In Oaxaca, Migration Drives Indigenous Women into Political Participation

Oaxaca, Mexico — As the sun set behind the low rocky hills around the village of El Fortín Alto, in Mexico’s southern state of Oaxaca, Balbina Belén sat in front of her unfinished house and watched her youngest son play in the yard. Belén’s husband had been in the United States as an irregular migrant for more than two years now. “He didn’t want to live in a wooden house anymore,” said Belén, gesturing to the home behind her. “One day, he told me he was going to migrate.”

Belén’s husband was not alone in going through irregular migration channels — migration outside the laws, regulations, or international agreements governing transit — which is costly. Thousands of other men in Oaxaca’s indigenous Mixteca region — amongst the poorest in Mexico — have migrated to the States in search of better lives for their families, leaving their wives and children behind.

Now, these women are taking on many new responsibilities once occupied by their husbands.

The Mexican constitution allows Indigenous communities to govern themselves within the system of so-called usos y costumbres (“uses and customs”). In Oaxaca, more than 400 out of the 570 municipalities make autonomous decisions about their lives at general assemblies; political parties are not allowed here. Traditionally, it is the men who make decisions at community meetings, but as more men migrate north, only women remain to take up that mantle.

“We have to participate; otherwise, they would sanction us,” said Belén, who began attending general assemblies after her husband left, but she continues to inform him of what is discussed during meetings. “Now, there are more women than men.”

A new decisive role

In the absence of political parties, general assemblies elect community representatives and public servants, known as cargos, who otherwise would have been provided by the state. Men usually occupy these positions, and for the majority of these communities, no remuneration comes with community service.

But this communal way of organization is under threat due to migration for various reasons. Young people, for example, will leave to study and often are unmotivated to return and contribute to the community for free. With the men migrating, gender roles are shifting at home.

“Men start to take women into account these days,” said Juliana López, who’s from the same village as Belén and also participates at the assemblies. “We even pick up the microphone and express our opinions, unlike before when we were scared to do so.”

“[When women start participating], they struggle with the principles and structures of patriarchal society, which are deeply rooted and historically marginalize them,” said Mexican anthropologist Charlynne Curiel, who has worked with women in Mixteca. “But it’s a big lesson for them, and they can learn new skills.”

In Santa Catarina Lachatao, a remote community in Oaxaca’s Sierra Norte region — a major region for indigenous Zapotecs — Regina Alavéz Hernández became one of the first female municipal presidents in her village. The population had dramatically declined over the past several decades due to migration, but the number of cargos had not. “There came a moment when men said that women should come to the assemblies,” said Alavéz Hernández. “They invited everybody, and that is how women started integrating themselves.” She said that while it wasn’t a position that she’d asked for, “they chose me.”

“Women work, they think, they should participate,” suggested Olivia Basilia from Santa María Yavesía, who also served as a municipal president. In Yavesía, another Sierra Norte community, circular migration to the States is common: Men leave for a few months to earn extra money in the US, usually working on farms, and come home for another few months before returning to the States again to work. Consequently, women have taken to filling public roles left vacant by their absence.

“At the beginning, men used to laugh when women spoke,” said Basilia. “But after some time, they understood that we also have the right to express ourselves. We are all equal.”

Gender parity versus tradition

Ana Ramírez Martínez, whose husband goes to the US regularly, was serving her cargo as a health counselor when we interviewed her. But her cargo didn’t relieve her of her other duties, including to their three children, their house, and their fields. While she believes that women’s participation in local governance is important and valuable, she admits that it’s not easy.

“It is complicated when a woman has to tend to housework while being in the office the whole week,” she said. “I have to figure it out and plan well.”

If it’s not migration forcing women into politics, it’s the federal gender parity law. While Indigenous communities’ self-determination is protected by the Mexican constitution, in some communities, it clashes with the federal parity law. Municipalities also must represent themselves before the state and federal governments, at which point they are subject to 50-50 representation.

Mexico is lauded as a leader in gender equality in politics, as women form half of the Congress, and the first seven female governors were elected in the midterm elections in 2021. But on the local level, within Indigenous communities, the parity law is sometimes seen as an imposition to their way of life.

In Capulálpam de Méndez, another community from Sierra Norte in Oaxaca, women are seen as the ones who support the governance system performed by men. “I had to quit my job when my father became municipal president, and I came back to the village to help my family and support my dad,” said Eunice Hernández Toro. “Women are the ones who sustain this system by supporting [the men].” As her father assumed his political duties, Hernández and her mother managed their family business — a coffee shop — as well as their house.

In Capulálpam, migration is less common, which also might be the reason why the village doesn’t necessitate women’s direct participation in the political sphere. Even for the men who do migrate, their wives do not participate in community issues on their behalf. “Even if they invite us, I don’t go,” said Ana Lilia Bautista, whose husband migrated two years ago. “If I go, and my mother-in-law goes as well, who will take care of my children?”

Curiel said that, traditionally, Indigenous women in Oaxaca play their own role by cooking for and organizing community celebrations, which are a core part of community life. “The kitchen is also a place of power,” said Curiel. “It is a place where traditions and knowledge are passed on. Cooking is a way to gain prestige. There are women in communities who constantly come to cook on various occasions, and the community perceives them differently than those who do not participate at all.”

For that reason, the parity law forces these Indigenous communities to shift traditional family and civic dynamics — and not everyone agrees for the better.

In some communities, said Curiel, women simply don’t want to occupy political positions. “A rural woman could be present in the municipal council, in the field, at home, and at community celebrations. As a result, we have communities full of overly exhausted women who do a million things,” she said. “The state made a mistake [by] passing the parity law without a better understanding of the situation in Oaxacan communities.”

For now, it appears that communities will have to find a way to incorporate parity rules into their own systems of governance. For those impacted by higher migration, the process of disrupting patriarchal patterns began before the law was passed, and women in those communities were forced to confront the machismo already embedded in their traditional lifeways out of necessity. For other communities, it will be a much more direct confrontation, whether or not they’re ready for it.

The story was produced by the Women Who Stay project by Magdalena and Noel Rojo, who have been documenting stories of women left behind since 2017.