The Chuschagasta people have lived in the Tucuman region of Argentina for 350 years, since the Spanish colonisers first pushed them there. Modern-day Argentina has virtually erased them from existence. Present-day schools teach that the native people inhabited the land prior to the arrival of the Europeans, while failing to explain that many native people still live there. The grotesquely false information that the Chuscha ceased to exist in 1807 is widely spread, and used to justify the continuous oppression of the continent’s first inhabitants.
In 2018, a powerful businessmen and his two accomplices were on trial for attempting to evict the indigenous communities from a land that they claimed to possess, killing their leader Javier Chocobar and wounding others in the process. The murder, which was caught on camera, took place nine years earlier (in 2009). Land ownership was achieved through highly questionable means: these men came from families with powerful connections in governments, and the illiterate forebears of indigenous claimants were made to sign documents that they could not understand with their fingerprint. The machinations of colonialism remained firmly in place long after Argentina’s independence in 1818.
Roughly half of this 119-minute film takes place inside a small and tightly packed court room. Despite the apparent chaos, the proceedings are largely functional. The defendants – old white men – are profoundly arrogant. They boast about their right to bear guns, and the apparent legality of their land “ownership”. They address the humble indigenous people with brutal scorn, as if they were their owners. One of them pleads not guilty because another indigenous man was “only” shot in the leg: “if I wanted to murder, I would aim for the head”, he purports. This is the same argument that Netanyahu used in order to fend off accusations of genocide. The claim of innocence based on the failure to achieve the total objective is a clear subversion of justice.
In one of the movie’s most meaningful moments, the defence attorney complains to the judge that the trial has been turned into “a circus” because a film was being made without the knowledge of their client. The judge notes that the trial is open, and that they do not have the power to decide which media can attend. The lawyer possesses the awareness that cinema is a powerful weapon for social transformation. Martel conflates awareness with fear. There is little doubt that the three defendants are scared that Nuestra Tierra could become a very successful movie,
The other half of the film, which is interspersed with the court proceedings, consists of archive images of the indigenous people, and of the rural landscape. We see a community fully integrated within the Western culture. There are no feather headdresses at sight. These people wear trousers and suits, work as seamstresses and metalworkers, and speak Spanish. The colour of their skin and their facial features are the most visible evidence that their ethnicity is different to their oppressor’s. But it is their attachment to the land that demonstrates that these people have not given up their roots.
While vaguely confusing during its first hour, Nuestra Tierra grips viewers more or less halfway through the film. The cynical defendant statements help to ensure that the pour allegiance remains solidly with the indigenous people. The beautiful archive images also help us to identify with the lowly and vulnerable people seeking justice. These pictures are not abundant – these are poor people with limited resources for film and photography, expensive technologies a few decades ago. Martel combines these relics with drone images of the verdant hills. Her objective is to create a more vivid image of a people “erased” against their will. The Argentinian filmmaker opts to capture the community as whole, instead of focusing specific individuals. This approach has a negative impact on responsive mimicry. In other words, it is difficult for viewers to engage with the characters because the director only skims through their personal stories.
All in all, Nuestra Tierra is a vital piece of activist cinema. One that exposes the scars of colonialism, the dirty machinations of neocolonialism, a country unwilling to deal with its past, and institutions (school, courts, etc) unprepared to work with with ethnic minorities. It is also a call-to-action. Argentina is in urgent need of land and justice reform. Here’s hoping Nuestra Tierra will have significant distribution and help to change Argentinian hearts, those cold and indifferent to the plight of indigenous people.
Landmarks premiered in the Orizzonti section of the 82nd Venice International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. Also showing in San Sebastian.
