We Will Be Jaguars: A Memoir of My People

by Nemonte Nenquimo

“Do you believe in the white man’s God?” “No, he’s of no use in the forest.” “But why do they talk up to the sky then?” “For no good reason,” Dad said. “God doesn’t speak their language. He can’t understand anything they say. That’s why they talk so long to him with their eyes closed. They are waiting for him to respond, but he never does.”

“What kind of power did Rachel’s God give her?” “Like when a boa mesmerizes a deer by flicking its tongue. The deer becomes weak, trapped. That’s what happened to our people. It was the things she gave us, and the stories she told. Then the sickness killed us.”

Deep down, I understood that there were two worlds. One where there was our smoky, firelit oko, where my mouth turned manioc into honey, the parrots echoed “Mengatowe,” and my family called me Nemonte – my true name, meaning “many stars.” And another world, where the white people watched us from the sky, the devil’s heart was black, there was something named an “oil company,” and the evangelicals called me Inés.

Mom always said that the good dreams are for keeping to yourself. The bad dreams and visions are the ones to share. They lost their power over you when you shared them, she said.

A cold chill ran down my neck. I had never heard anyone use the word ‘extinction’ for people before, only for birds and frogs.

“The anke only eat chickens and cows and drink beer and Coca-Cola. That’s why their bodies are soft and their minds are confused.”

our peoples, knew only what we knew. We knew about spirits and dreams, about fire and water, about plants and animals. We knew how to live and die in the forest. We didn’t know about the rest, about the strange inner workings of the white man’s world or how threats could brew in distant cities, invisible – until suddenly they were upon us and it was too late.

“Rights are weapons. They are weapons that the white people cling to, that they wield against us. That’s why we must learn to use them to defend our forests.”

The names meant nothing to Dad. “What is famous?” he asked. “Famous is when more people know you than you know,” said Opi. Dad stared blankly at the fire. “In Waorani territory, I know everyone and everyone knows me,” he said quietly.

The judges requested quiet with their mouths, with their hands. The government lawyers shrugged their shoulders, shook their heads, as if our singing was proof enough of our ignorance, evidence that there was no reasoning with the uncivilized.

people’s comfort, their very idea of happiness. For us to win, the judges will have to betray their own people, betray the government that pays their salaries, betray the cities where they were born.” Michi was searching for words. “Or . . . it’s an opportunity for them.” “What do you mean?” “To be brave enough to heal.” I shook my head doubtfully, glimpsing my own reflection in the window. “The judges are part of a society that refuses to see you, a system that makes war against your people, against the earth, and ultimately against itself,” Michi said. “By recognizing you, by seeing the humanity in your people, they have the opportunity to stop the violence against you and against themselves. The opportunity to end the hurt, to begin the healing.” I had never thought of it that way. I knew that the white people were afraid of us but I had never thought that their fear and violence hurt them as well. Michi grinned mischievously. “And you thought that the lawsuit was only about saving the forest from oil!” he said. “It’s also about saving the white people from themselves!”

Maybe if we showed them that we were capable of seeing them, then they would see us, hear us, learn from us?

Maybe violence is born in the chasms between us, within us? Maybe the conquest, at its root, has always been about that chasm, a pain so lonely, so unbearable, so spiritually numbing that violence becomes the only path, the narrow trail to being human, to feeling something, anything.

Here was the heart of everything. It was all the judges really needed to understand. That as the government flew into our villages to trick us into signing documents, into giving the rights to our territory to the oil companies, the hunters were tracking animals in the forest, the women were in their gardens, families were splashing in the water, grasping for wild cotton. And the villagers who had signed the documents, pressed their fingerprints onto the pages, had thought it was just a way to get a free lunch, a piece of bread and a soda pop; they hadn’t understood that they were surrendering their homes to the dynamite and the drills and the pipelines. It happened in an instant, a sudden moment that broke the doors, a burst of song. The words didn’t matter anymore. The judge continued to read the ruling but we had already heard what we wanted to hear: The government had lied! The oil auction was illegal! The documents were invalid! Our territory couldn’t be sold. Our people had the right to decide what happened on our lands.

“You won’t see many old-timers up in the United States climbing trees like that,” he said. “Because your people cut all the trees down.” He gave me a look. “Oh, I know there are still trees in your land. But your people don’t gather wild fruits. You buy apples and bananas and strawberries at grocery stores.”