Eric Terena (Terena) is a man of multi-talents and interests. As a DJ and music maker, he is recognized as an architect of the electric, hip-hop inflected, socially impactful sound rising up from the country’s increasingly urbanized, universe-transversing Indigenous youth—a platform which has earned him wide recognition as an ambassador for Indigenous Peoples of the Amazon, particularly in the climate justice movement. He also co-founded Mídia Índígena, a communications network dedicated to grassroots, community-centered advocacy journalism, reporting on Indigenous rights and environmental issues across Latin America and increasingly the world. Cristina Verán recently spoke with Terena during the 2024 NYC Climate Week.
CV: Most DJs have a special name that they’re known by, as performers, and yours is often noted with three parts: Eric Marky Terena. What does each represent?
ET: Eric is the western nome de branco (white name) that I use per my Brazilian nationality—my Indigenous name is Kopisoiti. Marky comes from my surname; a nickname for Marques. As for the last part, today in Brazil, a way to affirm one’s Indigeneity and community is to substitute the name of one’s people in place of a surname—so instead of Marques, I use Terena. I should explain that for a very long time, Indigenous Peoples in my country were forbidden from using any Indigenous names at all on our national ID cards, obliged under a colonial kind of policy to change ourselves, just to exist.
I prefer now to be called just Eric Terena.
CV: Given your high profile as a public figure and performer, how does this international life you lead now compare with your experiences growing up, and relating to your community?
ET: I was born in the city of Campo Grande, which is near my Terena community in the state of Mato Grosso do Sul. Until the age of 8, I lived my life between both of these. Inside my community, I lived according to our traditions. But even outside of it, I lived apart from the urban society, you could say. We spoke Terena at home, so the language was very present in our everyday lives; a gift from my mother, my grandmother, my aunties, and those no longer living.
My mother and father wanted me to learn what’s needed to achieve things in Brazilian society, to go to university and to have a good job—opportunities our Elders never had!—but to do so while also continuing to walk the path of our people.
CV: A lot of responsibility to carry, no?
ET: Yes, that’s been a challenge for me, always.
CV: Given the diversity of communities in the Amazon, how do your people relate to and with their neighbors, other Indigenous nations within Brazil, in terms of historical links, cultural similarities, and so on?
ET: Before Brazil existed as a country, Terenas connected with others based on our shared biome such as the Chaco and the Pantanal, as well as some shared language and ancestry. These important relationships endure, though unfortunately they aren’t recognized by the Brazilian government, much less by those making global decisions that impact our lands—which border Paraguay and Bolivia.
CV: How have these connections led to the kind political actions and alliances emerging today from the Amazon?
ET: There are a variety of distinct cumbres (umbrella groups of leaders) in South America that are important to our shared struggles, whether in regard to culture, language, or land rights. For example, the Terena are part of APIB (Articulação dos Povos Indígenas do Brasil) and through this, we work in alliance with Guaraní, Kichwas, and so on, in terms of strengthening intercommunal relationships, political organizing, creating opportunities to collaborate, and supporting one another through things like media, communication, filmmaking, music, sharing technology, and so on.
CV: Technology, per se, isn’t something the outside world often considers in the context of People of the Amazon region. How did it become part of your arsenal, and what kinds of tech do you find especially useful?
ET: We’ve been using drones, for example, to monitor the massive forest fires across the Amazon and to help protect communities from their destruction; as tools for our fight.
And it was through DJing that I first became very interested in and came to know a lot about audio recording, not only with regard to my music but also for radio programs, recording podcasts, and capturing sound for films. This led directly to my becoming also a media maker.
CV: Please share with us a bit about that journey, from how it began to what it has become.
ET: Back in 2015, Erisvan Guajajara, Edivan Guajajara, Flay Guajajara, and myself all had the same dream, to amplify Indigenous voices regarding the issues important to us as Indigenous Peoples here in Brazil, as well as to connect with the global movement about concerns that we all share. That’s how Mídia Índia—now known as Mídia Indígena—began, with each of us as a co-founder.
We’ve all grown a lot, collectively and individually since then, while I’m known as a DJ, Edivan is a filmmaker; for example, he has a film on Netflix now called We are Guardians. Erisvan, meanwhile, provides technical support for Indigenous leaders in the Brazilian Government.
CV: What should we know about Mídia Indígena today?
ET: As an information network, it comprises almost 800 Indigenous media makers in Brazil. We use the internet and social media—especially YouTube, TikTok, Instagram, and WhatsApp—to ensure that our Peoples can access information they urgently need about the communities where we live.
Top photo: Eric Terena performing at a 2023 UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues opening reception at The Shed in New York.
CV: Given how important visibility is for any activist movement and causa, you’ve managed to create an impactful presence in those arenas. How did that evolve, and what do you see as their usefulness beyond the attention they bring?
ET: We have to assert some kind of identity in social media networks, yes, but unlike the typical “influencers”, we don’t just take and share pretty pictures of the rainforest, of people with painted faces, waving flags for “likes.” Rather, we post strategically, to bring attention to what’s happening not only in the rainforest but also in the cities, where Indigenous Brazilians can face some of the worst violations of all.
When we’re outside of our communities, we also use social media to follow what’s going on back home, so that we don’t lose our feeling of connection.
CV: This may be second-nature for youth that have grown up with access to and therefore an ease with using such things. But what about the Elders in your communities who have been leading the movement since long before these options came about—are they also onboard?
ET: We encourage Elders to have the confidence to put themselves out there. Until maybe 5 years ago or so though, our leaders didn’t want to talk on camera, fearing real risks that exist in Brazil to put one’s face out there like that. Their lives could be threatened, their communities might be invaded, for example.
When they did dare to speak out, the government would address them dismissively, aggressively. They’d demand to know, “Do you have a passport?” Well aware that many Indigenous Brazilians, especially Elders, do not. Officials use that as an excuse to say “Well then I won’t speak to you. I won’t listen to you.” In other words, “We won’t fund you, or offer whatever kind of access or accreditation you seek.”
Things are changing though, and this younger generation has had to open new pathways in order to be able to communicate with those in power. For example, we learn to speak multiple languages—Portuguese, Spanish, perhaps English. Since 2018, Mídia Indígena has become more connected with international movements and issues, and has been present at key United Nations meetings, at NYC Climate Week, and at various COP convenings around the globe.
CV: As an Indigenous-lead organization, how do you engage and respond to the larger mainstream media landscape, whether in such global forums or at home in Brazil?
ET: Though we do have some allies within the mainstream media in Brazil, we don’t really feel that we can trust what they publish or confide in them. They’ve circulated a lot of fake news about us; for example, spreading rumors that the recent fires were deliberately started by and are the fault of Indigenous communities. Imagine!
Mídia Indígena has made it our mission to correct this false narrative. We’ve done our own investigations and provided counter evidence about where the blame lies—with the rise in global temperatures due to climate change and the extractive industries that exploit our land and its resources. Everyday Brazilians with their new cars, their new homes, new technological devices, are complicit in this, too. But we—who did not cause this—are forced to watch our rainforests and woodlands being destroyed, paying the price.
As far as journalists from international outlets—El País, New York Times, The Guardian, etc.—we make a point of linking with those who are either now within or who have previously been to our territories, who can break important news that will reach those from outside Brazil.
CV: Your work as a performer has brought you to many places now outside of Brazil, where you can speak directly to the world beyond. When did you first start making music, and what attracted you specifically to the artform of DJing?
ET: While I was growing up, my brothers and cousins would often perform our people’s traditional kind of music; singing, playing the flute, and the caja. My father had this friend, Valdir Viana, who was a DJ, and I decided that I wanted to learn to do what he did. He taught me how (to spin records and mix the music) on his turntables.
While at university, thanks to a scholarship I received from the Ford Foundation and its Redes de Saberes (knowledge networks) program, I still needed to earn some extra money, and so I started DJing at parties there, and for weddings, birthdays, and so on.
Then one day, the (late) anthropologist Professor Antonio Brand—a great scholar of things related to Indigenous Peoples—approached me with an opportunity, inviting me to an event showing his art. And he said to me, “Eric, you’re becoming quite well known as a DJ. Why not make your own music, too; mixing and recording it yourself?”
“But I’m not a singer!” I told him. He persisted though, so I gave it a try. To be a DJ is to play music, but I eventually learned to do much more than just play the music of others.
CV: How did you begin this process, and work through whatever kind of music you wanted to make?
ET: My first experiments weren’t that great, but eventually—especially when reflecting my culture—the sound improved and began to resonate not only with the other Indigenous students, but also audiences beyond that.
CV: Your tech-driven music enmeshes sonic notes from the natural environment as well as music of the Peoples living within it, into what is otherwise electronic, often hip-hop flavored music. How do you achieve this?
ET: I like to go out into the rainforest with a microphone and, from there, record ambient sounds there, and also the voices and traditional songs of the people living there. Then when I am back in the studio, I’ll apply some technological effects to enhance those recordings, to make them stronger, more powerful. The rhythm may be electronic, it may be hip-hop, but I’m doing it on an Indigenous frequency, integrating such popular western music styles with our own.
CV: What protocols are important to be mindful of when working with the people in your own or in other Indigenous communities?
ET: When I want to record a song with an Elder, for example, I talk with them about what I plan to do, and ask for their permission or authorization before I begin. And whenever I go to different communities to perform, I don’t just do my DJ set and then leave right after. I spend time with the people and find ways to involve the youth there, giving workshops and showing how they can use music to communicate.
CV: You’ve made a point to foreground Indigenous languages in your music. Why is this important, and how do your audiences—both Indigenous and non-Indigenous—relate to what they may or may not understand?
ET: Whenever, wherever anyone can hear our languages—música Kichwa on a bus, música Terena in the subway, música Kikuna on an airplane, etc.—it brings forth our ancestors to reconnect again with this world.
I’ve played my song “Sarayaku”, which features the voice of Taki Supay (a Kichwa MC from the Sarayaku community) at events here in New York, when there are Kichwa people in the crowd who immediately recognize their language and can discern the protest meaning within it. They react like, “Whoa… you’re using the music like this?!”
Those who don’t understand the words still enjoy it, but more as just something to dance to. For me as a DJ, it doesn’t matter if the crowd really understands the words or not. I believe that the energy of the songs still connects with them, to feel the meaning and the message somehow.
CV: How prevalent are Indigenous DJs in Brazil’s music scene at the moment?
ET: There aren’t many. To be a professional DJ these days, you need a way to play and record music, to have a computer and the right plug-ins, and so on. Indigenous communities in Brazil are often very isolated and may only get electricity and internet for 3 or 4 hours a day. When I’m there in such places, I focus on trying to help those young people aspiring to this to figure out how to work with what they have.
For example, they often use their phones to record things. Sometimes they’ll message me from some remote place, saying “Eric, I just found and sampled this great sound that I want to use for something. Can you help me adjust it? I want to make it have a higher pitch, a louder volume, or perhaps add an electronic effect to make it sound like four voices at once.”
CV: So, even after you’ve left their communities, these relationships continue?
ET: Yes. It's important, to me, to maintain contact like this and to remain accessible. I try to help where I can because for each one that I teach, I know they’ll go and teach others, too. Every day, I’m in touch with all kinds of singers, rappers, songwriters, and traditional musicians, too.
CV: Who are some other artists that you’ve been connecting and/or collaborating with—particularly those whose music and ideals align with your own?
ET: I’m always excited to connect with those who, like me, are looking to music as the way to amplify their struggle. Here in South America, there are artists I’ve worked with, like Djuena Tikuna for example, who’s also from Brazil. I like MC Millaray, a Mapuche rapper from Chile with a strong voice and powerful presence. Then in North America, there’s Xiuhtezcatl, a great friend of mine, and Taboo from Black Eyed Peas. Supaman, too, is so incredible.
CV: How does your activism mitigate the reception you’ve received (or not) by the mainstream and the music industry in your country?
ET: I’m not part of the mainstream, nor am I trying to be. If your music focuses on or complains about social issues, even if done within popular genres, the music industry in Brazil doesn’t want anything to do with it. In so many places, an Indigenous person with a microphone is considered a threat. My songs, collaborations with other Indigenous artist-activists, speak out against injustices, like the impact of the oil industry, deforestation, mining inside our communities, and things like that. It’s protest music.
CV: And finally with all these many hats that you wear in your work and life—a media maker, a DJ, and an activist—how much of that represent the professional vs. the personal for you?
ET: My whole life is invested in this movement so, for me and for all who are dedicated to caring for our forests, our families, our languages, our cultures, it’s not a job. It’s survival.
Cristina Verán is an international Indigenous Peoples focused specialist researcher, educator, advocacy strategist, and mediamaker. She was a founding member of the United Nations Indigenous Media Network and the Indigenous Language Caucus. As adjunct faculty at New York University's Tisch School of the Arts, including for the Clive Davis Institute of Recorded Music, she brings emphasis to the global histories, expressions, and impacts of Indigenous popular music, contemporary visual and performing arts, media, and socio-political movements. She is originally from Peru.
Top photo: Eric Terena performing at a 2023 UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues opening reception at The Shed in New York.
All photos courtesy Cristina Verán
