commercial and matrimonial alliances with the colonial oligarchy, which focused on agro-livestock and mining. They created an Oaxacan elite marked by the involvement and arrival of foreigners and criollos with accumulated wealth. This process relied on exploiting Indigenous labor while monopolizing the artisanal production of cotton fabrics (Sanchez Silva 1996). The textile industry, particularly cotton, played a fundamental role in the transition to industrial capitalism in Mexico (Beckert 2015), heavily relying on Indigenous labor, which kept Indigenous peoples at the bottom of Oaxaca's social stratification. Undoubtedly, the period from the Porfiriato to the early 20th century was the most significant in establishing the groundwork for installing a capitalist economy. While some urban middle sectors enjoyed stability, social mobility, and economic capital accumulation, the rural areas experienced the dominance of an agro-export economy, 179 resulting in the impoverishment of the peasantry, loss of their lands, and the emergence of agrarian capital (Bailón Corres 1999). Many peasants became day laborers and wage workers on large estates, and along with this, their pre-existing modes of economic organization were destroyed with the capitalist transition, such as in the case of the Mixtec people (Milstead 2019). In the 20th century –late 1920s–, the central government gained control over the state of Oaxaca. Still, due to resistance to the revolution, the region faced neglect and disregard from the central authorities. Consequently, when Oaxaca had the potential to generate resources and benefit itself, it was underfunded by the government (González Casanova 1965). By the 1930s and 1940s, Oaxaca's elite consisted primarily of mine owners, high-ranking government officials, some foreigners, and local manufacturers and wholesale merchants, particularly after earthquakes heavily affected the city. The earthquake of 1931, in particular, created the conditions for few families to take over the ownership of most urban holdings, enforcing a social and economic structure that would persist for at least 50 years (Murphy and Stepick 1991). Consequently, a "material hierarchical stratification" of Oaxaca (Murphy and Stepick 1991) continued, being rooted in colonial stratification with the Indigenous urban poor and jornaleros (day laborers) at the bottom of the social ladder. The 20th century in Mexico was primarily characterized by national capitalism, with the Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI) at the forefront, holding power from 1946 to 2000. Although agrarian reform and land redistribution were key promises of the revolution, subsequent Mexican presidents did not prioritize them. In his extensive study 180 on the effects of the reform in Oaxaca, scholar Anselmo Arellanes Meixueiro (1994) highlights that during Lázaro Cárdenas presidency (1934-1940), 78% of the total land distribution occurred. However, less than 25% of the land allocated to ejidos –communal agricultural land– was suitable for agriculture, with the majority comprising uncultivable areas. The presidency of Carlos Salinas (1988-1994) marked the end of the reform and redistribution efforts, as well as the signing of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), which incorporated Mexico into the neoliberal economic framework that had been initiated in the mid-1980s. This transition paved the way for commercial agriculture focused on exporting goods, gradually eroding sustainable ways of life and domestic production. The incorporation of Mexico into NAFTA in 1992 led to reinforcing dynamics inherited from early colonialism and the capitalist economy in Oaxaca with the onset of neoliberalism. The impact of this treaty on Oaxaca has been significantly negative. Privatization and neoliberal policies implemented during the 1990s and early 2000s were excessive. As noted by scholar Juan Carlos Martinez, "The restructuring of the State has consisted of economic deregulation processes, the privatization of public companies, the attraction of foreign capital, the regulation for increasing electoral competition and the conversion of welfare policies to specified subsidies, among other things" (Martínez 2013, 129). Implementing this model resulted in the impoverishment of subsistence and local farmers, who constitute most of Oaxaca's population, while simultaneously generating substantial profits for large-scale agricultural operations. 181 The neoliberal model has furthered the reforms proposed by the World Bank, commodified agricultural products, and exacerbated wealth disparities (Patel and Henriques 2004; N. Martínez 2018). This is particularly evident in the Central District, as "if the economic growth in Oaxaca is high, the income concentration tends to be lower and vice versa" (Miguel Velasco and Robles Gónzalez 1999, 294), demonstrating a significant stratification that intensified during this period. Here space becomes an essential element in social and economic distribution. While differences between jobs increased inequality (Miguel Velasco and Robles Gónzalez 1999, 294), jobs associated with the street and public space, such as street vendors and windshield cleaners, grew despite being perceived as inferior. Regarding more recent decades, anthropologist Maurice Magaña emphasizes that the tourism industry now capitalizes on commodifying Oaxaca's cultural diversity, focusing on marketing ethnic festivals, textiles, crafts, and other cultural products (2013, 44). This industry and the historical city center are recognized as UNESCO World Heritage Sites, symbolize colonial power, and further deepen social divisions. The benefits of tourism primarily accrue to white tourists and the Oaxaca elite, who dominate the tourism and development sectors. At the same time, Indigenous people often find themselves selling their crafts on the streets or working in service-oriented roles, such as the case of Yadhii and Doma Press. Despite holding a bachelor's degree, they are compelled to seek employment in cafes, hostels, printing shops, selling on street markets, and other places to make a living. 182 The history of the formation of Oaxaca reveals the imposition of a social, economic and political structure based on land ownership. The colonial system, structured on land appropriation, deployed logics of dispossession relying on the exploitation of labor and bodies of Indigenous peoples of the region. Christianity was an important tool for establishing an ideology and values for the elimination of Indigenous identities and practices that opposed the new socio-political structures. However, many of these practices managed to be preserved thanks to the geographical characteristics of the region and the syncretism that allowed their hidden subsistence. Thus, the political geohistory of Oaxaca is also the history of the subsistence and resistance of the region's Indigenous communities. Communal practices found fugitive points through which to assert themselves and be passed on to new generations. The city's urban development imposed a social and political order in which unemployment and job differences increased inequality under a neoliberal economy. A wide gap exists between rural and urban spaces. Aquino Zacarías, concerned about youth being attracted to the logic that operates in the city, asks, "What will happen to the new generations? They are already being absorbed by the advances offered by capitalism, to the point that we sometimes think that our forms will eventually disappear" (2013, p. 96). However, although not in the same way as in the countryside, youth, women, and workers who migrated to the city from their communities have developed strategies to maintain their connection to their ancestral traditions. They have updated traditional knowledge to guide their practices in the urban context, build support networks among themselves, and confront power structures. 183 In this context, the Zapotec women rappers and their organization in Oaxaca City -as a political center- have attempted to amplify the struggle for land preservation and communal autonomy. They vocalize their experiences of oppression, which are interconnected within the same socio-political history of land, communal space and its survival. Although the rap scene and the city are far from traditional communal spaces, Yadhii, Mare and Doma strive to transform it by defying the logic of domination. Comunalidad still nourishes their work to inhabit the city and weave communal networks in hip-hop and urban space. CITY SOUNDS, REBEL RHYMES: WOMEN ‘HIP-HOP COMMUNITY’ In Mexico, due to its proximity to the United States, hip-hop gained traction in the 1980s, with groups like Sindicato del Terror (SDT) and 4to del Tren emerging as pioneers of Mexican hip-hop. Sindicato del Terror debuted with their first single, "SDT," and performed live in 1992 on the television show "Mi Barrio," broadcasted on Channel 9 of Televisa. During their performance, they declared, "We make music by Mexicans for Mexicans, music from the neighborhood for the neighborhood, and this, ladies and gentlemen, is not foreign. It is a showcase of what Mexicans can do." Even though rap originated in New York City, Sindicato del Terror emphasized that it is Mexican music, as both the MCs and DJs are Mexican, and their lyrics speak to the region. Thus, from the beginning, they territorialize the genre within the popular neighborhoods of Mexico while preserving its original characteristics, including the style of the beats and the rhymes. 184 When it comes to political rap, the single "¿Por qué matas de tu hermano?" by 4to del Tren was one of the first rap songs to introduce protest themes and critique of the social and economic system during the early development of the hip-hop scene in Mexico. The song addresses issues such as de hambre y guerra medio mundo está muriendo […] hambre y corrupción que ha millones han matado ¿qué explicación vas a darles a tus nietos cuando les entregues un planeta muerto? As a result, it quickly became a social anthem. However, not everything revolves around political resistance in impoverished urban neighborhoods, where rap quickly spread. Gangs, crime, and violence are also prevalent due to the inequalities caused by the economic system. As mentioned earlier, some of the economic and political strategies observed in the Bronx were later replicated in Latin America, leading to the resonance and replication of gangsta rap in this region. Some scholars of hip-hop studies argue that it is gangsta rap, with its focus on capitalist culture –wealth, power, sexism, drugs– that transformed the hip-hop industry into a multibillion-dollar institution (Price 2006; Tickner 2008). Unlike socially conscious rap, gangsta rap does not simply reflect the isolated values of a specific group; rather, it represents the values of the existing capitalist-patriarchal culture, with visible consequences in impoverished and marginalized neighborhoods. Scholar bell hooks addressed this issue, acknowledging that beneath the media's reaction against it, there is a 185 "demonization of black males” and, therefore, it is crucial to understand gangsta rap as an expression "of the cultural crossing, mixings, and engagement of black youth culture with the values, attitudes, and concerns of the white majority" (1994). This does not imply disregarding the misogynistic lyrics, representations, or attitudes associated with this genre. Instead, it highlights the need to comprehend this phenomenon as part of a global context where power structures legitimize capitalist patriarchy and white hegemony. Contrarily, stigmatizing racialized and often impoverished youth would perpetuate the misconception that these attitudes are only present in these groups. In the case of Mexico, some of the earliest instances of gangsta rap emerged simultaneously with 4to del Tren's "conscious rap." In the 1990s, Control Machete emerged as one of the first gangsta rap groups, with lyrics containing phrases like "El primer balazo es al aire/ pa' alegrar la fiesta", "estamos armados", or "si te pones agresivo/ en la frente un solo tiro.” These lyrics were part of their first album, Mucho Barato, released in 1996. Gangsta rap, therefore, emerged alongside conscious/political rap in many countries as a natural consequence of impoverished, racialized, and neglected neighborhoods intersecting with the existing gang lifestyle resulting from the same circumstances. Both rap styles took some time to reach Oaxaca, as the initial influence occurred in Mexican states closer to the United States, such as Monterrey. In Oaxaca, hip-hop culture remained underground for an extended period. The first rap appearances in the region are more closely tied to the conscious and revolutionary rap trend because of its lyrics, which reflect the region's rich history of political movements. Oaxaca, with one of the largest Indigenous populations in the country, had a music scene that primarily 186 focused on community traditions. Consequently, people outside the city had to wait longer to be exposed to rap music and hip-hop culture. Within this context, rappers like Mare started making music. Although using gangsta rap style beats, she moved beyond by incorporating issues of gender and sexuality alongside the traditional critique on race and class that characterized hip-hop origins. Mare's group OCG, formed in 2003 with DJ T-Bear, the first hip-hop DJ in Oaxaca, is considered the state's first rap group. In one of Mare's early interviews, the rapper describes how she and her colleagues had to build the hip-hop scene in Oaxaca from scratch. Mare recalls seeing a flyer from DJ T-Bear that read, "Do you like rap? Do you want to form a group?". Intrigued by a friend, she decided to meet him, "I arrived with my lyrics already written, he played a beat and told me, 'Go ahead, sing what you have there.' And through this back-and-forth, he asked me, 'Wouldn't you like to form a group?'," (2013) Mare said. This is how Mare and DJ T-Bear began composing the initial notes that would pave the way for the current hip-hop scene in Oaxaca. Given that Mare is a Zapotec woman, feminist, and migrant, it would make sense for the result to manifest in a less male-dominated hip-hop circuit, challenging what was happening in neighboring territories. Mare recounts that the beginning was like that: "There were no spaces for men or women, nothing. We started from scratch, and it gave us the feeling that we had to collectively grow this as a structure." (2013) However, with the growth of the scene in Oaxaca and the expansion of musical influences, power dynamics around gender also began to emerge. Many of the female rap pioneers were 187 diminished by male rappers assuming that their space in the hip-hop scene was due to romantic or sexual relationships with a male MC. For women it was difficult, talking with pioneer women we agreed that there was no space for women, they only gave us spaces to open [concerts] or they told us that we were rappers because we were someone's girlfriend or because we wanted to hook up with someone.For my part, when I started I didn't feel any difference because the situation in Oaxaca was really different. (2013) Mare's experience reflects the hip-hop scene's changes since its beginnings. While it was initially motivated by a collective desire to build a movement, as it expanded, so did patriarchal dynamics. However, the fact that it was Indigenous women who laid the groundwork for the Oaxacan rap scene was undoubtedly a driving force for many women to begin rapping despite this scenario. After her work with DJ T-Bear, Mare, along with Itza and Luna, formed the first women's rap group in Oaxaca called 3 Reinas, which changed its name to Advertencia Lirika in 2004. As a group, they released the album Diferencias, which included songs about Indigenous knowledge, experiences of violence, migration, the economic and global crisis, and violence against the land and communities. Since then, they have inspired numerous women to take the microphone, denounce, express themselves, speak out, rap, or simply experiment. Yadhii, who is nearly ten years younger than Mare, recognizes Mare's importance in her decision to pursue rap: One of the women who greatly inspired me was Mare Advertencia Lírika. I mean, when I remember that part... it really brings back nostalgic feelings. When I released my first song called 'Sola sigo en esto,' I remember that I was already following Mare on Facebook [...] So I shared it with her and said, 'Hello, good afternoon. You don't know this, but I'm your follower, and I like what you do.' I had already listened to Mare at that time, and I said, 'Look, I want to show you this song I made. Maybe you won't like it, but I want to show it to you.' And Mare 188 was very kind [...] And after she listened to it, she said, 'Great, you're very talented. Keep doing it. Don't give up.' And I said, 'Wow.' Mare just told me not to give up. You don't know how significant that was for me. So I remember from that moment on, I said, 'I have to keep doing it’.46 In Yadhii's case, the support from Mare, who was also from Oaxaca and Zapotec, allowed her to continue pursuing her dream of becoming an MC despite the rejection of rap within her family. She couldn't find that support at home due to the stigma associated with rap in an evangelical environment, even though this environment led her to love music. Her father, mother, and brother played music for the evangelical church: her father and brother played guitar, bass, and other instruments while her mother sang. As Yadhii told me, when she was 5 years old, she felt captivated by the rehearsals her parents had at home and would ask her father to play the guitar so she could sing along. However, the religious aspect associated with this musical practice started to bother her even at a young age. She said, "I liked what they did with music, but I noticed something strange in the songs that I didn't like. They repeated the words a lot, like a verse and a chorus repeated two or three times, and I didn't like that. I thought, ‘isn't there another way to do it?’”47. While evangelical music was what she heard at home, the neighborhood's soundscape consisted of popular Mexican music, mainly banda48 and duranguense. Yadhii commented, "I do like music, but not that music,"49 referring to this soundscape. Despite 46 Yadhii, interview. 47 Idem, 48 Banda is a type of regional Mexican music born in Sinaloa. It uses primarily brass and percussion instruments and was developed in the style of military bands. Duranguense is also a type of regional Mexican music born in Durango. The Mexican American communities in Chicago made it popular during the early 21st century. 49 Yadhii, interview. 189 this musical context that Yadhii disliked, she did not abandon her love for music and continued to explore sound and music on her own. At 9, Yadhii would finally have her first encounter with rap thanks to a flea market known as a tianguis. Tianguis comes from the Nahuatl word "tianquiz," which refers to a market or a meeting point for exchange. As Pascale Villegas explains, “En el México prehispánico, el mercado o tianguis era el centro irradiador de comunicación y trueque.” (2010, 1) The rapper eagerly awaited every Wednesday to go to this tianguis. "That tianguis was everything to me, but do you know why I liked going? Because a man there sold discs,"50 she said. It was through this vendor of pirated mp3 and mp4 discs that Yadhii discovered rap. One day, when she approached the vendor's stall, Mexican rappers Akwid and Kinto Sol were playing on the radio. Yadhii recalls, Hey, what's that playing?" Yadhii recalls asking the vendor, "and he said ‘it's rap’. I started listening to it directly, and it was so impressive for me to hear what they were saying in those songs because they didn't repeat themselves, exactly what I wanted... they didn't repeat, they changed and talked about such extensive topics that encompassed everything. When seeing this little girl’s excitement for rap music, the vendor showed her an MP4 player with songs from iconic American rappers like Ice Q, Dr. Dre, Eminem, Cypress Hill, and some more well-known Mexican artists like Kinto Sol, Cartel de Santa, and Kartel de las Calles. "That's how I started falling in love with rap from that moment on," Yadhii affirmed. In the case of Doma, who is from the same generation as Yadhii, Mare’s support and presence were also crucial in her decision to become an MC. The first time she 50 Idem 190 performed in a rap space in Oaxaca was through an invitation from Mare. Over time, Doma began working as Mare's assistant, which led her to meet Yadhii and other female rappers. Although her background was more connected to visual arts, the sound of rap and its possibilities captivated her during her university years. "I started writing songs in secondary school when my brother had a metal band; he was a drummer,"51 noted Doma, who, like Yadhii, emphasizes her family's influence on her interest in music. Yadhii and Doma followed the rap pioneer in Oaxaca. Mare knows rap's transformative power and how to transmit this strength, particularly to Zapotec women in the territory. Mare said, "Rap helped me believe, gave me a voice and strength. That's why I believe that just as someone opened doors for you, you must open them for others, because that's the idea of community.” (2013) Following the principles of community and comunalidad, Mare actively contributes to developing the hip-hop scene by empowering Indigenous individuals and women of color to pursue their rap careers. Mare’s communal practice is illustrated in the experiences shared by Doma and Yadhii. In this way, Mare challenges the entrenched patriarchal gender dynamics in the Oaxacan hip-hop scene by creating opportunities for other female rappers. On the other hand, she embraces and expands upon the communal practices that have long been integral to Zapotec communities in the region. Doma and Yadhii follow in Mare's footsteps, embracing her legacy and challenging the predominant patriarchal narratives in the scene and forging community. Through rap, these three artists express their experiences, desires and feelings by creating 51 Doma, interview. 191 new imaginaries from which to inhabit the city and the scene and where community bonds prevail. They foster networks among Oaxacan rappers and artists, many of whom share Zapotec and indigenous origins. These networks thrive through reciprocal support, including invitations to events, collaborative music creation, referrals and even childcare for the rappers' mothers' children. Collectively, Mare, Doma and Yadhii represent a powerful force in the Oaxacan hip-hop scene, working to empower and amplify marginalized voices while building resilient and supportive communities. These women rappers, Zapotec and Oaxacan, are not only part of the "hip-hop nation" that characterizes the scene's global movement, but they establish a "hip-hop community." Rooted in practices of communality, their songs are constituted as a social tool to transform the environment from care, camaraderie, personal and collective well-being, and the amplification of social struggles in the territory. Thus, they address issues ranging from mental health and gender violence to land exploitation. They address these issues from their bodily experiences intimately linked to the history of the territory in which they reside. As women who have grown up moving between urban and rural spaces, their work and growth have been influenced by both spaces. Both the urbanity that has characterized hip hop is brought to the countryside, and the communal practices born in the collective lands are brought to the city. A dialectical exercise occurs where these artists act as mediators of spaces, cultures, identities and communities. 192 RAPPING SPACE: MARE, YADHII, AND DOMA BEHIND THE SCENES Throughout her career, Mare has released 3 solo albums: Qué Mujer (2010), Experimental Prole (2013) and SiempreViva (2016), as well as an EP with the same name of this same album. SiempreViva holds a special place in her discography since numerous audiovisual productions, including music videos, public performances, and tours, accompany it. For this reason, to analyze Mare’s work, I will focus primarily on productions related to this album, supported by significant independent singles and songs from her previous albums that delve into similar themes addressed in SiempreViva. Yadhii and Doma are currently working on their debut albums. Yadhii recently released her first EP, Vergel, in July 2023, after releasing independent singles and participating in various rap battles. As for Doma, she has mainly released singles available on platforms like YouTube, expressing her desire not for international fame but to make a living through her music. Therefore, my focus will primarily be on analyzing Yadhii's EP, both artists' singles, and their few music videos. This is supplemented by my ethnographic observations from attending some of their public performances during my time in Oaxaca, as well as other available material on YouTube. Yadhii, Mare and Doma have paired their musical endeavors with activism, leading several rap workshops in communities across Oaxaca. They engage with people unfamiliar with rap and impassioned youth already connected to the genre. Moreover, they actively participate in community practices such as organizing tianguis (traditional markets), collaborating with local women artists, joining women's marches, and supporting emerging rappers. 193 SiempreViva by Mare opens with a soundscape of Oaxaca -–made up of recordings of the region’s rain and birds– created by local artist Griselda Sánchez. The album features a mix of Oaxacan and Latin American rhythms, such as cumbia and folklore. Indeed, her rendition of Violeta Parra’s iconic "Gracias a la Vida" further underscores this, as she weaves political rap into the legacy of the Nueva canción.52 Mare views this album as both a personal reflection and a collective demand shaped by the social and political realities of the country53. The materiality of the album immediately highlights the collaborative and collective network in which Mare’s work is situated. The album graphics were designed by the urban art collective Gran OM & El Dante, utilizing their signature wall printing style that can be seen all over Oaxaca. On the album cover (Figure 16), half of the image is filled with siempreviva flowers (everlasting flowers). Mare’s half-face can be seen peering out from behind them. This flower is known as the immortal in Oaxaca, as it retains its color and life even after being cut. This is why it is used as an ofrenda (offering) during the Day of the Death in Oaxaca. For Mare, this flower symbolizes her personal and collective journey, representing her grief over the loss of her brother and the war in Mexico. As she stated, "I chose this name because it represents that mourning is to continue living despite death; it was a good explanation for myself, derived from a collective feeling.”54 Visually, the album is introduced with this image, sonically it is 52 For further reference see La nueva cancion chilena: el poder politico de la música, 1960-1973 (McSherry 2017) 53 Mare, interview. 54 Mare, interview. 194 concluded with the song "Ckarlos," dedicated to her brother. Although Mare produced Ckarlos before even proceeding with the rest of the album, her conscious decision to place it at the end came from a circular notion of time, as she told me, which is a common belief among Indigenous peoples in Abiayala. Through and with time, Mare lives through her pain and finds closure. Figure 16: SiempreViva album cover. Source: Facebook Mare Advertencia Lirika. As we open the album cover, we are immediately greeted by an illustration of a hand holding an apple, accompanied by the declaration “Este material queda libre para su producción y distribución sin fines gubernamentales o de lucro.” (Figure 17) On our right we find our disc within an envelope with a message dedicated to those who have left an 195 impact on Mare's life, including those within the realms of art and activism who “desde cada trinchera me brindan su luz y su fuerza, a mis hermanas feministas y mis hermanxs hip-hop en todas partes del mundo.” Despite Mare's significant achievements within the hip-hop industry, including international festivals, academic engagements in the global north, and brand-sponsored competitions, she has remained steadfast in her commitment to politically charged activism. By permitting her album to be freely reproduced, Mare leverages her global reach to elevate the voices of other artists and activists in Oaxaca and Latin America, maintaining her link and consistency with her territorial and political beliefs. Figure 17: Inside SiempreViva album. Source: Facebook Mare Advertencia Lirika. 196 The semantic field surrounding Oaxacan vegetation is also present in Yadhii's EP design, Vergel. The title refers to a garden, an orchard filled with various plants, flowers, and fruit trees. Within this vergel, we find songs titled "Mala mujer" (Bad Woman) and "Hiedra" (Ivy), alongside other medicinal plants mentioned in her other songs, all of which are part of the natural Oaxacan landscape. "Mala mujer," the opening track of her EP, draws on the imagery of this plant known for its large rough leaves that cause irritation and hives upon touch. Yadhii constructs a metaphor where she embodies the plant and its characteristics to describe a difficult period in her life when she fell into methamphetamine addiction. "I was being the worst version of myself, the most despicable, the worst of me. I lived it, I felt it, I did it,"55 the rapper mentions when talking to me about this song. Yadhii's EP cover, a creation of her design and illustration, features a golden frame adorned with distinctive hip-hop-style letters spelling "Vergel YBOZ." The image is overlaid with a layer resembling a cellophane bag, and a substantial crack is prominently displayed on the upper left side of the album (Figure 18). This design choice carries profound symbolism as methamphetamine is commonly sold wrapped in cellophane paper. The cover serves as a visual representation of the rapper's entrapment within the cycle of drug consumption. The crack also serves to emphasize the internal rupture Yadhii experienced during her struggle with addiction, encapsulated within the music as she endeavors to break free from it. Ultimately, her music becomes how she seeks liberation from the past and builds her future. 55 Yadhii, interview by author, online, July, 2023. 197 The narrative of Vergel undergoes an evolution through Yadhii's songs, each marking a personal transformation and growth as she overcomes addiction, records music, and reclaims her willpower and health. This is why the final track is titled "Chamana," which, as she expressed in our conversations, reconnects her with the tradition of healers in her family and her desire to establish herself within this lineage. As a result, Vergel embodies a circular timeline, as the closing song guides us back to the origin in terms of emotional stability and the rediscovery of her roots. This journey back to her origins, depicted in the EP, is also evident in the production process itself. The role of beatmaker and producer was assumed by Josh Griffin, who operates a mobile studio and travels to various communities in the interior of Oaxaca. He provided his services to talented rappers needing financial resources and equipment to produce their songs. Yadhii recorded her songs within this mobile studio, visiting places such as Istmo, Juchitán, Huatulco, and Puerto Escondido. Consequently, Vergel is infused with the essence and sounds of Oaxaca as she travels in this mobile studio, collaborating with other local artists from these communities. The EP is exclusively available in digital format and is freely distributed on streaming platforms, ensuring global accessibility in contrast to the multi-billion-dollar hip-hop industry. 198 Figure 18: EP Vergel, July 2023. Fuente Spotify YBOZ The material composition of an album serves as a gateway, an invitation to delve into the musical and personal-corporal landscape that the artists present to us. In these cases, the invitation is to listen and explore the territory through the history of these women's bodies manifested in their music. It portrays an image of Oaxaca distinct from the touristic, ethnic, and neoliberal representation, which portrays the city and the state as an exotic destination for acquiring Indigenous textiles and decorations. Instead, these rappers offer a raw narrative that exposes the systemic violence faced by Indigenous womena and peoples in Oaxaca, as well as their ways of survival and resilience in the face of these hardships. 199 The music of female Zapotec rappers becomes an auditory archive that captures the reality of a state that disregards its people's and communities' needs. In this context, community and artistic practices become fugitive points from which new worlds and possibilities thrive and emerge. As Mare pointed out, "Music, like many other art forms, helps us visualize these realities, construct dissident and different imaginaries”56. These imaginaries are a response to realities where violations, mining invasions, abuses by Catholicism, and dispossession by the capitalist neoliberal system take place. The rappers describe and sing through sub-woofers and microphones that intervene in our ears, the air, and the landscape, aiming to reclaim their voices, spaces and stories for personal and collective wellbeing. ECHOES FROM HELL: ZAPOTEC RHYMES AGAINST SPACES OF DOMINATION Mare, Yadhii, and Doma employ the theme of death to deploy a space profoundly affected by dispossession, erasure, elimination, and mortality. These artists condemn the forms of elimination perpetuated by governmental bodies, state institutions, and other authoritative entities by ingeniously utilizing a symbolism historically employed for their subjugation: Catholicism. The fifth track of Mare's album "SiempreViva" is aptly named "Bienvenidx" and manifests a voice emerging from Hell, a concept rooted in Christian theology denoting the posthumous place of retribution. The music video opens with a visual of former President Enrique Peña Nieto from the PRI party, evoking the imagery of the national emblem where "el aguila le ganó a la serpiente" (the eagle triumphed over 56 Mare, interview. 200 the serpent). This scene promptly transitions into an invigorating rhythm accompanied by a snake captured in the act of biting the camera lens while scenes of protestors challenging the police ensue. The rhythm of “Bienvenidx” effortlessly compels synchronization with its beats, facilitating an acute awareness of the wind instruments harmonizing with the synthesizers. At this precise juncture, Mare's resonating voice pierces through, her chants seamlessly entwined with the tempo akin to the precision of a metronome. The introductory chorus resonates from the perspective of the so-called serpent, a symbol now embodied by the rapper herself, as she welcomes us to Hell: Bienvenido al infierno es aqui donde te espero donde están las promesas que politicos no cumplieron, Donde el dinero se transforma en pesadilla Y los sueños rotos se van por la alcantarilla Bienvenido al infierno, es aquí donde te espero, donde están las promesas que tus dioses no te cumplieron, donde entre santos hay demonios escondidos, ¡esto es la realidad! así que bienvenido amigo. Right from the outset of the song, Mare initiates a rigorous exploration of power structures, critiquing religious, political, and economic institutions for their impact on both the social fabric and material conditions. Her chants, "No creas en todos los cuentos que en la biblia has leído/ no hace falta morir, el infierno está aquí mismo/ solo presta atención a la manera en que vivimos," are pronounced with emphasis as she gestures downward with her finger, underscoring that the present reality she and many others confront is the actual manifestation of hell. Through this, Mare conveys the defining features of this metaphorical hell—a realm marred by palpable corruption and dominance 201 from both political and divine figures. This sentiment is encapsulated when Mare declares, "donde entre santos hay demonios escondidos," coinciding with visual footage of a church service and the sermons of priests. Subsequently, as Mare revisits this phrase after the initial stanza, the imagery shifts to depict Mexican politicians. These various power institutions collectively contribute to the construction of the infernal landscape that Mare paints, striving to impart to the audience the intricacies of this ominous reality marked by "huellas de la explotación y el saqueo," and "un estado de derecho / donde solo se actúa si se trata de su provecho." In the song "Bienvenidx" music video, Mare appears in black attire against a black backdrop, gazing directly into the camera while rapping with a serious demeanor marked by an underlying sense of fury, evident in her furrowed brow (see Figure 19). Simultaneously, two dancers dressed in black, wearing the same intense expressions, perform choreographed steps with a pronounced and tense rhythm. This combination effectively conveys the frustration and anger being expressed, alternating with scenes portraying police repression, corrupt politicians, and the military. The video further presents images of Pope Francis, his gaze fixed on the camera, coinciding with the narration of Mare's voice asserting, "La religión te miente mientras te mira a los ojos / es injusticia escupiendo a nuestro rostro." The presence of Pope Francis in the imagery leaves no room for ambiguity, confirming that the critique directed at the Catholic deity, the clergy, and all associated institutions is integral to the causal factors that engendered the prevailing material scarcity and daily violence faced by women, Indigenous individuals, migrants, and the impoverished much like Mare herself. 202 Figure 19: A screenshot of the song "Bienvenidx" video clip by Mare Advertencia, available on Youtube. Mare's song illuminates that this Hell is a product of a historical process characterized not solely by corruption and dispossession at the hands of the state and religious institutions but one whose roots extend to colonization. The voice articulates, "tener respeto a los símbolos que han impuesto/es la colonización instaurada en nuestro cerebro." Interestingly, while reciting these final two verses, the accompanying video transitions to footage of a military parade, symbolizing a type of imperialist violence through which colonization has been enforced, along with its associated ideological perspectives and social dynamics. Mare's interconnections are well-founded, as demonstrated in earlier sections, where religion played a crucial role in facilitating the success of the colonial endeavor, concurrently contributing to the subjugation and control 203 of Indigenous populations. This influence persisted even after Mexico's independence in 1821, with the Catholic Church continuing to shape living conditions and practices. Mare continues the allegorical theme of Hell in other tracks from her SiempreViva album, including "Destellos," where she raps, Que si esto se hace un infierno juntos nos tocará arder no importa el poder al llegar al final del túnel no importa lo material sino es esto, lo que nos une Through these lyrics, she highlights the potential of enduring shared struggles and the cohesive strength that transcends material conditions. This sense of unity is rooted in communality, which has persisted despite the threats of elimination they faced during colonization and capitalist expansion. Similar to Mare, Yadhii employs the symbolic concept of hell to characterize the Mexican national territory in her composition "Mi trip." Within this track, the rapper describes her daily experiences and surroundings as a modern infernal realm, asserting, Y es que el puto infierno lo vivimos en este tiempo sin tus prejuicios cambiarás el mundo entero eres lo que quieras el dios de tu universo Yadhii connects Christian hell with biased perceptions, which influence individual behaviors. However, she counters this narrative by accentuating everyone’s inherent capacity to redefine their identity and destiny, positioning themselves as "gods of their 204 universe." This allegory communicates a reclamation of agency, distancing individuals from traditional conceptions of divine power to invite them to assert control over their bodies and lives. The injustice permeating the constructed realm of hell within these rappers' work is profoundly characterized by the dominance and subjugation of women. In "Bienvenidx," the voice asserts, "Mujeres mueren siendo cifras solamente," suggesting that this grim outcome directly results from the prevailing dynamics that govern this space. Furthermore, just as institutions of power culminate in the control and violence directed at women, this narrative extends to the relationship with the land. Both are ensconced within the same symbolic spectrum, serving as elements ripe for exploitation under the governance of patriarchal and colonial power dynamics. The voice adeptly combines these elements, stating, "Es la agonía de una tierra ensangrentada/ donde nos violan y matan pero aquí no pasa nada." This evocative imagery paints a picture of the land shedding tears that are, in fact, the blood of the women who have been victimized. Doma and Yadhii, also engage with Christian symbolism and its implications for women in some of their songs. However, unlike Mare, they take a more personal approach, associating it directly with their life stories and bodily experiences. In "Carta," Doma raps, Perdóname madre por amarte pero odiar tu religión tanta hipocresía me agüita a punto de llanto porque siembra culpa y dividió a mi familia no creo en tu dios ma’, 205 creo en mi energía Through these verses, the rapper reflects on her life, specifically the transformative impact her mother's conversion to Jehovah's Witness had on her. In an interview, Doma shared that rebelling against religion during her childhood was a pivotal moment that shaped her critical mindset and steadfast beliefs. She articulated, "I grew up with a Jehovah's Witness, so if someone tries to convince me of something, it's like, hey, I've already identified your discourse”57. Additionally, she revealed that her divergence from religion was largely fueled by its subjugation of women and their bodies. She remarked, "I had thought about it since I was seven... I also noticed things, I mean, like becoming aware of hyper-sexualization, lies, and also lascivious looks... for example, women can't lead meetings.”58 Doma witnessed her mother’s transformation from being a radical COCEI activist to moving out of political movements and spaces due to her religious conversion. This caused the rapper to construct a critique of religion linked to her gender perspective. On her part, Yadhii presents a more ambiguous relationship with religion, using Christian imagery to reflect her emotional states and how the Church has impacted her self-perception. In her song "Mala mujer," from her EP, she echoes these images with verses like, Tengo un Edén con lirios de danza muerta mi alma negra es por mi piel morena las siete flores de mi jardín se hacen selva se abren las puertas, el infierno pragmea. 57 Doma, interview. 58 Idem 206 This composition delves into her journey of recovering from addiction, revealing the initial moments when she was ensnared by drugs and how addiction shapes her experience of this hellish realm. Yadhii employs metaphors of hell and ‘seven flowers’ to evoke the seven deadly sins, using the imagery of an Eden. These symbols collectively convey Yadhii's ongoing journey and her determination to emerge from this metaphorical hell—whether it's addiction or the prevailing dynamics that permeate this space. Similarly, her song "Dopamina falsa," which explores the neurologic effects of drugs, features the lines, Estoy adentro del ruedo de fuego pienso que juego pero soy el juego intenté dejarlo y volví a caer una y vez y otra vez me aferré y de ti no me dejé, con Lucifer. Here, Yadhii employs the image of the Christian devil, Lucifer, as a symbol for the drug and its addictive grip. This strategic choice underscores the rapper’s endeavor to associate the negativity of addiction with the emotions, feelings, and preconceptions traditionally linked to the space of hell. Across these instances, we witness the diverse manners in which the concept of hell manifests as an existing reality. This includes representations that unveil power structures' role in elimination, exemplified by Mare, or those that adopt a more personal lens to confront adversities, as seen in the cases of Doma and Yadhii. Thus, the terrain encompassing these rappers transforms into a landscape synonymous with hell—a space marked by women's deaths, poverty, drug addiction, government neglect and corruption, and the exploitation of both land and people. There is no need for trepidation in the face 207 of an inferno, for its territory is already characterized as such. In this manner, the rappers gradually strip the traditional concept of hell of its conventional meaning. Harnessing the potent influence that Christian ideology holds over the territory, they portray it as a hollow promise, utilizing this image to reconfigure the concept and draw attention to the actual moment. This highlights the prevailing social, political, and economic reality experienced by these artists and their communities. Within this framework, the rappers' critical reevaluation and transformation of religious symbolism are pivotal, aiming to subvert a cornerstone of colonialism and Mexican ideology. This endeavor sets in motion a process of recuperation and reconstruction, not only of the space itself but also of the social relations deeply rooted in this ideological framework. In his work The Production of Space (1991), Henri Lefebvre emphasizes the intrinsic connection between ideology and physical space. This linkage arises from how an ideology manifests tangibly, influencing and interacting with its physical and societal surroundings. For instance, Lefebvre illustrates that Christian ideology concretizes its beliefs by establishing physical structures like churches, confessionals, altars, and sanctuaries. We can extend this understanding to the colonial era, during which physical spaces in the form of vast territories known as dioceses were governed by bishops who exerted control by evangelizing Indigenous populations. Ideology transcends the mere fact of being a set of ideas and becomes a tangible force that shapes spatial environments. In this sense, the rappers' music, enriched with Catholic symbolism deeply woven into the fabric of Mexican society, disrupts the foundations of these physical spaces. They draw attention to the impact of this symbolism 208 on the perception and construction of gender relations, marked by the specter of women's death or control in Mexico or Oaxaca in particular. Thus, the female rappers convey a critical testimony of the impact of Christianity on their bodies, lives and spaces either to denounce its complicity with other structures of domination or to regain control over their destiny. RECOVERING THE ROOTS, CONTESTING NEOLIBERAL SETTLER SPACES Intellectual and activist Eric Williams astutely articulated the interconnectedness of colonialism and capitalism, portraying them as two facets of the same coin. He argued that, in the pursuit of amassing immense wealth for the benefit of imperialist elites, “there could be only two classes in such a society, wealthy planters and oppressed slaves” (2021, 25). While Eric Williams was referring to the era of slavery, the structures and institutions that evolved from these principles have endured. This enduring legacy is encapsulated in Mare's song "Sigo de pie," where she declares, "Tienes que ser un esclavo más/ de la economía mundial." It's as though Mare has contemporized Williams' assertion, substituting "wealthy planters" with the "world economy" –concepts inherently intertwined– while preserving the image of ‘slaves’ to represent the exploited workers now ensnared within a wage system that compels constant productivity. This somber reality is vividly portrayed in the compositions of Mare, Yadhii and Doma, who articulate their experiences as integral to the Global South, Mexico, and Oaxaca. Mare, for instance, adopts a broader, global identity and narrative to articulate her critique of the political-economic system, often situating herself within the Global 209 South. In her composition "Escribiendo la historia," she engages with the North American transnational exploitation of land, exemplified by the lyrics, En cada capital de Latinoamérica, con cada transnacional que quiere nuestra tierra somos el sur global, que ya no espera The title itself suggests scripting history, positioning the narrator as a collective voice rooted in the Global South. The use of the second-person plural conjugation ‘nosotros’ underscores a sense of shared experience and molds a Latin American identity that calls for cohesion and solidarity. Throughout the song “Escribiendo la historia”, the voice acknowledges the resilience of Latin American populations, intertwining with nature and transcending borders and national boundaries: Entre el asfalto, resisten nuestras raíces y a pesar de las fronteras que nos separan en países vamos uniéndonos con otras personas haciendo fuertes alianzas, con toda aquella que cuestiona. Thus, the rapper extends the concept of space; the inferno is no longer limited to Mexico or Oaxaca but now encompasses the entire Global South, Latin America. The aim is to counteract this phenomenon by “derrumbándolo, con acciones desde abajo,” while simultaneously advocating for unity among those who share this common struggle, those who are “construyendo alternativas lejos de lo que nos han nombrado / como progreso, pero que significa la explotación.” The song addresses the need to rewrite history from 210 the perspective of the struggles of the working class, encompassing those who inhabit “pueblos, barrios, periferias, colonias y poblas,” as echoed in the chorus. It issues a broad call to those who “ya no se conforman,” urging them to rise against the exploitative system. Within the context of Oaxaca, the intensification of privatization and neoliberal policies became particularly pronounced in the 1990s and early 2000s. As previously analyzed, Mexico's integration into NAFTA in 1992 reinforced existing colonial and capitalist dynamics in Oaxaca, resulting in unfavorable outcomes for the region. The adoption of neoliberal measures, encompassing privatization and economic deregulation, exacerbated the impoverishment of local farmers while contributing to the concentration of wealth within large-scale agricultural enterprises. These shifts have further widened wealth disparities, a phenomenon acutely evident in the Central District of Oaxaca City, where substantial class stratification is apparent (Velasco and Robles Gónzalez 1999). This reality finds resonance in other compositions by Mare, such as "Sigo de pie," wherein she departs from the broader global identity to address the specific nuances of dispossession: Nos muestran un futuro que tenemos que comprar la educación la privatizan y de la salud ni hablar […] Pero nos convierten solo en número que suman al sistema Mano de hombre barata con nuestros sueños acuestas En el trabajo explotación y represión si es que protestas. 211 Nevertheless, amid the backdrop of these material and social challenges, Mare's songs' very titles encapsulate her resolute spirit. This is evident in her phrase “I’m still standing,” representing her resilience and the people striving amidst adversity. In critiquing the economic system, Yadhii adopts a more localized and personal perspective, drawing upon specific scenarios and conditions unique to Oaxaca. Her song "Pandemia" vividly portrays the dire circumstances faced by Indigenous people and the working class during the pandemic. She denounces the prevalent stratifications through a strong class-oriented lens, vividly illustrating how impoverished communities grappled with hunger while the wealthy enjoyed abundance throughout the pandemic. The chorus of the song underscores this disparity: Toda la banda privilegiada se está quedando en sus casas su cartera está llena igual que sus panzas los de clase baja cumplen su jornada. Madres de familia hacen magia la comida no alcanza y la despensa escaseada se la ingenian a diario para no dejar con hambre a sus criaturas, nada regala a nadie. While pre-existing class disparities were already present in Oaxaca City, the pandemic and its ensuing economic crisis exposed and exacerbated these inequalities, as the rapper highlights in her song. Yadhii shares her testimony within this song, painting a comprehensive picture of the challenges faced by her community during this time. She recounts, "Hay hambre, hay calor, le da mucha sed," and "aunque trabaje mucho, el dinero ya no rinde," highlighting the struggles. Lines like "jodidos parejo aqui abajo en el guetto/ cansados, con sueño, 212 frustrados por pesos," emphasize the shared hardships, exhaustion, and frustration experienced by those in marginalized neighborhoods. In this context, the elderly were particularly vulnerable, and they had to continue working for sustenance with the lack of government support and the loss of income. Likewise, these consequences disproportionately affected the Indigenous population in Mexico, with a mortality rate of 18.8% compared to 11.8% for the non-Indigenous population (Cortez-Gómez, Muñoz-Martínez, and Ponce-Jiménez 2020). Yadhii eloquently narrates her personal experiences during these trying times. Intriguingly, her song doesn't attribute blame to the pandemic itself but underscores the role of class stratification, vividly illustrating how the affluent could live in comfort and abundance while the less privileged were left struggling for survival. The music video for “Pandemic” is a homemade production comprising a collection of images. The images provide visual insight into the lives of women who are shown selling food on the streets, crafting traditional tapestries, and working in the kitchen (see Figure 20). As a Zapotec woman and mother, Yadhii experienced the severe consequences of the pandemic, which exacerbated the vulnerability of Indigenous women. Limited access to essential services such as water, health care and quality education and residing in impoverished and/or remote areas compounded the problems these women were already facing. These problems include a lack of land access, low educational attainment or incomplete studies, economic dependence on men, intrafamilial physical and emotional violence, and various constraints on active participation in communal and political decisions within their communities (Gómez Navarro et al. 2021). 213 Figure 20: Screenshots of Yadhii MC's "Pandemic" music video, available on his Facebook. Yadhii, from the city, emphasizes the care work that reproduces society and falls on women. Similar to Mare's video "Bienvenidx", Yadhii includes images from the World Bank and mentions the elites and the government as one of the main culprits of this inequality that was exacerbated during the pandemic. Besides the reproductive labor that women do within private and communal spaces, Yadhii’s song "Pandemia" also shows women confronting domestic violence. As she articulates, La violencia en el hogar se ha incrementado, […] Los niños sueñan que regresan a la escuela no quieren escuchar cuando mamá y papá pelean se estresan y gritan como si nadie estuviera ya no se respetan, él le ha golpeado en la cabeza Yadhii’s sonic narrative, positioned as a mother, Indigenous woman, and ‘ghetto’ inhabitant, reverberates as a testament to the broader reality women face in the city’s sociopolitical context. The song seamlessly intertwines her critique of class stratification 214 as experienced during the pandemic with an intersectional understanding of gender, Indigeneity, and sexuality. Mare delves into the particular challenges Indigenous communities face in her single "Mujer maíz," which predates the production of the SiempreViva album. Rapping over a soft and simple beat, Mare articulates her critique of an economic system that disproportionately “solo sirve a unos cuantos.” However, she does so by adopting the perspective of an Indigenous woman who seeks to reclaim the Zapotec traditional practices and beliefs. The song starts with a radio broadcast that underscores the significance of corn: el maíz es parte esencial de la identidad nacional y fundamental en la dieta de los mexicanos. Los pueblos indígenas, los primeros pobladores de nuestras tierras, siguen siendo la mayor parte de la población rural y continúan, a pesar de las dificultades, sembrando el maíz que es indispensable para suficiencia de los mexicanos. This radio broadcast establishes the song’s central theme, namely, the vital role of maize as the lifeblood of Indigenous communities. Throughout the song, Mare portrays multiple ways in which the autonomy of corn cultivation and the survival of these communities is produced. At the same time, it also shows the threats posed by post-NAFTA neoliberal policies and the influence of agribusiness. The “Mujer maíz” music video presents viewers with a sign reading “Bienvenido a Oaxaca” alongside visuals of a woman working in the fields. This announces the rapper's description of the territory from the perspective of Oaxacan Indigenous women. The lyrics declare, En mis campos se extiende esta verdad lugares sucios por la globalización 215 no encontramos solución, grandes capitales, se extiende la invasión nuestra cultura muere en manos del invasor. The term ‘invasor’ denotes the encroachment of agribusiness in Oaxaca, which is a product of the global economy and the primary driver behind the erasure of Indigenous culture. The song proceeds as the voice narrates the consequences of these large corporations on the land: Ahora juegan con la genética termina con la ética, pensando en algo grande esa mierda por donde sea se expande quitándole al campesino su dinero violando y asesinando nuestro suelo. These verses unveil various elements; the voice refers to biotech companies and genetic engineering, which have monopolized crops and dispossessed farmers of their lands (N. Martínez 2018). This has left seeds and pesticides in the hands of four major transnational corporations: Monsanto, Syngenta, Bayer, and DuPont, all of which produce genetically engineered maize. Thanks to NAFTA corn policies favored the implementation of genetic modification as much of the production went to large U.S. corporations and producers at the expense of small local production. Oaxaca is one of the states with the highest number of maize producers. Most of these producers belong to Indigenous communities, which have systems of cultivation that rely on ancestral seeds, manual tools, and family and community labor (González Ríos 2012). This means that the impact of neoliberal policies on corn production critically affects the state's Indigenous communities. The imposition of one type of 216 method and crop on communal lands implies the impossibility of inter-cropping and decreased soil quality and crop diversity. Due to these effects and the movements against GMOs, in 2020, Mexico signed a decree banning transgenic corn and the progressive disappearance of the herbicide glyphosate, which has serious consequences for farmers, Indigenous peoples, health and biological diversity. However, only three years later, the decree was repealed as "The United States has refused to respect Mexico's choice, instead working tirelessly to bully the country into accepting GE corn in order to protect the short-term profits of U.S. agribusiness giants." Mare's song is critical of these policies and recovers the maize as the central means of subsistence for hundreds of Indigenous families. In response to this context of dispossession toward maize and the people, Mare shapes the meaning of it, drawing from Indigenous knowledge and, in particular, from the perspective of women. The music video for "Mujer maíz" shows alternating images of people working the land and footage of a woman holding and scattering seeds on a white sheet, almost ritualistically (see Figure 21). At the same time, on a lyrical level, Mare creates an allegory of the land with the bodies of women or feminized people. To account for the impact of the invasion of transnationals and genetic engineering on the territory, Mare uses words like 'raping' and 'murdering' ("raping and murdering our soil"). These characteristic crimes of gender violence and femicide are now committed against the land. Mare tells us that what happens to the land also happens to women. 217 Figure 21: Screenshot of the videoclip "Mujer Maiz" by Mare Advertencia Lirika. Available on Youtube. The verses following the first stanza state: Mujer maíz, ¿qué puedes hacer? cuando ves a tus hijos, repartiéndose el poder aniquilando tu legado, dejando atrás nuestro pasado aquello que con esmero has cuidado madre naturaleza, despierta con tu furia, resaca ya tu fuerza. She empowers Indigenous women, portraying them as bearers of the legacy and knowledge of maize and nature, which sustain community life and urges them to reclaim their heritage alongside the land. The survival of community is, therefore, in their hands. Furthermore, in the second stanza, the voice proclaims, "Somos hijas de maíz y lo llevamos en los huesos/ es la mujer, la madre tierra que cultiva la semilla/ la protege, la cuida, mientras que esta germina," reflecting the role of women in Zapotec agricultural tradition. 218 Zapotec educator and activist Juana Vasquez Vasquez notes that "women are responsible for preserving the seed for the next agricultural cycle, and they take very seriously what the elders say about caring for the seed. They say 'do not eat the seed because if you eat the seed, everything will end,' so they recommend taking care of the maize seed" (2013, 102; Center for Biological Diversity and Greenpeace México 2023). Thus, in this song, Mare weaves together how maize is part of the Zapotec ancestral landscapes and ways of living, constituting the base of comunalidad and women’s role. The song, recovering Zapotec knowledge, directly responds to capitalism and its current iteration, neoliberalism in Oaxaca. Neoliberalism has proven to be a system that "continues to be shaped by the settler colonial imperative of dispossession/extraction/elimination justified by racialized and gendered logics that though changing continue to emerge from that imperative." (Speed 2017, 788) Therefore, Mare, centering her song and enunciating as a Zapotec and migrant woman, embodies the consequences of this system that overlaps oppressions against her community. In a live performance in 2022, I saw Doma addressing similar issues. During her presentation, right before she started rapping, she turned to the public and stated, Desde Oaxaca, eternamente una tierra donde han querido robar, saquear de todo pero vamos a gestar porque los bloqueos, a eso no se van a acoplar. Like Mare, Doma links her criticism towards land dispossession while recovering ancestral Indigenous knowledge and practices. She uses the image of the comal, a traditional utensil used in Mexican cuisine dating back to pre-Hispanic times, to highlight 219 its communal origins away from its commodification: "más que producto comercial / familia trabajando unida." Nevertheless, she laments that it has been taken away, revealing the threat to comunalidad: Máquinas frías, saqueo extranjero, Explotación, su aliado, el estado, firma convenios a nombre de toda la nación nada de eso, no existe progreso ni marginalización, migración es la moneda de cambio que han venido dando ¿no te has preguntado, quién sale ganando? ¿campesino? No, ¿producción local?, no ¿Acaso morir es el precio de abrirles los ojos cada vuelta al sol? Thus, the effects of the neoliberalization of corn as production passes into the hands of large transnationals and affects both communities and land is also a major issue in Doma’s work. It is intriguing how "Mujer maíz" and Doma's intervention juxtapose two systems and narratives, utilizing the symbolism of maize and the comal. On one hand, there is a denunciation of capitalism as a continuation of colonialism, resulting in the exploitation of land, labor, marginalization, and the monopolization of crops through biogenetic engineering. This has led to the dispossession of communities of their knowledge and well-being. On the other hand, concurrently, we witness an effort to preserve sustainable ways of life and ancestral traditions. This preservation ultimately contributes to the unity and survival of the community. As highlighted by Plutarco Aquino Zacarías, who advocates for traditional maize agriculture: "Maize cultivation forms the cornerstone of community life." (2013, 97) In this context, land dispossession, which renders cultivation 220 impossible, deprives communities of their means of subsistence. It is through communal work and the cultivation of corn, which serves as an organizational cornerstone, that the vitality of the community is maintained. Mare knows the importance of corn and the land. That is why she sings to the audience to convey awareness of the issues surrounding corn while using it as a tool for unity. Mare’s song “Mi Gente” is dedicated to her community. The voice embodies a subject deeply rooted in the region, highlighting maize as a vital part of Zapotec cultural heritage. “Nos han querido quitar nuestra raíz/ pero seguimos siendo la gente del maíz,” the voice says. With Chicano rap influences and combining sonorities such as Mexican accordion and rap rhythmic patterns, the song's central motif is unity through identification with Indigenous roots. This is consistent with the musical style employed, which is related to Mexican rancheras or cumbias composed by the accordion, now combined with the rhythmic boom-clap of rap. At the lyrical level, the symbol of maize and roots serve as an anchor for unity, a theme she employs to issue her call to action: Mueve tu cuerpo pero también tu pensamiento busca el motor que te movilice, que te conecte desde adentro con nuestras raíces que son profundas y no han muerto. This connects to ancestral knowledge and Indigenous identity, underscoring the importance of life, which, according to Mare, lies in the subsistence and connection between the community and the land. As the lyrics say, “Nos mantiene vivas y vivos, esta esperanza/ haciendo alianza con nuestra misma gente.” This is also echoed in Mare’s song “Destello,” where the voice similarly proclaims, “Somos materia de vida que puede/ 221 traer energía y ser parte de lo que se mueve.” Mare emphasizes a conception of life based on community ties and the world around him, transmitting a Zapotec wisdom of reciprocity with all beings that allow and sustain subsistence. This message aligns with Mare's documentary Cuando una mujer avanza (Mano Vuelta 2012), in which she emphasizes that “no estás solo, sino que eres con el mundo, eres con la naturaleza, eres tú con tu comunidad.” It is this collective way of being in the space what shapes her work. In "Mi gente," the voice emphatically asserts that wealth resides within the soul and cannot be acquired through material means such as money: Es la riqueza la que crece en nuestra alma esa que no se compra, y el dinero no la paga si crees que todo no es nada, pues suerte pues cuando tú estés solo, yo estaré aquí con mi gente. While the capitalist system is often associated with wealth in the form of money, transnational corporations, the exploitation of land, and the elimination of communities, the song presents a stark contrast. It underscores that true happiness and fulfillment can only be found within a community. As the lyrics suggest, the ultimate act of resistance is not pursuing material gain but rather the pursuit of happiness and a life lived within one's community. CONCLUSION As Zapotec women rappers, these artists aim to fortify communal bonds among the people and youth who engage with their work in the city. This practice is especially significant in urban spaces, which have faced erasure due to the influence and control of 222 the prevailing political-economic model. Yadhii, Mare and Doma find ways to sound indigeneity in the city by embodying their music and performances with Indigenous knowledge. They instill a critique of the capital-colonial nexus based on the dispossession experienced by Indigenous populations from their women’s perspective. Mare, Yadhii and Doma transmit this feeling of communality through their creative voicing of indigeneity vis-à-vis women’s agency. They actively include the community, fostering support networks among indigenous women rappers, amplifying struggles to protect the territory, going to rural spaces to teach political rap workshops to interested youth, and bringing ancestral Zapotec knowledge to the city. Their songs represent and deliver a testimony of the geohistory of Oaxaca, which has constituted spaces of colonial, capitalist and patriarchal domination. This is one of the reason the rappers are often called to perform for events related to feminist and women’s movements as well as gatherings or political events regarding the defense of the land. Their music becomes part of the social fabric and activist networks that connect the city with the countryside. Rap, in this sense, embodies a spatial-political practice shaped by dynamics of class, gender, and indigeneity experienced in the city. At the same time, these rappers demonstrate how communality remains a principle of unity, albeit updated in the city through hip-hop. The rappers bring this knowledge to their audience who, often because they have grown up in the city, have lost connection with or interest in ancestral practices. They remind listeners that they are not alone but are part of an ancestral people and of a larger, interconnected world, deeply intertwined with the territory and its communities. 223 While comunalidad unites the artists, it is relevant to note that there are also differences among them. For example, Mare embraces a more transnational perspective regarding her systemic critique, positioning, and evidencing her solidarity with and from the global south. Meanwhile, Yadhii and Doma take a more local and personal perspective on these issues, emphasizing their histories intertwined with the consequences of power structures in space. However, the elements that unite them are more than those that separate them, not only because, as Zapotec women rappers, they share stages and spaces in the city but also because of their community-based way of recreating hip-hop spaces giving shape to liberatory, vocal and sonic geographies. 224 CHAPTER 4 Sounding Indigenous Body-Spaces Against Patriarchy “El hecho de poder usar mi propia voz es algo que no todos pueden hacer. Es un privilegio poder hacerlo y poder expresarme.” Yadhii (aka YBOZ) “El rap me dio libertad” Mare Advertencia Lírika To build a space for themselves in the hip-hop scene and Oaxaca City, Zapotec rappers Yadhii, Mare and Doma have had to face countless forms of sexual and gender-based violence. During one of our conversations, Doma told me about an experience where her own life was at risk for defending herself from sexual harassment and using the very tools of rap. She recounts, One day on my way to the hostel I got on a bus. I got on and another man got on and sat next to me. Suddenly, I started to feel his leg rubbing against me and I just said, 'hey, can you move a little.' And he said, 'no, if you don't want it then buy a car,' and I answer, 'look, if I had a car I wouldn't be here, like you, if you had a car you wouldn't be here. I'm just telling you to use your space and I use mine'. And he started to say things like 'it scares you'. I don't remember exactly, but there was a moment when he showed me a gun and told me, 'If you don't calm down, you're going to see [the consequences].' And for me it was like ufff.... I remember I had been prepared for a situation like this at the Escuela para la Libertad de las Mujeres (School for Women's Freedom), and I think that activated my self-defense and, since I was in the first seat on the bus, I told the driver ‘he is threatening me with a gun.’ It was the first thing that came out of me as I told myself, ‘If you don't say it right now, your throat will close.' The guy beside me said, 'She always gets like that, don't listen to her.’ And I said, ‘What? Always? I had never seen you in my life.’ That's when my freestyle battle mode kicked in, and I told the driver it was not true. And the driver said, 'Relax, my friend, relax,’ as he realized I didn't know this man, even though he said the opposite. And the guy next to me said, 'What? Are you going to cry? Damn women, you fix 225 everything by crying,' and I said, 'Damn women? I mean, you really hate women. You're threatening me with a gun, and you don't even know me.' And in freestyle mode, I said to him, 'Crying? No, man, why are you talking about crying? Do you want to cry? Maybe that's what you need. I mean, now that I think about it, maybe it wasn't the smartest thing to do, but at that moment, my adrenaline was pumping; I had never been threatened with a weapon. So I had him next to me, but I was ready, so if I saw a movement, I would cut it off and deactivate that mode. But I was already in a mode of 'I'm not going to stay still,' well no, and so he started to tell me things like 'fucking women, you're going to be worthless.' And I said, 'Do you need a gun? How many things have you solved with your weapon?' So I started to say things like that. And the people on the bus heard everything. Suddenly, when I turned around, half the people sitting down stood up towards the back of the bus. Some of them started to get off. And one lady was telling me, 'Stop it, stop it.' And I was like, 'Give it up, give it up? No shit. I was just heading to work.' So it was like a surreal moment. I was watching a video on my cell phone, and suddenly, I switched it to camera mode. And he saw it and snatched it from me. And that's when he started to raise his voice at me and said, 'Calm the fuck down, you damn woman, you're going to be worthless,' already more upset. And I said ok, it's time to lower the tension (now I was more scared), so I told him, 'I'm talking to you with respect, and the truth is nobody is attacking you, nobody is insulting you. I am going to get off in two stops; I ask you for my cell phone,' and the driver said, 'OK, my friend, calm down, give her her phone; if you give it to her, nothing will happen.' He saw that the driver was on a call, and he had already started to give his location. I was like, 'Oh shit!' For a moment in my head, it happened, like this image where I would stay there with a shot in my head, in the middle of traffic, alone on a bus because if that happened, everyone was going to disappear. And a flash of that image came to me, and I thought, 'No, I'm going to fight to the end.' I was ready at any moment, with my body, with movement and with words.59 In this traumatic event that Doma tells us about, the importance of the word is critical to safeguard her body, her space and her livelihood. Rap, as the art of speech, together with her links with women's networks, provided her with the possibility to confront this case of gender violence. 59 Doma, interview. 226 In the quote that opens this chapter, Yadhii also emphasizes the importance of the word referring to the voice. For her, being able to use words and her voice is a privilege, given the context in which she grew up, where she had to experience sexual and gender-based violence. For these artists, the voice –made possible by rap– becomes a way of asserting their bodies' autonomy and exercising their freedom, as Mare's quote says. Through the voice and the body, as an element that makes this sonic phenomenon of the human being possible, these Zapotec female rappers intervene in gendered violence to create safe spaces for themselves and other women. For this reason, the recovery of their bodies, as the first territory, is installed as a central axis in their work. It becomes part of the efforts and struggles of Indigenous women in Oaxaca and beyond against patriarchy in all their spaces. The concept of space, and by extension, the city, is deeply intertwined with our bodily experiences and how we perceive and conceptualize the territory. In his theory of space production, French scholar Henri Lefebvre underscores the intricate relationship between the body and space, affirming that the body "produces itself in space and it also produces that space." (1991, 170) According to this, the body produces and is produced through Lefebvre’s space-triad consisting of "the perceived, the conceived, and the lived." In spatial terms, these three elements correspond to spatial practice, representations of space, and representational spaces, respectively. But what precisely does this entail? Bodily experiences play a pivotal role in space production, as "the relationship to space of a 'subject' who is a member of a group or society implies his relationship to his own body and vice versa" (Lefebvre, 1991, p. 40). A complex 227 interplay exists within the body, encompassing physical sensations, societal norms, and cultural influences. This intricate interplay significantly influences how individuals experience and perceive their bodies within the broader societal context. In Lefebvre's framework, space and body are mutually produced, but what if body and space are one and the same? Maya Kaqchikel activist Lorena Cabnal (2010) underscores that communitarian feminist women regard their bodies as "their first territorio-cuerpo," a space shaped by patriarchy and subjected to various forms of oppression and violence against women and nature. Cabnal emphasizes that this perspective "invites us to reclaim the body in order to promote life with dignity from a specific place, recognizing its historical resilience and its dimension as a transformative, transgressive, and creative force." (p. 21) Consequently, communitarian feminists aim to reclaim and dismantle oppressive structures through the body. This chapter explores the situation of women in Oaxaca, which reveals a pattern where the construction of the feminized body within space is predominantly defined by cis-heterosexual men and the prevailing patriarchal power dynamics that reinforce it. Consequently, the bodies shaping this space inadvertently contribute to a masculinized environment, restricting avenues for women to navigate and shape their own physical and spatial identities. This restriction is not solely based on physical materials but also on the intricate web of social and gender relations intertwining with the spatial fabric. Therefore, to establish any public space representing a safe space for women or feminized people, it is necessary to establish a spatial fabric starting from the embodied experiences of violence. This is how the concept of sound body-space appears to describe how Yadhii, 228 Doma, and Mare intervene in the structural oppressions of patriarchy by recovering the autonomy of their bodies and using the voice as an “acoustic territory” (LaBelle 2019) from which to generate Indigenous sonic geographies of the city they inhabit and re-create. My concept of sound body-space discusses Cabnal and community feminists' ideas of the body and territory to extend Lefebvre's theory. I argue that in the work of these Zapotec rappers, the body not only engages in self-production within various forms of social space or contributes to the production of space itself but becomes space. That is, the body undergoes a transformation into space. In their pursuit to reclaim, reshape, and establish secure spaces, the Zapotec rappers reclaim the foundational domain denied to them at birth as female/feminized human beings: their bodies. By incorporating their bodies into their music—embodied within their voices, lyrics, and performances—these Zapotec rappers reconfigure a novel space: the body itself. The body ceases to be merely an entity interacting with space but instead emerges as an intersectional sonic space to confront domination from sociopolitical structures, practices and representations. Sounding body-space encompass how the bodies of Mare, Yadhii, and Doma become audible sites to confront patriarchy within their communities and neoliberal settler spaces and exercise their freedom. COLONIAL PATRIARCHY AND INDIGENOUS COMPLEMENTARITY During our conversation, Mare mentioned that her feminist approach started with the fight for abortion decriminalization as the quest for bodily autonomy. The notion of 229 bodily autonomy has been a central theme for many Indigenous women who use their bodies as a platform to denounce gendered violence perpetuated by patriarchal structures in the public and private space. For instance, Maya Kaqchikel scholar Emma Chirix acknowledges that “Desde la mirada del cuerpo vivido y la experiencia corporal, las mujeres mayas comparten, expresan y denuncian las opresiones a nivel familiar, pues sus cuerpos también han sido violentados, principalmente, por el compañero de vida.” (2019, 142) Similarly, Lorena Cabnal said that communitarian feminists confront structural violence while battling patriarchy within her communities, families, and specific Indigenous and social movements (2017, 99). Maya Kaqchikel scholar Aura Cumes (2018; 2012) traces this type of violence to colonialism, which implied the reconfiguration of social relations and the subjugation of Indigenous and Black peoples. As a result, Indigenous women have a unique perspective to observe the structures and workings of domination (A. E. Cumes 2012, 11). Scholar Anne McClintock has explored the interconnections between imperialism and gender pointing out, Colonized women, before the intrusions of imperial rule, were consistently disadvantaged within their societies. This disadvantaged status resulted in significantly distinct outcomes for their sexual and economic roles compared to those experienced by colonized men. (1995, 6) Notably, as McClintock (1995) remarks, colonized women undertook diverse roles as enslaved people, agricultural laborers, household servants, mothers, prostitutes, and concubines. These roles exposed them to a complex interplay of gender dynamics within their communities, subjecting them to hierarchical regulations and constraints 230 imposed by both imperial women and men. Under this framework, it was within the intricacies of pre-colonial unequal gender relations reinforced by imperialist structures that the origins of contemporary patriarchy lie, further entrenching the subjugation of women. Community feminists in Bolivia and Guatemala have addressed the intersection of colonialism and patriarchy with the term "entronque patriarcal." (Paredes 2010) This concept refers explicitly to the conjunction of pre-existing forms of sexism within communities before colonization and the subsequent patriarchal dynamics that merged with European invasion, thereby reinforcing the subjugation and control of women. Rather than succumbing to essentialism, some Indigenous women have preferred to confront the gender oppression within their communities by addressing some of the complexities behind the concept of complementaridad to describe gender and nature relations. While theoretically denoting "simetría, igualdad y armonía entre hombres y mujeres,” (Aquino Moreschi 2013, 15) in practice, complementarity lacks specificity regarding its practical manifestation. Consequently, numerous Indigenous women scholars have criticized it and sought to reshape this concept for several reasons; first, it is frequently used in promoting heterosexual and normative sexuality; second, it has obscured machismo and the division of labor, where women are assigned less significant and respected roles within the community; and third, it overlooks alternative family configurations where complementaridad extends between relationships like grandmother-mother, friend-friend-friend, and sister-sister (Cabnal 2010; Aquino Moreschi 2013). Hence, community feminists are working to redefine complementarity beyond 231 hierarchical limitations, envisioning it as "armónico y recíproco, par de presencia, existencia, representación y decisión" (Paredes 2010, 85). While they do not dispose of the traditional concept and ways of living, they instead see a reconciliation ground where the ideals of reciprocity and horizontal relations of gender, which could be extended to the relation with nature, can be applied and reconstructed. It is noteworthy that while McClintock (1995) and community feminists agree about the pre-existing disadvantage of women within societies before the colonial enterprise, there exist nuances within this assertion. The position of women –and the roles of those existing beyond the gender binary in these societies– varies depending on the context. In many instances, while there was a particular gender division, it was not inherently hierarchical. For example, the concept of “complementaridad” can also be found in the belief system of the Incan empire. This empire was built upon the idea of gender complementarity, which extended to relationships with nature and among different social groups. Scholar Irene Silverbatt (1987) points out that in the Andean context, gender symbolized complementarity and hierarchy. It was utilized to establish the foundation of imperial interactions and assert authority over subjugated populations. In this sense, gender played a significant role in shaping emerging imperial governance structures. These newly established institutions combined control over women with control over the broader human population. Gender ceased to be purely symbolic and transformed into a framework through which class dynamics were operationalized. Consequently, the “formation of class transformed gender distinctions into gender hierarchies.” (Silverblatt 1987, xxix) Thus, it was the logic inherent in imperial 232 governance structures and the class stratification it imposed that transformed the previously existing gender division and conceptualization into a mechanism of subjugation for women. The notion of complementarity within Oaxaca's Mixtec and Zapotec communities also predates the Spanish conquest. This has been studied through the analysis of certain codices that illustrate complementarity and the existence of binary gender systems, at least among the elite, which influenced the gender ideology of these communities (Sousa 1997). However, scholar Lynn Stephen challenges this perception of binary gender dynamics as the sole configuration among Mixtec and Zapotec peoples. She suggests these communities "might have had overlapping gender systems that included not only elite gender complementarity but also other systems that allowed for three or more genders." (2002, 49) In parallel to Silverbatt's argument regarding the Incan empire, where gender distinction evolved into hierarchy due to exposure to imperial governance, Lynn Stephen highlights the influence of Spanish colonialism on the gender hierarchy. Stephen argues that Indigenous gender systems transformed with the arrival of the Spanish, highlighting a crucial distinction from the Spanish system. In this way, we see how imperialist systems of control altered the complementarity present in Indigenous communities in both the Andes and North America. Through the imposition of their institutions and economic foundations, these systems used differences in gender roles to reaffirm a patriarchal hierarchy that continues to this day in the territory. Economic conditions are pivotal in shaping gender relations. Therefore, we must acknowledge that discussions of patriarchy cannot be divorced from the prevailing 233 economic and political systems that have molded our world. In Oaxaca, women have been aware of this intertwining, participating in large social movements against neoliberal settler dispossession and bringing the struggle against patriarchal entanglement to these political spaces. This history of social mobilization of Oaxacan women has set a precedent for women of younger generations, such as Doma, Mare and Yadhii, who still echo these movements. WOMEN AT THE FOREFRONT: SOCIAL UPRISING IN OAXACA CITY Oaxaca has a rich history of mobilization and has been under the watchful eye of state officials since the emergence of the Ejército de Liberación Nacional Zapatista (Zapatista National Liberation Army) uprising in 1994 due to their proximity and influence. Martínez Luna (2013) asserts that the recognition of municipalities practicing ‘usos y costumbres’ (indigenous customary law) was intended to prevent the spread of the Zapatista rebellion's impact in Oaxaca. However, twelve years later, Oaxaca City witnessed one of its most significant political uprisings, initially led by unionized teachers and joined by youth, autonomous communities, and various social movements. In May of 2006, Section 22 of the Sindicato Nacional de Trabajadores de la Educación, SNTE (National Union of Education Workers) marched, as they had been doing it for the last 30 years. They had straightforward demands worthy of any human: better educational infrastructure, housing, scholarships, uniforms for underserved students, and other basic rights. The traditional response from any governor in power was to start negotiations with the Union. Governor Ulises Ruiz Ortiz broke this tradition. He 234 violently repressed and threatened the teachers. In response, the people of Oaxaca decided to occupy the Zocalo (the main building in the city center) for six months. The repression peaked when the governor unleashed an armed offensive by the national police. This is the reason why in June of the same year, the Primera Asamblea Popular de los Pueblos de Oaxaca, APPO (First Popular Assembly of the Peoples of Oaxaca) was created as a central organizing body to confront the violence that the government was committing against the people. As the APPO declaration stated in 2006, this assembly had one specific goal: “the resignation of the fascist Ulises Ruiz Ortiz as governor of the state.” This struggle was not only a response to the immediate repression and violence to which the governor subjected the teachers and the people protesting but also to the government‘s clear intention. This intention was “silencing any popular protest to guarantee ‘peace and tranquility’ to the great businessmen, landowners and exploiters who fraudulently brought him to power.” (APPO-Región Istmo de Tehuantepec 2006) Hence, they were fighting against the governor, the repression of social protest, the neoliberal governance that promotes exploitation and extractivism, and against the big corporations. In our interview, Mare Advertencia commented the importance of this historical movement in her own political consciousness. She said, I grew up in public schools, educated by teachers from the dissident union Section 22, so I grew up hearing about their struggles, about their critical conscience. In reality, not all teachers have a political education, but I had those who did, and they were the ones who helped me to understand better the context I was living in.60 60 Mare, interview. 235 Along with this education, Mare recalls her exposure to protest poetry as the trigger of her politization, in particular when she read the poem “México quién cree en ti” by Fidencio Escamilla Cervantes, which is a critical adaptation from the nationalist poem “México creo en ti,” by Ricardo López Méndez. “Comencé a acercarme cada vez más,” claimed Mare about this experience, “a conocer otra poesía, a darme cuenta que la poesía, el arte, te permitía expresar lo que pasaba en la realidad.”61 Consequently, Mare was actively involved in the movement of 2006 and the following year, she and her collective released the song "La Calle Grita" (2008) as a tribute to this uprising, highlighting the importance of street art in the movement. Women were vital in this uprising as they held the barricades, led mass actions, constituted the majority of the base magisterial, and self-organized against their oppression. One of the critical actions that women gave rise to was the famous “Marcha de las Cacerolas,” where, with pans and pots, they took the streets of the city to march against their oppressions. This action was marked by the takeover of radios and Canal Nueve, which was soon followed by a violent confrontation with the governor and the military. Despite this setback, they reorganized a massive demonstration to reclaim control of the media, creating a collective and communal form of communication where women held the power of transmission and took over the microphone. This women’s manifestation marked a decisive moment in the 2006 uprising as new possibilities developed with the openness of communication serving the organization of the movement. Women of Oaxaca demonstrated their power and the autonomy of their 61 Idem. 236 struggle. However, despite this advantage, women faced contradictions within the Oaxaca commune “based around the social, political and strategic questions that arose when men attempted to uphold the gendered division of labor and force women back into the home.” (Peller 2016) They rebelled and challenged these gender and labor divisions, criticizing the reproductive work within the household, the community, the state, and the global economy. This initiative was a significant moment in the history of Oaxaca and served as a precursor to the more recent wave of feminism in the region. This movement provided the basis for dismantling the reproduction of gender roles that mark collective and individual dynamics. During our interview, Mare recalls this women’s mobilization and recognized it as the backdrop of today’s feminist struggles, Since 2006 in Oaxaca, the Marcha de las Cacerolas served as a prelude to all this. Oaxaca has been one of the places where the fight for the decriminalization of abortion has been fervently pursued. There was a strong push around 2010-2011 when pro-life laws began to criminalize abortion and the decisions of women, leading to numerous protests. For me, this was my introduction to the feminist movement. Understanding how the struggle for abortion decriminalization is also a fight for bodily autonomy. Following that, Oaxaca has become a state that has decriminalized abortion, achieved through the mobilization of many women from various sectors. It also involved a revival of traditional midwifery and Indigenous medicine, which had previously accompanied abortion but had to be conducted clandestinely. Now, with this decriminalization, a path to justice for women is established.62 Like Mare, many Oaxacan women, inspired by this movement, have continued their struggle through art, barricades, teacher mobilizations, and protests to change the social and political conditions contributing to the state's high poverty rates. 62 Mare, interview. 237 Although belonging to a younger generation than Mare, Doma Press has also been influenced by the women involved in this movement, particularly her mother. When asked about her approach to feminism, she affirmed that she considers herself a feminist, a legacy inherited from her mother. Her mother was part of the Sección 22 teachers' union and, in her youth, was involved in one of the region's most radical groups: the Coalition of Workers, Peasants, and Students of the Isthmus (COCEI). This organization, initiated by the Zapotec communities in Juchitán, transformed public spaces into political arenas (Rubin 1994). Doma recalled, It was the first place they removed a PRI ruler in the country. The PRI had governed the country for 70 years, akin to a dictatorship. So, in the Istmo, in Juchitán, it was the first record of a social revolt that ousted someone from power, led by workers and students. It was a student and labor movement, and my mother was a student leader at the Escuela Normal.63 However, her mother's trajectory changed when she joined the Jehovah's Witnesses. Doma explained, “Within this organization, as part of their ideology, they do not support or oppose any state policies or any political matters in what they call this world. It's a reality where they are not subjects of direct action."64 This led to her mother's detachment from the 2006 movement at one point. Nevertheless, Doma still remembers her mother’s early activist days, which planted a seed within her, leading her to commit to social struggles, especially those concerning women, and participate in collectives such as the Escuela para la Libertad de las Mujeres, which she mentioned in the opening vignette. 63 Doma, interview. 64 Idem. 238 The Escuela para la Libertad de las Mujeres, founded in 2015, is an independent lesbian-feminist project in Oaxaca City. It provides a space for women's autonomy, offering modules on theoretical training, self-defense, self-awareness, art and resistance, and basic home repairs. Mare has been part of the project since its inception, contributing specifically to the art and resistance section. "I work on the art of disobedience in the section 'From muses to creators,' focusing on rap. We discuss spoken word and also the representation of women within the music industry,"65 explained Mare. Like many other Oaxacan rappers, Doma also attended this school, which had a crucial role in her career, providing her with a supportive network and the tools to pursue her career. She said, "It made me feel more secure in my rap work. I started to feel the support of many women... and it was a very special incentive."66 However, like many feminist spaces and political organizations, the school has not been free from controversy. It experienced periods of division among women with opposing views such as between trans feminists and TERFs (Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminists), and the school faced strong criticism because of the exclusionary viewpoint of some women associated with theplace. Doma also recalled an incident connected to the school where she was judged for accepting a $18 payment for a performance, accused of "profiting from the movement." These reactions eventually led her to distance herself from the school, a decision shared by other rappers I spoke to during my time in Oaxaca, who experienced similar situations. Despite these controversies, Mare decided to continue to 65 Mare, interview. 66 Doma, interview. 239 work in this feminist school, but she makes sure to make visible her position in support of trans women. Despite the latent women's movement in Oaxaca, evident in massive women's marches in Oaxaca de Juárez on dates like International Women's Day, International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women, or the Global Day of Action for Safe and Legal Abortion, adopting the label "feminist" is not straightforward for various reasons. These reasons include conflicts within the movement itself, as the ones mentioned above, and the reluctance of some Indigenous women activists to align with Western feminist ideologies. Regarding this, Yadhii mentioned some of the conflicts she has in using this label, I considered myself a feminist and supported the movement... but we also need to recognize that being a woman doesn't mean you won't perpetrate violence. Why do I say this? Because my mother subjected me to a lot of violence. I understand that we are all on a journey, but many feminist friends have also caused harm to me. They identify as feminists yet continue to victimize themselves and others. So, at this moment in life, I've decided to create space for myself, a space to learn more about all this. 67 Though both Yadhii and Doma faced problems with feminist leaders and subsequently distanced themselves from identifying solely as feminists in their rap careers, they still participate in feminist and women's mobilizations and maintain their support networks in safe spaces that embody feminist values. For instance, Doma has been invited to perform at the end of women's marches. Yadhii has rapped for galleries and art exhibitions with feminist themes, such as the "Ellas, las que luchan" exhibition in 2022, which aimed to raise awareness about gender-based violence. 67 Idem 240 However, beyond the ‘feminist’ label –which on occasions becomes purely discursive–the work of Doma and Yadhii undoubtedly falls within the tradition of women's resistance in Oaxaca. A more accurate approach to understanding their feminist involvement is found not in an outside theoretical framework but in the words of the woman who inspired them, Mare Advertencia. Mare addresses the complexities associated with the term "feminist," particularly its association with Western frameworks. The concept of feminism is relatively new in Oaxacan communities, and Mare states that "most of the populations that defend themselves, where women are organized, don't usually call themselves feminists."68 However, she does not exclude feminism in this practice since it is grounded in women's autonomy. She points out that even her mother and many women involved in the 2006 movement, while not identifying as feminists, were part of a movement seeking autonomy and an end to oppressive political, economic, and gender-based power structures. In this sense, for Mare, feminism has always been a practice. She said that she is not well-versed in feminist theory but that she recognizes her political identities as a woman, Zapotec, migrant, and someone from Oaxaca’s periphery. According to her, she is a feminist because these identities encompass the recognition of what it means to be a woman and how she engages in human rights struggles for people in humanity. "I see feminism more as a space to find support and to learn how to support other women as well,”69 said Doma. She redefines feminism as a space for exchange, support, 68 Mare, interview 69 Doma, interview. 241 and community. The work of Doma, Yadhii, and Mare, as Zapotecan Oaxacan rappers, fits within this framework, in which feminism is a practice and a legacy of Indigenous women who have organized in the community and struggled against patriarchal environments. They express this praxis through their lyrics, music, and the occupation of public spaces using microphones and building communitarian networks in the city. It is a feminism grounded in Oaxaca, dialoguing with various women's and social movements within the region since its inception. This praxis is not tied to a specific theoretical current but the legacy of radical women’s movements and their unique histories, experiences, and territories. Whether influenced by Doma's mother, who participated in the radical Zapotec movement in Juchitán (COCEI), or Mare's attendance at the Encuentro de Mujeres que Luchan organized by the EZLN, these rappers also occupy the mic to echo and extend Indigenous women’s struggles. Consequently, the first scenario in which the rappers’ bodies become audible spaces to intervene and reclaim for their autonomy and fight patriarchy is the hip hop scene. “OÍDOS NECIOS REVENTANDO”: ZAPOTEC RAPPERS SEIZING THE MIC AND THE WORD "Incomoda (Manifiesto Feminista)" is one of Mare’s most famous songs, as it has become common to hear it during women activists’ gatherings such as the Encuentro de Mujeres en Lucha in Valparaíso, Chile, where Mare was invited to perform. From its very title, the song states that this is Mare’s feminist manifesto, evoking a long tradition of Latin American political and cultural movements that have written their own. In the lyrics, the voice delves into the themes of sexist oppression and memory of this violence, 242 focusing on women’s experiences. By doing so, she connects the gendered dimension to memory recovery and underscores the global nature of patriarchal violence. The chorus say, “No te equivoques, no soy un caso aislado/ no es exageración, ni una mentira lo que te hablo/ solo te cuento las verdades incómodas.” The voice in the song asserts its right to speak up, to communicate the limitations on freedom and oppression, and its desire to write its history: Una aparente libertad, donde limitan mi existencia s e quejaran de tu voz, no importa que tan bajo hables, ¡así que a gritos reclamo mi existencia! Te contaré nuestra historia, no verdades a medias.” These verses assert that silencing women is a common practice under patriarchal oppression and counters it by doing the opposite: yelling. It invites women to yell their stories, their experiences of gender violence, and their very right to “exist.” In this way, this manifesto against patriarchy transforms into a call to action: “contra el machismo, contra ese patriarcado,/ mujeres en la lucha, ¡oídos necios reventando!” The metaphor “bursting ears” encapsulates Mare’s rap and messages, which will be heard, whether desired or not, as the spread through the air and bodies. Her message may reach bodies like my own, which can resonate and activate memories, or it can reach “foolish ears,” those individuals who refuse to acknowledge the reality, history, and oppressions she describes. The significance of asserting one's voice emerges not only as a central theme within the song "Incómoda," but also threads through the fabric of many tracks by Mare, Yadhii, and Doma. They do not only face silencing as women growing up, but at the 243 moment they start speaking up against patriarchy, the male-dominated hip hop scene repeats the same pattern. In 2021, on a YouTube series hosted by the rapper Dayra Fyah from Mexico City, Mare highlighted a prevalent instance of machismo within the hip-hop scene: the pervasive disregard for women's voices. She noted that women's voices hold less weight than men's, even though she has considerable international recognition. She recalls, Many people think that once you're on stage, you won't have the energy, voice, or even knowing how to connect. Many men feel that a woman's voice... lacks the value to criticize them. They can voice opinions about our projects, but if I comment on a man's project, they usually take offense or dismiss it. This experience is shared by both Doma Press and Yadhii, who point out the rarity of female rappers being invited to rap events. When they have been included in these events, male artists dominate the headline spots on the bill, while female rappers are relegated to opening the show, a slot with a smaller audience. Upon taking the stage, these rappers recount that the predominantly male audience often starts talking, hurling insults, and paying little attention until a male artist performs. Doma even recalls an incident when she was assisting Mare at an event discussing the history of hip-hop in Oaxaca. One of the male participants claimed that no one from the Oaxacan rap scene had ventured abroad with their music. Interestingly, during the same conversation, Mare was in a different country, invited and fully sponsored to showcase her rap. Thus, these recurring occurrences underscore the misogyny in the hip-hop scene and the systematic way women's voices are eclipsed or muted. 244 Many scholars have written on rap's misogyny and the way masculinities are produced through it. “Mainstream rap music is most easily commodified because it represents ideas of blackness that are in line with dominant racist and sexist ideologies,” wrote scholar Whitney Peoples (2008, 24). However, in his study of hip-hop masculinity and space, scholar Rashad Shabbaz notices that Black men defied white hegemonic masculinity, producing a space where “blackness is neither marginal nor out of place.” (2015, 374) Still, they have also reproduced women's exclusion. According to hip hop scholar Kyle Mays (2018), a similar phenomenon occurs in the case of indigenous men in hip hop, who build their masculinity through hip-hop. Indigenous male rappers replicate how black masculinities have developed in hip-hop, relating to it "in a progressive and regressive way." (Mays 2018, 74) Although Indigenous male rappers have found fugitive points to make themselves visible and constitute themselves amid a scenario of racial, ethnic, colonial and neoliberal discrimination and dispossession, this has meant the reproduction of patriarchal logic in the scene. Zapotec female artists confront these situations by rapping to unveil this patriarchal dynamic. They employ the microphone to denounce such attitudes, often delivering their messages with indignation and vehemence. In doing so, they foster support and solidarity among the women within the hip-hop scene, using their artistry to challenge and confront gender-based discrimination and amplify their collective voice. We can see a clear and direct example of using the microphone to counter the sexism within the hip-hop scene in the track single “La Escena” by Doma Press. In this song, Doma systematically traverses the common spaces and phrases used by male 245 participants in the rap scene to undermine women. She critically examines these phrases, characterizing them as " frases de cajón/ de cualquier morrillo/ que quiere verse cabrón." The rapper reconstructs and critiques the archetypal representation of male rappers —a representation not far from reality— by pinpointing a distinct facet: their lack of creativity. As the song expounds: Que dices que en el freestyle nadie te ha superado que todos te la pelan, que controlas el barrio que esto de toda la vida, lo vengo escuchando [… ] temas como esos, se escriben diario un chingo. Doma's critique of the rap scene and its male dominance is not couched within the recurring masculine logic of "I'm better than you" or "I'm the toughest in the neighborhood." Nor does it resort to derogatory and offensive language frequently encountered within the scene, as we could just refer to mainstream rap, for instance, and quickly realize most of the songs include words such as perra, zorra, fácil, mujerzuela, puta, etc. In contrast, Doma constructs her critique through an appeal for reflection, change, and content's primacy rather than prioritizing the performative aspect of "being a rapper," as commonly observed in the scene. In a parallel vein, in the song “La escena,” Doma transcends mere criticism to construct an alternative to the dominant dynamics in the scene, expressing her distinct conception of rap: “Ando retepuesta pero no vine pa competir/ para mi la esencia del micro es compartir.” In essence, Doma transforms the male-dominated configurations of hip-hop, promoting camaraderie and community over competition. Furthermore, contrary to prevalent misconceptions perpetuated within the scene—such as being "old-school" 246 (typically referring to those with considerable experience)—Doma asserts, “antigüedad no garantiza calidad/ sino lo que dejaste en mi cabeza, para pensar,” thereby shifting the focus toward the responsibility inherent in wielding the microphone. Furthermore, the voice reflects: Un día me puse a platicar, yo con mis letras andaban tristes, querían salir de mis libretas quisieron volar para llegar a tus oídos ahí va la responsabilidad, todo lo que digo. The metaphor the rapper employs of lyrics traveling akin to sound is a resonant choice, as it precisely captures the essence of the music's journey to another's ears—the point at which bodies converge, consequently invoking the responsibility she underscores. Given this prevailing male dominance within the hip-hop scene, it comes as no surprise that the entrance of these Oaxacan artivists into rap is less a result of identifying with male rappers or the scene itself than it is the power of the voice. It is the potential that rap presented for self-expression, vocalizing their thoughts, and addressing personal, collective, and societal issues that afflicted them that brought them to stand up and sing. This is also closely linked to poetry, which served as a precursor to rap for Doma, Mare, and Yadhii. "From a very young age, I've always been fond of poetry and public speaking, but fear was a formidable monster within me that hindered me. Fear made me exceedingly shy. I didn't have the vocal tone I have now," Yadhii explained remaking the times she felt that she did not have ‘a voice.’70 Similarly, Mare has often emphasized that her entry into rap and her journey towards political awareness stemmed from protest 70 Yadhii, interview. 247 poetry and writing, a path echoed by Doma, who reminisces about her experiences of writing since childhood. As time passed, these rappers discovered that rap's rhythm, versatility, and political essence provided an outlet for their expression –a synthesis of sound and written word. Rap, with its auditory dimension, urban culture, direct language, and often raw delivery, evolved into the perfect channel for these rappers to amplify their voices. These voices concealed experiences of gendered and sexual violence in the house, the streets and the state. The medium of rap, with its amalgamation of sound and verse, serves as the conduit these artists require, a powerful avenue that enables them to bring their concealed narratives to the frontlines of the anti-patriarchal struggle. AESTHETICS AGAINST FEMICIDE: SPACE, BODY, AND MEMORY Upon scrutinizing the feminicide rates and instances of violence against women in Mexico, the findings evoke profound distress. Out of the total number of women in the country, a staggering 70.1% have encountered an act of violence (INEGI 2021). Importantly, Oaxaca does not stand apart from this disconcerting pattern. During January and February of 2023, the state claimed the dubious distinction of leading the nation in the tally of femicides. As of the time of drafting this dissertation in August 2023, the reported count stands at 66 cases (Educa Oaxaca 2023), solidifying its position among the three most perilous states for women, alongside the State of Mexico and Veracruz. Furthermore, the Valles Centrales region, which encompasses the area of Oaxaca City, is the area with the highest rate of feminicide (Martin and Carvajal 2016, 991). Zapotec female rappers, particularly Yadhii and Mare, know this situation firsthand, either 248 through their own experiences of violence, their links to feminist networks, or both. The artists establish what I call aesthetics against femicide. They build this aesthetic through images and references to the Latin American feminist movement against gender violence. At the same time, it is a territorialized aesthetic that, although framed within this global movement, communicates the experiences of daily violence that women in Oaxaca live. It is thus an aesthetic, political and sonorous act that denounces gender and sexual violence and its normalization in the territory, occupying the space with embodied testimonies that have suffered this type of violence. Silencing and concealing of women's voices is a dynamic entrenched in a patriarchal system that pervades both the public and private spheres within the state of Oaxaca. Indeed, Yadhii acknowledges how this form of violence and the normalization of sexual abuse have left an indelible mark on her family's history and her own: In my family, child abuse was normalized. When I discovered through a catharsis who my sexual abuser and rapist was, my world crumbled. It shattered and burned within me even more when I learned that my sisters had also experienced it, as well as my mother, aunts, and my entire family. This was normalized, and even more so because mothers cannot speak out. How can you talk about being raped? No, that's something you don't talk about. It's a topic you don't address, something you should never talk about, supposedly.71 This personal and familial history of sexual violence was precisely what prompted her to compose one of her most renowned songs, "Hoy por ti," in 2020. The song is dedicated to all women struggling against gender-based violence, as elucidated in the description of its music video. "Every word in that song is part of my family's history,"72 the rapper 71 Yadhii. Interview. 72 Idem. 249 confessed. Thus, with remarkable courage and resilience, Yadhii shatters the silence that has spanned generations of women. Through "Hoy por ti," she gives voice to, narrates, and exposes stories of abuse, rape, and other forms of gender violence, making them public for all to hear. The first time I heard "Hoy por ti," without knowing Yadhii or the story behind the song, it sent shivers down my spine. I couldn't hold back tears, and I had to pause the video to truly feel and process what I was hearing: the lyrics, Yadhii's vocal timbre, the emotions they conveyed, and the memories they stirred within me. I had to listen to it several times to start approaching it analytically after my sobs were contained. The song is structured into three verses and a chorus that repeats between them. Throughout these segments, the voice recounts six instances of sexual violence suffered by women of different ages and backgrounds. At the outset of the music video, the rapper stands at a bus stop, dressed entirely in black, her lips the same color. Behind her stand five women (a girl and five young and adult women), Mare is the sixth in the group and the only one not blindfolded (Figure 22). In the first verse, the rapper contextualizes: En un mismo género se aprecia/ tanta violencia, tanta imprudencia/ del enojo u odio en sus cabezas.” From the outset, Yadhii makes it clear that she will address gender-based violence and that her point of enunciation is her own frustration, pain "por ver que esto no ha cambiado.” 250 Figure 22: Screen captures taken by the author from Yadhii’s music video “Hoy por ti” As Yadhii stares directly into the camera, her voice adopts a serious, somber tone; her gestures and bodily expressions make tense movements, moving her hands and arms firmly to convey her anger. Following this, the rapper states, "Nos sentimos inseguras con el miedo en los ojos," and the video transitions to images of women planting crosses with the names of various Mexican states to protet against femicide. This footage is followed by a clip of the performance "El violador eres tú" by the Las Tesis Collective, featuring dozens of women in Santiago, Chile, on November 25th, the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women, in 2019. This reference is interesting since, during the performance of Las Tesis, the women also had their eyes covered. While the words denounced the structural gender violence on different fronts, such as the 251 street, the state, and the police, among others, the covered eyes symbolize the refusal to accept this reality that we see every day. At the same time, having one of the senses covered –and one of the most important for subsistence as it is the sight– the blindfold represents a state of vulnerability as a result of gender and sexual violence in society. In the same way, Yadhii uses the image of blindfolds to show the vulnerability of women whose story she tells, and being the only one who has her eyes uncovered, we see that this fear is gone. That is why she is the one who transmits to us these testimonies of survival from this violence. Positioning itself in conversation with the Latin American feminist movement, "Hoy por ti" builds a collective presence. Lyrically, it does so through the use of the present tense and second person plural conjugations, and visually, it includes images of women's protests in Mexico and Chile. In this feminist collective present, Yadhii makes us listen to women's voices and their experiences of violence to counter and change this reality. Setting the song's initial context aptly, the voice introduces the first case, Dicen que vestía de una forma extrovertida La mujer que mataron a plena luz del día Se ganó la muerte por usar su falda y zapatillas Por querer ser bonita y sentirse bien con ella misma. Simultaneously, the video presents us with a teenager walking the streets of Oaxaca City in a miniskirt, with a police car observing and stopping her. Implicitly, the image complements what the song does not conclude: the police as another perpetrator of sexual violence. Here we see another link to Las Tesis's performance included in the video clip 252 footage; the performance remarks that the rapist is not only found in private spaces but also is "the cops / the judges / the state / the president." The next verses then announce the next case, which encompasses not only gender-based violence but also child abuse, followed by the chorus. The upset rapper, staring into the camera, declares: La niña que vivía en la vecindad con su familia La violaron por verla sola en la calle, con amigas La encontraron a unas cuadras de su casa media viva Con signos vitales pero muerta en vida. Hoy por ti que ya no estás aquí con vida Después por ti, si me arrebatan la vista Protestemos por todas las que no conocían Sus derechos como mujer en esta puta vida. The video transitions again, displaying images of women at marches holding signs with slogans like "their lust is stained with our blood" or crosses bearing the phrase "ni una más." In this way, the rapper threads this raw personal history with the collective, such as the Ni Una Más women's movement that has resonated across Latin American countries and combats femicide. The rapper meticulously constructs her denunciation of femicide in Oaxaca and abroad in this narrative that not only mirrors her reality and that of her family but also the experiences of many in the region. The subsequent verses introduce four additional cases of gendered and sexual violence; a woman who fell victim to marital rape and domestic violence; a schoolgirl who was abducted on her way home; another 9-year-old girl who was sexually assaulted by her stepfather, leading to an underage pregnancy, and her mother facing murder charges as she sought to defend her daughter; and a 13-year-old girl sold to an older man. 253 Yadhii employs straightforward language devoid of embellishments or metaphors that may soften the impact, effectively conveying these narratives while enhancing them with video imagery. In the music video, as Yadhii narrates the story of a kidnapped girl, the visuals precisely depict the scenario: a girl around 7 or 8 years old with school uniform carrying some books once a man grab her from behind. Similarly, when recounting the case of the 9-year-old girl, the video initially presents images of her legs bearing bloodstains resembling genital discharge, followed by a blindfolded girl with a tear streaming down her cheek. The rapper then interjects, Una niña en su casa fue abusada sexualmente Por su padrastro y ella solo tiene nueve no lo sabe pero ya lleva una vida en su vientre el mal nacido aboga que eso le ha pasado por caliente. Through these poignant images and verses that elicit an emotional response, Yadhii addresses the most pressing issues for women in Oaxacan society: pedophilia, human and child trafficking, rape, domestic and intrafamilial violence, police corruption, sexual abuse, and the pervasive burden of systemic violence and poverty upon women. The initial verse of the chorus, "Hoy por ti que ya no estás aquí con vida," distinctly positions feminicide at the forefront of the song's thematic landscape. This strategic placement underscores the overarching concept that encapsulates the lyrical narrative, shedding light on the intrinsic systemic –and thus collective– nature of these expressions of gendered violence. The concept of feminicide essence envelops facets of impunity, state complicity, presence in both the public and private domains, the erosion 254 of women's protests against these concerns, and other interwoven elements encompassing class, race, and sexuality (Martin and Carvajal 2016; Wright 2007). These elements comprise the testimony that Yadhii unveils through her song, a testimony, which unfolds within the context of Oaxaca. Yadhii's rallying cry, "Protestemos por todas las que no conocían/ sus derechos como mujer en esta puta vida," reverberates across the expanse of the state and resonates within Oaxaca City like a blaring alarm against feminicide. The song ardently challenges the foundations of gendered forms of violence through the conveyance of a narrative that simultaneously represents, according to known national statistics, at least 70% of women. The rapper is acutely aware that feminicide is not an isolated phenomenon but rather a collective experience that permeates the lives of millions of women. This awareness drew her to employ rap as a catalyst for action, vocalizing these entrenched experiences and dynamics within the state to invoke protection for women. Mare shares Yadhii's profound concern for femicide and, similarly, employs the power of rap to draw attention to and condemn these gendered forms of violence. In her song "Libres y vivas," the very title echoes the well-known expression adapted from the Ni Una Menos movement's slogan. The phrase "Ni una menos. Vivas y libres nos queremos" emerged in Argentina in 2015 as a rallying cry against violence towards women and femicides. With influences from Chicano rap and aesthetics intertwined with retro waves, evident through a lead synthesizer carrying a countermelody with distinct personality and character, Mare approaches this subject matter. She evokes the gendered violence that pervades everyday life in the city. 255 The song's first version opens with a sketch featuring women repeating phrases of street harassment, such as "Mamacita por qué tan sola, ¿te acompaño?" (Hey sweetheart, why so alone? Can I accompany you?), "Ay pero que linda niña" (Oh, what a pretty girl), "Ay mi amor ven aquí" (Oh my love, come here). Mare abruptly intervene this harrasment phrases to introduce the chorus, "No quiero tu piropo/ quiero tu respeto/ libres y vivas nos queremos." Right from the outset, this assertion critiques the notion of the "piropo" (catcall) that many have defended and clearly establishes it as a form of violence. By linking this to the Ni Una Menos slogan, the song subtly reveals that street harassment is integral to the continuum that culminates in femicide. The music video for the remastered version of the song "Libres y Vivas," featured on the 2022 EP titled "SiempreViva," prominently displays Mare's visage in a close-up shot. She gazes earnestly into the camera, rendered in shades of black and white. Mare stands within a dimly illuminated environment positioned at the center of the visual field. Interestingly, the music video for "Incómoda, Manifiesto Feminista," selected to be part of the same EP, exhibits striking parallels with this video. In this video, Mare's face is also portrayed in close-up —occasionally in profile— as she addresses the camera directly and with a resolute demeanor (Figure 23). This positioning and lighting persist for the majority of the video. 256 Figure 23: Screen captures taken by author from Mare’s music videos “Incómoda” and “Libres y Vivas.” Analogously, the music video for "Hoy por ti" by Yadhii, previously mentioned, not only depicts the rapper with black lips, dressed in black attire, and set against subdued lighting, but it also incorporates crosses planted by feminist women to evoke femicide. This video, too, showcases women embodying the narratives of the song in black and white. The recurring use of this black aesthetic, coupled with the auditory narration of stories denouncing diverse forms of gendered violence, symbolically encapsulates the mourning associated with femicide. Notably, this color has been donned by numerous women in various demonstrations aligned with the Ni Una Menos movement, alternatively referred to as Ni Una Más.73 Furthermore, it is pertinent to acknowledge that in the case of "Libres y Vivas," Mare adorns herself with a white shroud, a distinctive attribute of Mexico's Virgin of 73 For instance, workers of the Sodre in Uruguay on March 8, 2017 wore black to criticize feminicide. Similarly, in October 2016, thousands of Argentine women wore black in protest against the femicide of young Lucía Pérez, raped, drugged and impaled in the Buenos Aires town of Mar del Plata. 257 Guadalupe, embellished with an embroidered constellation of stars. The incorporation of Christian iconography constitutes a recurring strategy in the creative work of both Mare and Yadhii. It becomes clear that Mare's video disrupts the deeply ingrained symbolism associated with Mexican womanhood, often embodied by the figure of the Virgin and her compassionate spirit. Regarding Virgin of Guadalupe's influence in Mexican society, scholar Lynn Stephen suggests that, The emergence of the Virgin of Guadalupe as a major female icon was probably not consolidated in Mexican culture until well after independence and probably not equally so for all classes, the options she offers for framing women's sexuality are consistent with the gender ideology of limpieza de sangre –premarital virginity, sexuality focused on reproduction and monogamy. (2002, 54) Mare breaks this narrative of the Mexican woman embodied in the figure of the Virgin of Guadalupe by using, instead, an anti-feminicide aesthetic. Incarnating the virgin through the use of the same clothes, Mare denounces the hypocrisy of Mexican society. While women's sexuality is subjugated to religious, state and social control where it must represent the 'cleanliness of blood', it is the target of different types of sexual and gender violence that burst with the possibility of this very idea of womanhood. Moreover, it is these same values around sexuality, imposed through colonialism and the institution of the nation-state, that reproduce sexual and gender-based violence in the same households in Oaxaca, as illustrated in the case of Yadhii. THE RIGHT TO THE CITY AMID GENDERED VIOLENCE Henri Lefebvre (1991; 2014) developed the notion of the right to the city, which changed the perceptions of space in urban contexts He developed this concept based on 258 the idea of inhabitance, which implies who uses the urban space in daily life and who makes decisions regarding the production of this space. However, scholars who adopt a feminist perspective have criticized this notion, pointing out the problems with the gendered categories of public and private space, the inequality of space distribution, and gendered power relations displayed in urban contexts (Yon and Nadimpalli 2017; Fenster 2005; Beebeejaun 2017; Whitson 2017). Within this framework, power dynamics are underneath the production of the city, which relies on the categorization of racialized and gendered bodies. Understanding the body as a geopolitical site allows us to unveil how power relations are present and negotiated on the body while also questing whose bodies can inhabit the space (S. Smith 2012; Neubert, Smith, and Vasudevan 2020). This idea goes hand in hand with the theorizing of community feminists who understand the body as the first territory of contestation, as it is in their bodies that these power relations operate. In light of this, the sound body-space of the Zapotec rappers unveil the gendered power relations in the city of Oaxaca to reclaim their right to the city. The connection that rappers evoke between patriarchal violence and the specific geographic context of Oaxaca is critical, as most cases of femicide occur predominantly in urbanized municipalities in the state (Martin and Carvajal 2016). The song "Libres y vivas" confronts this stark reality by emphasizing the claim and defense of bodily and territorial autonomy, with the city serving as a territorial soundscape to assert this autonomy. As the rapper states, Camino siempre con la mirada alerta 259 los odos bien atentos para lo que suceda con actitud de pocos amigos no porque no los quiera, sino porque sé que hay tipos que sienten el derecho de molestar mi andar si estoy sola, este es mi viaje déjame de molestar no intentes ser galan que yo solo veo un machito […] Entiende que esta cuerda no se chifla, no se toca. The song describes inhabiting the city of Oaxaca from a feminized body, which implies the constant sense of alert that something could happen to you. The song portrays the need to walk around performing an attitude of rudeness as protection against daily violence, which ranges from inappropriate sexual harassment to unwanted approaches. To make the message more straightforward, Mare relates examples of these forms of harassment where she tells us, "Que te de lo mismo si voy sola o con amigas" and "Hostigarme y acosarme día y noche al caminar". She even reveals the surveillance and control of female clothing ("Me veo como quiera no me importa tu opinión/ De tu violencia, no culpes a mi ropa"), which society has recurrently used as a justification for gender and sexual violence against feminized bodies. Upon hearing of this song, I remembered my personal experiences enduring similar situations in my hometown of Santiago. In addition to suffering ç sexual harassment and sexual abuse in the city, I remember having to dress and adopt a constructed 'masculine' attitude to feel safer when moving around the streets. These situations were not just confined to my everyday life. They were particularly pronounced during our resistance efforts, encompassing the various marches and protests I joined as 260 part of the anarchist-feminist collective La Alzada. In this way, the song encapsulates the experiences of Oaxacan women grappling with alarmingly high rates of femicide and various forms of gendered violence within the urban landscape. Similarly, using references from the global Latin American feminist movement, the song echoes the experiences of countless women striving to inhabit a patriarchal society and space in the region. Although women's experiences are multifaceted, influenced by factors such as race, class, sexuality, and abilities, these rappers consciously choose to include representations of the collective struggle against gender violence in Latin America. This resonance with the audience is evident, as one user commented on the video of the song “Libres y vivas” available in YouTube video: "gracias por ser la voz de todas" (thank you for being the voice of all)74. Just as the female rappers emphasized the importance of the voice in rap as a tool to denounce violence, this comment recognizes that power by seeing her own story, her own voice, reflected. Thus, the song effectively integrates a collective history and memory. With the emphasis on breaking the normalization of sexual harassment with verses such as "Por eso vengo a reclamar, nuestro lugar en la calle/ el acoso callejero no es piropo, así que pare", Mare also reaffirms the right of women to inhabit the city fully. The single "Consentimiento" by Yadhii also addresses the concern over the limited accessibility for women to occupy public spaces due to factors such as sexual harassment, potential femicide, and abuse. The song delves into the intricate relationship 74 User @angelicar.clemente264, 2022. 261 between the female body and public spaces, particularly the streets of Oaxaca. Yadhii navigates this theme by highlighting a pivotal feminist discourse: consent. As the title implies, this concept is vital in various contexts involving relationships, situations, and the interaction between the body and space, encompassing sensuality, affectivity, and sexuality. Yadhii's song "Consentimiento," released three years ago, features a mellow beat and classic hip-hop loops, tempering the stark narrative that Yadhii imparts. She dedicated this song to her daughters, an element that influences the softer and more melodic way she delivers this track compared to her other works. The chorus sets the stage for Yadhii's message: Si yo quiero el consentimiento si no quiero, no quiero cuando vea mi cuerpo me tiene q respetar. A music video accompanies this song, set on a public beach where women walk around in bikinis and minimal clothing. This gesture counters the same thing that Mare addresses in "Libres y vivas": the blaming of the victims of femicide or sexual harassment for the clothes they were wearing. The rappers make this critique by emphasizing that the problem is the objectification of women or feminized bodies and the sexual construction of beauty, dismantling the link between dress and sexual victimization. The video subsequently transitions to portray Yadhii indoors, walking through city streets with friends while delivering her message through rap: Si no quiero, no tienes por qué tocarme Hacerme sentir incómoda por la calle Con tu mirada encuerarme y violarme Mis senos grandes no son órganos sexuales 262 No son del otro mundo, mis partes genitales Como para que con su morbo me mate, Mi sangre es roja, pa’ que quieres cortarme Deja de acosarme con tus vulgaridades Embedded within the raw and unfiltered essence of her lyrics, Yadhii articulates the sense of insecurity experienced by women while navigating urban spaces. This insecurity arises from the realization of being ensnared within a man-produced space, which simultaneously controls their bodies through the means of sexual violence. Yadhii seeks to dismantle the representation of the body ascribed by patriarchal and reductionist logic, utilizing anatomical references to desexualize and humanize it: the breasts are not merely sexual organs, the blood is red, and genitals are, in essence, mere anatomical structures. Further into the song, she underscores this humanity, emphasizing, "Soy un ser humano, en esta vida residente/ soy lo mejor que existe en este mundo: las mujeres." The rapper challenges the patriarchal constructs concerning both space and the body through a dual mechanism: restoring their humanity and subverting the denigration and marginalization of women by centering them within her narrative. The second stanza of "Consentimiento" reiterates its advocacy for bodily autonomy beyond what she wears through the verses, "puedo vestirme como a mí más me plazca/ usar vestidos, shores, pantos y faldas." Simultaneously, it acknowledges that this autonomy is not detached from external factors but is subject to spatial dynamics. As the subsequent lines emphasize, recorrer la noche sin temor a nada tu ni el ni nadie debe de hostigarme no me gustan sus piropos tan vulgares quiero gozar del día tarde y noche 263 The fear described here interferes with the ability to function in the city. Mare also alluded to this phenomenon in "Libres y Vivas" and Doma in the experience she narrated at the beginning of this chapter, which meant stopping performing in large public spaces to this day for fear of reprisals from the harasser. Fear of femicide, street harassment or other forms of gender and sexual violence make living in the city a constant risk for Oaxacan women, where their own lives are at stake. The rappers describe this exclusion in the city and try to counteract it by educating their audience through their songs, especially younger women like Yadhii's daughters. The voice in “Consentimiento” alludes several times to femicide, foreshadowing it in the opening stanza with the line "como para que con su morbo me mate," and subsequently delving deeper into this theme in the second stanza: Salir relax sin temor a que me acosen Desmembrenen mi cuerpo y me violen Me tiren debajo de un puente y no noten Mi ausencia en la sociedad y en la noche No puedo salir por la culpa de hombre Quiero ser libre a toda hora no valiente In these verses, the voice exemplifies gendered exclusion in urban space due to masculinization and patriarchal domination in the city. These interactions are thus part of the integral process that triggers feminicide, which represents a recurrent phenomenon in Oaxaca and its urban sectors. Thus, this violence leaves women in a situation where, in order to inhabit the urban space, they must either adopt more masculine performativity to survive or 'be brave' and take the risk of losing their lives. 264 The fact that Mare and Yadhii speak of femicide in the state of Oaxaca is already an act of bravery, given that not long ago, a female rapper was murdered here. On November 7, 2022, Jazmín Zárate, a 29-year-old female rapper, was a victim of femicide in Oaxaca. Previously, she had collaborated in the rap music video for a song against femicide "Ella no volvió," performed by Ballín, Neto Reyno, and D. Amor. The video showed different women artists who support the struggle a The video showed portraits of different women artists who support the fight against violence against women under a poster of "Ni Una Más," symbolizing their risk of death (Figure 4). Surprisingly, the publication of the video preceded her tragic death by barely a month. The transformation of Jazmín's narrative from representing a woman at risk of femicide in music to the stark reality of effectively becoming another victim is shocking. This fact reveals the risk of being a woman, inhabiting a feminized body and having the audacity to inhabit the space. 265 Figure 24: Screenshot taken by the author in which we can see a picture of Jazmín Zárate in the music video “Ella no volvió,” by Ballín, Neto Reyno, and D. Amor. Available on Youtube. Rappers and urban singers infuse their lyrics with their personal and bodily experiences. In Oaxaca's context, it is the backdrop of gendered violence that propels Zapotec rappers to intertwine their music with not only their narratives but also the stories of other women confronting the ramifications of this patriarchal structure on their bodies and their spatial presence. Consequently, the compositions of Mare and Yadhii underscore the convergence of the body's yearning for liberation and the streets' quest for security. These compositions stand as a testament to the notion that the realization of freedom necessitates a profound alteration of the spaces that currently serve to perpetuate the unsettling reinforcement of women's death and subjugation. Mare and Yadhii's advocacy for women and against femicide –and all the types of violence the process includes– acquires an even greater significance when they deliver their songs on the very streets where the issues they vehemently denounce are actively unfolding. For instance, in the video clip of "Consentimiento," at the end, we see Yadhii singing this song in the main square with her daughter alongside her, repeating the chorus, aiming for a generational transmission of this struggle. Similarly, during the 10th anniversary of the notable "Marcha de las Cacerolas," a commemorative march culminated in Mare's closing performance featuring the rendition of "Libres y vivas." Armed with nothing but a microphone and the pulsating beat emanating from the speakers, Mare presented her rap with a determined countenance, utilizing her body to amplify her lyrics through the sweeping gestures of her arms and hands. Throughout this 266 rendition, she rhythmically articulated the song's opening verse, "No quiero tu piropo, quiero tu respeto," she elevated her arms, inviting the audience to contribute and complete the phrase. A symphony of female voices harmoniously converged, resounding with the declaration: "Libres y vivas nos queremos." By immersing this performance within the streets that mirror the realities she vividly portrays, Mare catalyzes a profound transformation of the song into a protest and a sonic intervention that transcends territorial boundaries. In accomplishing this, she effectively conveys a collective, embodied experience and voice that intricately interacts with the urban environment. Although the 2006 women's movement and Mare's performance happened ten years apart, the common factor is intriguing. If we backtrack to the women's movements of 2006, we will recall that the takeover of radio stations triggered a historic moment for women within the city. In a parallel vein, Mare's street-side microphone performance now serves as a conduit for broadcasting a collective and embodied testimony of gendered violence. Both manifestations pivot around using sound waves to intervene in and transfigure space. Hence, intervening in the airwaves through language and discourse—a discourse molded by women's experiences, desires, narratives, denunciations, and the conceptualization of an ideal state—generates interference within space and its gendered social relationships. This phenomenon catalyzes the production of a new space, a new sonic body distanced from the prevailing dynamics. The complex network of relationships involving body and space happens in two spheres: the private space exemplified by Yadhii's sonic testimony and the public space seen through the images of streets, as unveiled in Mare's lyrical composition. As women 267 endeavor to occupy these spaces, they encounter a dichotomy: conforming to a state of fear, tethered to the male-defined norms that govern the space, or boldly dismantling these boundaries. Regrettably, both avenues can culminate in the perilous prospect of physical harm within the context of Oaxaca. Within their exploration of femicide in Oaxaca City, Martin and Carvajal (2012) observed that among those they could collect occupational identity data from, the majority comprised homemakers (10%), while the remaining 30% encompassed cleaning staff, students, educators, sex workers, bartenders, and other service and trade-related roles—illustrating a dearth of professional and educational options outside the confines of the home. Their analysis concluded that "feminicide in Oaxaca is articulated with the complex reworkings of gendered roles, as women become more present in the public sphere through 'development,' economic crisis, or political struggle" (997). In this manner, we perceive the translation of the constraints of gendered social relationships from the private sphere into the public domain, an evolution reverberating across spatial boundaries limiting women's access to urban space. This transition not only delineates the parameters imposed upon women in shaping their bodies and spaces but also underscores the impetus for change, the imperative for redefining spatial and gender dynamics in pursuit of free and safe environments. In this context, where the boundaries of inhabiting urban space in Oaxaca city are discerned, both Mare and Yadhii strategically harness sound waves to transcend the confines of constructed environments, enabling access to the public and private spheres. Through this sonic avenue, they thoroughly interrogate the entrenched 268 gendered social relations and the resultant forms of violence that emanate from them. By shattering the silence, conformity, and normalization that envelop these practices within the spatial landscape, these rap artists effectively assert their presence across public squares, events, concerts, radio waves, and any space where their resonating compositions resound. These artists adeptly recognize that the gendered violence embedded within the spatial fabric curtails their ability to inhabit and navigate it fully. They acknowledge that this phenomenon spans structural and global dimensions, affording the persistence of such systemic violence. Consequently, if the body, the very physical structure that anchors us, finds itself constrained in movement, sound—possessing an ethereal essence—demonstrates the potential to rupture these gendered spatial constraints. Indeed, sound, particularly the voice, emerges as a potent tool capable of producing an embodied space, disrupting established boundaries, and transforming these spaces into secure havens for women. Through this intersection of sound and space, Mare and Yadhii forge a revolutionary avenue to challenge and ultimately reshape the foundations of spatial norms and gender dynamics. HEALING THE SPACE-BODY THROUGH ZAPOTEC WOMEN’S KNOWLEDGE Lorena Cabnal asserts that “Es sobre nuestros cuerpos donde se han construido todas las opresiones que nos entrecruzan y que internalizamos.” (2019, 114) Therefore, being an Indigenous woman means that "your body becomes the first contested territory for patriarchal power" (2019, 115). Indeed, intersectional oppressions have shaped the 269 bodily space of Indigenous women rappers who grapple with the interlocking violence stemming from systemic power, domination, and control structures. However, Yadhii, Doma and Mare have transformed rap into a realm molded according to their unique needs, ideals, and experiences. Within this redefined space, they deconstruct and subsequently reconstruct their bodies, reclaiming them as secure, communal, and spiritual havens marked by self-respect and self-acceptance. Consequently, in the work of these artists, the concept of 'territory' expands to encompass urban space and the body. According to the Cambridge Dictionary, territory is 'an area of land, sea, or space, especially when it belongs to or is associated with a particular country, person, or animal.' Given this interpretation, it becomes imperative to broaden this notion to encompass the concept of a 'space-body.' In doing so, these artists reject the notion of body as property, a construct propelled by patriarchy and reinforced by capitalism, in favor of inhabiting their bodies with autonomy, unfettered by the power structures dictating movement, perception, and experience. They must reclaim the space of the body to heal it before recovering any other type of space. In this vein, the denouncement of femicide and the encompassing process with its attendant violence, though crucial for deconstructing the imprisoning and deterministic dynamics, is a step in the process. Reconstruction is also imperative to alter this prevailing violence. Therefore, Zapotec rappers forge a novel realm of the body, accomplished through the reclamation of symbols and knowledge embedded in their own culture, traditions, and history. This transformation critiques hegemonic beauty standards and asserts their agency over pleasure. In this process, they become agents of change, shaping a narrative transcending victimization. By integrating 270 cultural symbolism, critiquing mainstream beauty norms, and embracing personal pleasure, these rappers go beyond denouncement, initiating a reconstruction of representation and embracing a transformative embodiment. Yadhii's single "Fases de luna" is an intriguing exploration of her journey of acuerparse, which Cabnal defines as a personal and collective action of outraged bodies, but which also allows for a "revitalization and new strength to recover joy without losing indignation." (2015) Her song emerged in the aftermath of her maternity and breastfeeding experience, during which she found herself influenced by fashion industry norms and beauty standards, subsequently cultivating disdain for her physique. In our interview, the rapper remarked, "I started to hate my body, mainly due to immense insecurity. I didn't love myself. I didn't like what I saw; I didn't want to be that person or possess this body." In response, Yadhii composed a song that champions the exact opposite sentiment: embracing authenticity, loving her body, her tights, and all that colonial-patriarchal standards of beauty perceive as "imperfections." She started inhabiting her body from a fresh perspective that distances itself from societal dictates shaping women's perceptions of their bodies. The song commences with a gentle vocal melody and a prominent bass line that underscores the boom-bap rhythm. Yadhii enters with her signature straightforward style, opening the chorus with the lines: Ama la figura de toda tu cuerpa con amor propio en las venas y candela en las caderas, don't cry morra, guacha la luna llena. 271 The song adopts a 4-beat structure, accentuating the second and fourth beats with claps, subtly reflecting an influence of R&B. The song's pacing creates a more leisurely atmosphere as Yadhii departs from her seriousness and abruptness, opting instead to foster a celebratory ambiance. Throughout the song we can see how the lyrics develop this celebratory motif, stating, "Estoy gozando de una vida que no me ha costado (…) me gusta mi vida y vivirla me da alegría," which also reinforces the sense of joyful embodiment of herself. The song reinforces this motif in the music video, where Yadhii is on a rooftop, singing, dancing, and enjoying herself alongside other young women. Notably, fellow rappers such as Doma Press also make appearances, further underscoring the camaraderie among women within the rap genre. The video encapsulates this relaxed atmosphere, promoting unity and collective empowerment as the women unite in a celebration space. The song's opening stanza swiftly mirrors the collective representation and call the rapper seeks to cultivate. The voice boldly asserts, "Bronceadas, morenas, gueritas y negras," encompassing women of diverse racial backgrounds. This comprehensive approach extends to acknowledging the diversity of female bodies: "Somos estas/ unas con muchas, otras con pocas tetas/ altas, bajas, de complexión delgada o con carne extra." This collective emphasis aligns with the subsequent message, "ama la figura de toda tu cuerpa" and the verse "esta soy yo sin filtro y con maquillaje," embracing an unfiltered, authentic body. This idea applies to both resisting the influence of social media filters that conform to hegemonic colonial beauty ideals and the societal expectations placed on women's behavior according to patriarchal norms. Several studies have pointed out how 272 beauty filters are connected to users' dislike of their bodies (Eshiet 2020; Xu et al. 2023), as they show an unrealistic and hegemonic colonial look promoted by the beauty industry. In response, Yadhii shows herself authentically and happily, including her use of makeup as a personal choice rather than an external imposition. The song "Fases de Luna" consistently employs vocabulary closely tied to the body, evident in lines like, que no se apague el fuego de tus ojos negros, [...] que todo ese veneno sea rabia, no miedo tumbe los complejos que insegura la hicieron mueve tu cuerpo y siente la vida por dentro. Through these verses, the song gradually constructs the body-space while simultaneously dismantling the societal frameworks that have constrained it under political and social control. The song denounces the prevalent fears of femicide among women, their struggles with insecurity and inadequacy, and the imposition of colonial beauty standards. Moving away from this control, the song incorporates elements from nature, making allusions not only to the moon –as denoted in the song's title– but also integrating the concept of earth into this reconfiguration: "Aquí echando raíces en tierra arada," as found in the fourth verse of the second stanza. Using "arar" (tilling) creates an intriguing metaphor that unifies the body and the earth. Just as tilling the land signifies imparting a specific structure for subsequent cultivation and harvesting of agricultural products, the feminized body, serving as a social, representative, and subjective space, remains subject to power dynamics that shape it from its inception to extract advantages or "produce" from it. These advantages could encompass work, sexual gratification, 273 upward social mobility, progeny, displays of power, prestige, and a sense of ownership, among other aspects. The notion of "producing," as underscored by the feminist scholar Vandana Shiva, masks its roots in the Gross Domestic Product (GDP) logic, which posits that "if one does not produce what one consumes, one does not produce." (Vandana Shiva y Moira Millán. Terricidio En La India y Sudamérica. 2021). Similarly, a river does not count as "producing" water until it is bottled and sold. Analogously, a feminized body does not "produce" until an individual or collective gains something from it, often through various oppressive forces. Continuing with the theme of reconstructing the body-space by utilizing the natural world as a framework, the lyrics declare: "diosas empoderadas, por estas tierras/ amen todas sus fases, en modo reinas/ la raperra cantando para las nenas." These lines serve a twofold purpose: first, they elevate women by juxtaposing the moon and womanhood while grounding the message in a territorial context by singing from "estas tierras," signifying Oaxaca. The connection extends to the video's setting in Oaxaca City. Secondly, these verses address Yadhii's intended audience and clarify her interlocutor, as the final line underscores that her message aims at women, "para todas las nenas." Yadhii ingeniously amalgamates the words "perra" (female dog) and "rapera" (female rapper), reclaiming a term often used pejoratively in rap by men to demean women. She transforms the term with the mic into a tool to celebrate, empower, and unite women. Similarly, at the start of the second stanza, Yadhii playfully responds to those who are not her intended audience, rapping, "dispense usted por no rapear/ lo que usted quiere escuchar." She underscores her content's departure from predictable norms, focusing on 274 the theme of self-embodiment, which she endeavors to convey to other women. Thus, the song diverges from conventional "frases de cajón," utilizing Doma's terminology, indicating its unique concentration on the process of embodiment and its intended transmission to fellow women. The closure of this song is intriguing, as the voice adopts a holistic approach to underpin its reconstruction of the body-space by revisiting its Zapotec roots. These roots connect with the earth's reciprocity and communal life. The verses affirm: Xhunca, es de cariño pa mi ser y no dejes que se apague oiga, lo que traigo para usted soy la voz de mis ancestras de ayer. The term 'xhunca' originates from Zapotec and signifies the youngest within the family, the cherished and the beloved. Yadhii utilizes this term to bolster a sense of embodiment, self-love, and self-acceptance through its linkage with ancestral tradition. Consequently, her concluding verses reiterate the notion of voice, underscoring that her voice no longer speaks solely for the murdered and silenced women. Instead, the resonant strength of her ancestral voices pierce through the sonorous waves, reclaiming her body, her Zapotec legacy and the healing women of her family. This transformation aligns with her intention to shift the narrative from oppression to empowerment, encapsulating her message within the rhythmic cadence of the song. There is a notable linkage between “Fases de Luna” and one of Mare’s songs featured in the SiempreViva album, “Luna.” This track adopts a mellower melody characterized by harmonic attributes crafted through a minor second interval in the vocal 275 phrasing, serving as a resource to accentuate its mysticism. The effect resonates with the themes of the moon, women's menstruation, knowledge, witchcraft, and healing that both songs explore. "Luna" cultivates a calmer, more intimate, and slower ambiance. It achieves this effect by employing a pedal note technique in its mid-to-low frequency range. It creates a sense of cohesion and integration by sustaining a single note throughout the music, thereby establishing aesthetic harmony. The song "Luna" commences by directly evoking the connection between the moon and menstruation. In Latin America, it is commonplace to refer to menstruating as "estoy con la luna," as for many, our period commonly lasts 28 days, which is the same amount of time that takes the moon to complete one cycle; this is, complete one full orbit around Earth. A user's comment on the YouTube music video echoed the relationship between the symbols of the phrase and the song, saying, "Siempre que ando en mi luna la escucho." The video further reinforces this association between menstruation and the moon at 1:24 to 1:28 minutes, where an illustration depicts a full moon transforming into a round shape reminiscent of menstrual flow (Figure 25). The center becomes a womb that subsequently releases red drops downward, symbolizing fertility in the Earth. 276 Figure 25: Image made by the author with the screenshots of Mare's video "Luna", available on his Youtube channel. The lyrics corroborate the theme represented in the visuals and challenge the narrative of concealing menstruation due to its stigmatization as something dirty, negative, unspeakable, painful, repulsive, and taboo. The song asserts: ¡no es condena! es bendición, que te renueva, [..] te persiguen, te castigan, te quieren reprimir, nadie te puede controlar, aunque lo buscan conseguir […] secreto a voces, con ecos que te culpan, ignorantes mentes, que te mantienen oculta […] eres misterio, para muchos inexplicable, condenada, en una sociedad que adora la sangre, ¡qué ironía! que te obliguen a no existir. Of particular interest is the last verse, which subtly critiques the hypocrisy of the menstrual blood stigma in a region with high rates of femicide. The song thus integrates musical and lyrical elements to offer a profound reflection on the societal treatment of menstruation and its broader implications. 277 The song's chorus implores, "Luna dame inspiración por un instante," and aptly, menstruation and the uterus –emblematic representations– are utilized to conceptualize the body as a space. This depiction distances itself from stigma, invoking renewal, healing, spiritual connection, and ancestral wisdom. Indeed, the music video opens with Mare's back exposed, her upper torso bared, being bathed by other women. Similarly, the lyrics of the second stanza affirm, “eres testiga de nuestro poder y de nuestra fuerza,/ ciclo de la vida que nos limpia y renueva,/ prueba certera de que estamos vivas.” These verses reinforce and audibly connect the representation and potency of menstruation as a force for bodily and spiritual renewal and purification. This re-understanding of menstruation connected to spirituality and the body unfolds within a framework crafted through imagery from nature, evident in lines such as "fluye, libre como el agua, que rompe la piedra," and "tú que me conectas y me devuelves a la tierra." The visuals in the music video further underscore these lines, featuring plants, forests, orchards, medicinal herbs, and shots of Mare walking across an expansive barren landscape at both the beginning and end of the video. The contrast between the video's opening and closing scenes –barren land versus the lush greenery throughout the rest of the video– constructs a parallel between the video's duration and the duration of menstruation. This analogy suggests that menstruation is a fundamental moment, offering access to a space of renewal and healing. In this light, menstruation becomes a significant juncture where it is possible to reclaim the body and redefine it as a spiritual and mystical space devoid of any utilitarian connotation. 278 The song "Luna" and its music video propose that reclaiming the body and establishing it as a sacred space involves collective effort and draws on ancestral wisdom. The video effectively portrays Mare and other women participating in traditional healing practices like sobadas –a healing massage that uses natural oils and elements–cleansing rituals and women's circles. Additionally, it showcases women engaged in various roles, such as midwives, gardeners, sellers, and preparers of medicinal plants in Oaxaca. Within the Mexican context, traditional midwives' role is paramount to women's well-being. According to the Red en Defensa de los Derechos Sexuales y Reproductivos, 80% of Indigenous pregnant women are the primary obstetric violence victims (Manzo 2018). Therefore, Zapotec women created the Nueve Lunas, a Oaxaca’s center to preserve traditional midwifery and its initiation workshops and to support women in their pregnancy and breastfeeding. Mare's video includes images recorded in this center, linking the recovery of the body with the healing practices and ancestral wisdoms of Zapotec women. Dolores Anel, a Zapotec midwife who trained at the Nueve Lunas center, shared her perspective with Totlahtol Radio: "In my community, the importance of midwives lies in the care they provide, building trust, which is the most critical aspect, and also where we can express ourselves in our mother tongue, as there are many who do not speak Spanish at all."75 In this regard, traditional midwifery spaces become secure environments for Indigenous women to embrace motherhood in its spiritual, nurturing, and physical 75 Totlahotl Radio, “Partería tradicional zapoteca, Dolores Anel en ‘Historias de Mujeres’,” Facebook, January 13, 2021, https://www.facebook.com/totlahtolradio/videos/1007032853124743/ 279 dimensions, connecting them with other women. Furthermore, these spaces safeguard ancestral knowledge passed down among Zapotec women. Yolanda Bautista Hernández, another Zapotec midwife, notes, "Indigenous midwives have existed for 5,000 years before Christ. There were no doctors, institutional midwives, or even institutional surgeons. Life has taught us that this legacy must endure because women, predominantly Indigenous in Oaxaca, have trusted their fellow women." (Navarro 2018). Thus, practices such as midwifery, knowledge of medicinal plants, cleansing rituals, and sobadas performed by Indigenous healers align with the sense of communal knowledge and bodily reclamation described in the song "Luna." In this manner, the song constructs the notion of the body from a collective and ancestral standpoint, using the moon and menstruation as symbols. Just as the moon illuminates all spaces on Earth with its light, the uterus and menstruation, with their healing power, permeate the lived experiences of the bodies they inhabit. The video aptly portrays these connections and underscores their resonance in the lives of Indigenous women, as evident in their continued practice of traditional healing and wisdom-sharing. Yadhii's song "Chamana," featured in her EP "Vergel," aligns with the theme of reconstructing the body as a healing space. In this composition, the rapper envisions an improved version of herself, which has triumphed over addiction. She employs the term "chamana" to symbolize her evolved self and honor healing women's lineage within her family and community. The chorus of the song says, No tengo nada más, yo te soy franca tengo la certeza que también tendré mi casa tengo estas barras pa' y con tu casta 280 forgé los cimientos de esta chamana. Yadhii conveys a sense of emptiness, acknowledging the parts of herself lost to addiction. Simultaneously, the song highlights the process of reconstructing a house; in this case, it is her own body. The song lyrics and verses, sequentially presented as "las barras," refer to the building blocks that enable her to recover the body-space. Additionally, she adds, "Soy haciendo lo que nadie hará por mi/ amarme a mí, construirme a mi, y ser feliz," underscoring the journey of acuerpamiento she has undertaken again, "gota tras gota corriendo en mis mejillas," "entre sonrisas y sollozos," losing count of "cuantas veces fueron las que tropecé," emphasizing the suffering she went through and the strength of her lineage to overcome her adversity and reconstruct herself. Similarly, Yadhii’s track "Crónicas" also delves into building a new sense of self, shedding constraints. Lines such as "Voy a deconstruirme/ tengo el poder de romper/ lo que nunca quise" and the chorus declaring "Cambié mi rumbo y descalza caminé/ saqué eso a lo que le lloré/ caí momento y me hizo sentir bien estando abajo, vi lo que ya avancé" echo her ongoing introspective journey. Thus, Yadhii’s music consistently reflects her pursuit of self-discovery and liberation in body and space, untethered from the patriarchal realm. As expressed in "Crónicas," she affirms, "estoy quemando al jodido patriarcado/ ha sido la maldita piedra en mi zapato." Indeed, her songs illuminate the metaphorical stone of structural patriarchy and the daily violence that have etched themselves into her being, which she has triumphantly transcended while continuously reconstructing her body-space. 281 CONCLUSION Zapotec rappers have carved out their distinct space through rap music fighting patriarchal power relations within Oaxaca and the hip-hop scene. This music genre proves fitting for their endeavors, given its deep-rooted connection to urban life and poor neighborhoods—spaces where violence is palpable. However, their narrative starkly contrasts with the stereotypical portrayal of drug trade, criminality, and gang leadership, which characterized rap artists’ lyrics. Instead, these female rappers focus on the realm of sexual and gender-based violence that permeates these spheres, and which has marked their bodily experiences in the city. The create a sonic intervention to garner attention towards patriarchal structures and reclaim their right to inhabit the city through the recovering of their own voices and bodies. By voicing their grievances against femicide and articulating accounts of the various forms of patriarchal violence they face daily, whether on the streets or in their homes, these Zapotec female rappers from Oaxaca engage with the hegemonic spatial realm. They do so in such a way that, within these spaces of domination, they produce Indigenous geographies of sound, body and territory. This engagement constructed as a collective testimony serves to intervene and ultimately reclaim and liberate their bodies from the chains of patriarchal violence. Thus, the sound body-space present in the work of Yadhii, Mare and Doma consists of a geographical practice born from Indigenous women and their ways of counteracting the patriarchal violence they experience daily. It is a subversive act that seeks to challenge the forms of control over the body and the land, 282 using women's ancestral knowledge as well as their struggles against colonial-neoliberal and ancestral patriarchy. 283 CONCLUSION In this dissertation, I have demonstrated how rap, linked to the activism of Afro-descendant and Indigenous women in Mexico and Colombia, functions as an embodied testimony of urban life to reconceptualize and liberate space and the body. Through the concept of geographies of sonic intersections, I explain how the history of the land, struggles, and ancestral knowledge is present in sound and voice to remap the city. Cali and the city of Oaxaca, as sites of dispossession and elimination, are reconfigured under communitarian ideas by women rappers to challenge domination and reaffirm the liberation of Black and Indigenous peoples, women, and spaces. The geopolitical analysis of the formation of the cities of Oaxaca and Cali demonstrates how urbanization is racialized and follows logics of domination and elimination, particularly against Black and Indigenous people, producing settler neoliberal spatialities. In contrast to this colonial and neoliberal urbanism, the artistic and communitarian work of Cynthia Montaño, Mare Advertencia Lirika, YBOZ and Doma Press shows the creative strategies of Black and Indigenous women to reclaim space. In particular, I argue that rap, both in its instrumental and vocal dimension, constitutes a spatial-political practice to reimagine, live and transform the city. Geographies of sonic intersections allow for spatially marginalized and segregated communities to be actualized through these artists' work, serving as both preservation and a connection with their roots and forms of positioning in the present and future. For this reason, this dissertation analyzes not only the music, community work, and personal history of Black and Indigenous women artists but also the history the territories they inhabit through archival research and critical ethnographic work. 284 Chapter One explored the history of Cali from the perspective of one of the neighborhoods with the largest Black population, the Aguablanca District, and the musical project of one of its residents, artist Cynthia Montaño. Through the concept of sounding blackness and dialoguing with the recent literature on sound and Blackness (Eidsheim 2011; Eidsheim 2016), this chapter has mapped the trajectories of Black communities and the preservation of their traditions, marking a route from Africa, the Colombian Pacific and the segregated neighborhoods of the city of Cali. Sounding blackness in a racialized, settler and neoliberal city becomes a geographical and political response to the geographies of elimination. Montaño's music shows that in the midst of an anti-Black colonial scenario, music becomes a powerful tool to unite and celebrate the community and territorialize themselves while asserting their right to the city. Her music transforms racially segregated spaces such as the Aguablanca District and the Colombian Pacific into contested spaces that challenge Cali's urban hegemonies regarding class and race. Chapter Two focused on Black women’s alliances and strategies to produce safe spaces in the city. Cynthia Montaño’s work is part of a network of organized Black women from eastern Cali who aim to transform their everyday experiences of violence and heal, producing safe spaces within the city and neighborhood. I argue in this chapter that these strategies reflect a cimarrona geography wherein Montaño’s music becomes a sonic-political action based on affectivities born from the bodies, histories and experiences of Afro-Colombian women. Through sound, voice, and music, Montaño maroons the landscape, moving the territory and women away from racialization and toward Black culture and ancestral traditions. She strengthens Black women’s networks, making her music an expression of the ancestral practice of comadreo to transform the urban landscape into safe spaces. 285 Chapter Three delved into the formation of neoliberal settler spaces and the installation of land “property” in Oaxaca as intertwined processes. This framework demonstrated the attempts at erasure and state abandonment of the state towards Indigenous peoples. Despite this systemic elimination, Indigenous communities could retain some communal lands or ejidos, which made the preservation of their traditions and knowledge possible, such as “comunalidad” (Martínez Luna 2018; Aquino 2013; Vasquez Vasquez 2013). Comunalidad, as the basis of Indigenous life, is also present in women who migrated and grew up in the city, as is the case of Zapotec artists Mare, Doma and Yadhii. These artists foster support networks among Indigenous women within and beyond the hip-hop scene, amplifying struggles to protect the territory and their traditions. Their songs are embedded with a sense of indigeneity in the urban space, which at the same time is critical of the tourist industry that profits from Indigenous cultures in the city. Their music critically spatializes indigeneity through urban daily live experiences, emphasizing community bonds and challenging colonial, neoliberal and patriarchal domination. Chapter Four focused on the dynamics of gender violence within the hip-hop scene, Oaxaca City and the state. Living in a state with one of the highest rates of femicides in the country, Zapotec rappers use their voices and mics to interfere with patriarchal structures that shape the public and private spheres to reclaim their body’s autonomy and their right to the city. They make Indigenous body-spaces audible, transforming rap music into a feminist spatial practice born from Indigenous women counteracting the patriarchal violence they experience daily. Echoing ancestral Zapotec knowledge, rap music made by these artists represents an antipatriarchal action that recovers their bodies and the land to challenge colonial-neoliberal forms of domination in the city. 286 This dissertation demonstrated that rap is a form of producing territory and safe spaces from women rappers' embodied and intersectional experiences, using and transmitting the traditions of Black and Indigenous communities in Cali and Oaxaca. Furthermore, rap represents a tool within Black radical and Indigenous communal traditions, which Zapotec and Afro-Colombian artists expand and give new meanings based on their everyday life experiences and particular contexts. Their work, embedded with their experiences as racialized women, makes rap a way to contest spaces through an anti-patriarchal practice and point of view and against power structures that seek to eliminate them. Thus, their work shows a response to the different types of violence that have shaped space and territorial relations, from the history of land ownership to racial/spatial segregation. This intersectional and interdisciplinary research greatly expands hip-hop studies, which commonly focus on the United States and its music industry. My dissertation not only broadens this approach and directs it toward a trans-hemispheric and gendered perspective but also brings new issues to the field, bringing indigeneity and blackness into dialogue. My dissertation contributes to this emergent conversation, as Black Studies and Critical Indigenous Studies have developed more broadly in the last decades, even tough not much research has been conducted on their cultural, political and historial connections. This dissertation also contributes to human geography by drawing connections between the land, women, and music from a decolonizing perspective that includes Black and Indigenous intellectual production to understand the territory and its racialized dynamics. Likewise, by employing “decolonizing methodologies” (Smith, 1999) that emphasize community collaborations and reciprocity with the artists mentioned, this work shows new paths on how to incorporate critical ethnography into cultural studies. 287 In this work, Black and Indigenous women’s situated experiences become the center of knowledge production. At the same time, I included my own positionality in the way I receive and analyze the artist’s work to critically engage with the power dynamics that are at stake when one pursues research. 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