Guatemala is also arguably the country in Latin America where Indigenous languages remain most vibrant. At the same time, it has some of the highest rates of illiteracy in the region, particularly among Maya-speaking women. What’s more, the number of people aged three and older who speak an Indigenous language is beginning to decline across nearly all of the country’s 24 Indigenous linguistic communities.

Finally, racism and discrimination against the knowledge systems, values, and social structures of Indigenous Peoples remains widespread. Guatemala’s entrenched racism continues to be a key factor influencing the strength—or weakness—of Bilingual Intercultural Education. In this context, any analysis of the current state of BIE in Guatemala must address four dimensions: the conceptual, the programmatic, implementation, and community engagement.

Conceptual Framework

Guatemala has a broad and well-established legal framework regarding the education of Indigenous peoples. This framework dates back to 1985, when Bilingual Intercultural Education (BIE) was constitutionally recognized and began to be implemented with support from the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), in the midst of the internal armed conflict. Years later, following the signing of the Peace Accords, other international cooperation agencies, especially from Europe, joined these efforts.

Currently, the country has an official Bilingual Intercultural Education Model and a National Base Curriculum for each level of education. This curriculum mandates the teaching of Indigenous languages across the national education system, alongside Spanish and English. Since 2009, Guatemala has also developed “Currículos por Pueblo” (People-Specific Curricula)—differentiated programs rooted in Indigenous worldviews, intended to complement the unified and Eurocentric National Base Curriculum.

For Maya intellectuals, Guatemala’s multicultural reality must first be acknowledged and reaffirmed until more equitable relations between Indigenous and Ladino sectors can be achieved.

Indigenous languages are used only until students have mastered Spanish well enough to function proficiently in both its oral and written forms.

As is evident, Guatemala has not yet embraced the paradigm of Bilingual Intercultural Education (BIE), as historical demands have emphasized bilingualism over interculturality. For Maya intellectuals, Guatemala’s multicultural reality must first be acknowledged and reaffirmed until more equitable relations between Indigenous and Ladino sectors can be achieved. Only then can genuine progress toward interculturality take place. This perspective was formally established during the discussions of the Joint Commission (comprising Indigenous Peoples and the State), which developed the Educational Reform Proposal stemming from the Peace Accords.

In general, BIE is still perceived by many government officials and significant segments of Guatemalan society as a remedial or compensatory measure. Indigenous languages are used only until students have mastered Spanish well enough to function proficiently in both its oral and written forms. Consequently, BIE remains largely transitional in nature, underpinned by an ideology that continues to be focused on Hispanicization, integration, and assimilation.

Programmatic Plan

Although national regulations mandate that Indigenous students receive a bilingual, multicultural, and intercultural education, and that students nationwide learn three languages throughout their schooling (their mother tongue, a second national language, and a foreign language), this aspiration is only partially fulfilled, with significant limitations, and continues to be one of the biggest challenges within the national education system. Nearly 30 years after the creation of the General Directorate of Bilingual Intercultural Education (Digebi) and 20 years after the establishment of the Vice Ministry of Bilingual Intercultural Education, as well as the enactment of the National Languages Law and the Law on the Generalization of Bilingual Intercultural Education (EBI), vertical and horizontal cover of EBI remains limited.

Regarding vertical coverage, the system has yet to move beyond primary education, and in many cases, even the first two grades of this level are not fully covered. In the two cycles of secondary education, teaching is exclusively done in Spanish. As for horizontal coverage, EBI does not reach all territories with Indigenous populations, nor all schools classified as bilingual. A 2011 study by the Central American Institute for Fiscal Studies (Icefi) and Save the Children found that the coverage of EBI stood at 18.5 percent.  In addition, there are numerous issues with the implementation of Indigenous language education, particularly in urban areas.

To promote the effective application of Bilingual Intercultural Education, the country has identified four sociolinguistic scenarios based on the degree of bilingualism within individual communities. Additionally, a bilingualism bonus has been established, which is received by about 11,500 of the more than 47,000 bilingual teachers working in the education system. Practically speaking, there are no bilingual schools with a full staff that speaks the local language, except for some one-room, one teacher schools and multigrade schools. Typically, those serving all six grades of primary education have both bilingual and monolingual Spanish-speaking teachers.

Implementation Plan

As may be deduced, the implementation of Bilingual Intercultural Education fundamentally relies on the central government, headquartered in Ciudad de Guatemala. As a result, the scope of action of departmental entities is limited, and their leaders are waiting for specific directives from the capital. In this context, what happens in schools and classrooms largely depends on the willingness and motivation of school directors and teachers.

Just over 7,000 rural primary schools have been classified as EBI schools, but this does not mean that Indigenous languages are the primary medium of instruction; rather, it means that the majority of students are Indigenous and that there is at least one bilingual teacher. There is no clear consensus among teachers about how much time and in what manner Indigenous languages should be used, and these languages are often reduced to a single subject—Maya, Xinca, or Garífuna—with limited weekly hours. These languages are used for communication with students and to help them understand lesson content, often requiring translation.

An evaluation of teachers applying for the bonus found that only 49.53 percent achieved scores above 60 points; less than 50 percent self-assessed their fluency in the Indigenous language as “fluent,” and only 40 percent had adequate written proficiency.  

An evaluation of teachers applying for the bonus found that only 49.53 percent achieved scores above 60 points.

What happens at the school level seems to be the result of disorganized teacher training, where the focus is placed on theoretical aspects and the worldview of Indigenous languages rather than on consolidating both oral and written proficiency in Indigenous languages and Spanish. This is also true as well in methodologies and teaching practices for these languages in their dual role as both languages of instruction and taught languages. The reality is that the bilingualism bonus does not guarantee the use of Indigenous languages in the classroom, nor their teaching: an evaluation of teachers applying for the bonus found that only 49.53 percent achieved scores above 60 points; less than 50 percent self-assessed their fluency in the Indigenous language as “fluent,” and only 40 percent had adequate written proficiency.

Disorganized bilingual education leads to a situation where EBI textbooks are not always used in classrooms and instead accumulate in school offices and storerooms, while teachers work with conventional materials in Spanish. Moreover, these texts are designed from a middle-class, Spanish-speaking Ladino cultural perspective, even when their authors are Maya speakers. As is the case in other countries, the logic of translating a version conceived in a foreign language has not been overcome and the production of educational materials from Indigenous perspectives and languages remains a distant goal.

Community Participation Plan

The existence of more than 7,000 rural primary schools characterized as bilingual education centers brings us to the key factor of community participation in the development of this educational modality, a variable included specifically in the Maya’s advocacy agenda since the negotiation of the Peace Accords. Despite efforts, the establishment of EBI advisory councils within schools was not achieved, nor did it surpass the traditional parent associations.

In 1994, the Maya movement created the National Maya Education Council (CNEM), recognized by the Ministry of Education in 1997 and now part of the National Education Council (CNE). The relationship between these entities and the Ministry of Education depends on the openness of the current Ministries; and while, from politically correct positions, authorities may receive and listen to their proposals, the progress of national education is still guided by the directives emanating from the central level of this ministry.

The constitutional injunction set an important legal precedent in a country where EBI had been introduced in schools through international cooperation and state efforts—meaning it came from the top down, rather than as a demand from the communities.

The constitutional injunction set an important legal precedent in a country where EBI had been introduced in schools through international cooperation and state efforts—meaning it came from the top down, rather than as a demand from the communities.

In 2012, a group of Maya authorities and leaders from the community of Antigua Santa Catarina Ixtahuacán filed a legal action before the Supreme Court of Justice, arguing for the right of Indigenous children to receive bilingual education (EBI). After an unfavorable ruling, they filed a lawsuit against the Minister of Education before the Constitutional Court, accusing her of violating their rights to preserve their K’iche’ language, culture, and worldview. In 2016, the Court granted a first-degree injunction and gave the Ministry of Education six months to ensure that EBI was implemented according to the established legislation and international standards. Additionally, the Court urged the Ministry to implement Maya bilingual education in all centers with indigenous student populations.

Only at the end of 2019 was the “Implementation Plan for the Bilingual, Multicultural, and Intercultural Education Model of Antigua Santa Catarina Ixtahuacán” approved, which included orders for the renovation of schools and the provision of computers and scholarships for children in grades one through six. The constitutional injunction set an important legal precedent in a country where EBI had been introduced in schools through international cooperation and state efforts—meaning it came from the top down, rather than as a demand from the communities. Today, however, Indigenous peoples are no longer viewed merely as objects of public policy, but as actual collective rights holders. It is these rights holders who are now demanding that national legislation and international standards be upheld.

Final Reflections

In January 2024, a new government took office in a politically complex and polarized context, characterized by corruption, impunity, and the violation of fundamental human rights. President Arévalo’s election was largely supported by the Maya movement and the international community. In the year since his administration began, there has been little progress on bilingual education (EBI) and its implementation. The Ministry of Education has focused its efforts on other issues, such as the balance of power between the state and the teachers’ union, gaining support from the Congress of the Republic, and improving school infrastructure.

Given the experience of both the current Minister of Education and the Vice Minister of EBI in interculturality and bilingualism, there have been announcements of plans to transform or reform EBI, starting with a comprehensive review of the EBI model that has been in place since 2009, the national curriculum, initial and ongoing teacher training, and primary education textbooks. These initiatives should begin to take shape soon.

A new agreement must center on the urgent need for interculturalization and decolonization of all Guatemalan education. From this foundation, the goal should be to interculturalize society as a whole and build the new intercultural citizens needed.

Overcoming the polarization in the country, achieving reconciliation among Guatemalan society, and establishing lasting peace requires a fundamental rethinking of the national education system.

In reality, the reinvention of EBI cannot be delayed any longer. The principles that guide it date back to the late 1980s. While new regulations and complementary strategies have been introduced since then, Guatemalan EBI is still largely conceived for Indigenous populations who are monolingual in a Maya language and live in rural and remote areas. The national education system has not undergone the intercultural transformation it requires, and its focus remains unchanged, still directed outward, despite the challenges outlined in the Peace Accords, which demand a localized and decolonized education.

Overcoming the polarization in the country, achieving reconciliation among Guatemalan society, and establishing lasting peace requires a fundamental rethinking of the national education system. Moreover, the pandemic exposed numerous inequalities and inequities that widen the gaps between Ladinos and Indigenous people. Consequently, the challenges are many: recovering historical memory, redefining the sense of nation, and calling for a national agreement on education. A new agreement must center on the urgent need for interculturalization and decolonization of all Guatemalan education. From this foundation, the goal should be to interculturalize society as a whole and build the new intercultural citizens needed for the 21st century.

The post What Is the Current State of Bilingual and Intercultural Education in Guatemala? appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Situated just outside Guatemala City, the indigenous Maya Poqomam community of Santa Cruz Chinautla faces several simultaneous environmental challenges. On the one hand, its rivers are heavily polluted due to garbage and waste waters originating in the capital, and on the other, it’s the site for several industrial sand mines. Stuck between these calamities, the town is hard pressed. “Santa Cruz used to be a paradise”, locals tell me, “but now all is gone”.

According to locals, industrial mining in the area began in the 1990’s. In the beginning, extraction was small-scale (indeed, local Santacruzans have always extracted sand, but manually and for community needs), but in time machinery multiplied and production intensified. Today, several mines operate in the area, few or none of which are locally owned. On the contrary, most mines are owned by Ladinos, residing in and trading with the capital.

Territories and bodies vulnerable to contamination

Why, then, is this destruction taking place and why here? According to American historian Traci Brynne Voyles, one way of understanding the unjust distribution of environmental costs and benefits is through the concept of wastelanding. In her words, wastelanding refers to the process by which “certain environments and bodies are rendered pollutable in ways that are both ideational and material”, meaning that privileged parts of the population work both rhetorically and practically in order to exploit marginalized communities.

For Voyles, this process occurs in two steps, in which the exploiter must first discursively construct the lands sought for as useless or unproductive and then, in a second step, enter them physically in order to extract their resources. Unsurprisingly, this exploitative process does not occur randomly but usually materializes according to hierarchies of class, race and gender, with indigenous communities at extra risk. For this reason, Voyles says, it is usually in the same marginalized communities from which “resources are increasingly extracted” where waste is also “increasingly dumped”.

How, then, do these processes play out in Santa Cruz? What do they look like and how do people respond? To begin with, a basic premise for this destructive extraction of resources from Poqomam territory by outsiders is the unequal relation between the primarily Ladino (or otherwise non-Indigenous) capital and the mainly Mayan countryside. When Ladino-owned mines extract Poqomam sand and leave the community to care for the damage, then, this is not a coincidence but a continuation of centuries of colonial oppression.

An accumulation of losses

For Santa Cruz’s anti-mining resistance, the main adversary is the Piedrinera San Luis, the biggest mine. Having operated without a valid license since the previous one expired in 2022 (just like, in 2021, that of neighboring mine La Primavera), the resistance is currently working for the license not to be renewed.

According to Guatemalan Mining Law, however (or, at least MEM’s interpretation of it), business can continue as usual for as long as the extension is pending and no community consultation or environmental impact assessment is needed for the issuing of a new 25-year license. In other words, the law is written for the companies.

When the mines extract sand from the riverbanks the natural course of the river is distorted, causing it to compensate the loss of volume with sand from the surrounding area. Consequently, the ground destabilizes and people lose land or housing.

When the mines extract sand from the riverbanks, the ground destabilizes and people lose land or housing.

But look, if the profits leave the community, then surely the costs do too? Not so much. Indeed, for most locals, the relation to the mines is that of loss. Loss of lands, loss of housing, loss of livelihood and – as in the case of the tragic killing of 16-year-old Anílson Alberto Vásquez Chacón, the son of an indigenous authority on April 18^th, 2024, presumably by people associated with the mines – the loss of family members.

The reason for this loss varies – heavy road dust, floodings, persecution – but the main one is landslides and erosion. For most locals, it is evident that when the mines extract sand from the riverbanks the natural course of the river is distorted, causing it to compensate the loss of volume with sand from the surrounding area. Consequently, the ground destabilizes and people lose land or housing due to landslides and sinking ground levels.

A shared nostalgia

Showing me the dusty slope that was once her patio, artisan Juana says: “Our houses aren’t any good anymore. The terrain sunk at least two meters and we have no other land”. When asked if she can repair it, she answers: “No. We can’t make a good house because it will split and fall. So for this reason we build with sheets of metal. But we have to refill the floor often, because the ground sinks really fast”.

Sadly, the case of Juana is no exception. Strolling around the ruins of his childhood home, resistance member Alejandro tells me: “When I was 8 years old, the mines made us lose our first house. It just turned over. When I was 16, we lost the second one. It’s really sad to think of this because for me this place was paradise”. The double loss of his home caused Alejandro much emotional and economic stress. He continues: “When this happened, I got psychological and economic problems and I almost lost my Poqomam identity. Now I live on the other side of the community and have to build my own house. Previously, we had forest and some animals, but now I lack water, pavement and electricity”. Comparing his situation with that of his ancestors, Alejandro tells me: “My grandfather had 32 manzanas of land and my father had two. But I will never have that much, just because of the mines”.

The mines affect not only the individual, but also the community at large. For this reason, Santacruzans regularly express an almost universal sense of nostalgia, but also of social tension. Reflecting on how Santa Cruz has changed since he was a child, Chico, now a father, says: “It really makes me sad. When I speak to my friends I always miss the riverbanks and want to return there as a father to play and explore the landscape. But this will never happen again – the story won’t be repeated”.

For artisan Julia: “The mines and pollution bury he clay that we use. With so much waste, bags and plastic the clay gets stuck underneath and we don’t find any”.

For artisan Julia: “The mines and pollution bury he clay that we use. With so much waste, bags and plastic the clay gets stuck underneath and we don’t find any”.

Commenting on the conflicting interests of various groups in the community, indigenous authority Bernardo says: “We have to accept that some people gain from the mines, because they work there or transport sand in their truck. So sadly, we have confrontation among ourselves”. One such truck driver is Teodoro. When I ask him about his work he acknowledges the damage, but also the economic need. “It’s true that the extraction is excessive and might be destructive”, he tells me, “but at the same time I want the mines to stay because that’s how I make a living. If I don’t sell sand, how should I buy my food?”. Cutting right to the key question of collective resource management, he says: “Actually, it’s we ourselves who are destroying the community. And why? Because we have to make money to eat and provide education for the kids”.

Does this mean the mines make everyone a winner? For artisan Julia who works in the tradition of Santa Cruz’s renowned pottery, the answer is a clear no. “The mines and pollution bury he clay that we use. With so much waste, bags and plastic the clay gets stuck underneath and we don’t find any”. Commenting on the increased risk of getting good clay due to frequent landslides, she says: “Before people used to search for the finer clay, but now they stopped. Actually, there was a man who got buried looking for clay. He lost his life”. Throughout Santa Cruz, pottery is a cornerstone of many household economies, especially for women and single mothers. The mounting lack of quality clay, however, not only means a loss of income, but also of culture. For Juana, pottery is more than just work: “For us, this is a teaching from our ancestors”, she tells me. “This is how we Poqomam women make our living”.

The organization of resistance

With their ancestral territory under attack, parts of the community have decided to resist. Launched in response to the 2022 expiry of Piedrinera San Luis’ mining license, the resistance began with a 21-day roadblock. Drawing upon previous organizational experience within the community, resistance leaders rejected the municipality-linked community development council (COCODEs) and opted for an independent organizational structure. “We know that according to the constitution, we original peoples have the right to our own organizations”, Bernardo tells me. “So we created an indigenous authority”.

The decision to organize does not stem merely from an opposition to the mines, however, but rather from a broader dissatisfaction with the state. Alejandro says: “What quality of life is this state giving us? We have never polluted anything, but with all these corrupt governments since the invasion, they continue to rob us”. “The state doesn’t care about our problems”, he tells me. “Either it doesn’t see them, or it doesn’t care”.

For many members, the fight is existential. Juana tells me: “This struggle has to continue because we are not fighting for ourselves, but for our children. Because if the mines continue to operate, Santa Cruz will soon disappear”.

Juana tells me: “This struggle has to continue because we are not fighting for ourselves, but for our children. Because if the mines continue to operate, Santa Cruz will soon disappear”.

Primarily focused on the cancellation of the pending mining licenses and obtaining compensation for the damage done, the main activity of the resistance is the maintenance of their camp on the road between Santa Cruz and Piedrinera San Luis. There, resistance members meet, discuss and observe the trucks transporting cargo to and from the mine. As several members explain to me, the idea is not only to monitor, but also to show that even if the roadblock is gone, the resistance is not. For many members, the fight is existential. Juana tells me: “This struggle has to continue because we are not fighting for ourselves, but for our children. Because if the mines continue to operate, Santa Cruz will soon disappear”.

For many activists, joining the resistance has been transformative. Although stories of threats and persecution abound, for most the power of resisting outweighs the fears. Here’s Juana again: “When I first joined the resistance, I didn’t know what a manifestation was. But there I understood, and I have learnt many things, like defending my rights as a woman”. After a short pause, she continues: “You know, it feels good to learn about your rights, because practically they don’t care about us indigenous women. But now we took this space, and they will have to listen to us whether they want to or not”. Echoing Juana’s sense of a re-born political self, Daniel says: “I used to be a person without knowledge of the law. But today, thanks to the resistance, I understand more. Today I know that I have rights and that I must fight for them”.

The collective struggle for freedom and self-determination

Today, the story of the sand mines is at a crossroads. Following the installation of progressive president Bernardo Arévalo in January 2024, hopes for a different Guatemala have been high, but according to critics progress is slow and questions remain. Will the Arévalo government guarantee the rights of indigenous communities in the face of business interests? Will the Ministry of Energy and Mines decide on San Luis’ and La Primavera’s licenses and, if so, will the community be consulted and an environmental assessment made?

Whatever the answer, for Alejandro, the fight is bigger than just the mines. Rather, it is a struggle for freedom and self-determination. Envisioning his hopes for the future of the Poqomames, he tells me: “You don’t just need land and water”. “What you really need”, he says, “is the fire to live freely – free from pollution and oppression!”.

For security reasons, all names in the article are fictitious.

The post The fire to live freely: destruction and defense among the Maya Poqomam appeared first on Debates Indígenas.