The Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ people in Venezuela’s Amazonas state have long resisted colonization and proudly preserve their language. Today they are building communes that draw both on Chávez’s socialist roadmap and their ancestral ways of organization, including collective land tenure and assembly-based governance.
The February 4 Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ Commune sits on the edge of a savanna that gradually turns into rainforest and is crossed by the beautiful Parhueña River. While the majority of this commune’s population is Huo̧ttö̧ja, as indicated by the commune’s name, there are also Kurripakos, Jivis, Banivas, and a small number of non-Indigenous people.
The commune comprises 12 communal councils and a total population of about 2500, with the largest community being Limón de Parhueña, home to about 750 people. Some of the smaller communities that are tucked away in the woodlands preserve traditions such as living in churuatas [thatched buildings], and can only be reached by foot or motorbike. The most distant community in this commune, the Alto Parhuani Communal Council, is six hours away on foot.
In this three-part series, the men and women who have built the February 4 Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ Commune share their knowledge about organizational practices, agricultural production, and forms of resistance to the U.S. blockade. The first installment focused on the history and traditions of the Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ people. In this second part, the inhabitants of February 4 talk about the methods of organization and production in their commune.
[Part of VA’s Communal Resistance Series]
Estela Pesquera is a catara producer in Damasco de Parhueña Communal Council | María Solórzano lives in Limón de Parhueña and works for Fundacomunal, a state institution that supports communal councils | Nereo López Pérez is a popular educator and professor who works to preserve Limón de Parhueña’s stories; his Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ name is Inaru | Simón Pérez is the capitán of the Chähuerä community | Sirelyis Rivas is a spokesperson of the Limón de Parhueña Communal Council | Sofía Pérez is a catara producer in Damasco de Parhueña Communal Council |Óscar Freddy Yusuino is a Kurripako catara producer. (Rome Arrieche)
A multiethnic commune
The February 4 Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ Commune is multiethnic in character. A majority of its people are Huo̧ttö̧ja̧. However, it also includes a sizable Kurripako community, as well as Jivi, Baniva, and non-Indigenous members.
THE FEBRUARY 4 HUO̧TTÖ̧JA̧ COMMUNE
Sirelyis Rivas: This commune is named February 4, because Venezuelan history changed its course on that day in 1992 [due to an insurrection led by Chávez]. The Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ people identified with that struggle, as we too have a long history of struggling against domination, against the Spanish empire, and against all other forms of oppression.
María Solórzano: The February 4 Commune is a multiethnic organization that brings together twelve communal councils. Most of the population here is Indigenous, but there are a few criollo [non-indigenous] people like myself.
I have lived in Limón de Parhueña [the commune’s largest communal council] for 20 years now, but I also work for Fundacomunal [state institution that supports communal councils], so I’m a sort of go-between the commune and the institution.
In the commune I’m an observer: I respect the processes of the community and in fact I mostly help with paperwork. I believe in People’s Power: I know that for communal self-government to work, the people have to be in charge, not the institutions.
This commune is highly organized despite its diversity. Not only is it ethnically diverse, but its territorial composition also varies significantly. Some communal councils are small and remote, requiring hours on foot to reach them. On the other hand, Limón de Parhueña is larger, has relatively modern infrastructure, and is located close to the main road.
In terms of production, the February 4 Commune shares a common project: conuco-based agriculture [diversified small-scale farming] and the processing of yuca into products such as mañoco [yuca flour] and casabe [flatbread]. The Kurripako people also produce catara, a wonderful yuca-based sauce that is very spicy.
Sirelyis Rivas: The commune and the assembly are practically the same for us. In the assembly, we think about how to solve our problems and who has to do what to reach our objective. We have to listen and be listened to. This process is deeply rooted in our Indigenous culture, and we are committed to preserving these traditions. Without our language and customs, we would cease to exist.
Indigenous communities are, in general, very well organized because of our living traditions. We seek unity and harmony, and therefore we look to foster mutual support and privilege kindness over exclusion: this is the only way that we will be able to overcome capitalism. We have been fighting for a long time, so we know that we can only succeed together.
LIMÓN DE PARHUEÑA, THE LARGEST COMMUNAL COUNCIL
Nereo López Pérez: Before we settled in Limón de Parhueña, our Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ ancestors lived along the Raudal Guaremo [a river]. My parents were born there. But in 1970, President Rafael Caldera sent a military commission to speak with my father, proposing that our family and others relocate to a new settlement closer to the state capital, Puerto Ayacucho, where we would have access to services, schools, and medical care.
Three families, including mine, relocated here first—we were the vanguard. The following year, in 1971, an employee of ONIDEX [then Venezuela’s institution for citizenship and migration services] visited and proposed that the government build houses. That’s how the first 15 homes were built. My family’s home was one of them. Several waves of construction followed.
The community was named Parhueña because it took shape along the Parhueña River, as did the other communities that are now part of our commune.
Though founded by Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ people, our community is now multiethnic and pluricultural. In addition to the Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ people, there are Kurripakos, Jivis, Banivas, and a few non-Indigenous people. Each Indigenous group maintains its traditions and language, thus preserving its culture. However, we have learned to come together, respect one another, and share our knowledge.
The multiethnic and pluricultural character of this community goes back very early; when the school opened its doors in Limón de Parhueña in 1972, 27 kids enrolled—they were Kurripakos, Banivas, and Huo̧ttö̧ja̧s.
A person takes yuca from the conuco back home to make casabe [flatbread] and mañoco [flour]. (Rome Arrieche)
POPULAR CONSULTATIONS
Sirelyis Rivas: The popular consultations were exactly what our commune needed at a time when our organization was a bit dormant. If we are truly committed to popular power, we must seek collective solutions rather than individual ones, and that is precisely what these consultations foster. I congratulate President Maduro for this initiative and hope it will become a permanent feature of our process.
When people are struggling but there’s no clear incentive to organize, mobilization can be difficult. These consultations bring access to tangible resources and therefore result in tangible solutions. As a result of the first consultation [April 2024], we obtained corrugated zinc sheets to replace the roofs of the most vulnerable homes.
The second consultation has proven even more important for the commune as a whole, because we are acquiring tools that are needed for our productive processes, including cigueñas [yuca grinders], machetes, peinillas [long machetes], and rubber boots.
María Solórzano: We carefully follow the methodology that was laid out for the consultations: each communal council gathers and proposes up to three projects that will have a real impact on the community. These proposals are then brought before a larger assembly for deliberation. The most important part of this process is the debate, even if the final decision on which project will receive funding is reached through voting.
Everyone is accounted for in this process, even the smallest communities. In the 4F Commune, we have large communal councils with hundreds of people, but we also have very small ones with less than 20 people. The Indigenous Peoples’ Law ensures that institutions respect the customs and traditions of each Indigenous community, allowing even small and remote communities to organize their own communal councils. Everyone must be heard.
THE COMMUNE: ADVANTAGES AND CONTRADICTIONS
Sirelyis Rivas: Some see the commune only as an administrative entity to get resources and solve our problems. There is nothing wrong with that perspective.
However, I think that the commune can be much more than that. Institutions are not always able to solve the problems we have: there are cultural differences, there are language barriers, and they are generally inhabited by criollos who may not understand our ways. When it comes to the commune, on the other hand, we can shape it in a way that actually looks like us.
It also enables us to work with the institutions on equal terms. I’m really committed to the commune and I think I’m not mistaken, because we can already see some of its fruits.
Nereo López Pérez: I think that Chávez had the right idea when he spoke of the communes, but there are obstacles that we still have to overcome. Communal councils are the building blocks for the communes. According to the law, the territory of a community council must be very strictly defined. That’s why Fundacomunal says that a communal council begins here [in one very precise area] and ends there [in a precise boundary]. Yet that’s not how Indigenous people understand the territory.
Article 119 of the Constitution says that Indigenous communities will be in charge of the demarcation of our territories according to our history and traditions. That’s good because we never practiced line drawing and barrier building. Our ancestors might have settled at the base of a hill or beside a river, but a few years later they might move the entire community upriver.
It is not good for us to organize the world with lines and borders, but the way that communal councils are drawn takes us in that direction. Communal councils and communes are good, but institutions should respond better to our particular context and our traditions.
One more thing: I believe we should have more direct control over the administration of resources by our people. As Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ people, we have never administered state-supplied funds directly, and that needs to change. I want my community to oversee the resources allocated to us.
I can’t say for sure whether we will prioritize production, culture, education, sports, or the environment. But what I know is that the allocation and management of funds should be in our hands. That’s how I see it.
The practice of popular consultations is a good first step in this direction, but direct administration of the resources assigned to our Indigenous communities is still a long-term demand for us.
Sirelyis Rivas: All human beings are imperfect, and institutions are imperfect too—we all have strengths and weaknesses. As far as the government’s shortcomings are concerned, our main problem as Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ farmers is getting our produce to market because we are ways away from town [Puerto Ayacucho]. Getting there isn’t easy.
This is a challenge that can be overcome by organizing ourselves together with the regional or national government, which should take action to deal with the situation. Beyond that, there are some vulnerable families struggling with food insecurity and health problems, and the government should also step in to help them.
A shed for making casabe and mañoco. (Rome Arrieche)
Production
Agricultural production in the February 4 Commune centers around the conuco, a diversified, family-run plot of land. The key crop in this commune is yuca, which is used to make casabe, an Indigenous flatbread, mañoco, granulated flour, and catara, a spicy sauce.
THE LAND AND WHAT IT GIVES
Nereo López Pérez: Our livelihood depends on the land, the conuco. The conuco is an ancestral farming practice that is not exploitative: in our plots, we grow sweet and bitter yuca, plantain, pineapple, and so on.
Today each conuco is cared for by one family, but earlier generations tended to their conucos collectively. Nevertheless, the practice of sharing is still with us. If someone needs something of ours, we give it to them. That is the Huo̧ttö̧ja̧ way.
Sirelyis Rivas: In our conucos, alongside yuca and plantain, we also grow ñame [yam], copoazú[a tropical fruit], and cocoa. Yuca is at the center of our diet and culture—we use it to make casabe and mañoco, our ancestral staples.
Near my family’s conuco we have a shed for producing both casabe and mañoco. We take turns because it’s a long and demanding process: Today my sister-in-law is working there, but tomorrow it will be my turn.
The workday lasts from dawn to dusk. Our days begin with harvesting the yuca in the conuco and taking it to our shed. We then peel and grind it, pressing it in the sebucán [an elongated sieve to drain out the liquid]. Finally, we cook it on a budare [a flat griddle] while tending to the fire.
Depending on how things go, we can bring 20 to 50 flatbreads to the “Mercado Indígena” in Puerto Ayacucho every Saturday.
In addition to tending to the conuco, we also hunt lapa and picure [two large rodents], deer, and cachicamo [armadillo]. We use traps and arrows to hunt them, but we only hunt these animals for self-subsistence, never for the market.
Nereo López Pérez: A conuco has a five-year lifespan. What does that mean in practical terms? The land that we work on requires a fallow period after five years, so we move our conuco to another location when the land is exhausted. Just like people need to rest, the land also needs to rest.
Chähuerä is a beautiful community that can only be reached on foot or by motorcycle. (Rome Arrieche)
PRODUCTION IN THE CHÄHUERÄ COMMUNAL COUNCIL
Simón Pérez: This is a very small community that sits beside the river at the foot of Cerro Peramán. We live in traditional churuatas, maintain our language and many of our ancestral traditions, but we are Christians.
As the capitán of Chähuerä, I work with my community to organize production. Here everyone who can work must do so and will live with dignity, but if someone can work and doesn’t, they won’t eat. At the same time, if someone is struggling due to their circumstances, we will always help them.
In our community, we are working hard to expand cocoa and copoazú production, though yuca remains essential for making casabe and mañoco. My brother and I tend to 1.5 hectares of cocoa and one hectare of copoazú. Right now, copoazú is our main source of income, but I believe that in three years, we will have a good cocoa harvest. Our cocoa will be of excellent quality because our land is rich, and we grow everything organically.
But we also hunt, mostly using dogs, since shotgun cartridges are hard to come by. Because of this, we primarily hunt lapas, picures, and other small mammals. Our dogs are trained to track the animals to their dens, where we finish the hunt with a machete or an arrow. We also fish.
Ours is a peaceful community that lives in harmony. Our biggest challenge is the issue of road access, which makes it difficult to bring our products to market. We also face threats from wildlife, particularly snakes and jaguars. Just a few days ago, a jaguar killed one of our hunting dogs—losing a dog is a significant setback for us, as they are essential to our way of life.
The Indigenous market on Saturdays in Puerto Ayacucho is used by many Indigenous communities in the area. (Rome Arrieche)
PRODUCTION IN DAMASCO DE PARHUEÑA, A FEBRUARY 4 COMMUNAL COUNCIL
Sofía Pérez: This community is mostly Kurripako, though I am Huo̧ttö̧ja̧. Like many Kurripako communities, this one is known for producing catara, a spicy sauce that enhances the flavor of meat, fish, and casabe. It makes everything taste better!
I learned to make catara from my Kurripako mother-in-law. The key ingredient is the yare, a liquid extracted from bitter yuca and boiled for hours. To this base, we add bachaco [a large ant], which gives the sauce its spiciness and texture, along with an ají-based seasoning.
We grow yuca in our conuco, which is about a two-hour walk from here, and we also have to walk long distances to gather the bachaco.
Óscar Freddy Yusui: We produce catara for the market, and the income from sales allows us to buy staples like oil, sugar, and sometimes coffee. However, much of what we grow in our conuco is for family consumption. Reaching the conuco requires a two- to three-hour walk, and we have to go there two to four times a week to tend the crops and harvest what we need.
Estela Pesquera: Catara is a wonderful sauce with many health benefits. It’s a tradition passed down from our mothers and grandmothers. Most Kurripako women make it, each with her own secret touch, and we sell it at the Indigenous market on Saturdays or by commission. Still, our families rely heavily on our conucos for food, which means we are not entirely dependent on the market. That’s probably why the blockade didn’t hit us so hard.