Reportage

The Wayuu are a transborder Indigenous nation inhabiting the region stretching between the Guajira Peninsula, at the northernmost tip of Colombia, and part of Venezuela’s Caribbean coast. The Wayuu take pride in their title as a “people never conquered.” What follows is an account of a journey across the desert undertaken alongside them during Easter 2026, offering an opportunity to explore certain aspects of their philosophy of travel. In the second part of this chronicle on the Wayuu people, other aspects of the journey allow us to glimpse some essential features of Wayuu beliefs, presented here through observations on the importance they attach to dreams, on the one hand, and to the spoken word, on the other. A report from Colombia’s La Guajira. Beyond the physical territory, embodied by the clan and anchored in the cemetery, another realm complements the first and is no less essential to the Wayuu spirit: that of dreams. For the Wayuu, a dream is a revelatory vision. It is another form of consciousness that announces events to come, indicates which path to follow, conveys a message, or explains waking reality. Indeed, any Wayuu person who is reasonably familiar with the language and culture will quite naturally ask, upon waking, by way of greeting those they first encounter after getting out of bed: Jamaya pulapüin? — “What did you dream?” The suy, or chinchorro, the traditional hammocks. (Wikimedia Commons) At the northernmost tip of La Guajira, in the sanctuary known as Talüwayüüpana, I spent a night sleeping in a suy , or chinchorro , the traditional hammock, alongside Paola and around fifteen other people who had invited me to attend a ritual. At sunrise, as everyone awoke naturally with the first rays of light, they began telling one another about their dreams before going to see the mayor , the elderly keeper of knowledge who was part of our group and who interpreted each dream individually. “*Ajá*… I saw a little girl in my dream,” one of those attending the ritual told the sabedor . “She was standing in front of me, in that direction, toward the sea, toward where the sun had set. She turned around and began to run. I followed her and tried to catch up with her. That was my dream.” After a moment’s reflection, the elder replied: “She was probably showing you a water source. There are many forgotten springs around here, for your herd.” “And the girl?” “Many spirits are present in this region.” What stands out in this dream is the role played by the little girl. The corollary of the dream is the spirit. The presence of the spirits of the dead or of Nature lies behind most significant dreams, along with certain signs they leave behind. Dreams are the realm of communication par excellence with these other elements of reality. The sacrifice of goats The ritual I was fortunate enough to attend was, in a sense, the waking counterpart of the dream, allowing communication with the spirits in another way. These spirits include Nature — a category that exists for us largely because of its opposition to Culture, whereas for the Wayuu the distinction between the two is far less clear-cut. A sabedora and a sabedor first gathered us to witness the sacrifice of several goats. While one man held the animals by the horns, the elder quickly thrust his knife into their throats and withdrew it. The animal was then released, spilling its blood as it made its final run before collapsing a few seconds later. Juya, the principal god of rain, was satisfied by this red flow. Once night had fallen, with the full moon as our only source of light, the female keeper of knowledge gathered us in a circle and performed a limpieza on each of us: a purification involving sprays of chinrrinchi spat from the mouth and prayers accompanied by strokes of plants. Finally came the traditional sacred dance of the yonna , during which the woman wears facial paint and a large red veil, the color of the vermilion cardinal bird, a symbol of La Guajira. (Wikimedia Commons) She dances while pursuing a man who hops backward in the opposite direction. Their steps imitate Nature: clouds, partridges, doves, horses. Although this dance has become a folkloric symbol for tourists willing to pay handsomely to see it, it is in fact a courtship dance and remains essential to any sacred event involving communication with the spirits and the Earth. In truth, most dreams are rarely interpreted as happy omens. The Wayuu who seeks meaning in a dream often appears worried. Sleep frequently takes the form of a warning — foretelling an illness, for instance, or preparing someone for difficult weather conditions — or serves as protection against a malevolent spirit. One final feature, revealing the intertwining of the sacred, the spirit world and dreams among the Wayuu, also recalls their attitude toward departure and travel. At the end of the ritual, early in the morning, as we prepared to leave on our poor 150cc motorcycle to face the sandy, arid roads of the desert, I was about to turn around and give one last farewell wave to the gathering. But a woman who was also leaving and was walking just behind me spoke firmly: “Don’t turn around. When you leave, you must never look back.” The putchipuü and the art of the spoken word What might be called Wayuu customary law — or, more accurately, the set of rules and roles shaping their unwritten normative system — is fascinating. So fascinating, in fact, that UNESCO inscribed it on its list of Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity in 2010. The central figure in this system is the putchipuü , or palabrero : literally, the one who holds the word. He is not appointed in the strict sense; his prestige is unanimously recognized by his clan and the community. His principal qualities are twofold. First, he knows the history, meaning, traditions and customs of the Wayuu. Second, he must possess a naturally thoughtful and peaceful disposition, enabling him to maintain wise detachment during conflicts — something that requires a calm temperament and a great ability to listen. The title of putchipuü is not hereditary, although there are lineages of these messengers of the spoken word. A putchipuü often becomes one after growing up learning from and observing the attitudes of his predecessor, who may well be a close relative. Take Neimer. Around thirty years old, he is remarkably knowledgeable about Wayuu traditions for a member of the younger generation. He is pursuing a master’s degree in “Mother Earth,” an Indigenous studies program at the University of Antioquia, which gives him an even deeper understanding of the “Wayuu spirit.” Neimer has all the makings of a future putchipuü , and not without reason: since childhood he has followed in the footsteps of his father, a famous palabrero respected throughout Upper Guajira. It was thanks to Neimer, in fact, that I was able to attend the ritual held at the Stone of Destiny. After nightfall, once the first sacrifice had been completed, Paola and Neimer told me to come closer. Around the circular track drawn in the sand for the sacred Yonna dance, the participants gathered in a circle. One by one, everyone introduced themselves, giving their name, their clan and the reason for their presence. This was followed by a long opening speech from the putchipuü — the same elder who would interpret the dreams the following morning. With Paola translating simultaneously, I could nevertheless sense the beautiful rhetorical forms characteristic of Wayuu eloquence and the rhythm of the jayeechi . For the putchipuü , this messenger, is a master of one of the cardinal values of Wayuu culture: the spoken word. The Wayuu banner. (Wikimedia Commons) During this solemn little gathering, punctuated by curls of smoke rising from the shared tabacos , our orator addressed a range of subjects, always illustrated by exemplary stories: what it means to be Wayuu, recalling the creation of the world according to their cosmology; the subject of love, recounting an unhappy episode from his youth and the conflict between two clans that followed; and finally, by way of an epilogue to the story, the importance of resolving disputes. The putchipuü ended his speech with one of the most remarkable and subtle manifestations of Wayuu eloquence: a jayeechi . It is an improvised — and therefore ephemeral — song-poem marking a particular moment, such as a gathering, a funeral vigil or a wedding. The jayeechi can also become a duel: a form of poetic jousting not unlike the Lebanese zajal . From this anecdote about heartbreak, and particularly from the emphasis placed on the inter-family conflict that resulted, one can discern the most essential role of the putchipuü , mentioned at the beginning of this section: that of master of Wayuu “customary law,” endowed with the ability to bring peace to conflicts. In his narrative and his jayeechi , our palabrero certainly evokes the moving memory of his personal experience as a Wayuu Majnun regretting his unattainable Layla. Yet what emerges most clearly from the moral of this shared memory is the tragedy of seeing two families — and therefore two clans — tear one another apart and descend into confrontation. For the Wayuu, the ultimate tragedy is the unraveling of bonds. The solution in times of crisis is to find common ground through compensation or reparation from one party to another. Proof of the primacy of the spoken word in Wayuu culture can be found in the expression locals use when threatening someone with being brought before the community’s customary law: Cuidao que te voy a mandar la palabra — “Watch out, or I’ll send you the Word!” But the role of the putchipuü is not that of a judge. In a sense, the Wayuu have no judges. His function is that of an “ambassador,” whose task is to ease tensions and find a compromise. When one clan has a grievance against another, the putchipuü of each side, acting as official representatives, speak on behalf of those gathered to deliberate. This is not an improvised discussion; there are unwritten rules and sanctions. An ordinary theft, for example, requires financial or material compensation worth four times the value of the stolen property, even if that property is returned. It is important to understand that in such a judgment there is not merely an accuser and an accused, and once a decision has been reached, a victim and an offender. The honor of the entire clan is at stake. Several family members therefore accompany the accused, and if wrongdoing is acknowledged, the offender must also repair the damage done to the honor of his clan. It is a form of retributive and restorative justice that has received international recognition. Epilogue: Time passes, memory remains During the Easter season, in April, the land is cracked and dry. “You should come back around Christmas. Everything is greener in La Guajira.” Once a year, the rains flood large parts of the region. To ask someone’s age in Wayuunaiki, one says ¿Jeera puuyase? , which literally means, “How many rains have you seen?” — because heavy rains come only during a single period each year. I realized that I had not seen a single ancient tomb, monument or old family relic among the Wayuu. The rain, like the years, erases their memories. Rain is passing time made visible, a reminder of the ephemeral: footprints in the sand, the passage of human beings. It washes the land, the blood of sacrifices, and drowns tears. For the Wayuu, it eventually washes away even their dreams and their graves. What remains are the stories — oral, of course. And this oral memory is astonishing. While visiting the lush mountains of Macuíra National Park, one of Paola’s uncles accompanied me to the Dunes of Aleewolu’u, nestled in the foothills of the mountain range. My guide told me: “At the time when the Spaniards arrived, the Arhuacos lived near the sea. Their territory was the coast, because they were fishermen, while the mountains and the desert belonged to the Wayuu. But the Arhuacos fled the destruction of their villages by the invaders. “They came here, to Macuíra, and our grandfathers say that this dune began to form at that time. The Arhuacos lived here for a while, and the Wayuu, although they did not particularly like outsiders entering their territory, welcomed them for some time. “The Arhuacos stayed long enough to bury their dead on this land. One day, their wise man had a dream in which he was told to take his people to the Sierra Nevada, for that was where their territory lay. They still live there today.” And this story, passed down orally from one generation to the next, has left traces. Fragments of Arhuaco pottery, some of them funerary, have been found by the Wayuu of Macuíra, and I have seen photographs of them. As for the Arhuacos, they make an annual pilgrimage to Macuíra to perform a ritual from the top of the dunes, praying for the spirits of their dead who remained on this land and commemorating the hospitality shown to them by the Wayuu. An oral memory that has endured for centuries. Orality, the spoken word: this is the power of Wayuu memory. The written word is something to be wary of. One evening, seeing me taking notes about the journey, Paola corrected a few Wayuunaiki mistakes in my notebook. Then, with her characteristic mischievous smile, she said: “You see, the spoken word is better. You should never believe what is written.”

The Wayuu are a cross-border indigenous nation inhabiting the region spanning the La Guajira Peninsula, at the northernmost tip of Colombia, and part of Venezuela's Caribbean coast. The Wayuu take great pride in their title as the "never conquered people." What follows is an account of a desert crossing made alongside them during Easter 2026 — an opportunity to share certain aspects of their philosophy of travel. Many people in Colombia are quick to label the Wayuu a "very closed" people. By that they mean a culture that is deeply resistant to the arrival of outsiders on the community's ancestral territory. Their highly traditional customs are said to defy, in an archaic and violent way, the progressive advances of modern law. "You'll see," a Spanish colleague who had visited Wayuu territory told me, "I've never seen people so rough and violent — people who practice an eye for an eye and put children to work in absolute poverty at roadside checkpoints." This kind of remark carries an implicit indictment of the "noble savage" myth: don't expect to find in the Wayuu the original goodness of humankind. But then, who ever said we should aspire to find a perfect model when it comes to human societies? I had a privileged connection with Paola, from the Uliana clan — a Wayuu psychologist and educator. After two years of regular exchanges during which she taught me the basics of Wayuunaiki, Paola urged me to come and discover her homeland of La Guajira. Terechija pia püntapa yamüin, "I'll be waiting for you here" , she had told me. A short stay came together, and through Paola's friendship and guidance, it allowed me to glimpse certain features of the mindset and psychology — if such terms can even apply here — of a people long referred to as guajiro in Spanish colonial chronicles. I am neither an anthropologist, nor a psychologist, nor a historian; yet I will try, by drawing directly on the words of the Wayuu themselves, to share certain aspects of their culture that deserve to be better known — at a time when ideas around identity, memory, territory, and justice seem to be set in stone. These are notions that, in various parts of the world, are fueling a very real necropolitics. A people open to the world? The Wayuu are the first to proudly claim their title as a people "never subjugated" by the Spanish during the Conquest. And the chronicles of the era do indeed describe them as "savages," "scoundrels," and "rebels" on the fringes of the new imperial order — terms that, in the colonial pen, were used to designate those who had wounded the hidalgo honor of the conquistadors by resisting them. Paola's family. "The alijunas (here, the Spanish) could do nothing against us" , Paola told me as we crossed the desert on motorcycles alongside her brother Joheinner, " they came, but we were armed with fearsome poisoned arrows." She also told me, later on: "The Wayuu, and the Uliana in particular, are known for their friendliness and generosity. But if they feel threatened, they become aggressive." One might therefore assume that cultural contact and intermingling among the Wayuu were almost nonexistent, thanks to their formidable warrior qualities. Moreover, the newcomers of the 16th and 17th centuries struggled to penetrate the arid landscape of this Caribbean refuge that the La Guajira Peninsula represented. As a result, after the arrival of the Europeans, the Wayuu drew a clear line between themselves and the Other — or rather, all others. Even the name they call themselves, Wayuu, means "the People" or "the Human Beings," a deeply human tradition well described by Claude Lévi-Strauss in his reflections on barbarism. Paola explained to me: «In the Wayuunaiki language, the term alijuna means 'one who strikes hard.' It was originally applied only to the conquistadors because of their violence. Today, it simply refers to all non-Wayuu people: other First Nations, Afro-descendants, other mestizo Colombians, tourists, foreigners — everyone who is not Wayuu.» Based solely on colonial accounts, the Wayuu might give the impression of being completely cut off from world affairs and particularly insular. Yet this apparent parochialism doesn't capture their true reality. Nothing is more foreign to the Wayuu than the idea of permanence. Diplomatic sophistication The Wayuu travel — and they travel far. For centuries, they were semi-nomadic, moving between the northern and southern parts of their peninsula according to the seasons and the resources each region had to offer. Likewise, after adopting a certain model of cattle herding, they constantly sought out greener pastures for their modest herds through small-scale transhumance. One explanation for their tenacious resistance to Spanish colonization attempts was their technical adaptation through contact with other Europeans: the domestication of the horse and mastery of firearms — conditions that, according to Finnish historian Pekka Hämäläinen, similarly enabled a degree of independence among the Comanches in what is now the United States. The Wayuu owed this technological mastery, which other peoples on the continent so sorely lacked, to their diplomatic acumen. As Wayuu anthropologist Weidler Guerra Curvelo has analyzed, from the 17th century onward they built strong networks of commercial and political alliances with the English, the French, and above all the Dutch — who were at the time sworn enemies of Spain. The Wayuu understood the political rivalries of their era. They traded as far afield as Jamaica, then under British control. In the 18th century, the Wayuu cacique Antonio Paredes — who would lead one of the most significant Wayuu uprisings in 1769 — sailed to the Caribbean island of Curaçao, then under Dutch rule. He returned triumphant, having signed a trade agreement. But the Wayuu concept of travel did not end with the independence of the Latin American states that would become Colombia and Venezuela over the course of the 19th century. Today, the Wayuu proudly embrace the nickname pueblo sin fronteras , or 'people without borders.' The boundary between Colombia and Venezuela does nothing to diminish the autonomy of Wayuu territory, which straddles both states. This transnational dimension, guaranteed by the constitutions on either side of the imaginary line drawn in the sand, is made tangible through citizenship rights: many Wayuu people hold dual nationality — both Venezuelan and Colombian. The Wayuu regularly cross back and forth across the border — for a wedding, a funeral, to buy a motorcycle, or to attend a second funeral wake, a Wayuu tradition in which, at the end of the mourning period, the deceased is exhumed so that their remains can be cleaned and given a final resting place. Consider how much time these compelling traditions required before modern communications: news of a given celebration had to be sent out months in advance so that everyone involved could gather at a set location. The Wayuu travel, then, and they travel far to stay connected with relatives scattered across clans and territories. The losers of the marijuana boom But this freedom of movement has had its downsides: the Wayuu came out of the bonanza marimbera , the golden age of marijuana trafficking in the 1970s and 1980s, during which they were used to move goods through the border's gray zone. Violence raged, and paramilitary actors from the Colombian conflict—as well as Venezuelan mob figures—made them pay dearly for their presence. A tragedy remarkably explored in the film Pájaros de Verano (Birds of Passage, 2018), which Paola recommended to me. The Wayuu travel primarily for work. Rural exodus has hit Wayuu youth hard in recent years. First, to the capital, Bogotá. «Motoshonosü tain chajachinpa Samatchipa! «I had completely forgotten you were in Bogotá!» , Paola told me. She didn't hesitate to move there alone for five years to study in the city, nicknamed Samatchipa—"Cold Place"—in Wayuunaiki. On the Venezuelan side, many have migrated in recent years to escape the harsh living conditions imposed by American sanctions. Sometimes the road leads to exile: many Wayuu have found themselves on routes toward the United States, fleeing—for political or economic reasons—the chaos and repression that defined Chavista Venezuela. The northern tip of the La Guajira Peninsula. Not only did the Wayuu travel, but part of the world came to them, effectively integrating them into a "global consciousness" shaped by migration and outside political forces. La Guajira was, like so many other parts of Latin America, a destination for enslaved populations. Their descendants, along with internal Colombian migrants, make up a well-established Afro-descendant community in the region, found even in remote villages such as the corregimiento of Nazareth, nestled in the lush Sierra de la Macuíra—a true oasis and Paola's place of origin. Muslim and Arab migrations In Lower Guajira, Arab and Muslim migrations continue to shape the landscape, notably in the city of Maicao, which is home to the largest mosque in Colombia. The Wayuu are familiar with the term mezquita , mosque, and refer to all Muslim populations in the area—who are in fact more South Asian than Middle Eastern—by the term árabes , the Arabs. The Wayuu have also embraced various religious denominations, though none has managed to supersede the clan, giving rise to a certain syncretism. The arrival of the Capuchins—barefoot friars—nearly 120 years ago resulted in a Catholic majority. This is true of Nazareth, which Paola took me to visit, where one of the region's largest and oldest educational institutions stands: the Indigenous Boarding School, founded in 1911 by Fray Crispín de la Palma. Some communities, ranging from a few dozen to a few hundred inhabitants, have adopted one of the evangelical denominations; Jehovah's Witnesses can even be found among them. This has not prevented the Wayuu, to this day, from practicing ancient cultural rites. Dreams, animal sacrifices, dances, sabedores , rituals, and the old gods all still have their place—at a time when other peoples in similar circumstances have completely abandoned certain traditions. The Colombian imagination readily cites Wayuu endogamy as evidence of their supposed "closeness" to outsiders. Yet this endogamy is quite relative. For a little under a century and a half, contact between the Wayuu and what is called "mainstream society" (meaning: non-Wayuu) has intensified. Today, between one-third and just under half of the total population of the Colombian department of La Guajira is Wayuu. In ports and trade, particularly around the towns and villages of the Colombian Lower Guajira and the coastal region of Maracaibo in Venezuela, countless relationships — with outcomes ranging from happy to tragic — quickly gave rise to a de facto mixing of peoples. Evidence of this, according to my guide Paola, is the obvious difference in features and complexions among the Wayuu, especially between those from the Upper Guajira and their neighbors to the south. And it is far from uncommon, on the streets of Riohacha, Uribia, or Maicao, to see couples made up of one Wayuu person and one alijuna. Rather than creating a sense of identity loss among the Wayuu, this reality goes hand in hand with the observation that, in a society built around clan ties, such mixing does not disrupt the transmission of culture and language. Those are threatened by other factors, which we will return to later. But then, one might ask: if this openness extends to every level — territory, marriage, family — and if language, customs, or even ethnic background don't necessarily define what it means to be Wayuu, how do they manage to maintain such a strong sense of shared identity and cohesion? How, in the end, do they identify with such remarkable ease who is Wayuu and who is not? Because a Wayuu is defined, above all, by their clan. A territory defined by its dead But what exactly is the clan for the Wayuu? It is a sense of belonging to a territory. And among the Wayuu, territory is defined by its dead. A Wayuu is Wayuu because they know where to return: the land where their ancestors are buried. Territory, for them, is not the political construction bounded by borders born of conflict and the assertion of power, as it is for Western states as described by historian Norbert Elias. Clan, family, territory are nothing other than references to those who are no longer here: the land is governed by the memory of the departed. Territory is where the cemetery lies, where each clan first settled over the long course of time, and it is defined by the pastures and water sources that mark the landscape surrounding that cemetery. Paola told me: "You find Wayuu people everywhere anyway!" Her mother Francisca, pouring me coffee and handing me an arepa, added: "Oh, absolutely! In the United States, in Europe, everywhere!" Paola continued in an almost epic tone, turning to the subject of the dead: "But the Wayuu always returns to their territory. If they die out there, their clan and family will go to the ends of the earth to bring them back and bury them here, on their land. The territory is defined by the cemeteries, the water sources, and other landmarks." Does this contradict the idea that an outsider, an alijuna , can perfectly integrate into a Wayuu clan that has not been ethnically homogeneous for generations? Not at all: a quick glance at mixed couples almost invariably reveals a Wayuu woman living with an alijuna man. Wayuu culture is matrilineal (but not matriarchal — Paola was insistent on that point), and the ashipa , the clan that matters, is the mother's group. As a result, the man — whether Wayuu or alijuna — will almost always go to live on his wife's territory, and it is her family's cemetery that determines the clan, the territory, and the inheritance tied to it. A warm welcome to those who come from elsewhere — their children's graves will ultimately rest where their Wayuu mother first drew breath. "It's perfectly normal, look." Paola gestured with a glance toward her cousin's husband, who was visibly white. Paola m’indiquait d’un regard le mari de sa cousine, visiblement blanc. «He's a paisa, from the Medellín region. Many paisas have come to La Guajira. He married my cousin, and look at their daughter — she speaks wayuunaiki, she is wayuu, but she looks very different from me, different hair, chinitos. He's the one who came to live on his wife's territory. A Wayuu can build his own home anywhere on his territory. You know we don't need a title deed? It's her territory. Being married to her, he can make use of it.» At the beginning of this reflection on the openness of the Wayuu people, I argued that nothing is more foreign to them than the idea of permanence. This is because the outcome of this perpetual movement is return — a return to the land of one's ancestors. But to return, one must first leave! And wander the world. Before coming back, whether dead or alive. I give the last word to the master of wayuu speech, Livio Simón Suárez, the poet from Nazareth, whose house Paola pointed out to me as we passed by. His verses, written in Spanish, beautifully capture the hope of the wayuu Ulysses, poised between departure and return: «Los caminos de mi tierra están tristes por tu partida. Wayuu regresa pronto que tus caminos te esperan para besar tus cuarteados pies» (Your departure saddens the paths of my land, Wayuu! Come home soon, for the roads are waiting to kiss your cracked and weary feet.)

The oil price surge triggered by the war between the United States, Israel, and Iran is further strengthening Guyana's position as home to the world's fastest-growing economy, thanks to its massive offshore reserves. But beneath this spectacular prosperity lies a major challenge: translating oil revenues into sustainable development for its entire population. Even before the military escalation in the Middle East, Guyana was undergoing an unprecedented economic transformation. This small Caribbean state—a former British colony with fewer than one million inhabitants—was long considered one of the poorest in South America. Yet within just a few years, Georgetown has emerged as one of the world's new oil giants. The war between the United States, Israel, and Iran, which has severely disrupted international energy markets, has only heightened the strategic importance of this small nation. With estimated reserves of 11 billion barrels and direct access to the Atlantic Ocean—far from sensitive maritime chokepoints such as the Strait of Hormuz—Guyana now stands out as a stable supplier in a world hungry for energy security. However, this new windfall is fueling a growing debate about how the billions of dollars in oil revenues should be invested to avoid the mistakes made by other hydrocarbon-dependent nations. Oil Boom The development of Guyana's oil sector is one of the fastest success stories in the industry's recent history. Led by a consortium headed by ExxonMobil, it has pushed production to more than 900,000 barrels per day in just seven years—a milestone that offshore projects typically take far longer to reach. The economic impact has been dramatic. Since commercial production began in 2019, the country's GDP has more than quadrupled, reaching nearly $27.5 billion in 2024. In the capital, Georgetown, the signs of this newfound wealth are everywhere: modern office buildings, upscale hotels, new residential neighborhoods, and a proliferation of oil industry-related services. The rise in crude prices driven by the Middle East conflict could accelerate this momentum even further. According to several estimates, if prices hold around $100 per barrel through the end of the year, Guyana's oil revenues could surge by nearly 70% compared to the previous year. The country is also poised to benefit from a substantial increase in its share of oil revenues. Until now, a large portion of production went back to the consortium to recover its exploration and development costs. But those investments could be fully recouped as early as this year, which would allow the Guyanese state to claim a much larger share of the profits generated by the oil fields. Heading Toward Dutch Disease? Yet this meteoric prosperity comes with well-known risks. The example of neighboring Venezuela serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of excessive dependence on oil revenues and exposure to boom-and-bust crude price cycles—symptoms of the economic phenomenon known as "Dutch disease." To guard against this, Guyana established a sovereign wealth fund in 2019 designed to receive all oil revenues and gradually channel them into development projects. It is worth noting, however, that Guyana holds two advantages over its Venezuelan neighbor: brand-new infrastructure, as well as a much lighter grade of crude compared to Venezuela's extra-heavy oil. The government is also stressing the need to diversify the economy and ensure that more of the population benefits from the fruits of this growth. Despite impressive GDP figures, oil, gas, and related activities now account for more than three-quarters of the national economy. Some areas of infrastructure still lag significantly behind, with recurring power outages, inadequate sanitation networks, and a rising cost of living. To address these concerns, the authorities are gradually tightening local content rules. Oil companies are required to use Guyanese suppliers in several sectors, including catering, transportation, and medical services. Local entrepreneurs hope that broadening these requirements will drive the creation of skilled jobs and foster a more diversified business ecosystem. But criticism remains. Some business leaders point to practices that allow foreign groups to indirectly benefit from quotas reserved for local players. Others note that inflation driven by the oil boom is eating into some of the expected gains for households and small businesses. The paradox is particularly striking in the energy sector: although Guyana has become a net oil exporter, it still imports refined fuels and is therefore exposed to rising prices at the pump. For President Irfaan Ali, the challenge now lies in managing the expectations of a population that is confronted daily with headlines about extraordinary wealth. For while oil is profoundly transforming the country, the true measure of success will rest on Guyana's ability to convert this historic windfall into lasting improvements in living standards — in a country long plagued by corruption and communal divisions, primarily between Indo-Guyanese and Afro-Guyanese communities. Even if geopolitical tensions ease and crude prices fall back, the country already appears to have secured a new standing on the global energy map. The question that remains is whether this prosperity can benefit all citizens and outlast the inevitable end of the oil cycle.

An emblematic figure of the Holy Valley of Qadisha in northern Lebanon, high in the mountains of Bsharri, Padre Dario Escobar passed away a few days ago at the age of 92. Born in Medellín, Colombia, in 1934, he chose to leave behind the comfort and privilege of his affluent family background to come to Lebanon in the early 2000s, join the Maronite Church, and live as a hermit at the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Hawqa in Qannoubine. Before embracing the hermit's life, he received a solid academic education in theology, psychology, and Biblical Greek in Colombia. He then devoted himself to contemplation and religious life in the solitude of the Qadisha mountains, which will preserve the memory of the hermit Escobar, who came from the distant land of Colombia. Report by Maxime Pluvinet .

Alex Saab, a Colombian of Lebanese origin and key figure in Venezuelan government under Nicolás Maduro, was expelled to the United States five months after the ousted president's capture by the U.S. military, for his involvement "in various crimes in the United States of America, as is public, notorious and widely reported by the media," according to a statement from Venezuelan immigration authorities. Alex Naim Saab Moran had grown close to the Venezuelan government during the final years of Hugo Chávez's administration (1999-2013) and had come to manage a vast import network for Nicolás Maduro's government. He was considered a key intermediary for the regime as the country struggled to adapt to international sanctions. He was notably responsible for importing products for the social program providing subsidized food sales, known as Clap, which was marred by corruption accusations. Saab was arrested during a stopover in Cape Verde in 2020 and extradited to the United States in 2021, which accused him of diverting food aid and money laundering on behalf of Maduro. He was exchanged in December 2023 for ten Americans imprisoned in Venezuela. A release that Maduro, captured on January 3 by the U.S. military, had then called a "triumph." Saab was welcomed with great fanfare upon his return and was subsequently appointed minister. Delcy Rodríguez, former vice president under Nicolás Maduro, took the reins of power after his capture and sidelined Saab from the government, also removing his Italian wife Camila Fabri from her positions. Under pressure from Washington, she implemented numerous changes, adopting an amnesty law to release political prisoners and reforming the energy sector to open it to private investment.

In the Argentine province of Misiones, at the remote crossroads of Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil, the remnants of Jesuit missions tell a story of cultural blending, resistance and singular social utopias. From the ruins of San Ignacio to present-day Guaraní communities, Levant Time traces the path left by Father Sélim Abou, former rector of Saint Joseph University, whose fieldwork sheds light–far beyond Latin America–on contemporary questions of identity and coexistence, reaching as far as Lebanon. On this March 19, Saint Joseph’s day–the patron saint of USJ–Levant Time presents Maxime Pluvinet and Miroslava Salazar’s report from Latin America, following in the footsteps of Father Sélim Abou. In the heat of the old mission lands, where red laterite roads dissolve into the forest and the Paraná River traces uncertain borders between Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil, fragments of history endure–never entirely erased by time. They are stones, voices, memories. And at times, human journeys that bridge worlds once thought irreconcilable. Father Sélim Abou, S.J., who died in Beirut in 2018, was one such figure, whose path extended well beyond national borders. A leading anthropologist, a key thinker on pluralism and Lebanese identity, and former rector of Saint Joseph University, he was also, for more than half a century, deeply connected to a remote corner of South America: Argentina’s Misiones province. n these settlements, a hybrid society took shape–neither fully European nor purely Indigenous–built on collective organization, an autonomous economy, and the central use of the Guaraní language. When the young Lebanese Jesuit Sélim Abou first encountered these ruins at Christmas in 1961, at the age of 33, the impact was immediate. Having arrived in Argentina to complete his training, he visited San Ignacio Miní, now designated a UNESCO World Heritage site. Standing before what he would later call “the silent testimony of stone,” he experienced a kind of intimate recognition: the sense of a dialogue between cultures made possible–fragile, yet real–confirming him in his Jesuit vocation. The moment proved revelatory. An intellectual heir to the anthropologist Roger Bastide and Father Albert de Jerphanion, who was killed at the outset of the Lebanese civil war, Father Abou found in the Jesuit-Guaraní experience a confirmation of his calling: to understand how plural identities might coexist without dissolving into one another. A Jesuit Utopia? More than sixty years later, in Posadas–the provincial capital looking out over the Paraná River–this memory endures in unexpected places. The Instituto Montoya, named after a celebrated pioneer of the Jesuit-Guaraní enterprise, became a second home for Sélim Abou. It was here that he began teaching in the 1960s and returned regularly over three decades. It is also here that many of his archives are preserved. In a quiet room on the upper floor of his Apostoles residence, amid photographs and original works by Sélim Abou, Dr. Marisa Micolis carefully handles documents accumulated over more than fifty years. A friend, colleague, and former student of “Father Abou,” she recalls a man for whom long-term perspective was a necessity. “Today,” she says, reflecting on the half-century she has devoted to education, “people think excellence appears out of nowhere. But human beings are made for the long term.” In one photograph, the young Jesuit smiles alongside his brother Habib. In another, an icon of the Virgin before which he prayed daily. Nearby lies a copy of his 1961 work on Arabic-French bilingualism–his first major contribution in Buenos Aires. To grasp what left such a deep mark on Father Abou, one must cross into Paraguay. In San Ignacio Guazú, Father Daniel, curator of the Jesuit museum, sums up the experience of the reductions without romanticizing them: “There is no perfect society. But compared with the world of its time, the Jesuit-Guaraní society genuinely created something new.” He recalls the figure of Roque González de Santa Cruz, a Jesuit born in Asunción in the 16th century and a fierce opponent of the encomienda system. Along with other missionaries, he advocated for Guaraní communities to exist as free societies, protected from the slave raids that devastated the region. This project was not an exercise in abstract utopia, but a historical compromise. The Guaraní gained a measure of autonomy; the Jesuits found fertile ground for evangelization. Between the two, an original culture emerged. Even today, in Paraguay, Guaraní is an official language–a direct legacy of these communities, where it was not only spoken but also written and taught alongside Spanish and Latin, as evidenced by the many printed works produced within the reductions themselves. In the church of Santa María de Fe, a small town near San Ignacio Guazú, a guide points out a sculpture of Saint George slaying a dragon. Here, however, the dragon takes the form of the aña , a figure of evil in Guaraní cosmology. On another motif, the passion fruit, an Indigenous symbol of fertility, converses with the Christian vine. Everywhere, traces of cultural hybridity remain–an experiment prematurely crushed by the expulsion of the Jesuits from the continent, following a political agreement between crowns: the sacrifice of an ideal for decidedly earthly interests, the last hopes of which are vividly dramatized in Roland Joffé’s 1987 film The Mission . 1978: The Heart and the Request Yet Father Sélim Abou’s connection with the Guaraní was not limited to a fascination with the past. It took tangible form in 1978, during a singular event: the transfer to Posadas of the relic of the heart of Roque González, the Paraguayan saint martyred in 1628 and founder of the city, commemorating his sacrifice. Members of the Mbya-Guaraní people came to venerate it. For them, this missionary was more than a religious figure–he was “a friend of their ancestors.” They made an unexpected request. In the forest, during a meeting with Bishop Jorge Kemerer and professors from the Instituto Montoya, the Pa’i (spiritual leader) Antonio Martínez was asked what his people needed. Three times, he replied that they needed nothing. But after Bishop Kemerer insisted, he clarified: “I want a school for my grandchildren. I don’t want them to be like me–without papers, without a language in common with you.” That statement marked a turning point. Thus was born an unprecedented project: the creation of Guaraní communities with bilingual schools in Fracrán and Perutí. Father Sélim Abou committed himself fully. For twelve years, he supported and documented the initiative, which he would describe as a “microscopic-scale revival” of the old reductions . But without nostalgia or illusion: the goal was not to replicate the past, but to invent a contemporary form of coexistence. Javier Villalba, chief of Perutí, recalls: “He built a bridge between himself and our grandparents. He was like an advisor… and even like a father.” Across the testimonies gathered, one trait recurs consistently: humility. Sélim Abou did not come to impose a model. He learned, observed, accompanied. He respected social structures, beliefs, and language. He lived among the people, sharing their daily lives. “He was like us,” Villalba recalls. From Misiones to Beirut: “Cultural Resistance” In Fracrán–today renamed in honor of Pa’i Antonio Martínez–the school still stands. Children there learn both Guaraní and Spanish. Catalino Martínez, grandson of the founding chief, emphasizes the initiative’s political significance: “My grandfather wanted our people to keep moving forward, even after his death.” The experience helped lay the foundations for local institutions, such as a Guaraní affairs office. It also left a subtler imprint: a way of thinking about development without erasing identity. For Father Sélim Abou, the experience resonated with his reflections on Lebanon. In a 2006 interview with France Culture, he highlighted the contrast between a Lebanon fragmented into communities and an Argentina striving to build a unified nation despite its diversity. In both cases, the same question arose: how can a society be built without denying differences? How can cultural specificities live and thrive without becoming the basis for a separate political agenda? For what Sélim Abou experienced here, in the forests of Misiones, he was simultaneously thinking about Lebanon. As an anthropologist of identities, he devoted his work to this central question. In Lebanon, the issue took on a dramatic dimension after the civil war and during the Syrian occupation. Between 1995 and 2003, while serving as rector of Saint Joseph University in Beirut, Sélim Abou became a leading voice in the intellectual resistance to Syrian tutelage. His annual speeches, eagerly anticipated, grew increasingly political in tone. In 2002, he denounced a “Syrianization” of Lebanon and a system that corrupted even the political language itself. That same year, he declared: “The occupation is the mother of the wounds from which Lebanon suffers.” But his response was not military. It was intellectual. In the face of repression against protests, Sélim Abou developed a key idea: that of “cultural resistance.” He urged students to write, to think, to express themselves differently, to rebuild a critical space capable of resisting domination. In one of his speeches, delivered on the occasion of St. Joseph’s Day, he cited editorials and articles by Issa Goraieb and Michel Hajji Georgiou in the pages of L’Orient-Le Jour to support his points. In his addresses, he warned of a danger deeper than political coercion: the destruction of discernment. He described a system that “perverts language,” “breaks social cohesion,” and “suspends rational discourse.” In other words, an occupation that works on minds as much as on territory, and that fosters mediocrity. This perspective was rooted in a broader conviction. As one of his contemporaries put it, Sélim Abou sought to answer a fundamental question: “How can we live together, equal in rights but different in our affiliations?” In the forests of Misiones as in the lecture halls of Beirut, he pursued the same intuition: that identities are not walls, but passageways. And that sometimes, it is at the margins of the world–in a school lost deep in the forest–that the most concrete forms of the universal are invented.