Saving the Mother Tongue

When he was a boy, Blas Omar Jaime spent many afternoons learning about his ancestors. His mother, Ederlinda Miguelina Yelón, passed along her knowledge in Chaná, a throaty language spoken by barely moving the lips or tongue.

The Chaná are an Indigenous people in Argentina and Uruguay whose lives were once intertwined with the mighty Paraná River. They revered silence and considered birds their guardians.

Miguelina Yelón urged her son to protect their stories by keeping them secret. So it wasn’t until decades later that he made a startling discovery: No one else seemed to speak Chaná. Scholars had long considered the language extinct.

“I said, ‘I exist. I am here,’” says Jaime, now 90.

Those words kicked off a journey for Jaime, who has spent nearly two decades resurrecting Chaná and, in many ways, placing the Indigenous group back on the map. He has become a crucial font of knowledge for the United Nations agency UNESCO, whose mission includes the preservation of languages.

Jaime’s painstaking work with a linguist has produced a dictionary of roughly 1,000 Chaná words. For people of Indigenous ancestry in Argentina, he’s a beacon who’s inspired many to connect with their history. And for Argentina itself, he’s an important reminder of the country’s fraught history of colonization and Indigenous erasure.

“Language is what gives you identity,” Jaime says. “If someone doesn’t have their language, they’re not a people.”

Now a passing of the guard is underway to his daughter Evangelina Jaime, who has learned Chaná and is teaching it to others.

“It’s generations and generations of silence,” says Evangelina, 47. “But we won’t be silent anymore.”

Growing up, Blas Omar Jaime spent many afternoons learning about his ancestors. His mother, Ederlinda Miguelina Yelón, passed along her knowledge in Chaná, a throaty language spoken by barely moving the lips or tongue.

The Chaná are an Indigenous people in Argentina and Uruguay. They lived along the Parana River. They revered silence and considered birds their guardians.

Miguelina Yelón urged her son to protect their stories by keeping them secret. So it wasn’t until years later that he learned no one else seemed to speak Chaná. Scholars had long considered the language extinct.

“I said, ‘I exist. I am here,’” says Jaime, now 90.

Those words kicked off a journey for Jaime. He has spent nearly two decades resurrecting Chaná. His work has placed the Indigenous group back on the map. He has become an important resource for the United Nations agency UNESCO, whose mission includes the preservation of languages.

Jaime’s painstaking work with a linguist has produced a dictionary of roughly 1,000 Chaná words. He has inspired people of Indigenous ancestry in Argentina to connect with their history. He is also an important reminder of Argentina’s history of colonization and Indigenous erasure.

“Language is what gives you identity,” Jaime says. “If someone doesn’t have their language, they’re not a people.”

Now his daughter Evangelina Jaime is continuing his work. She has learned Chaná and is teaching it to others.

“It’s generations and generations of silence,” says Evangelina, 47. “But we won’t be silent anymore.”

Archaeologists trace the presence of Chaná people back roughly 2,000 years. Spanish explorers made the first European record of the Chaná in the 16th century.

The Chaná fished, lived a nomadic life, and were skilled clay artisans. Colonization displaced them, much of their territory was taken, and their numbers dwindled as they assimilated into Argentina, which launched military campaigns to eradicate Indigenous communities and open land for settlement.

Before Jaime revealed his knowledge of Chaná, the last known record of the language was in 1815, when a priest met three Chaná men in Uruguay and documented what he learned about the language. Only one notebook containing 70 words survived.

Archaeologists trace the presence of Chaná people back roughly 2,000 years. Spanish explorers made the first European record of the Chaná in the 16th century.

The Chaná fished and lived a nomadic life. They were skilled clay artisans. Colonization displaced them and much of their territory was taken. Soon their numbers dwindled as Argentina launched military campaigns to eradicate Indigenous communities and open land for settlement.

Before Jaime revealed his knowledge of Chaná, the last known record of the language was in 1815.  After meeting three Chaná men in Uruguay, a priest documented what he learned about the language. Only one notebook containing 70 words survived.

The information Jaime obtained from his mother was far more expansive. Miguelina Yelón was an adá oyendén—a “woman memory keeper”—someone who traditionally preserved the community’s knowledge. Only women held that role.

“This was a matriarchy,” says Evangelina. “Women were the ones who guided the Chaná people. But something happened—we’re not sure what—that made men take control again. And women agreed to cede that power in exchange for them being the only guardians of that history.”

Miguelina Yelón didn’t have daughters to whom she could pass along her knowledge, so she turned to Jaime.

That’s how he came to spend his afternoons learning Chaná words: atamá means “river”; vanatí beáda is “tree”; yogüin is “fire.”

His mother warned him not to share what he knew with anyone.

“From the time we were born, we hid our culture, because in those days, you were discriminated against for being Aboriginal,” he says.

Decades passed. Jaime led a varied life, working in a publishing house, in a government transportation department, as a Mormon preacher, and more. At 71, he attended an Indigenous event and was nudged to tell his story. He hasn’t stopped talking since.

The information Jaime learned from his mother was broader. Miguelina Yelón was an adá oyendén or a “woman memory keeper.”  Only women held the role, and they preserved the community’s knowledge.

“This was a matriarchy,” says Evangelina. “Women were the ones who guided the Chaná people. But something happened—we’re not sure what—that made men take control again. And women agreed to cede that power in exchange for them being the only guardians of that history.”

Miguelina Yelón didn’t have daughters to whom she could pass along her knowledge. So she taught Jaime.

That’s how he came to spend his afternoons learning Chaná words. He learned átamá means “river”; vanatí beáda is “tree”; yogüin is “fire.”

His mother warned him not to share what he knew with anyone.

“From the time we were born, we hid our culture, because in those days, you were discriminated against for being Aboriginal,” he says.

Decades passed. Jaime led a varied life. He worked in a publishing house, in a government transportation department, as a Mormon preacher, and more. At 71, he attended an Indigenous event. There he was encouraged to tell his story. He hasn’t stopped talking since.

According to UNESCO, as of 2016 (the latest year for which reliable data is available), at least 40 percent of the world’s languages—or more than 2,600—were under threat of disappearing because they were spoken by a relatively small number of people (see “Endangered Languages,” below).

After her father started speaking publicly, Evangelina helped him organize language classes. In the process, she began learning the language. Now she teaches Chaná online to students around the world, including a small number who believe they may have Chaná ancestry.

She plans to teach the language to her son so he can continue her father’s work.

Back at his kitchen table, Jaime wrote his name out in the language he’s trying to keep alive. It’s a name that he says reflects the way he’s lived—“Agó Acoé Inó,” which means “dog without an owner.” His daughter leaned in to make sure he spelled it correctly.

“She knows more than me now,” he said, laughing. “We won’t lose Chaná.”

According to UNESCO, as of 2016 (the latest year for which reliable data is available), more than 2,600 languages were under threat of disappearing because they were spoken by a relatively small number of people (see “Endangered Languages,” below). This accounts for least 40 percent of the world’s languages.

After her father started speaking publicly, Evangelina helped him organize language classes. She began learning the language. Now she teaches Chaná online to students around the world, including a small number who believe they may have Chaná ancestry.

She plans to teach the language to her son so he can continue her father’s work.

Back at his kitchen table, Jaime wrote his name out in the language he’s trying to keep alive. It’s a name that he says reflects the way he’s lived—“Agó Acoé Inó.” It means “dog without an owner.” His daughter leaned in to make sure he spelled it correctly.

“She knows more than me now,” he said, laughing. “We won’t lose Chaná.”

Natalie Alcoba is a journalist based in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Natalie Alcoba is a journalist based in Buenos Aires, Argentina.