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René Tunqui didn’t know what Tik Tok was and didn’t understand its functionalities until one day, out of curiosity, he decided to download the application. The first video she uploaded was one of congresswoman from Cusco, Peru, Matilde Fernández, responding in Quechua at her swearing-in in November 2020. Tunqui uploaded the video, translated it and set the subtitles in Spanish. It had more than 600,000 views and started gaining hundreds of followers. There, he knew that Tik Tok was a tool that would serve his purpose: teaching Quechua.
René TunquiWith kind permission
According to UNESCO, there are around 7,000 languages spoken in the world, of which 6,700 are indigenous languages and 40% are threatened with extinction.
Just like Tunqui in Peru, there is Vidal Taylor in Nicaragua, Ana Lúcia Rossate in Brazil, Elías Ajata in Bolivia and Julio Hernández in Mexico. Through Tik Tok, everyone wants to contribute to the preservation of their language, because preserving their language is the preservation of their culture and their own identity. “I have a responsibility to spread what is mine. It makes a small contribution to the spread and revitalization of the Quechua language,” says Tunqui, who grew up in Culli, a community where 90% of the population speaks Quechua.
In Mexico, Professor Julio Hernández began posting videos on Tik Tok during the pandemic for those who wanted to learn Nahuatl, the country’s most widely spoken indigenous language. Originally from Tlaxcala, he discovered Tik Tok while watching his nephews recording videos and decided to create educational content. He is not a native speaker of Nahuatl, he learned it at university when he earned a bachelor’s degree in language teaching. His great-grandmother spoke it.
“It is extremely important not to forget our roots, our identity. We come from the indigenous people, from these lands… There is a wealth of knowledge that should not be lost. This language must be saved,” says Hernández, who already has more than 170,000 followers.
Basic vocabulary
In Aymara, chicken is called Chhilwi or Chhiwchhi; Egg, K’awna Ok’anwa and Chicken, Wallpa. From the simplest to Aymara grammar courses offered by Elías Ajata, who lives in El Alto, Bolivia. “I come from the Aymara nation because I don’t consider myself Bolivian,” he says.
Works on topics in linguistics. In addition to her work as an Aymara lecturer, she also works as a translator. In his house, he says, Aymara is spoken. “Our language was passed on to the next generation. We communicate with friends every day and use social networks to chat and message, mainly in Aymara,” he says.
Ajata wants the “Aymara to take over all social functions again,” and that is why he supports it. “The reason is to strengthen the Aymara language, but not only that, but also to strengthen the Aymara nation. The status of a language depends on the social, political, cultural and economic situation of its speakers,” he says.
Like him, Ana Lúcia Rossate, also known as Anarandà, fights to ensure that no one forgets that Guaraní exists. He creates content for YouTube, Instagram and Tik Tok. “For me, being Guaraní means always fighting for our indigenous rights, saving our history, our culture and preserving our native language,” says this young woman, originally from Guapoy Amambai, in the state of Mato Grosso do Sul, Brazil. Anarandà is studying environmental management, she is a teacher and a singer.
His followers include indigenous peoples from Paraguay, Brazil, Argentina, Bolivia, Chile and Mexico. “That makes me very happy because I feel that I am not alone in the world, it is not just me who speaks Guaraní, there are many people,” she says.
In Nicaragua, the Miskito are the largest indigenous community and are found primarily in the country’s Caribbean region. Vidal Taylor, 37, lives there and has been trying to make his language, Miskitu, known for several years. Originally from a community called Karata, he had to leave school at the age of 13 to attend high school and university as there was only one primary school in his community. Taylor has a degree in accounting and finance and now works as a translation consultant, founder of a community tour operator and content creator to make his language visible.
“In my house and my family, Miskitu is mainly spoken and the boys and girls speak more Spanish. It is common to hear adults speaking Miskitu, but this is not common among adolescents and boys and girls. This is a sign that we are gradually losing our language,” he says.
He makes content because he doesn’t want his language to die, he wants the world to know it and feel like he contributed something to it. “I don’t want to see a great culture lost to history because those of us who live in this time of life were neglected and focused our interests on other things; it would be like a betrayal of the memory and efforts of my ancestors,” he admits.
On Taylor’s Tik Tok, her followers can use simple phrases like Manra tinki (Thank you), Anira sma? learn. (Where are you?) or Uba-Pain (Great). But it also shows part of its culture and gastronomy.
Mocking social networks
Elías Ajata says he received discriminatory comments when he started creating content for social networks. He’s not the only one who experienced it. “When I started Tik Tok, I received negative comments with destructive criticism. On many occasions these comments touched me; Once I said: ‘I can’t take it anymore,'” says René Tunqui.
Vidal Taylor. Courtesy
Discrimination based on speaking an indigenous language is real. In 2014, the World Bank published an article saying that in Peru, “discrimination is so blatant that many Quechua speakers choose not to pass the language on to their descendants for fear of rejection or ridicule.”
That’s why Anarandà creates videos to teach Guaraní. “For me it is very important to teach Guaraní to change the world so that young people are not ashamed to speak Guaraní. It’s important to know how I can preserve the culture and my heritage,” he says.
“Ashamed of talking about something that belongs to me? Afraid to speak my native language, my Quechua? No, because if that were the case, I would be denying my identity, my culture, my ancestors, my origins,” says Tunqui. And when a language dies, linguists and other specialists have pointed out, not only words disappear, but also a culture, a way of seeing the world.