Bulletin of Latin American Research, 2020 DOI:10.1111/blar.

13143

Performing the ‘India Permitida’: The

Counter-Gift of Indigenous Women
Targeted by a Corporate Social
Responsibility Programme (Chile)
ANAHY GAJARDO
University of Neuchâtel, Switzerland

Relying on ethnographic data, this article critically analyses the

pro-mining position adopted in Chile’s Atacama Region by a group
of Diaguita women who benefited from a corporate social responsibility
(CSR) programme to revive indigenous culture. While the desire to
escape from poverty (salir adelante, moving forward) appears as the
main reason for participating, the benefits generated a sense of indebt-
edness resulting in allegiance to the company. The investigation also
shows how this programme played a part in building a scenario in which
indigenous females perform subjects apparently more suited than men to
the neoliberal and multiculturalist governmentality of the Chilean State,
whose politics favours mining.

Keywords: anthropology of corporate social responsibility, Chile, Dia-

guita people, indigenous women, mining, neoliberal multiculturalism.

Exploring the impacts of large-scale mining on women, particularly indigenous women,

is seeing growing scholarly interest (Lahiri-Dutt, 2012; Jenkins, 2014; Deonandan
and Tatham, 2016; Grieco, 2016, 2018). Within this field, the theme of women’s
mobilisation against – or in favour of – mining has been less addressed (Jenkins and
Rondón, 2015; Jenkins, 2017; Caretta and Zaragocin, 2020), making women passive
or almost invisible, except for a few emblematic cases such as those of Berta Cáceres
and Máxima Acuña (see Collyns, 2016; Gomez, 2017).
Most studies generally agree that women are more vulnerable to the industry’s
negative impacts (Deonandan and Tatham, 2016: 274) and that they are less involved
than men in processes of participation and negotiation with companies (Jenkins and
Rondón, 2015). O’Faircheallaigh also emphasises the dominant idea in academic
and activist literature that women gain less advantage from the potential economic
benefits of mining and suffer more from its social and environmental upheavals
(O’Faircheallaigh, 2013: 1790). While some scholars do highlight the risk of portraying
women solely as victims (Lahiri-Dutt, 2012), and others show that women’s responses
are sometimes ambivalent and contradictory (Li, 2009: 98), research that paints a more
nuanced picture of their roles is still scarce (Jenkins, 2014). As a result, women are
often (re)presented as ‘naturally’ opposed to extractivism.

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 Anahy Gajardo

In contrast to this representation, this article critically examines the supportive posi-
tion of a group of Huasco Alto’s Diaguita women (northern Chile) with regard to Pascua
Lama, a mining project led by Barrick Gold Corporation (hereinafter Barrick) during the
first two decades of the 2000s.
Bordering the Atacama Desert and Argentina, Huasco Alto (upper part of Huasco
Province, Municipality of Alto del Carmen) is home to some of the world’s largest
deposits of gold and silver. Nestled in the mountains, these are located in or near graz-
ing and conservation areas, and alongside valleys devoted to agriculture. Since the late
1990s, many large-scale mining projects have been initiated in this arid territory, the best
known of which are NuevaUnión (Newmont Goldcorp and Teck) and Pascua Lama, on
which this article focuses. The world’s first bi-national project, Pascua Lama, generated
great controversy and opposition, mostly related to the deposit’s location under glaciers
and at the top of the watershed (Li, 2018). The conflict divided families and caused
tensions between environmental organisations and those defending indigenous people’s
rights. In November 2018, after more than a decade of conflict and lawsuits, Barrick
put the project on ice when it failed to meet its profitability criteria, and after Chile’s
environmental regulator ordered its definitive closure.
Thought to have disappeared after the Spanish conquest, the Diaguita re-emerged as
an indigenous people in the late 1990s, simultaneous with the initiation of the Pascua
Lama project. In 2006, the Diaguita were legally recognised under the Indigenous Law
19.253 (Mideplan, 1993). The Diaguita’s resurgence is an emblematic case of ethnogen-
esis that raises complex political, legal, territorial, environmental and economic issues
(Gajardo, 2009), which are closely intertwined with the neoliberal and multicultural
policies implemented by the state since the democratic transition in the 1990s (see
Gajardo, 2016, 2018). In less than two decades, the Diaguita became Chile’s third most
numerous indigenous people (CASEN, 2017), the main opponents to mining and, at the
same time, one of the priority targets of Barrick’s corporate social responsibility (CSR)
efforts (Barrick, 2009a, 2009b), which devoted much of its programming to indigenous
women and the cultural restoration of the group.
While Jenkins (2017) mentions the refusal to accept ‘gifts’ as one aspect of
anti-mining activism of Peruvian and Ecuadorian women, this research focuses on
a case in which indigenous women did accept them. By ‘gift’ I mean all the actions,
services or benefits in the form of tangible (scholarships, funding, products, etc.) or
intangible goods (training, technical and legal advices, social recognition, etc.) provided
without request for financial compensation by a company to individuals or collectives
living in the vicinity of its operations, under the banner of CSR.
While CSR has emerged as the new ‘orthodoxy’ in the field of development and
businesses (Rajak, 2011; Dolan and Rajak, 2016: 2), scholars are attempting to bet-
ter understand the effects on local populations of these programmes, notably in relation
to human rights (Jenkins, 2004; Rajak, 2011; Kirsch, 2014; Dolan and Rajak, 2016). In
line with these studies, this article analyses the reasons advanced by Diaguita women for
participating in these programmes and accepting ‘gifts’, against the backdrop of tensions
between different local indigenous organisations arising from the mining project.
I argue that the benefits granted through CSR programmes come at a price. As
Mauss (1923) has shown, giving is an act of power which is never truly free, that
creates a social bond and obliges the recipient to reciprocate. Refusing to receive or
not reciprocate means refusing the alliance and equates to ‘declaring war’. In the case
of the Diaguita women, the obligation to ‘repay the gift’ is expressed through a sense
of gratitude to the company which is reflected in their allegiance to mining. While the
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 Performing the ‘India Permitida’

women’s words show that the desire to escape poverty and invisibility (salir adelante)
is a key reason for having accepted the company’s support, the contextual analysis
reveals how their position contrasted with that of the Comunidad Agrícola Diaguita Los
Huascoaltinos (CADHA, the Diaguita Los Huascoaltinos Agricultural Community), an
indigenous organisation led mostly by men, which is also the local group most opposed
to extractivism.
This article highlights how the so-called ‘ethical turn of corporate capitalism’ (Dolan
and Rajak, 2016) resonates with neoliberal multiculturalism, which has been imple-
mented in Chile since the early 1990s, as well in other Latin American countries. As
Hale and Millaman (2005) note, this model promotes two antinomic figures of indi-
geneity which guide the application of policies of state support and repression towards
those groups. On the one hand, the Indio Permitido (Permitted Indian) (Hale and Mil-
laman, 2005) designates indigenous subjects that embrace the model and, on the other
hand, the Indio Prohibido (Forbidden Indian) refers to indigenous groups openly oppos-
ing neoliberalism. While both categories refer by default to a male or to all members of
an indigenous group, regardless of their sex, I argue, like Richards (2007) and Castel-
nuovo (2018), that these archetypes reflect gendered representations of the social and
political role of indigenous men and women.
This gendered reading enables us to understand why, in Huasco Alto, indigenous
women are apparently more supportive of mining, while also bringing to light Barrick’s
political interests in orienting its CSR towards them. Barrick’s CSR action can be under-
stood as being situated at the intersection of neoliberal ethno-governmentality (Bolados
and Boccara, 2014) and processes of gendered neoliberalisation (Schild, 2013) on which
the Chilean State has embarked. This configuration helps build new forms of indigenous
neoliberal subjectivities, in which indigenous women are considered as a group of dif-
ferentiated ‘clients’ who should be especially favoured because of their vulnerability and
who, in turn, should repay the ‘gifts’ provided to them by state or non-state actors by
performing the India Permitida.

Methods
This article is part of a larger longitudinal anthropological research project on the con-
temporary Diaguita’s re-emergence as an indigenous group in Chile (see Gajardo, 2009,
2016, 2018). I have been studying this process since 2006 and have carried out several
periods of fieldwork of between two and four months each, for a total duration of about
a year. This long-term work has led me to understand this process through its evolution
over the years. In line with ethnographic methods, most of my corpus consists of data
from direct observations obtained by participating in everyday Huasco Alto life. Addi-
tionally, I conducted about 50 semi-structured and unstructured in-depth interviews with
women and men occupying different positions in the social and political fabric (members
of the various indigenous organisations, indigenous leaders, CSR staff, state employees,
etc.). I have translated from Spanish the extracts included in this article.
I also examined the mining company’s CSR reports, government documents and
information from social networks and the Chilean press. The gender dimension of
this research emerged first as an inductive hypothesis, and then as a significant axis,
for understanding the division between individuals or collective indigenous actors
confronting mining. Gender should be understood here as one social category among
others, all of which structure social and power relationships.
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 Anahy Gajardo

For reasons of security and respect for privacy, I have anonymised all individuals
mentioned, with the exception of social actors holding public office or speaking on behalf
of their organisations, who gave me permission to quote them.

‘Salir Adelante’

We’re more women than men working for the etnia [indigenous ethnic
group]. I do not know why … Perhaps because we must salir adelante
[move forward]? For our children and everything. Who educates the little
ones? Who takes care of them? … Men here are lazy … and drunk [laughs].
So … I do not think it’s a bad thing that the company supports us in res-
cuing the etnia [ … ]. I learned Diaguita ceramics in a Barrick training and,
you see, I already have an income thanks to this. (Armanda, 2008)

These words are those of Armanda, a Diaguita woman from Huasco Alto. She burst
out laughing when mentioning the laziness and drunkenness of men, which are two
recurrent stereotypes attached to indigenous males in Chile, and probably throughout
Latin America.
In this quotation, Armanda explains why, according to her, women in her circle are
more invested than men in the promotion of their ethnic group. The word etnia she uses
refers to the expression Etnia Indígena used in Indigenous Law. During the early years
of the Diaguita’ s re-emergence, many of Huasco Alto’s inhabitants adopted the term,
describing themselves as belonging (or not) to the etnia. This use has gradually been
replaced by the ethnonym Diaguita or the notion of comunidad indígena. She explains
also why she does not find anything wrong with the fact that the corporation is sup-
porting the rescate (rescuing), of the Diaguita’s culture. Thanks to training financed
by the company, she learned how to make ceramics inspired by pre-Columbian, Dia-
guita archaeological pieces. She applied for and won funding for a project to set up a
workshop on the patio of her house and increased her income by selling her artefacts.
Over the course of my visits there, I met several of the valley’s residents – most of them
women – whose stories were similar to that of Armanda.
This was the situation in 2008. The Pascua Lama conflict was at its height and deeply
divided the population, families, and local organisations, including members of indige-
nous communities among themselves. Broadly, individuals could be divided between
those for whom the mining project was synonymous with economic development, those
who considered it a threat to the community’s cohesion and to the natural environment,
and those who did not take sides, sometimes changing camp depending on expediency.
Although Armanda was in the first category, she felt concerned about the possible envi-
ronmental consequences of mining, especially with regard to the preservation of glaciers
and water resources.
As far as indigenous organisations were concerned, I distinguished, on the one side,
the Diaguita Cultural Centre (hereinafter Cultural Centre) – created in the early 2000s
with the aim of gaining legal recognition as ‘indigenous’ – and the new comunidades
indígenas (indigenous communities), that were formed after the Diaguita gained state
recognition in 2006, and that gradually replaced the Cultural Centre (see Gajardo, 2009,
2016). In this regard, it is especially noteworthy that in Chile, so-called ‘indigenous com-
munities’ are organisations created by the Indigenous Law and shaped by the state’s
bureaucratic logic. The term applies indistinctly to all country’s indigenous peoples,

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recognised as such by the Corporación Nacional de Desarollo Indígena (CONADI) The

State Agency for Indigenous Affairs. This status facilitates, among other things, access
to socio-economic benefits and projects allocated by the state. In Huasco Alto, the con-
stitution of these new communities responded to the need to comply with the state’s
criteria of indigeneity.
The Cultural Centre, and most of Huasco Alto’s new indigenous communities, all
accepted and received significant support from Barrick as part of its CSR programme to
restore the Diaguita ethnicity. These organisations consisted mainly of women and were
also led by women.
On the other side, there was CADHA, owner of a collective property title to a terri-
tory of about 380,000 hectares, whose history and boundaries dates back to the colonial
period (Molina et al., 2005; Pizarro et al., 2006). Close to the operation and areas of
influence of Pascua Lama and NuevaUnión, CADHA has self-identified as Diaguita
since 2006 as a strategy to defend its territory and way of life, hinged on subsistence
agriculture and small livestock breeding (mainly goats). While individually the major-
ity of CADHA’s members have been registered as Diaguita by the CONADI, it has not
been legally recognised as an indigenous community. Indeed, its status as an Agricultural
Community is regulated by a specific law (Law 19.233) that cannot be combined with
indigenous land law (Law 19.253).
CADHA’s struggle against mining has therefore been ignored or declared illegitimate
by the state. Led mainly by men, this organisation, known locally as the most radically
opposed to mining, consists of 260 rural families. Each family holds the right to occupy
(mainly for grazing) a portion of the community’s territory, the derecho de estancia,
which is registered under the name of the heads of the family – most often men. A few
women, however, also own this derecho.
Armanda had connections with each of these organisations: she had been part of the
Cultural Centre, to which she refers in the interview excerpt cited above; she was part
of the management of a new community; and, through her husband, she was a member
of CADHA.
I interviewed Armanda as we sat on a bench in the square of Alto del Carmen, the
Huasco Alto’s tiny municipal capital. The mining company’s low-profile local office was
two steps away. The tower of the Catholic church (lying on the edge of the square)
was covered by a giant fresco depicting the risks of socio-environmental damage from
large-scale mining.
According to her, women’s greater involvement in the ethnic group’s promotion was
a consequence of their family responsibilities. They were the ones in charge of the chil-
dren’s education, and they must therefore salir adelante (move forward). This expres-
sion, commonly used to refer to the efforts and will of individuals to ‘escape poverty’
(Di Giminiani, 2018: 259) and cope with difficulties, aligns well with the neoliberal
conception of individual responsibility and empowerment currently circulating in Chile.

Neoliberalism, Mining and Indigenous Peoples in Contemporary Chile

While the notion of neoliberalism remains controversial, often used as a catch-all to
designate an ‘art of government’ (Foucault, 2004) and a political regime subordinated
to the market, many authors agree on the centrality to neoliberalism of the notion
of individual responsibility (Hache, 2007a and b; Gershon, 2011; Schild, 2013; Wool-
ford and Nelund, 2013). As Hache notes (2007a: 51), neoliberalism is based on the
transfer of the welfare state’s responsibilities to individuals and the private sector. It

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 Anahy Gajardo

constitutes a ‘technique of governmentality’ (Hache, 2007b) based on a conception of

the ‘human enterprise’, in which the individual is not only an entrepreneur himself but
also entrepreneur of himself.
Known as the test-bed for neoliberal theories implemented by the Chicago Boys dur-
ing the military dictatorial regime headed by Augusto Pinochet (1973–1989), Chile is
one of the most liberalised and unequal countries in the world. The most basic services
are subject to the market: water and the pension system are privatised, and access to
quality education and health is only possible for the richest. For the past 15 years or so,
this has been regularly challenged through major social mobilisations, the last of which
paralysed the country between October 2019 and March 2020. Chile is also the Latin
American country with the largest number of mining projects and mining-related con-
flicts, alongside Peru and Mexico, according to the Observatorio de Conflictos Mineros
en América Latina (see https://www.ocmal.org, accessed 8 September 2019).
Far from calling this economic model into question, the transition to democracy in
the early 1990s led to its perpetuation and even reinforcement. Not only has this resulted
in the consolidation of pro-mining policies but it also had a strong effect on the orien-
tation of public policies for social welfare (Han, 2012), including on those concerning
ethnicity and gender (Franceschet, 2003; Richards, 2006; Gigena and de Cea, 2018).
While the various coalition of political parties (centre left and right) that governed Chile
from 1990 to 2010 (known as Concertación) have implemented unprecedented political
and legal measures for indigenous peoples’ recognition and for gender equity, their sub-
ordination to neoliberal rationality considerably narrowed their scope (Richards, 2007,
2016: Schild, 2013).
As far as ethnicity is concerned, the disavowal of overtly racist and assimilationist
policies practised against indigenous peoples by the Chilean State since its constitution
in 1818, has not prevented the adoption of new ways to exclude and marginalise them
on the basis of a paradigm strongly guided by the interests of extractivism. Described
as neoliberal multiculturalism (Hale and Millaman, 2005; Bolados and Boccara, 2014;
Richards, 2016; Postero, Risør and Prieto Montt, 2018), this paradigm has been trans-
lated into a mode of governmentality codifying acceptable and unacceptable ways of
being ‘Indian’, orientating and shaping the construction of indigenous subjectivities. In
this model indigenous peoples are no longer necessarily seen as an impediment to mining
projects, but as potential partners (Jenkins, 2004; Rajak, 2011; Babidge, 2013), whose
collaboration and consent is required. While indigenous peoples are considered ‘vul-
nerable’ by states and international organisations due to the high levels of poverty and
discrimination they face, the cultural markers that are used to distinguish them from the
dominant population are no longer, a priori, stigmatising factors. On the contrary, these
markers can represent a ‘capital’ or ‘added value’ that the most ‘empowered’ amongst
them can mobilise and leverage as negotiable resources in the identity market in order
to salir adelante.

Targeting Vulnerability
Indigenous women are categorised as ‘vulnerable’ by multilateral development organi-
sations because of the risks of intersectional discrimination to which they are exposed.
Empowering them is therefore now a priority of national and international agen-
das to ‘leave no one behind’, which companies often use to orient their CSR policy.
Simultaneously, women are often perceived as ‘naturally’ more environmentally friendly

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and fated to embody their ethnicity (Hertz, 2011). Consequently, most of the respon-
sibility for transmitting – and therefore for any eventual loss – of their culture seems
to rest on their shoulders (Lavanchy, 2009). Lastly, as powerful ‘agents of change’,
following the United Nations rhetoric, women are expected to play a major role in
maintaining community social cohesion. All this, in addition to ‘producing, educating
and feeding future generations’ (Laugier, Falquet and Molinier, 2015: 7). The combi-
nation of these representations makes them both key figures of anti-mining activism
(Deonandan and Tatham, 2016; Grieco, 2018) and priority targets of the neoliber-
alised state (Schild, 2013; Castelnuovo, 2018), as well of CSR programmes of mining
companies operating in Chile and elsewhere in Latin America.
Around 2005, Barrick began orienting a significant part of its CSR activities towards
the Diaguita (Barrick, 2007; Gajardo, 2016), while especially targeting women. Some of
these women played a key role in negotiations with the mining company. Others became
emblems of its CSR policy, being featured prominently in its publications on ‘human
rights’ (Barrick, 2009a: 78) and on ‘social and community development’ (Barrick, 2007).
This is the case of a few women from Juntas de Valeriano (hereinafter Valeriano). One
of the remotest villages in the Tránsito Valley, it has nevertheless been one of the villages
where Barrick has developed the most CSR activities. Valeriano women – in particular
the older ones – are reputed to have better preserved the local ‘traditions’, especially
those pertaining to weaving and medical plants. They are therefore considered in the
valley as ‘more Indian’ (De la Cadena, 1995) than not only men but also than all the
other inhabitants. The men themselves are more related with the huaso. Like the gaucho
in Argentina or the cowboy in the United States, in Chile the huaso refers to a peasant
mounted on horseback, who uses a lasso and wears boots with spurs. A key figure in
the rural Métis world, his is also a character strongly associated with Chile’s national
identity.
Valeriano has long been considered as one of the poorest villages in the area. As
recently as 2006, it did not have electricity, running water or access via a paved road.
The first school was set up in the 1980s. While not so long ago the social and cultural
knowledge and practices of those ‘poor, rural and uncivilised’ peasants were scorned by
the state, today they are valued as signs of Chile’s entry into the era of multiculturalism.
Finally, there are two other aspects to Valeriano, that are not mentioned in any Bar-
rick CSR report: the valley is the gateway to the high mountains, where the mineral
deposits are located, and the majority of its inhabitants are CADHA members. Ensur-
ing the consent of Valeriano’s women would therefore weaken a significant part of the
opposition to Barrick.
That said, the gender-specific focus of Barrick’s CSR policy did not appear to be delib-
erate. The predominantly female ‘targeting’ of its programme seems instead to derive
from the type of organisations and activities that the company supported, often as part of
private-public partnerships with state structures or through NGOs working to alleviate
poverty (Gajardo, 2016, 2018).
Until about 2010, Barrick supported the Cultural Centre. Led by Ana Huanchicay,
this group espoused a discourse that was focused on both redistribution and recognition,
to use a distinction borrowed from Fraser (1997) by Richards (2006) in his analysis of
indigenous women’s movements and pobladoras (poor and working-class urban women)
in Chile. This means that they were seeking to enhance their social and economic living
conditions (redistribution) through access to benefits and projects granted on the basis
of their status as indigenous as defined in Law 19.253 (recognition):
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 Anahy Gajardo

Legal recognition is very important because we cannot apply to anything

if we are not recognised [as indigenous]. There are many projects that
are always won by the Aymara, the Colla, because they are recognised.
(Huanchicay, 2006)

Practically, Barrick’s programme was centred on activities ‘traditionally’ assigned

to indigenous women, such as those related to cultural transmission and environ-
mental care. To this end, the company implemented, inter alia, certified training for
weaving, ceramics, medicinal plants and indigenous gastronomy. Julieta, a Valeriano
great-grandmother, proudly showed me her framed diploma signed by a CSR repre-
sentative, testifying to her weaving skills, hanging on one of the walls of her house
surrounded by family photos.
In order further to incentivise micro-entrepreneurship, Barrick collaborated with
Artesanías de Chile (Barrick, 2012: 70), a private foundation associated with the presi-
dency. This foundation has the objective of preserving, commercialising and promoting
traditional Chilean craftsmanship, mainly through commodification and transforma-
tion into value-added ‘heritage products’, thereby increasing opportunities for those
crafts(wo)men that ‘have some degree of vulnerability’ (Gobierno de Chile, 2017).
Barrick also offered advisory and financial assistance to individuals applying for the
Certificado de calidad de indígena (Certificate of indigenous status). This certificate,
provided by CONADI, is needed to obtain economic and social benefits and to apply to
projects reserved for this category of the population. During my visit to the Atacama’s
CONADI office in Copiapó, there was a long line of people applying for the status of
indigenous Diaguita. The majority of people were women, mostly mothers with infants.
Those I spoke to stated that they wanted to obtain this status to improve their children’s
futures, as they would become eligible for scholarships earmarked by the government
for certified indigenous children. A CONADI employee explained to me that he believed
the unprecedented increase in requests to be recognised as Diaguita was a direct result
of the money being ‘shovelled’ by mining projects to the neighbouring population, even
more so if the latter were indigenous:

This year [2014] has been a madness! In February, I did 550 accreditations
in one month! [ … ] The mining companies started to throw money at the
wall. Individuals saw there was no possibility [of improving their situation]
but by being part of an indigenous community, the benefits are many, and
even more if there is a mining project nearby. (CONADI Official, 2014)

From ‘Beneficiaries’ to ‘Partners’

In 2010, a woman, was named cacique of the first Communal and Diaguita Regional
Council, which was created for federating the new legally recognised communities and
was mostly led by women who were Cultural Centre members. The relationship between
these communities and Barrick evolved in a more ‘horizontal’ way. From project ‘bene-
ficiaries’ who needed to be helped out of poverty, they became potential ‘partners’ who
had to be consulted in order to take into account their worldviews, their expectations
and their specific needs (Barrick, 2012: 70). Thus, together with activities to restore
their culture, these communities developed a discourse strongly influenced by national
and international legal frameworks, particularly the ILO Convention 169 (ILO, 1989)
requirement for the state to consult and obtain the consent of indigenous peoples for

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mining projects, as well as the obligation for enterprises to mitigate and compensate the
damage caused (see Li, 2016, 2018).
In 2013, a dozen of these new communities filed a complaint against Pascua Lama
because of the risk of water pollution that led to the immediate temporary suspension
of the project. However, this adjournment leveraged the signing of a Memorandum
of Understanding (MoU) between Barrick and these communities. Furthermore, it has
increased the visibility and legitimacy of the latter as the ‘authentic’ Diaguita, while
enhancing Barrick’s image as an exemplary company that ‘learns from its mistakes’ and
consults indigenous peoples (Gajardo, 2018). Basically, this complaint could have cre-
ated a favourable context for the subsequent resumption of Pascua Lama, except for the
fierce opposition that this MoU met with among non-signatory communities, CADHA
and environmental organisations.
‘The majority of [Diaguita] leaders are women’, Ortiz (2013) stated in a newspaper
article of La Segunda devoted to the Diaguita. ‘Who is this ethnic group that is chang-
ing the way in which companies relate to indigenous communities?’ asked the reporter
Chernin (2014) in another article in El Mercurio. Soto, the lawyer of the new indigenous
communities, explained the Diaguita’s success in dealing with the mining companies in
the following way:

They are very well organised and reasonable groups. They do not adopt
stubborn or intransigent positions. They do not take to the streets, do not
mobilise and do not throw stones. They are peaceful. (see Ortiz, 2013)

Both newspapers belong to El Mercurio SA, an enterprise that has the monopoly of the
press in Chile and is known for its conservative and ultraliberal positions.

Repaying the Gift

The notion of debt holds a significant place in the state discourse around indigenous
peoples in post-dictatorship Chile. It was in the name of the deuda histórica (historic
debt), owed to indigenous peoples by the state since the country’s independence in 1818,
that unprecedented legal and political measures were implemented during the transition
to democracy. These measures were meant to introduce a Nuevo Trato (New Deal) policy
towards indigenous peoples. This notion has therefore been at the heart of the state’s
rhetoric for politically justifying the release of significant funds to implement Indigenous
Law 19.253 (1993). In a somewhat similar rationale, the terms ‘social debt’ (Han, 2012)
and ‘debt to women’ are also often used in Chile to justify poverty alleviation and gender
equality policies adopted by the state in the early 1990s.
Seen this way, the state is in debt to those ‘left behind’ by the ‘Chilean miracle’
and is repaying its debt directly or through external agents to which it has delegated
responsibility (private sector, NGOs, etc.). In practice, however, the roles of debtor and
creditor seem strangely reversed, or even transformed into a dynamic closer to the one
that usually links the giver to the recipient, and which forces the latter to give back to
the former (Mauss, 1923–1924). Thus, in Huasco Alto, many women who benefited
from social programmes ‘offered’ by Barrick expressed a strong sense of debt and grati-
tude towards the company. According to Paola, a trainee anthropologist recruited for a
poverty-alleviation programme funded by Barrick: ‘Most of these communities acceded
to this re-ethnicisation process through Barrick funds, and thus they are in debt to the
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 Anahy Gajardo

company’ (Paola, 2014). Only a few women I met considered the benefits received as a
due or as a ‘normal’ compensation. This sentiment of indebtedness is reinforced by the
fact that the resources offered directly by the state are either insufficient or difficult to
access:

… they [Barrick] have been very supportive and I’m very grateful for that
because the truth is that government resources are minimal and to continue
one needs support. (Daisy, 2014)

… through Barrick we have done craft courses. We did one in El Tambo,

one in El Tránsito, and two here. So, learning all this has been very positive.
[ … ] I have never received anything from CONADI. (Elvira, 2014)

However, in a context of tensions between supporters and opponents to mining, and

in a valley in which many individuals have kinship or alliance ties, not all women who
participated in Barrick’s programme expressed their gratitude to the company openly. It
is interesting to note the ‘silent’ change of opinion about mining by some of them after
having accepted the company’s support.
In February 2006, Ana Huanchicay, who was at that time the head of the Cultural
Centre, was firmly opposed to Pascua Lama. While this leader has never publicly admit-
ted to having changed sides, she never openly opposed the project once she accepted
support in the form of funds and equipment from Barrick; she told a reporter:

I did not sell myself to Barrick. But since Pascua Lama’s approval cannot
be reversed, the most efficient thing to do is to supervise its operation from
‘inside’. (see Estrada, 2008)

In 2007 Huanchicay wrote the foreword to a book published by Barrick on the Diaguita,
symbolically sealing the alliance between the Cultural Centre and the company. Entitled
Etnia Diaguita, this richly illustrated book – mainly with photos of Valeriano women
and children, and the handicrafts made in CSR workshops – presents the Diaguita’s
main historical and cultural characteristics. Thanks to an agreement between the mining
company and the Ministry of Education, this book has been distributed to schools and
libraries in the Atacama Region.
The Valeriano women’s case shows how difficult it was for them to refuse the support
offered by the mine. These women are the poorest sub-group in Huasco Alto. They are
goat breeders, practising small-scale subsistence agriculture, and the oldest amongst
them are illiterate and therefore at risk of being ‘hyper marginalised’ (Bessire, 2014).
Almost overnight, they rose to the valued status of ‘guardians of tradition’ as a result
of their participation in CSR programmes. The mine’s ‘gifts’ consisted of much more
than just material goods. They were highly symbolic and represented for these women
a ticket to a ‘new’ collective identity in which ethnicity became not only a resource for
asserting rights and obtaining social and material benefits, but also a way of enhancing
self-representation and self-esteem (Baeza, 2012: 125). In a country in which indigeneity
had been a stigma, where poverty is interpreted not as the product of an inequitable
system but as the inability of individuals to move forward, how could the ‘gift’ be
refused? How could it be repaid except by performing the role expected by neoliberal
governmentality?
Valeriano women repaid the company gift in part by allowing their images to be
used. As mentioned above, Barrick illustrated its CSR publications with magnificent
photographs of rural women dressed in colourful ponchos, wearing chupayas (straw

© 2020 Society for Latin American Studies

10 Bulletin of Latin American Research
 Performing the ‘India Permitida’

hats), and above all, ready to move forward – i.e. get out of poverty and invisibility
thanks to the company’s support. These women’s pictures perfectly embody the Permit-
ted Indian (Hale and Millaman, 2005), enriching the diversity of Chilean society without
threatening either the neoliberal order or mining projects.

Is the Indio Prohibido a Male?

[The environmentalists] are opposed to the project, but they are people who
come paid, they do not come to defend or spread knowledge [ … ] they come
purely to stir up, to do harm, to steal, they do not contribute to anything
to us, they are just rubbish because they cannot be called anything else.
(Grisela, 2014)

Grisela was a member of a new indigenous community and had been a member of the
Cultural Centre. She used harsh language to describe los ambientalistas (the environmen-
talists). According to her, environmental activists were young people from the capital
Santiago, paid to protest using methods of mobilisation that she disapproves of (graffiti,
demonstrations, roadblocks, etc.). In her view, they defended nothing. Worse, they stole,
created conflict and caused damage. Having participated in the Barrick-supported Dia-
guita’s restoration programme, she was a firm believer in the benefits of the Pascua Lama
project. Consequently, much as others in her situation, Grisela reserved intense wrath for
the opponents of the mine, the aforementioned ambientalistas, but also and even more
so, for the comuneros huascoaltinos, i.e. CADHA members. She accused them of usurp-
ing ‘true’ Diaguita territory and of being a for-profit enterprise, a persistent rumour in
the valley, spread widely by leaders and members of the new communities.

Divided Communities
Grisela’s opinion of CADHA indicates a process of deep division and competition
between those groups. While these organisations have never been united, the discord
between them has intensified over the years, to the extent of impacting the entirety
of Huasco Alto’s social and political fabric. This conflict revolves around different
perceptions of ethnicity, the state and, of course, mining. However, it also includes
a gender dimension since the leaders of these organisations and their members are
predominantly of different sexes.
Thus, as I outlined above, the Cultural Centre, and later the new indigenous commu-
nities, mainly brought together women around micro entrepreneurial activities asso-
ciated with supposed female roles and/or personality traits – such as cultural trans-
mission, a sense of responsibility, dialogue capacity and peacefulness – and that had
‘reasonable positions’, in the sense of being non-confrontational, towards mining and
the state. These groups were recognised as the legitimate representatives of the Dia-
guita, obtained benefits arising from this status and accepted CSR support. In return,
they espoused the vision of indigeneity promoted by the state and the corporation.
In contrast, CADHA has never wavered from its initial position against Barrick. From
2004 until the closure of the project, it always refused to negotiate agreements with the
company, to accept support or even simply to enter into discussions. In 2006, this com-
munity designated its territory for the conservation of flora and fauna, thus becoming
© 2020 Society for Latin American Studies
Bulletin of Latin American Research 11
 Anahy Gajardo

the country’s largest Indigenous Private Protected Area. As owner of an important terri-
tory, CADHA is therefore a relatively powerful organisation in a neoliberal country that
sanctifies private property. As such, it has been, and still is, not only the main obstacle
to large-scale mining projects in the area but also to agroindustry.
However, CADHA has not been legally recognised as an indigenous organisation by
the state, depriving it of a status that would have allow it to mobilise the national legal
apparatus of indigenous people’s rights. Even if the state’s official refusal to recognise
this community as indigenous is based on legal reasons, it is difficult not to analyse this
decision as a political measure aimed at weakening CADHA (Gajardo, 2016, 2018).
While CADHA’s struggle against extractivism has not been criminalised in the same
way as that of the Mapuche people in the south of the country (Richards, 2007), this
community has faced a veritable campaign of denigration, intimidation (threats, etc.)
and invisibilisation based on the contestation of their legitimacy as indigenous, their
territorial rights and leaders. The rumours, spread in particular by members of the new
indigenous communities, describes the latter either as stubborn, selfish or as unambitious
Indians (preventing the development of the valley) or as non-authentic Diaguita, greedy
for power.
This process has progressively produced concrete effects of demobilisation and
deidentification of CADHA’s members vis-à-vis their own organisation, especially of
women. Indeed, although CADHA’s leaders and members are mostly men, women
do participate substantially in the organisation – a few as holders of a derecho de
estancia; most as wives, daughters or relatives of the heads of households. Some of these
women were also Cultural Centre members, and now also belong to one of the many
new indigenous communities. Thus, they found themselves members of two politically
opposed organisations, implicitly called upon to choose between two visions of indi-
geneity and relations with the mine and the state. CADHA is a rural male-dominated
organisation whose activities reflect this character. Even though women do get heavily
involved in CADHA, they generally act behind the scenes of the organisation, too often
confined to the roles of cooks and/or secretaries. In contrast, through their activities at
the Cultural Centre and/or the new communities supported by Barrick, these women
have gained a more valued, visible, recognised and remunerated social status. This
has been accompanied by the gradual weakening of the links these women have with
CADHA, and a corresponding strengthening of their ties with the mining company, to
which they felt increasingly indebted.

Conclusion
Over the last two decades, mining companies have changed their narratives in dealing
with indigenous people. From being an ‘obstacle’, they are nowadays targeted as
‘beneficiaries’, even ‘stakeholders’ of CSR (Dolan and Rajak, 2016: 4). Companies
are therefore adopting a new language (and presenting a new face), promising to
establish horizontal relationships of ‘collaboration’, ‘participation’ and ‘partnership’
(Jenkins, 2004; Rajak, 2011; Babidge, 2013), to ‘empower’ indigenous peoples while
recognising and valuing their cultures. However, as Dolan and Rajak underline (2016:
5), if CSR can reframe business interests to reflect social imperatives or community
needs, it can also produce the counter effect: reframing the interests of communities
and states to fit the interests of corporations.

© 2020 Society for Latin American Studies

12 Bulletin of Latin American Research
 Performing the ‘India Permitida’

In this article I have brought to light, through the lens of the gift (Mauss, 1923), how
the relationship between a company and local populations is necessarily one of coercive
power, which places the recipient in a relationship of ‘debt’, even more so if the recipient
is in a situation of vulnerability that limits his or her choice of refusal. In the case of
Huasco Alto, where mining has been the subject of strong controversy, CSR appears as
a non-neutral actor that contributes to the reconfiguration of social, ethnic, political and
gender relations, and participates in the construction of a scenario in which indigenous
women perform subjectivities apparently more compatible than men with the neoliberal
and multiculturalist governmentality of the Chilean State.

Acknowledgements
I am indebted to all women and men met during my fieldwork. I warmly acknowledge
K. Jenkins and K. Grieco for their guidance as guest editors as well as G. Moraes, K.
Vanthuyne, A. Helg, A. Lavanchy and E. Hertz for their comments on preliminary ver-
sions of this article; the Anthropology Institute of the University of Neuchâtel for its
support; and D. Hoffmann and L. Catignani for proofreading. Part of this research was
funded by the Swiss National Science Foundation (SNF), PBNEP-146109.

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