Has the way of narrating Latin America changed?

Has the way we narrate Latin America changed in recent decades? “I would say yes, but that's a very broad question that deserves careful consideration,” says Chilean writer Nona Fernández, one of the guests at the fourth edition of the KM Amèrica Latin American Literature Festival, which runs until Friday and is currently hosting all kinds of activities in different parts of the city.

Lacking a couch, he sits on a chair, because "one tends to think better when sitting." He is accompanied by fellow writers Sergio Galarza from Peru; his compatriot Francisco Díaz Klaassen; and his Argentine friend Gabriela Cabezón Cámara. Later, they are joined by Tatiana Salem Levy, a Brazilian of Portuguese origin; Horacio Castellanos, a Salvadoran; Brenda Navarro, a Mexican; and Liliana Colanzi, a Bolivian. They all debate the issue at hand, and despite their diverse backgrounds, they reach the same conclusion: yes, the way we narrate has changed, among other things, because there is room for more voices.

“And that's partly thanks to the great work done by independent publishers, which has allowed us to become better known, not only outside of Latin America, but also among ourselves. Before, I used to read Latin American authors who came from Spanish publishers. Now, I don't have to wait for this process, which didn't make much sense, nor do I miss out on new voices along the way,” says Nona Fernández, very active in both the independent literary ecosystem in Chile—she publishes with labels such as Alquimia and Uqbar—and in Spain, as she is currently part of Minúscula's catalog.

Independent publishers have improved the publishing ecosystem, the authors note.

Tatiana Salem Levy (Lisbon, 1979) also applauds the work of small publishing houses, both in Brazil and abroad, believing them to be “responsible for the increasing presence of women, Black authors, and Indigenous authors in literary debates. Before, there was barely any space for them, and yet now, it would be unthinkable for them not to have a place at the discussion tables. I celebrate the changes of this last decade, which have made the publishing sector in my country more diverse than ever.”

In addition to the diversity of voices, the author celebrates the fact that these stories are gradually crossing borders and reaching other countries, not necessarily Portuguese-speaking ones. More and more of these stories portray violence against women in a way that is "more visible than ever before." "It's no longer something that remains in the background." In her latest book, translated into Spanish, Vista Chinesa (Libros del Asteroide), for example, she recounted the rape of her friend.

In Peru, it turns out that "everyone knows Mario Vargas Llosa, and thanks to him, the country was put in the spotlight. But when you focus only on one writer, it's very difficult to see beyond and read about other problems and issues beyond those he addresses. Without meaning to, he kept the rest in the shadows for a long time. In recent years, however, that invisible barrier has gradually been broken," notes Sergio Galarza (Lima, 1976). He himself has contributed his grain of sand with stories that, whether in the foreground or in the background, address class differences. "The lower and working classes also deserve their own voice," he asserts.

This is evident in novels such as La librería quemada (The Burned Bookstore) (Candaya, 2014), a furious critique of the capitalist system that portrays booksellers as dependent on large chains that exploit and dehumanize them; or the recent Barrio Moscardó (Candaya), which, despite being ten years apart from the aforementioned book, continues to address similar themes and uses neighborhoods as its setting, those places that are transit and meeting points and where community is formed.

Gabriela Cabezón Cámara (San Isidro, Argentina, 1968) is also interested in communities and believes, like her peers, that they foster closer ties in working-class neighborhoods. That's why she makes them a central feature of her novels, "something we weren't used to until not so long ago." She showed this interest in her first novel, La Virgen Cabeza (Random House), set in the slum of El Poso. This predilection came after seeing an aerial photograph of her hometown, San Isidro, which showed a clear separation between luxury and poverty. She wanted to learn more, and in her teens, she joined a group of transvestites, whose way of speaking amazed her. "They had a very creative use of language." And this influenced her narrative.

"The lower and working classes also deserve their own voice," claims Sergio Galarza.

In Bolivia, Liliana Colanzi (Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia, 1981) also attests that, in recent times, there have been “important changes in narrative at the level of form”, such as the popularity of the literature of estrangement, which has allowed us to address “political issues, such as the advance of extreme right-wing projects –with Maximiliano Barrientos– or the environmental crisis–with Giovanna Rivero.

“The way we narrate has changed a lot for two reasons: because reality has changed, and also because those who write it have changed. This means that, in addition to new themes, there are others we consider universal or older, such as drug trafficking, violence, politics, or motherhood and fatherhood, but we still receive them as new because they are explained from a new perspective,” emphasizes Horacio Castellanos (Tegucigalpa, 1957), who applauds this plurality, as well as the fact that it opens the door to young people.

In this sense, Tamara Silva (Minas, Uruguay, 2000) has a lot to say. At 24, she has become one of the most innovative voices in current Uruguayan literature, with works such as Larvas (Larvas, Páginas de Espuma), a collection of short stories recently published in Spain that, as the author explains, aims to "see everything from another perspective. The title already gives the reader a clue that they might encounter bugs, scenes, and situations that are normally very disgusting, but I aim to evoke other kinds of feelings and sensations." In the story Mi piojito lindo (My Cute Little Louse), for example, she manages to make these insects that usually inhabit heads evoke tenderness. "I refuse to think that everything has been told. Young people, minorities, and peripheral voices have a lot to say," she insists.

And also authors who write from outside their countries, like Brenda Navarro (Mexico City, 1982), who lives in Madrid: “Living in a different place changes you. When you move, your perspective, your themes, and your way of telling them are amplified.”