Another Name for Colonization: Moira Millán’s Terricidio
- Kami Steffenauer
- Dec 3
- 5 min read
The sun warmed my skin as I stepped off the bus, a soft kiss amidst the overstimulating chaos of Buenos Aires. Still adjusting to saying summer in February—a small reminder of how far I was from home—I looked between the blooming trees to the skyscrapers high above us as my friends and I made our way to the city center. In between the screeches and sirens of the street, I listened to my friends discuss the barriers those who live outside the city face travelling here such as long car rides and high gas prices. As we approached our destination, one of my friends simply shrugged and said, “People should just deal with the consequences of where they decide to live.”
I wrestled with his words over and over again, trying to make sense of something that simply did not. What human right could be more fundamental than choosing where we spend our days, where we raise our families, and where we wake up each morning? Despite my inability to verbalize these concerns, others have found the words to respond and argue for a re-imagining of the right we have to decide where we call home. Amongst these advocates is Moira Millán, a leader and member of the indigenous Mapuche nation whose territory is occupied by Argentina and Chile. In Millán’s latest book, Terricidio (Terricide in English), titled for a term she created that means “the genocide of territory,” she argues that having the right to one’s territory is not only one of the most basic human rights but also is the right without which all other rights cannot exist.
Terricidio describes “la forma de destruir la vida en todos sus modos” (the way in which life is destroyed in all of its forms), recognizing how her community (lof in her native language) continues to grapple with and struggle against the ongoing legacies of colonialism. In concise non-academic essays, Millán explores tales of her and her family’s pasts, investigating their connections to the historical trauma of her community and their present struggle to live their lives and preserve their customs, practices, and autonomy. She takes us through her own story of growing up in her rural lof and wanting a different life during her adolescence, one she hoped she could find through migration to an urban center. After moving to a large city in Argentina, she found herself surrounded by thousands of uninterested and unsympathetic strangers, an experience that left her “errática, arrogante, herida y triste” (wandering, arrogant, wounded, and sad). Through a Western lens, cities are often portrayed as open doors with opportunities galore, a chance for people to chase something more than their small towns could afford. However, Millán’s lyrical recollection of her time in a metropolis forces us to question this narrative, offering a very real underbelly to what many imperialist governments still seek today: a society built on, according to her, “la maquinaria capitalista urbana” (the urban capitalistic machine).
While many international organizations such as the World Bank seek to increase so-called development in the Global South, Millán challenges this presumed good by arguing that development is simply another name for colonization. She nods to the notion that urban centers are, at their core, capitalistic in ways that rural, indigenous communities are not. Millán’s distinction is key to understanding her argument: where capitalism thrives on transactional dependence, indigenous life depends on close-knit reciprocity. Not only can little profit be made where there is little population, but more importantly, indigenous lifestyle does not have an extreme emphasis on capital and profit that urban centers orbit; cities need more people, more workers, and more money to remain functioning in the same way over extended periods of time. However, indigenous communities do not need this growing population or endless revenue to maintain themselves. Because of these differing values, modern states see indigenous communities as threats to their economic control over their territories.
Millán writes how urban centers form an artificial life model, since “las ciudades nos hacían y transforman lentamente en humanoides, dominados por un consumismo depredador y arriados para ser rentables” (cities crowd us and transform us slowly into humanoids, dominated by predatory consumerism so we may become sluggish in order to be profitable). The deterioration of the indigenous community’s autonomy is intended to make the Mapuche community controllable, for the State cannot control an area where they cannot control the capital. Millán describes how the entire point of constructing cities in Mapuche territory has been to assimilate her people into a Western way of life: forcing their children to attend schools that only teach Spanish or other colonial languages, denying them the ability to live in their ancestors’ homes, and defiling their sacred spaces with contamination and pollution. As with any invasive state, Millán asserts, the goal of Argentina’s government is to prevent any uprisings against them. The espionage that the invasive government has committed against the Mapuche people has led to increased construction and urbanization of their territories, including police stations, bars, and airports. For the Mapuche to reclaim their territory and their culture, Millán laces both Mapudungun, the original language of the Mapuche, and Spanish to poetically showcase that the Mapuche must “recuperar sus decisiones” (recover their decisions) and live the life that connects them to their spirituality, their ancestors, and their home.
A few weeks after my friend made his bold declaration, my friends and I had the privilege of visiting several Mapuche lofs, including Pillán Mawiza, where Maria Millán lives, writes, and fights against terricidio. Everything about her filled the air with strength—her voice, her eyes, and her generosity in sharing with us her advocacy and her new book, which she toured in various universities throughout the United States this year. As I watched her sign my copy of Terricidio, my eyes drank in the sapphire reflection of the river sweeping before rocky slopes, lush cypress trees dotting the mountains and contrasting against the pillowy white clouds high above my head. In that moment, all I could think was: Why should we punish someone for choosing this life?
Unlike Western thought, which seeks to separate the ground we walk on from the rituals that sustain our souls, Moira Millán highlights her nation’s ancient belief that there is no nature and culture but rather nature in culture; without culture, there can be no nature, and without nature, there can be no culture. I wonder what would happen if the next time we find ourselves in downtown D.C., we stop and imagine why someone might not choose to live where we do. I wonder what would happen if we remembered that nature is our culture and that everyone has the right to choose their culture and where they plant their roots.
Kami Steffenauer is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences, studying Anthropology and Women’s & Gender Studies.