SHIPIBO MATRIARCHY IIForced to Marry the Mother-in-Law
In the Shipibo matriarchy, mothers decided whom their sons would marry, and the sons moved in with their mother-in-law. The wishes of the future spouses were disregarded; only after marrying and having children could a person be considered an adult and, therefore, autonomous.
The Shipibo women are an example of female power, based on the unity of the women in the family.
Text and photos by Carlos Suárez Álvarez
Originally published in issue 211 of Cáñamo magazine, July 2015.
In school, and also outside of it, the education of boys and girls in Western societies is focused on transmitting technical and moral knowledge that allows them to access a highly specialized and highly hierarchical productive structure. There is a conviction that in one’s profession lies self-fulfillment and life success: it is no longer simply a means to live, but an end in itself.
In Amazonian cultures, there were no schools; learning took place through practice among family members. The productive system was neither specialized nor hierarchical, which guaranteed autonomy when male and female joined in marriage, thus combining the knowledge necessary to live independently thanks to the forest’s resources. The tasks learned were not ends in themselves: they were a means to care for the spouse and children. The meaning of life was simply to live: to grow, marry, procreate, and care for the lives of those around you.
* * *
Amelia was born in 1940, when the written word in Spanish had not yet arrived; the Shipibos lived as they had centuries before. In the Ucayali basin, food was abundant, as were building materials, natural medicine, potable water, and ancestral knowledge to use the environment without damaging it.
Amelia learned to make pots, spin cotton, weave skirts and tunics, paint designs, cook, and care for children. From the elders she heard admonitions like: “You must work from a young age. When you have a husband, who will take care of him?” Sometimes her grandmother would take her hands and lament bitterly, “These hands are not wife’s hands. A wife’s hand is calloused. The fingers must be prepared to spin.” They were raised to be wives and mothers; the men would be good husbands and fathers if they learned to build houses and canoes, to fish, and to walk in the forest to hunt. This sexual division of labor did not imply hierarchies; the tasks of both men and women were equally valued. Shipibo matriarchy, the female power, lay in the fact that upon marriage the women remained in their mother’s house, while the husband came from one of the women’s houses scattered along the river. This custom, known to anthropologists as matrilocality, had its own formulation. “Mama, always with the daughters,” the grandmother would say like a refrain.
Amelia was given a husband while the family prepared the great ceremonial festival, the ani sheati, the rite of passage in which the girls of the family would have their clitoris cut (Amelia’s had already been removed). Silvino was a friend of her brother; he had come to help with the onerous preparations but also to meet his future wife. When her mother told her the plans, Amelia strongly opposed them. Her mother was unconcerned, trusting Silvino’s skills, as he returned every day from the forest loaded with game and pride. Amelia found him short and ugly. “He’s a very good hunter,” her mother insisted. “Look how he brings meat and builds houses. He’ll be a good husband.” “I don’t like him. I don’t want him!” Amelia shouted, frowning.
The siege ended the night Silvino, with the parents’ connivance, entered Amelia’s mosquito net, although she had already been warned about what would happen. Silvino stroked her knees and tried to open her legs but met resistance. Puzzled, he slid his hands down her tightly closed thighs toward her sex and found the cause of the closure: Amelia had tightly bound her thighs with a cloth. Silvino, muttering words of resentment, left the house. There were beatings for the rebellious girl and nasal remedies that made her vomit, but the festival was approaching and work quickly occupied thoughts and actions.
Amelia, like all young Shipibo women of old, had her marriage arranged. She was able to avoid it the first time, but on the second occasion she gave in.
Another young man helping the family with the preparations for the ani sheati had taken an interest in Amelia: Eloy Ramos. Having witnessed Silvino’s failure, he devised his own strategy, supported by the displeased mother. One afternoon, Amelia went alone to bathe in the river. She undressed and dived in. When she came out, she suddenly felt strong arms wrap around her from behind, lifting her off the ground. Amelia screamed in fear. “Dad, dad!” she called out, but her father, mother, and brother, who were listening nearby, did nothing to help her. “You are already my woman,” Eloy said. “I’ve already held you; you are my woman.” Amelia kicked furiously, helplessly, until she broke free.
In the following days, Eloy harassed her day and night, and although she rejected him scornfully, the young woman’s heart gradually softened. A few days later, Amelia accepted Eloy. This is how it happened: Silvino, the scorned suitor, returned to take part in the festival and perhaps to try his advances once more. But he flew into a rage when he saw Eloy’s strategy was bearing fruit: Eloy was singing a love song, and Amelia was smiling.
The Shipibos had a ritual mechanism to resolve such conflicts: blood. “She is my woman; she was given to me and I am going to keep her,” Silvino said, challenging Eloy to a fight. Eloy accepted: “Amelia is mine because I am more manly than you, and now I will prove it.” The men struck each other with their clubs, under the watchful eyes of the guests and the elders acting as referees. Amelia felt flattered by such a violent display in her honor. “I’m not afraid of you, you’re not stronger than me,” Eloy shouted. “So come on, stab me! Draw your knife and stab my head!” The elders nodded in approval. That was how it should be; Eloy offered his blood to settle the debt. Silvino took his knife, grabbed Eloy by the hair, pulled his head back, and starting behind the ear, ran the knife along his forehead and down to the opposite side of his neck. Blood pooled on the yellow earth floor.
Amelia approached Eloy, helped him up, and took him home, where she applied a clay and medicinal plant poultice. That was how she accepted him as her husband.
* * *
The arrangement of marriages, a custom that may seem unacceptable to us, becomes more understandable when we consider that a man was not only joining his partner, but also her mother, grandmother, aunts, sisters, and even the other men of the large household. They all lived closely together and cooperated, so in this context, it made sense for the mother—by virtue of her experience and knowledge—to decide who would best fit with the group and its dynamics. Many older men recall that in their childhood, when they were made to bathe at dawn to receive advice, their grandparents would tell them: “You must be hardworking, to care for your wife and your mother-in-law.”
It is also problematic that a society characterized by equality and the autonomy of its members would impose a decision of this kind; in reality, people were not full members—and therefore not fully adult and autonomous—until they were married and had children. On the other hand, the differences between two men were not as great as they might be in a complex, stratified society: everyone had more or less the same skills, defined by their gender, male or female. Nor were there major differences in social standing.
* * *
At twenty-two, Juan Alumías liked to drink. He worked for Mobil Oil, which was searching for oil near Juan’s hometown, Charashmaná, in the Pisqui River basin. Most of the money he earned passed through his liver; since he didn’t have a wife, he figured he could afford the drink. His mother was worried and secretly had plans for him.
Quirino Vega was a serious old man, a man of few words. The simplest way to put it was that he had two wives; more precisely, two sisters considered him their husband. The large matrilocal family Quirino had joined (centered around his wives, daughters, and granddaughters) had lived as they always had, in a large, isolated house, which they left from time to time to settle in a new place. The family gave up their semi-nomadic life when they realized that only sedentary population centers would be considered worthy of a state school. They allied with two other families from the Pisqui River and together founded the town of Vencedor, a few hours by canoe from Charashmaná.
Young miss Norma Vega, Quirino’s daughter, did not undergo clitoridectomy, as had been the ancestral custom. The teachers—indigenous people educated by North American Protestant missionaries—played a decisive role in ending this practice. Norma attended school for two years, but so irregularly that she only learned to write her name. What Norma did learn well were the tasks that, by virtue of her sex, every Shipibo girl was expected to master. At dawn, her father would rise and speak plainly: “Boys and girls, get up, it’s already morning. You only think about sleeping and not about working. How will you live when you’re older? You’ll have to work with your husband or your wife, you must learn to work.” Then he would send them all to bathe. Norma fetched water, helped prepare breakfast, ate, and accompanied her mother to the garden. At midday they returned home, had lunch, and spent the afternoon cooking, making pots, weaving hammocks, or spinning cotton.
One afternoon, Norma’s mother made the announcement. “Daughter, I’m going to give you to a man because it’s time you had a husband.” Norma fell silent; though she was seventeen, she was caught off guard. “Why are you going to give me to a man?” she managed to say. “You’re a young woman now, you know how to cook, you know how to embroider, it’s time for you to have your husband.” “But I don’t want a man,” she protested with tears. “I want to keep living with you,” she pleaded, begging not to be given away.
Weeks passed, and one day they visited Charashmaná, Juan’s town. The excuse was to gather fruit; Juan didn’t know anything either. That afternoon, at the end of his workday, he was met by a cousin: “Juan, they’re going to give you Norma Vega.” He wasn’t surprised. “This had to happen, I’m not a boy anymore. I need to have a wife. That’s fine.” At home, his mother was talking with Norma’s mother, who was crying in a corner. Norma’s uncle approached Juan and confirmed the news: “Norma will be for you.” Both mothers nodded. Juan replied happily, “Well, if that’s how it is, no problem.”
Norma and Juan: nearly half a century of marriage and five children. Juan had no problem when his mother told him she had found him a wife; Norma did not love him.
Since Juan had a well-paying job, they would live in Charashmaná, defying the custom that newlyweds always went to live with the wife’s mother. Norma gradually got used to it. A miracle happened in Juan: he quit drinking—he had a wife now, he couldn’t afford the vice. Then came some news that restored Norma’s joy: Mobil Oil needed someone to watch over a large boat that hadn’t made it past Vencedor. Juan was chosen. They showed up at her parents’ house with a good amount of provisions, which Juan gave to his in-laws in hopes of earning their favor.
The mother was delighted, but the father didn’t flinch when he saw his son-in-law and the goods. Juan later found out that the marriage had been arranged against the father’s wishes—he might be wise and a great hunter, but when it came to marrying off the daughters, his wife never paid him any mind. Juan didn’t get discouraged. For the next two months, he kept watch over the barge and received provisions from the company every two weeks, which he gave to his mother-in-law. Quirino remained entrenched in his surliness.
Two months after arriving in the village, Juan decided to leave the company; he wanted to work on his own. He requested his severance pay and once again found himself with pockets full of cash. He kept part of the money and gave another part to Norma to hand over to her father. Juan was present when the money reached the hands of the unyielding father-in-law, whom he saw smile for the first time. The old man was pleased.
* * *
In the mid-1970s, Jayro was a fifteen-year-old caught between two worlds. San Francisco de Yarinacocha still enjoyed lush forests and abundant fish, and many of his peers lived off nature, like their ancestors. But the cancerous city of Pucallpa was spreading inexorably, devouring everything in its path. Many Shipibo families, with great sacrifice, opted to send their children to study in the city. Jayro was one of them. At first, things didn’t go well: having to combine studies with exhausting work, the racist rejection indigenous students faced at school, the loneliness of his miserable rented room.
Besides being a good student, Jayro was passionate about playing football. His skill earned him the respect of his classmates: he went from being a starter on the school team to training with a first division local club. One day, he had an outstanding performance in front of some scouts from Lima, who wanted to sign him. “These are wealthy people,” he told his parents when he visited San Francisco. His father was convinced, but his mother tipped the scale with her tears; one of Jayro’s younger siblings had died from a snakebite—what dangers would he face in Lima? They didn’t let him go; they had other plans for the boy.
A few weeks later, his father informed him that they had arranged his marriage with the daughter of Mr. Bernardo and Mrs. Mercedes. “They’re going to give you their Zoila.” Jayro turned pale. He had been on the verge of becoming a professional footballer, he dreamed of going to university, and now he was suddenly shackled by an absurd tradition. “Don’t ruin my youth, dad, I want to study,” he pleaded. “You’re not going to stop studying, we’ll support you,” his parents replied firmly and without appeal.
Zoila was fifteen. Jayro knew who she was but had barely spoken to her; back then, communication between the sexes was very limited. He had seen her carrying plantains or picking lemons in a large citrus grove in the village. He remembered, with a certain fondness, that the girl liked playing football, had powerful legs, and scored many goals. In the solitude of his humble room in Pucallpa, Jayro sank into anxious reflection: “Do I get married or not?”—naïvely, as if it were his decision. “When I’m with Zoila, what will I feed her? I don’t even know if I like her... We’re not even in love! It’s not like courting: you go to her house, take her for a walk, take her out to eat…”
When he returned to San Francisco, his parents said nothing; he thought maybe the wedding was off. One night, while walking down the street, he saw the deputy governor heading straight toward him. “Come with us,” he ordered. “What’s going on? Why are you taking me?” “Nooo... Relax. There’s a special meeting for you.” When he arrived at his house, everyone was there: his parents, Zoila’s parents, some friends… and her, faintly illuminated by the orange glow of kerosene lamps. Jayro was stunned; Zoila too. Had they exchanged ten words in their life? “Jayro, do you want Zoila or not?” asked the deputy governor, without ceremony. Jayro saw Zoila leaning toward him with a plate of food in her hands. “Do I accept it or not?” he wondered, feeling the impatience of those present. “If I take this food, I’m accepting. Do I accept it or not?” “Just take it, dummy!” his friends whispered, nudging him toward the plate. “Okay then,” Jayro gave in. They ate from the same plate: they were married. As tradition dictated, that very night Jayro moved into his mother-in-law’s house. He had just been married-off.
Jayro and Zoila. Neither of them wanted to get married, but tradition outweighed their desires. Thirty years later, they make a happy couple.
* * *
I never met Eloy, the husband of the octogenarian Amelia; she says they had nine children and that their relationship was a good one. Norma and Juan, who were over sixty when I met them, were deeply in sync; they were the most respected couple in the village of Vencedor.
Jayro and Zoila, thirty years after their arranged marriage, enjoyed an enviable harmony; they had adapted to the new times and allowed their daughters to choose their partners freely. In the past two decades, falling in love has become a prerequisite for entering into marriage. The triumph of romantic love—a cultural particularity of the West—has arrived in the same package as the degradation of nature, the emergence of chiefs and hierarchies, and the decline of mothers' power.
