COLORSxSTUDIOS

COLORS: Can you introduce yourself to us: who are you, where are you from, and what do you do? 

Katú Mirim: My name is Katú Mirim and I come from São Paulo. I’m an Indigenous activist and a lesbian. I was adopted when I was only eleven-months-old, and I only discovered I came from an Indigenous background—I am descended from the Bororo people from the state of Mato Grosso—when I was around 13. Since then, I have been in identity recovery.

I am the founder of Visibilidade Indígena—a platform amplifying the voices of Indigenous artists—as well as Indígenas LGBTQ, or Tibira, which is an online collective. I also recently initiated the hashtag #DenúnciaíndioNãoéFantasia (#ComplaintIndianIsNotFantasy) which seeks to denounce the completely racist “red Indian” fantasy and cliche perception of Indigenous people. Outside of all that, I make music, and just try to survive in this country that’s been in chaos lately for all of us.

COLORS: What was it like to discover you come from an Indigenous background as a teenager?

KM: While it wasn’t confirmed that I was Indigenous until I was a bit older, growing up I always experienced racism because of the way I look. At school, we were taught that Indigenous people were a thing of the past, that they were savages and had been exterminated. At first, whenever someone told me that I looked like I was Indigenous, I denied it. Then, when I met my biological father for the first time, he told me that we come from the Bororo people. From then on, if people ever pointed at me and told me I had an “Indian face,” I would proudly say: “I am an Indigenous person descended from the Bororo people,” and that would be the end of that.

I was heavily affected when my biological father passed away. I felt like I’d lost my only connection to my culture, especially as, at the time, I didn’t have the internet. When I got a connection, I used it to do more research about Bororo people.

COLORS: When and why did you start making your own music? How does your music connect with your identity?

KM: I was adopted by a white, cis, male pastor, so the only music in my house was by artists like Aline Barros, or music from the church. Even so, I loved to write poetry. I first heard rap music through my neighbor, and also when people started playing it during school break times. Later on I got into rock music as well.

One of the first rap tracks I wrote is called ‘Aguyjevete’. In the Guarani language, this title means “gratitude to the people who fight.” The song talks about the struggle of Indigenous and Black people, and I wrote it with a lot of passion. When I listen to it now, I’m a little embarrassed. It’s always like that with your early work. But that’s the point of art: you’re meant to grow and evolve.

COLORS: Can you tell us about the main challenges facing Indigenous communities in Brazil today? 

KM: We’ve been fighting for 520 years for Indigenous lands and territories to be demarcated, which still hasn’t been made a constitutional right. There are also other problems: the Indigenous suicide rate is three times the national average, and the rape of Indigenous women is also enormous. Our people are always stereotyped, and almost never authentically represented in the mainstream media. There are no Indigenous news anchors or CEOs. We’re here, but nobody gives us space because they think we’re either a thing of the past, or that we still live naked in the forest. It’s even more frustrating when you see public figures, brands, and events saying they are inclusive and anti-racist but not including any indigenous people.

There’s even prejudice within the Indigenous and LGBTQIA+ communities, which you would think would be super welcoming. So many people think that there’s no such thing as a gay Indigenous person. We’re fighting in all spaces. I see it as my mission to continue with my art, not to give up on my dreams, and try to open up space for others in the future.

COLORS: As you mentioned in the beginning of this interview, you founded an online collective, Tibira, to support people from the Indigenous and LGBTQIA+ communities in Brazil. Can you tell us how this came about?

KM: Tibira was born from the lack of space to talk about indigenous issues and LGBTQIA+ issues within Indigenous communities. To kick things off, I created an Instagram account and posted a picture of one of my relatives, along with information about who he is and the Indigenous group he is descended from.

Some people think that all Indigenous communities have the same attitudes towards homosexuality, but the truth is, some accept it and others don’t. This is mainly because of colonization: homophobia and transphobia are not native to Indigenous people, this hatred is a product of colonization and evangelization.

At the moment we exist purely online, but eventually we would like to create a physical space: a shelter for young people who have been expelled from their villages. That’s our dream, but it’s a long way off at the moment. We don’t have the money to finance it. Until then, we’re using our digital platform to spotlight Indigenous, LGBTQIA+ people, allowing them to speak with pride. We don’t only feature people from Brazil: we’ve also showcased people from North America and have worked with a trans community in Bolivia. We want to keep communicating with each other so that we can try to understand what colonization has done to our bodies, what it is to be an Indigenous woman, and what it is to be an indigenous transgender person.

Of course, non-Indigenous, non-LGBTQIA+ people can also see the account. I hope it creates a dialogue, or a bridge, so that they can start to understand these communities better too.

COLORS: Can you recommend some other Indigenous artists we should be aware of? 

KM: Brisa Flow, definitely. She’s an amazing musical artist and woman. Her parents moved to Brazil from Chile and are from the Mapuche people. She talks constantly about Abya Yala—a name used by the Native American Guna people to their section of the American continent —and how we have to stay alive.

Wescritor is a beautiful artist too. He’s an Indigenous writer who talks a lot about romance. Indigenous people often only write about pain and struggle, but he’s changed that. I also really admire the artist Oxóssi Karajá, because he works with such a low profile and doesn’t want to be mainstream. Anarandá Guarani Kaiowa is also fucking awesome! She’s a Guarani-Kaiowá girl from Mato Grosso. She has a song denouncing the femicide conducted by Indigenous men. Brô MCs are the first indigenous rap group in Brazil. I really admire them. It’s not easy to keep a rap group going, and they’ve been together for over ten years now. They inspire a lot of people.

Ian Wapichana is another great artist. He plays a lot of different instruments and has a really unique sound. And I have to mention Gean Ramos. He’s the Indigenous Caetano Veloso (a celebrated Brazilian singer.) He’s even better than Caetano, but racism prevents him from hitting the big time. Listen to him today… seriously!

COLORS: If you could send one message to the world right now, what would it be?

KM: We need to decolonize: decolonize spaces, decolonize the mind, decolonize the soul. We need to know each other deeply. For that to happen, Brazil needs to decolonize itself and remember its roots. We need to start from scratch to have a beautiful future: a totally original Indigenous future.