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Nonfiction

I Write to Purge This Memory

By Liliana Ancalao
Translated from Spanish by Liliana Ancalao & Seth Michelson
Liliana Ancalao honors her Mapuche identity and records the violence the state committed against her people in the Conquest of the Desert and Occupation of Araucanía, violence that continues to this day. Translated from Spanish into English by Seth Michelson. Self-translated from Spanish into Mapudungun by Liliana Ancalao.
Photo of rocks and brush in Fitatimen, Río Negro
Photo: Liliana Ancalao

I write to remember who I am, because I was born not knowing who I was.

I write to honor the kongen, owners of the water, who came to me in the voice of my grandmother, Roberta Napaiman, when the Ngen1 was the horse jutting his head out from a lake in Cushamen, the sound birthing a fear in us and impeding our games on the shore.

I write to remember the kuifikecheyem, the ancestors who once were children and crossed the rushing rivers by clinging to tails of horses.

I write for the small relief of it, like the relief my eyes feel when I look out into the distance because to be Ankalaufken is to be in the middle of the sea or the middle of a lake, the extensive plains of my nampulkafe2 blood that traveled from the Pacific to the Atlantic and settled in the precarity of a treaty with winka,3 from where it was evicted.

I write to convince myself that this is why I live in Comodoro Rivadavia, the place from where I watch the sea and its waters, which at times are silver and at other times filthy.

I write because, even like this, the machi4 have seen in the pewma5 Ngen of this sea.

I write to make this memory bloom again.

I write to ask myself how many lots and streets have been built on this Puel6 shore, slapping a hand over the mouths of the machines that dug up bones buried thousands of years prior.

I write for the dead stripped of flesh and exhibited as spoils of war by Francisco Pascasio Moreno in the Museum of Natural Sciences dating back 134 years.

In other words, I write so that the names of all of those assassins don’t go unpunished.

So I mention Rauch the Prussian, who slit our throats to save bullets for President Rivadavia, I mention slaughter and the arrival of Rosas at Choele Choel, I mention military ranks generals coronels terror and winka barbarians who raped women, who shot prisoners, and who began handing out children and women as slaves, before Julio Argentino and his photo on the hundred-peso bill.

And I add to Julio Roca: Rudecindo and Ataliva, and other names that knot my stomach like Sarmiento, Villegas, Levalle, Winter, Racedo, Uriburu, Laciar.

I write because, escaping horror, my people fled farther south, farther into the mountains, abandoning their homes, their seed and harvest, their animals.

I write because I want to remember the children who saved themselves by covering themselves in hides and those who in the frenzy of the flight fell from horses and weren’t with their parents when they stopped and didn’t light a fire to avoid being spotted by soldiers.

I write because they were caught and herded like animals for hundreds of kilometers, and some were abandoned along the way, left there to bleed out after being castrated or after having their Achilles cut.

I write to discover their faces covered in tears and blood from the blows, in the splatter from the cuts to their flesh, in earth after their long march.

And I write so that there’s a map that records this genocide.

I write to not forget those who died on the high seas, heaped and sick on the ships that carried them to ports of family dismemberment still with us today; I write for the desperation woven with moans and cries.

I write because they didn’t know their destiny before arriving at the concentration camps, the estates, the sugarmills, the yerba plantations.

I write because I’m not a Ñanko7 who can soar past this misery.

I write for those tortured by hunger in the concentration camps of Fortín Villegas, Valcheta, Chichinales, Malargüe, Rodeo del Medio, Villa Mercedes, Tigre, Isla Martín García, that island where those sick with smallpox also were dumped.

I write for the relatives never heard from again, displaced to Rosario, San Miguel de Tucumán, Río Cuarto, Córdoba, Ingenio San Juan, and for those enslaved by Rufino Ortega in Mendoza and by Rudecindo Roca in Misiones.

I write to protect myself from the death that surrounds me when I don’t know what to do with the fatigue, the shame, the lack of a will to live.

I write to purge this memory.

I write because I already learned defeat and I know that even when defeated one can write, to circle around events and put a name to those who had none.

I write for those who went crazy in witnessing the assassination of their children, and for the children left to die of hunger and thirst, and for the children who were stolen.

I write for those who were cleaved from their names and condemned to ignore their kupalme.8

I write to remember the names of our Spirits, to reassert their power over foreign religions, so that their God will judge Bishop Aneiros and the priests who witnessed the horror but said nothing.

I write so that this memory doesn’t stagnate.

I write because I wasn’t the Nawel9 who consoled and accompanied those who couldn’t escape the horrors; I’m no luan10 or choike11 to nourish them.

I write so that this memory flows and becomes again a single river with recent memory.

I write, then, for the scraps of land returned by the new state as if they were charity, and for those displaced from those lands because the rich always knew how to manipulate their laws.

I write for those whom the ranch owners trapped within wire fencing to strand them without water, without grass for their animals, without firewood, and who were finally thrown off the land they’d clung to by their fingernails, their heart, and their hope.

I write for those swindled by winka who lied about the numbers in their bookkeeping, and for those who paid that fraudulent debt with their land and were left with nothing in return.

I write for the children who had Mapudungun12 silenced in their mouths in civilizing, evangelical schools.

I write for those murdered in city police stations, so young they hadn’t even had the time to learn their origins, killed for carrying their people, for their face, for their surname.

I write for Rafael Nahuel and Camilo Catrillanca, shot in the back by the Albatross Group and the Jungla Comandos, respectively, assassinated for reclaiming this memory that clings to Wall Mapu,13 to the language of the Spirits.

I write for the machi condemned to be driven from their rewe14 and their lawen,15 their Newen16 incarcerated so that the claws of forestry, mining, and hydroelectricity could dig in, destroying what little we had left.

I write out of the fear that the Ngen of the mountains, the hills, the stones, the waters, will grow tired of the prolonged heresy and abandon us.

I write because the Ngen still live, in the taüles17 and their language, the sound of the kultrun,18 the cycles of the mapu,19 and the rains.

I write to know what death and what life I come from and endure.

 


1. Ngen: a spiritual entity that cares for specific people and places, sometimes becoming visible by adopting various forms.

2. Nampulkafe: traveler.

3. Winka: foreigner.

4. Machi: a person with knowledge to act in the many spiritual dimensions constituting the territory.

5. Pewma: images in dreams that carry messages.

6. Puel: Eastern. Puelmapu is the land to the East, occupied today by the Argentine state.

7. Ñanko: eaglet. One of the forms adopted by the Ngen.

8. Kupalme: family origin.

9. Nawel: American tiger. One of the forms adopted by the Ngen.

10. Luan: guanaco

11. Choike: American ostrich.

12. Mapudungun: the language of the land.

13. Wall Mapu: the land of the Mapuche people.

14. Rewe: a place specifically designated for communication with other dimensions.

15. Lawen: medicine.

16. Newen: spirtual force.

17. Taüles: from “taül,” a ceremonial song (Hispanicized and pluralized in line with the rules of Spanish-language grammar).

18. Kultrun: a percussive instrument used in spiritual ceremonies.

19. Mapu: land.


Copyright © 2023 by Liliana Ancalao. Translation © 2023 by Seth Michelson and Liliana Ancalao. All rights reserved.

To learn more about Mapuche writing, read Liliana Ancalao’s conversation with Elisa Taber: “Living Words: An Introduction to Five Contemporary Mapuche Texts.”

English Spanish (Original) Mapudungun

I write to remember who I am, because I was born not knowing who I was.

I write to honor the kongen, owners of the water, who came to me in the voice of my grandmother, Roberta Napaiman, when the Ngen1 was the horse jutting his head out from a lake in Cushamen, the sound birthing a fear in us and impeding our games on the shore.

I write to remember the kuifikecheyem, the ancestors who once were children and crossed the rushing rivers by clinging to tails of horses.

I write for the small relief of it, like the relief my eyes feel when I look out into the distance because to be Ankalaufken is to be in the middle of the sea or the middle of a lake, the extensive plains of my nampulkafe2 blood that traveled from the Pacific to the Atlantic and settled in the precarity of a treaty with winka,3 from where it was evicted.

I write to convince myself that this is why I live in Comodoro Rivadavia, the place from where I watch the sea and its waters, which at times are silver and at other times filthy.

I write because, even like this, the machi4 have seen in the pewma5 Ngen of this sea.

I write to make this memory bloom again.

I write to ask myself how many lots and streets have been built on this Puel6 shore, slapping a hand over the mouths of the machines that dug up bones buried thousands of years prior.

I write for the dead stripped of flesh and exhibited as spoils of war by Francisco Pascasio Moreno in the Museum of Natural Sciences dating back 134 years.

In other words, I write so that the names of all of those assassins don’t go unpunished.

So I mention Rauch the Prussian, who slit our throats to save bullets for President Rivadavia, I mention slaughter and the arrival of Rosas at Choele Choel, I mention military ranks generals coronels terror and winka barbarians who raped women, who shot prisoners, and who began handing out children and women as slaves, before Julio Argentino and his photo on the hundred-peso bill.

And I add to Julio Roca: Rudecindo and Ataliva, and other names that knot my stomach like Sarmiento, Villegas, Levalle, Winter, Racedo, Uriburu, Laciar.

I write because, escaping horror, my people fled farther south, farther into the mountains, abandoning their homes, their seed and harvest, their animals.

I write because I want to remember the children who saved themselves by covering themselves in hides and those who in the frenzy of the flight fell from horses and weren’t with their parents when they stopped and didn’t light a fire to avoid being spotted by soldiers.

I write because they were caught and herded like animals for hundreds of kilometers, and some were abandoned along the way, left there to bleed out after being castrated or after having their Achilles cut.

I write to discover their faces covered in tears and blood from the blows, in the splatter from the cuts to their flesh, in earth after their long march.

And I write so that there’s a map that records this genocide.

I write to not forget those who died on the high seas, heaped and sick on the ships that carried them to ports of family dismemberment still with us today; I write for the desperation woven with moans and cries.

I write because they didn’t know their destiny before arriving at the concentration camps, the estates, the sugarmills, the yerba plantations.

I write because I’m not a Ñanko7 who can soar past this misery.

I write for those tortured by hunger in the concentration camps of Fortín Villegas, Valcheta, Chichinales, Malargüe, Rodeo del Medio, Villa Mercedes, Tigre, Isla Martín García, that island where those sick with smallpox also were dumped.

I write for the relatives never heard from again, displaced to Rosario, San Miguel de Tucumán, Río Cuarto, Córdoba, Ingenio San Juan, and for those enslaved by Rufino Ortega in Mendoza and by Rudecindo Roca in Misiones.

I write to protect myself from the death that surrounds me when I don’t know what to do with the fatigue, the shame, the lack of a will to live.

I write to purge this memory.

I write because I already learned defeat and I know that even when defeated one can write, to circle around events and put a name to those who had none.

I write for those who went crazy in witnessing the assassination of their children, and for the children left to die of hunger and thirst, and for the children who were stolen.

I write for those who were cleaved from their names and condemned to ignore their kupalme.8

I write to remember the names of our Spirits, to reassert their power over foreign religions, so that their God will judge Bishop Aneiros and the priests who witnessed the horror but said nothing.

I write so that this memory doesn’t stagnate.

I write because I wasn’t the Nawel9 who consoled and accompanied those who couldn’t escape the horrors; I’m no luan10 or choike11 to nourish them.

I write so that this memory flows and becomes again a single river with recent memory.

I write, then, for the scraps of land returned by the new state as if they were charity, and for those displaced from those lands because the rich always knew how to manipulate their laws.

I write for those whom the ranch owners trapped within wire fencing to strand them without water, without grass for their animals, without firewood, and who were finally thrown off the land they’d clung to by their fingernails, their heart, and their hope.

I write for those swindled by winka who lied about the numbers in their bookkeeping, and for those who paid that fraudulent debt with their land and were left with nothing in return.

I write for the children who had Mapudungun12 silenced in their mouths in civilizing, evangelical schools.

I write for those murdered in city police stations, so young they hadn’t even had the time to learn their origins, killed for carrying their people, for their face, for their surname.

I write for Rafael Nahuel and Camilo Catrillanca, shot in the back by the Albatross Group and the Jungla Comandos, respectively, assassinated for reclaiming this memory that clings to Wall Mapu,13 to the language of the Spirits.

I write for the machi condemned to be driven from their rewe14 and their lawen,15 their Newen16 incarcerated so that the claws of forestry, mining, and hydroelectricity could dig in, destroying what little we had left.

I write out of the fear that the Ngen of the mountains, the hills, the stones, the waters, will grow tired of the prolonged heresy and abandon us.

I write because the Ngen still live, in the taüles17 and their language, the sound of the kultrun,18 the cycles of the mapu,19 and the rains.

I write to know what death and what life I come from and endure.

 


1. Ngen: a spiritual entity that cares for specific people and places, sometimes becoming visible by adopting various forms.

2. Nampulkafe: traveler.

3. Winka: foreigner.

4. Machi: a person with knowledge to act in the many spiritual dimensions constituting the territory.

5. Pewma: images in dreams that carry messages.

6. Puel: Eastern. Puelmapu is the land to the East, occupied today by the Argentine state.

7. Ñanko: eaglet. One of the forms adopted by the Ngen.

8. Kupalme: family origin.

9. Nawel: American tiger. One of the forms adopted by the Ngen.

10. Luan: guanaco

11. Choike: American ostrich.

12. Mapudungun: the language of the land.

13. Wall Mapu: the land of the Mapuche people.

14. Rewe: a place specifically designated for communication with other dimensions.

15. Lawen: medicine.

16. Newen: spirtual force.

17. Taüles: from “taül,” a ceremonial song (Hispanicized and pluralized in line with the rules of Spanish-language grammar).

18. Kultrun: a percussive instrument used in spiritual ceremonies.

19. Mapu: land.


Copyright © 2023 by Liliana Ancalao. Translation © 2023 by Seth Michelson and Liliana Ancalao. All rights reserved.

To learn more about Mapuche writing, read Liliana Ancalao’s conversation with Elisa Taber: “Living Words: An Introduction to Five Contemporary Mapuche Texts.”

Para que drene esta memoria

Escribo para recordarme quién soy, porque yo nací sin saber quién era.

Escribo por respeto a los kongen, los dueños del agua, que me llegaron en la voz de mi abuela Roberta Napaiman y esa vez el ngen1 era un caballo que asomaba su cabeza en la laguna de Cushamen, el temor nos nacía escuchando este relato e impedía nuestros juegos en la orilla.

Escribo para recordar a los kuifikecheyem, a los antiguos que antes eran niños y cruzaban los ríos torrentosos aferrados a la cola de un caballo.

Escribo porque así me alivio un poco, como mis ojos se alivian cuando miro lejos porque ser Ankalaufken es estar en la mitad del mar o en la mitad del lago, esa planicie extensa de mi sangre nampulkafe2, que arrancó desde el Pacífico hasta el Atlántico y se instaló en la precariedad de un trato con el winka3, desde donde fue desalojada.

Escribo para convencerme de que por eso vivo en Comodoro Rivadavia, lugar desde donde miro el mar y sus aguas que a veces son de plata, y otras, aguas ensuciadas.

Escribo porque aún así los machi4 han visto, en el pewma5, al ngen de este mar.

Escribo para que vuelva a brotar esa memoria

Escribo para preguntarme cuántos loteos y caminos se construyeron en esta orilla Puel6 tapándole la boca a las máquinas que removieron los huesos enterrados miles de años hace.

Escribo por los muertos descarnados por Francisco Pascasio Moreno y expuestos en el Museo de Ciencias Naturales como trofeos del despojo, 134 años hace.

Escribo entonces para que no quede impune el nombre de tantos asesinos

Entonces digo Rauch el prusiano que nos pasó a degüello para ahorrarle balas al presidente Rivadavia, digo matanza y Rosas llegando al Choele choel, digo rangos militares generales coroneles terror y winka bárbaros que violaron a las mujeres, fusilaron a los prisioneros y comenzaron el reparto de los niños y las mujeres como esclavos antes de Julio Argentino y su foto en el billete de cien pesos

Y agrego al Roca Julio: Rudecindo y Ataliva y me vienen al estómago los nombres de Sarmiento . . . Villegas . . . Levalle . . .Winter . . . Racedo . . . Uriburu . . . Laciar

Escribo porque escapando del horror huyó mi gente más al sur más a la cordillera abandonando su vivienda, la siembra y su cosecha, los animales

Escribo porque quiero recordar a los niños que se salvaron tapados con un cuero y a los que en el fragor de la huida se cayeron del caballo y no estaban con sus padres cuando ellos se detuvieron y no encendieron un fuego para que no los divisaran los soldados.

Escribo porque a todos los aprisionaron y los arrearon como si fueran animales, cientos de kilómetros, y abandonaron a algunos en el camino los dejaron desangrándose después de caparlos o después de cortarles los garrones

Escribo para descubrir sus rostros cubiertos de lágrimas y sangre de los golpes, de la salpicadura de los cortes en su carne, de la tierra del largo transitar de los arreos.

Y escribo para que haya un mapa que registre este genocidio.

Escribo para no olvidar a los que murieron en altamar, hacinados y enfermos en los barcos que los llevaban a los puertos del desmembramiento de la familia que aún nos quedaba, escribo porque la desesperación tiene quejido llanto y gritos

Escribo porque no sabían su destino hasta que llegaron a los campos de concentración, a las estancias, a los ingenios azucareros, a los yerbatales.

Escribo porque no soy un ñanko7 que pueda sobrevolar esta miseria

Escribo por los torturados por el hambre en los campos de concentración Fortín Villegas, Valcheta, Chichinales, Malargüe, Rodeo del Medio, Villa Mercedes, Tigre, Isla Martín García.

En esa isla fue el abandono de los enfermos de viruela.

Escribo por los parientes de los que no se supo más, desterrados a Rosario, a San Miguel de Tucumán, a Río Cuarto, a Córdoba, al Ingenio San Juan, por los esclavizados por Rufino Ortega en Mendoza y por Rudecindo Roca en Misiones

Escribo para resguardarme de la muerte que me ronda cuando no sé qué hacer con su cansancio, con su pena, con sus ganas de no vivir más.

Escribo para que drene esta memoria

Escribo porque ya aprendí la derrota y sé que derrotada aún se escribe, para dar vueltas alrededor de los eventos y poner un nombre a lo que no tenía nombre.

Escribo por los que enloquecieron a la vista del asesinato de sus hijos, por los niños a los que dejaron morir de hambre y de sed, por los niños apropiados.

Escribo por los que fueron arrancados de sus nombres y condenados a ignorar su kupalme.8

Escribo para recordar el nombre de nuestras fuerzas, para restituir su poder sobre religiones ajenas, para que su dios juzgue al obispo Aneiros a los curas testigos del horror que no dijeron nada

Escribo para que esta memoria no se estanque

Escribo porque no soy el Nahuel9 que consoló y acompañó a los que pudieron escapar de los horrores, no soy luan10 o choike11 para alimentarlos

Escribo para que fluya esa memoria para que vuelva a ser un solo río con la memoria reciente

Escribo entonces por los pedazos del territorio devueltos por el nuevo estado como si fueran limosna, por los desalojados de esos campos porque los ricos siempre supieron manipular sus leyes

Escribo por aquellos a quienes los estancieros les corrieron el alambrado hasta dejarlos sin agua, sin pasto para los animales, sin leña, y finalmente los echaron del lugar al que se aferraban con todas sus uñas, su corazón y su esperanza

Escribo por los estafados por el winka que mentía los números en su libreta de ramos generales, por los que pagaron con su campo esa deuda fraudulenta y se quedaron sin nada.

Escribo por los niños a los que silenciaron el mapuzungun12 de sus bocas en las escuelas civilizadoras y evangelizadoras

Escribo por los asesinados en las comisarías de las ciudades, tan jóvenes que no tuvieron tiempo de conocer su origen, muertos por portación de barrio, de rostro, de apellido.

Escribo por Camilo Catrillanka y Rafael Nahuel muertos por la espalda por los comando Jungla y por el grupo Albatros, respectivamente, asesinados por recuperar esta memoria aferrada al Wall Mapu13 al idioma de sus fuerzas

Escribo por los machi condenados a alejarse de su rewe14 y su lawen15, encarcelado su newen16 para que puedan avanzar las garras de las forestales, las mineras, las hidroeléctricas, destruyendo lo que aún nos queda

Escribo por temor a que los ngen de las montañas de los cerros de las piedras de las aguas se cansen de esta prolongada herejía y nos abandonen

Escribo porque los ngen aún están vivos los taüles17 y su idioma el sonido del kultrun18 el ciclo de la mapu19</sup y de las lluvias

Escribo para saber de qué muerte y de qué vida vengo y sobrevivo.

Liliana Ancalao Meli. Luna de los frutos cenicientos. Puel Mapu Wall Mapu.

 


1. Ngen: Entidad espiritual que cuida a personas y a espacios específicos. A veces se hace visible adoptando distintas formas.

2. Nampulkafe: viajero/a.

3. Winka: extranjero.

4. Machi: persona con conocimiento para actuar en las distintas dimensiones espirituales que constituyen el territorio.

5. Pewma: imágenes oníricas que trasmiten un mensaje.

6. Puel: Orientación Este. Puelmapu es el territorio del Este, hoy ocupado por el estado argentino.

7. Ñanko: aguilucho. Una de las formas que adoptan los Ngen.

8. Kupalme: Origen familiar.

9. Nawel: Tigre americano. Una de las formas que adoptan los Ngen. American tiger. One of the forms adopted by the Ngen.

10. Luan: guanaco.

11. Choike: ñandú americano.

12. Mapuzungun: idioma de la tierra.

13. Wall Mapu: territorio del pueblo originario mapuche.

14. Rewe: lugar destinado propiamente para comunicarse con otras dimensiones.

15. Lawen: medicina.

16. Newen: fuerza espiritual.

17. Taüles: de taül, canto ceremonial (forma castellanizada para pluralizar la palabra) from taül.

18. Kültrun: instrumento de percusión usado en ceremonias espirituales.

19. Mapu: tierra.

Wirintukun tañi witxual tüfachi zuam txar reke

Wirintukun tañi tükulpatual iney ta iñche, fey mew llegülu iñche kimlan tañi tuwün tañi kupalme.

Wirintukun tañi ekufial Gen ko. Iñche ñi chuchu, Roberta Napaiman ñi zügun mew, akuy tüfachi gutxam, Gen ko kawellugey ñi logko wefkünuy Cushamen ñi lafken mew. Llükaleiñ taiñ allkütual chuchu ta ñi zügun ka tüfachi llükan katxüntükuñmafiñ iñ aukantun inal lafken mew.

Wirintukun tañi tükulpatufial kuifikecheyem, püchüchegelu katxütukefuygün witxürleüfü mew nüwükefuygün külenkawelu ta ti.

Wirintukun tañi püchün llapümüwial, azkintuyem alümapu mew tañi puge llapümüwigu, feymew Ankalaufkegen ka ankalafken mew mülen, tufachi nampülkafe mollfüñ lafküley , tüfachi mollfüñ folilentuy Pacífico mew ka akuy Atlántico püle, Puel mapu mew wigka zügutukünun mew mülewi ka kiñepülekünuwi.

Wirintukun ta ñi rulpazuamüal iñche mew, fey mew mogen Comodoro Rivadavia mew, chew mew lelifiñ lafken ka ñi ko, well liengey well pozküley.

Wirintukun fey mew pu machi pelofiygün ta Gen tañi lafken, pewma mew.

Wirintukun ñi wüfütual tufachi kimtun.

Wirintukun ta ñi ramtual , chumten pu loteo ka pu rüpü zewmawygün inal Puel mew, takuñmafigün ta makina ñi wün, makina kañpülekünuy elünkeforo,  waranka txipantü rupay

Wirintukun feymew Francisco Pascasio Moreno kaylliforofi ka pegelüfi lhayechi che Museo de Ciencias Naturales mew, meñenwew reke, pataka mariküla regle txipantü rupay

Fey mew wirintukun ta ñi txipayanoal kastigo genon ti pu lhagümchefe ñi üy

Feymew pilen prusiano Rauch katxüpelüeiñ mew montulüleyew pu bala ta presidente Rivadavia, pilen lhagümchen, pilen Rosas akuley Choele Choel mew, pilen rangos militares generales coroneles, fentxen llükan, weshapiwkegelu wigka geñikafigün pu zomo, lhaygümuygün nütunkeche fusil mew ka wüzamkünuygün püchikeche ka puzomo gillanche reke, tayi Julio Argentino tañi azentu pataka peso mew

Roca Julio yom fey pin: Rudecindo ka Ataliva, kupawenew tañi pütxa mew tüfachi pu üy Sarmiento, Villegas, Levalle, Winter, Racedo, Uriburu, Laciar.

Wiritukun fey mew iñche tañi che montuygün, txepewülechi tañi reñma tuwamuygün willimapu pule pirenwigkul pule, aftükuygün ruka tükuketxanün ketxan pu kulliñ

Wirintukun tañi tukulpayal montulgechi püchikeche takuleygün kiñe txülke mew, püchikeche llagküygün kawelu mew tañi montual, tañi chaw ka tañi ñuke tügümuwünyem kütxaltulaygü tañi azkintulam pu soldado mew, fey mew püchikeche mülelaygün

Wirintukun fey mew tañi che nütueyew egün kom ka keyaeyew egün kulliñ reke, zoy pataka kilómetros, kiñekeche kapunüeyew egün, tañi üllgüznamun rüpunentueyew egün, entumollfüñkülewigün, aftükueyew egün rüpü mew

Wirintukun tañi txanakünual ageche, takulechi age külleñu mew chupüz mew mollfuñ mew, fey mew tañi kalül wiraftükueyew egün katxüeyew egün, alüñma kechaeyew egün.

Wirintukun ta ñi wiripapelüwal kiñe mapa mew tüfachi  futxa lhagümchen.

Wirintukun ta ñi goymanoal ta ti che lhalhageigün fütalhafken mew, wütxulküleygün, kutxanküleygun barco mew, yenieyew egün puerto püle, ta ñi pillkazentuam ta iñ reñma. Wirintukun fey mew ta ñi fiñmawüküleal, eyütun mew, güman mew, wirarün mew.

Fey mew wirintukun kimlaigün chew yenieyew egün, ka akuygün campo de concentración mew, estancia mew, ingenio mew, yerbatal mew.

Fey mew wirintukun iñchegelan kiñe Ñamko müpürumen wente taiñ weza felewen.

Wirintukun fey mew, ta ti che kutxankaeyew güñülchekeyew campo de concentración mew Fortín Villegas, Valcheta, Chichinales, Malargüe, Rodeo del Medio, Villa Mercedes, Tigre, Isla Martín García, tufachi huapi mew iñ che yentukueyew egün kurüpeste mew.

Fey mew wirintukun ta iñ mogeyel kimlaiñ fey egün mew, kondenachegey ñi mülepuagel ka mapu Rosario, San Miguel de Tucumán, Río Cuarto, Córdoba, Ingenio San Juan mew, fey mew ngillancheeyew Rufino Ortega ka Rudecindo Roca mew, Mendoza ka Misiones mew.

Fey mew wirintukun tañi katxüñpewüal lanzügun mew, lan wallotuawüenew, kimlan chem zewman tañi ürkülen tañi weñagkülen tañi ayülelan ñi mogen.

Wirintukun tañi witxual tüfachi zuam txar reke.

Wirintukun feymew iñche kimün ta ñi wewngeal, kimün petu wewgechi iñche wirintukun, wallotun ta pu zugu, üytufiñ nemül ta geno üy.

Wirintukun fey mew genkeyall ñi zuam ta pefigün lhagümüeyew tañi yall  wezwezelüygün, wirintukun fey  mew püchikeche ñi zuam, ta fey lhagümüeyew güñün mew wiwün mew,  wirintukun fey mew püchikeche genkünueyew.

Wirintukun che mew folilnentueyew tañi üy, tüfachi che kimlayay ta ñi kupalme chumül no rume

Wirintukun tañi tükulpatual iñ Fütake Newen ta ñi üy, tañi wiñolüal tañi newen wente wigka feyentun. Fey tañi Dios zewmazugupe obispo Aneiros, zewmazugupe txepewüchi curas pefigün iñ fütakutxankangen welu zugulaygün chem no rume.

Tüfachi zuam ñügümülayay, fey mew wirintukun.

Wirintukun fey mew iñchegenon Nawel, fey ñawfulüy kompañüy ta montulechi che tañi fütakutxankangen, iñche genon luan kam choique, fey yafültükufi ta che.

Wirintukun tañi witxual feychi zuam, zoy kuifi zuam we zuam egu kiñeleufugeaygu.

Wirintukun may, püchünmapu limosna reke wiñolüeyew we estado, taiñ che, kiñepülekünueyew wüla. Gagefe ülmen wezapepilüfigün ley.

Wirintukun fey che mew, fey shigeküpalüeyew estanciero tañi alambrado, geno ko geno kachu ngeno mamüll müleeyew, iñagechi ütxüfentueyew tüfeychi püchünmapu mew, fey nüwülekefi tañi wili piuke pewmagen mew.

Wirintukun may, fey che güneeyew wigkache ta koylakefi rakin ramos generales tañi libreta mew, fey che kullifi günechi defe tañi campo mew, fey che mülewi chem no rume

Wirintukun, ti pichikeche, mapuzugun ñüküftueyew escuelas civilizadoras evangelizadoras ta pichikeche tañi wün mew.

Wirintukun lhagümche mew, waria tañi comisaría mew, zoy wechegey geno antü tañi kimual tañi tuwun, layechi che yenielu age, barrio, üy

Wirintukun fey mew Rafael Nawel yem ka Kamilo Katxillanka yem, tayu pailla mew lagümügeyew egu, grupo Albatros ka Comando Jungla. Rafael ka Kamilo wiñotulekefigu tufachi konümpan, ta weche epu wentxu nüwülülefigu Wall Mapu mew tañi Newenkezugu.

Wirintukun ta pu machi mew, machi zewmañmaeyew ñi alütxipayael tañi rewe mew tañi lawen mew, tañi machi Newen nürüftükuñmagey. Itxofill mogen püchilewey rononetuñmaeyew pu forestal pu minera pu hidroeléctrica.

Wirintukun llükakechi, pu Gen tañi ürküael, ekun ka yewe mogen gelay, fey mew Gen mawiza Gen wigkul Gen kura Gen ko  txanakünufi ta iñchiñ 

Wirintukun feymew pu Gen, pu taül ñi zugun ta ti, kultxug tañi txanatxipazügun, tüfachi mapu ka mawun tañiegu chügkürkechi wiñoy, kom petu mogeleygün

Wirintukun tañi kimual iñche ñi lha iñche ñi mogen, chew küpan ka chew mogekonürpun ta iñche.

Liliana Ancalao Meli. Kashü pewn, kashü küyen. Puel Mapu Wall Mapu.

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