The School That Changed My Life

Recently, we asked Stone faculty members to share moments that changed the way they think about education. Today, we are so proud to share Stone Spanish language instructor Maribel Perez Arias’ reflections on Bolivian “clandestine schools”.

During one of my fieldwork seasons in the south central Andes of Bolivia, specifically in a community called Khonkho Wankane, I encountered a wise and revered elder. His name was Don Primitivo Lopez and he was a “ritual practitioner” or in Aymara a “yatiri” (which means "the one who knows”). Mr. Lopez became an invaluable friend to our project, guiding us with his wisdom and assisting us in various ways. I remember one evening when he suggested we perform a ritual atop a nearby mountain. In Aymara tradition, mountains are considered sacred, holding the spirits of their ancestors. For this reason, before practicing any archaeological research that involves excavations, it is crucial to pay our respects to the landscape by participating in local ritual practices. 

After the ritual, we walked back to our camp base. As we passed near the local primary school, we noticed how involved members of this community were with it. The social atmosphere was vibrant as community members helped repair the school building and supplied notebooks, pencils, food, etc. Kids were running around, genuinely excited for classes. The school was very much a focus of energy and social life in the community. So I asked Mr. Lopez about the history of the school. The story he told me has changed how I think about education and life itself.

The roots of Khonkho's school can be traced back to the 1920s when it began as what was known as an escuela clandestina—a clandestine school. These schools were clandestine because, at that time, indigenous communities, who comprised the majority in Bolivia, were prohibited from receiving primary education. Throughout the 20th century, the struggle for education became a central focus of the indigenous communities' fight for their rights. They repeatedly implored the state to establish community schools, but their pleas were consistently denied. The boiling point of this struggle occurred in Khonkho in 1921 when Aymara leaders led an uprising against local government representatives, partly in an attempt to force the establishment of primary schools.

Despite a violent military crackdown that resulted in the deaths of numerous Aymara individuals, the communities persevered. They began organizing clandestine schools, with Khonkho being among the first. Mr. Lopez himself attended this school as a child. He recounted how, initially, the school would rotate between different houses to evade detection. During class sessions, two lookouts were stationed to alert the students in case soldiers came searching for the school.

It became evident why the school in Khonkho radiated such energy, care, and respect. Its history was intertwined with the community's relentless struggle for their right to education. It was built through personal risks, arduous labor, and, tragically, the spilled blood of their grandparents and great-grandparents.

In 1920s Bolivia, education, literacy, and writing were used as tools of oppression. They were employed to justify the appropriation of land from Aymara communities by local landowners who owned large colonial  haciendas. Literacy became a prerequisite for voting, denying those who couldn't read their right to participate in democracy.

This tight control of education by the ruling elite shed light on why Aymara communities fought fervently for the establishment of their own community schools. Acquiring the ability to read, write, understand the law, and comprehend their history allowed indigenous communities to advocate for their land, fight for their autonomy, sovereignty, and basic human rights. By establishing clandestine schools, the people of Khonkho took up the tools of the oppressor to fight for liberation. Education in Khonkho was literally life or death. To borrow a phrase from bell hooks, education in Khonkho was the practice of freedom.

The story of this little school in Khonkho prompted me to reflect on how I thought about my education. It prompted me, first and foremost, to deep gratitude for the educational opportunities I had experienced in my life. From public education in Bolivia to graduate studies at the University of Pittsburgh. I am grateful for all that I have learned during my time as a student—the late nights dedicated to completing papers, and the invaluable lessons imparted by remarkable individuals like Mr Lopez.

However, what I treasure even more is the opportunity to share my knowledge with my students. I genuinely believe that Stone is an enchanting place that prepares students to become analytical and critical thinkers. It is a place where they can explore questions yet to be envisioned, understand the social, historical, and moral contexts of the challenges they will encounter, and approach complex issues with creativity and originality. When I contemplate the work we do at Stone, I cannot help but be reminded of that little school in Khonkho.

While education may not be a matter of life or death at Stone, it undeniably serves as the practice of freedom for each and every one of us.