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By Claudette Salinas Leyva

Every July in the heart of Oaxaca, a state in southeastern Mexico, a vibrant cultural celebration unfolds. La Guelaguetza Popular, full of color and sound, attracts Indigenous communities from all over the region. Over the course of three days, celebrants in distinctive cultural attire fill the squares and streets to perform dances, play music, and enjoy traditional foods. The Guelaguetza—a Zapotec word meaning mutual cooperation—has brought together Oaxaca’s diverse Indigenous peoples for centuries.

But the festival is also a platform for politics and resistance. In a region where legal methods of resistance have been ineffective and dangerous—Oaxaca is one of the deadliest states in Mexico for activists—La Guelaguetza Popular offers a place for political protest against threats posed by the short-term interests of extractive industries and the state. Indigenous leaders and activists hold conversations at the festival and organize around pressing issues of environmental protection, education, land rights, and food sovereignty. In the process, they build coalitions that sometimes develop into effective political action.

Over time, La Guelaguetza Popular has reframed political narratives in the region, amplifying Indigenous and other communal perspectives about solidarity and resistance. Experts on social movements agree that progress requires a long-term approach to organizing. People need to find ways to engage in ongoing conversations with others to clarify values and objectives, develop expertise, share information, and generate the capacity for action. The festival creates the opportunity for the community’s deepest preferences to find expression. At the same time, it emphasizes the importance of preserving cultural traditions and values to build a better future.

Oaxaca has a diverse geography, ranging from vast coastal plains to soaring mountains. One of the three poorest states in Mexico, Oaxaca is rich in natural resources, especially gold, silver, zinc, copper, and lead.¹ The region’s political history has been marked by struggles over control of these resources, especially among outside corporate and government interests.²

Sixteen distinct Indigenous peoples—Mixtecs, Zapotecs, Triquis, Mixes, Chatinos, Chinantecos, Huaves, Mazatecos, Amuzgos, Nahuas, Zoques, Chontales, Cuicatecs, Ixcatecos, Chocholtecos, and Tacuates—comprised 43.7 percent of the state’s total population in 2015.³ Each group has its own unique language, rituals, and traditions.⁴ Livelihoods revolve around communal agriculture inland and artisanal fishing on the coast. The peoples of Oaxaca have lived sustainably, using resources wisely while caring for people at all ages, by following practices of their ancestors and preserving their way of life for future generations. They engage in “milpa” agriculture, which mixes maize with other species like beans, squash, and potatoes, which helps prevent erosion and degradation of the soil.⁵

For decades, Oaxaca communities have been locked in struggles for their land and future. The Mexican government has seized territory, and private companies have extracted ore from the mineral-rich mountains. Gold and silver mining, a major industry since colonial times, has quickened in the twenty-first century. The result is environmental damage and economic dependency.

For example, in Capulálpam de Méndez, a small mountainside town, mining activity has polluted rivers and drained natural springs and aquifers. In 2010, three dams collapsed, leading to a flood of wastewater that turned 26 towns and villages into a toxic graveyard.⁶ Much of the water in Indigenous areas is no longer safe for human consumption, animal husbandry, or crop irrigation.⁷ Severe health issues, including respiratory diseases and cancer, have proliferated.⁸ At the same time, climate change has made droughts more frequent, further threatening traditional agricultural practices.

The government has failed to protect Indigenous communities from the environmental harms and risks associated with mining. Between 2002 and 2011, the federal government issued concessions to mining companies on more than 50,000 hectares of Zapotec land in the area around Capulálpam, a significant portion of the group’s ancestral holdings.⁹ The government made these concessions without consulting or informing communities about legal, environmental, and social considerations. The deal violated the binding International Labor Organization’s Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention.¹⁰ In 2019, a federal district court in Oaxaca ruled that the concessions also violated constitutional protections.¹¹ But mines have continued to operate on Zapotec land.¹²

Conventional channels for political action have proved inadequate to protect land, rights, and interests. The people of Oaxaca often turn to community organizing and activism. But corporations and governments respond with acts of intimidation, repression, and violence. They often attempt to pit Indigenous groups and activists against one another. Organized criminal groups, often linked to the drug trade, and security forces, representing the state as well as legal and illicit private interests, often threaten violence against activists.¹³ According to data from El Centro Mexicano de Derecho Ambiental (CEMDA), a human rights organization, 79 reported attacks occurred in Oaxaca from 2012 to 2018—more than in any other state.¹⁴

Indigenous activists also face legal persecution. “For years the government has tried to punish and dissolve collective and community organizations by fabricating crimes against us,” said Pedro A., an Indigenous activist from Los Valles Centrales, in an interview. With arrest warrants, evictions, and brief jail sentences to “send the message,” activists are further deterred from carrying out acts of civil protest, such as blockades or demonstrations. “They consider us country folk who cannot express ourselves well,” said one resident from Magdalena Ocotlán. “They look down on us, but it’s not fair for us to be treated this way.” Lacking power in formal systems of politics and policy, Oaxaca’s Indigenous peoples have been forced to find creative ways to fight for the interests of the future.

The Guelaguetza festival, as it is now known, dates back to pre-Columbian times, when the Zapotecs held annual celebrations to share customs and celebrate the harvest. In 1932, the government of the state of Oaxaca established a festival in which Indigenous people would gather in the capital city to present crafts and products from their region.¹⁵ The government began calling the festival Guelaguetza in 1953 and promoted it for economic development. In 1974, to accommodate growing crowds of tourists, the state government built an 11,000-seat amphitheater for the festival.¹⁶ It became highly stage-managed and charged admission, with prices too high for many Indigenous and low-income people to participate. Private mining companies became sponsors.

Then there was a clear mandate to change. In 2006, a strike in Oaxaca by the National Union of Education Workers (SNTE) over wages and classroom resources spiraled out of control. Previously, the government had attempted to negotiate with teachers in the event of a strike. But in 2006, Governor Ulises Ruiz Ortiz refused to bargain and sent between 1,000 and 3,000 armed state police to disperse an encampment in the center of Oaxaca.¹⁷ SNTE escalated its protest and found support from student groups, other labor unions, and Indigenous groups. A months-long battle ensued. Police used clubs, rubber bullets, and tear gas against the teachers. As fires burned, gunfire could be heard nightly. Hundreds of thousands of demonstrators took over the city and demanded the governor’s resignation.¹⁸ Some of the protestors formed an ad hoc organization called the Popular Assembly of Oaxaca (APPO). Protesters blockaded the city, occupied public buildings, closed banks, and held regular marches. The takeover lasted for six months. With 800,000 people joining the protests, APPO demanded democratic reforms.¹⁹

As part of this protest, APPO organized a boycott of the official Guelaguetza festival. APPO argued that the festival, what should have been a powerful expression of Indigenous culture and power, had become, in the words of one observer, a “waste of economic resources that only benefits big business, owners of hotels, restaurants, and travel agencies…not the Oaxacan people.”²⁰ When activists blocked access to the amphitheater, the government canceled the event. In subsequent years, the government continued to hold its festival. Those festivals drew tens of thousands of tourists and boosted the local economy. But as a result of the fiery protests of 2006, a challenge was coming.

When the government canceled its festival in 2006, APPO organized La Guelaguetza Popular, a free, multi-day festival intended to capture Guelaguetza’s original spirit of mutual cooperation and solidarity. The region’s Indigenous peoples attended, along with activists, union members, and residents of Oaxaca.²¹ Over the years, the festival has grown to tens of thousands of celebrants, where participants wear the colorful costumes of their ancestors and perform traditional dances and music. The streets fill with the sound of drums, the smell of tamales cooking on open fires, and the smoke of copal, a resin used in Indigenous rituals.

The festival also provides a venue for activists to organize and carry out protests that can be risky for Indigenous groups elsewhere. Political scientists have referred to this as expressive politics, or “infrapolitics.” With subtle, often unnoticed actions of resistance in everyday life, repressed groups can gain solidarity and begin to develop a political agenda.²² Infrapolitics, often held in private spaces or selected public events, provides a space for marginalized voices to express their views. During the festival, Indigenous activists give speeches to raise awareness about community struggles. They lead chants like “Yes to life! No to mining!” and “No gold! No silver! Mining kills!” Participants speak out against the health hazards and environmental damages of mining and criticize state and federal authorities for supporting mining industries and denying their harmful effects.

Organizers and activists—who requested anonymity in this report for fear of reprisals—say the festival is a safe place in which to speak out. “We want attention, and each July, we get it from neighbors, tourists, states, and corporations by showing up as a united coalition in the face of adversity,” said Rosa B., an organizer in 2023. “We are a point of unity against repression, and we exist because we resist.” Crowds gather in churches, streets, and stadiums and hear testimony from activist leaders and ordinary people. On the final day, people fill the seats of the iconic Technological Stadium of Oaxaca for performances.

Festival participants have an opportunity to learn about the economic and social conditions of the region—and to connect with the activists, offer support, and explore political strategies. “We have faced retaliation for our resistance,” said one Indigenous activist in 2023. “But every [person] that hears our stories, every nod of understanding, and every hand that joins us in support adds to our resolve. This festival, while a celebration, is also a testament to our fight for justice and equality.”

Groups are invited to join the festival through word of mouth. The organizers often identify and connect with local initiatives that fight against government and criminal abuses such as imprisonment, forced disappearances, and land grabbing, and social issues such as food insecurity and poverty. “La fiesta es resistencia,” participants in the events say.²³ “Being Indigenous is not just about folklore. It is a form of resistance,” said Karla N., a Mixtec activist. The cultural rituals, songs, dances, and symbols all date back generations, and their continued display ensures their continuation.

Women play a leading role. In ceremonial rituals using the Zapotec language, they express gratitude for the abundance of Mother Earth and call for strength and endurance to preserve their land and resources. Elders prepare traditional tamales and mezcal, with the help of young girls. “We nourish, we sustain, and, like water, we’re essential to life,” said Biaani, a Zapotec woman. “These rituals remind everyone that we, as women, are the bedrock of our community.”

Teachers and unions are also instrumental. Giving speeches, carrying placards, and engaging in artistic performances, they assert their rights and express their frustration with government policies. They are playing the long game. “We’re shaping the minds that will uphold our traditions, fight for our rights, and contribute to our society,” said Yolanda C., a teacher. “This festival allows us to convey that teachers’ concerns matter, and we deserve better.”

The concept of intergenerational justice unifies the festival. Informed by ancestral wisdom and determined to forge a sustainable future, festival celebrants seek to reimagine politics and invoke the traditions of solidarity and cooperation. In this reimagining, the government and private interests join with the community to nurture the environment and safeguard societal welfare, not just for those alive today, but also for those yet to come.

For the Indigenous communities of Oaxaca, the most pressing goal is to defend the land for themselves and for future generations. Activists reject the extractive approach to development, in which the environment is simply a collection of resources to be exploited for short-term profit. Instead, they embrace a holistic relationship with the environment in which every act of construction is also an act of stewardship.

Defense of the land and opposition to mining is a prominent theme at La Guelaguetza Popular. In some cases, inspired and brought together by the festival, activists have gathered the support and motivation to carry out campaigns that have succeeded. For example, in the town of Ixtepec, a determined group of young women who go by the name of “las meñas” spoke out against a mining project that posed a severe threat to their community. The 2015 project was backed by Plata Real, a subsidiary of the American company Sunshine Mining and Refining, and the Japanese firm Dowa.²⁴ The proposal’s open-pit mines would damage hillsides and endanger the Guigu Bicu River, critical to irrigation.²⁵ The project would have destroyed around 6,000 hectares of farmland for Zapalote Chico maize, which is not just a food staple but also a cultural asset embedded in the community’s identity, fundamental to traditional gastronomy and rituals.²⁶

Despite significant opposition from local leaders who were determined to push forward with corporate development, the women refused to back down. “Although women’s voices have traditionally been marginalized in discussions about land and territory, we have a vital role in defending these resources,” the group said in a statement. “After all, we are responsible for the reproduction of life and the maintenance of our families.”²⁷ Communal festivals and events helped them recruit activists. At a protest in 2016, they used sledgehammers and crowbars to destroy one of the five boundary markers of the project.²⁸ That year, more than 2,500 people gathered in a Forum Against Mining Exploitation and signed a declaration to express their support for an Ixtepec free of mining.²⁹ As information about the negative impact of mining activities circulated, opposition swelled.³⁰ In 2017, due to mounting resistance and the growing disapproval of their operations, the companies withdrew from the area.³¹

This successful campaign offers a model for translating political expression into political action. In these communities, the bond with the land goes beyond market relationships and processes.

“For me, the territory is not merely a physical space, but a source of dignity and vitality,” Víctor D., a Zapotec man, said in 2023. “Its destruction would directly threaten our very existence, jeopardizing access to essential resources, culture, and traditions.”

The power of Indigenous peoples’ activism lies in their ability to look forward as well as backward. If elites, and the political system they run, tend to focus on the immediate impacts of economic empowerment strategies, infrastructure, water resources, and mining and other extractive industries, these activists make a strong case for long-term considerations. La Guelaguetza Popular creates an opening for traditional communities to express and develop long-term needs and preferences. Even if they cannot eliminate short-term pressures, they can resist them.