In June 2024, Cultural Survival staff gathered in Tepoztlán, Morelos, Mexico to connect with each other and the beautiful Nahuatl lands. To honor this place that welcomed us with kindness, we met with ancestral authorities, community leaders, and local organizations to learn about their struggles and work. Cultural Survival’s Diana Pastor spoke with Angélica Ayala (Nahuat), an advocate, anthropologist, and researcher from Tepoztlán and one of 24 Indigenous women from Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras who participated in a training organized by Cultural Survival on communication tools and international human rights.
Cultural Survival: What motivated your activism?
Angélica Ayala: My activism started when I was a child. In 1994, when I was five years old, we fought against the construction of a private golf club in Tepoztlán that was to be built in a protected natural area. My father was part of the free and autonomous city council in Tepoztlán while the resistance of the Zapatista National Army was forming. It was an important battle. My family and the community rose up and shut down the town. We wouldn’t let the police or military in. The streets became a kitchen where people cooked food and sang while children rode their bikes. It felt like a celebration. My grandfather was also part of a resistance in 1960 when a residential area was planned without the community’s permission. He was imprisoned for a year for defending his territory, so the struggle is hereditary.
In 2012, it was my turn. There was a push for the expansion of the La Pera-Cuautla Highway as part of the Morelos Project, which included the construction of a thermoelectric plant and a gas pipeline. In other towns, this might be seen as progress and development, and I have no doubt that it is for some communities that lack roads. However, we already had a road. There was no need to destroy the environment and the archaeological site of Tlaxomolco. We couldn’t completely stop the construction and it ended poorly. After the highway was built, other problems arose such as wildfires, mass tourism, and gentrification, which is a new form of colonization.
CS: How has your community influenced your activism?
AA: I grew up surrounded by strong and brave women. When my father passed away, it was just my mom and my grandmother, who are fundamental parts of my life. Last year, I became the mayordoma (community leader) of the Barrio de Santo Domingo, where I’m from. We address security issues and organize community patrols. We are the only neighborhood with a council of Elders that works together with the mayordomía (local autonomous authorities). We also revived a lost tradition of planting our native corn. In the neighborhood, we have a piece of land that belongs to the neighborhood, and we plant collectively. This practice had stopped, but we resumed it in 2015, and this will be the ninth year of planting. It began with young people, and now the mayordomía and the neighborhood take care of it. It’s interesting because this process coincided with the struggle against the construction of the highway—so the destruction also allowed us to regain community bonds to reconnect with the land.
CS: What does the territory mean to you?
AA: For me, it means roots, identity, having a bond with what surrounds us, a deep love for the land where I grew up. Over the years, I’ve reflected that the territory embraces customs, traditions, and the connections you can establish with your neighbors and people from the community. It has become clear to me that the mayordomía is the heart of many traditions, weaving resistance and rich culture. It’s not just a physical or material space; it’s the connection. With the hills, I have known since childhood where north and south are, where to walk, the flora and fauna, the native animals, tranquility and peace. I have a tattoo of a hill from Tepoztlán, Yogualtepl, who is a nighttime guardian. The hills are my home. Once, I participated in a women’s gathering in Quintana Roo and got dengue. When I was coming back and saw the hills, I thought, ‘I’m home. Whatever happens, the hills are waiting for me, they embrace me.’ The hills hold many stories and wisdom. Walking among them allows you to learn so much. I tattooed the hills on my body because I associate body with territory; our first territory is our body, and the hill represents my own struggle.
CS: Tell us about your experience as a young woman defender.
AA: I was part of the youth front defending Tepoztlán, which emerged because young people didn’t feel represented by the adults, who often belittled us—especially the men—for being young. A large part of our group was women. We didn’t like being told what to do or that we didn’t know anything just because we were young, so we became independent and formed the front. One of the adult members, a teacher, Osbelia Quiroz, told us she believed in the youth and supported us. At that time, more wildfires began occurring and older members taught us how to extinguish them. Since there has been no support from the State, we become brigadistas (firefighters).
Walking and seeing the fire is physically exhausting, requiring good stamina. A lot of energy is lost in a day; the work doesn’t stop. The youth front helped revitalize the brigades. We’ve received support from other places in Mexico, and now there are 10 organized brigades. We have managed to control all the fires. It’s a powerful experience to face the fire, but it’s also satisfying, like when we rescue animals. Some time ago, we rescued a little fox whom we named Dominga in honor of our neighborhood. She’s grown now, and we still see her.
CS: How did you come to be involved in the recent Cultural Survival training?
AA: Prior to the training, a portion of the hill was demolished on the route to Cuernavaca and Mexico City. A huge number of trees were felled in just a few days, and the highway was covered with trees. People were angry and sad. Hearing those machines now fills me with rage. It was a hard blow, and it scattered the organization. After our comrade, Samir Flores Soberanis, who opposed the gas pipeline in Tepoztlán, was killed, hope was fading. During the pandemic, I received information about the Cultural Survival training sessions and I applied. When I got the email saying I had been accepted, I was thrilled. One of the most important aspects was the healing workshops. It allowed me to enter therapy, which I did. I had many things bottled up from my time in the resistance. The workshops lifted my spirits and I realized we weren’t alone in the struggle. As a final product of the workshops, seeing my photo report published felt like a tribute to the people as we marked nine years of resistance. It allowed me to take a breath and reflect on how the rest of the community was experiencing this process, how my fellow community members were feeling.
CS: What are your future plans?
AA: I enjoy serving my community. I think I will never see myself as an individual again; seeing myself collectively allows me to complement who I am. I want to focus on academics, but it should always be related to Tepoztlán. For me, the future is something to be cultivated. It requires work. We plant it and we harvest it so that it can nourish us. Voting is no longer enough; change lies in what we build collectively. We need to cultivate awareness, collective work, and independence. In Tepoztlán we have a free municipality that has been elected through neighborhood assemblies. Indigenous Peoples have particular ways of organizing ourselves, and we cannot lose them.
