Comparative Education Volume 39 No. 2 2003, pp.

239260

Intercultural-bilingual Education for

an Interethnic-plurilingual Society?
The Case of Nicaraguas Caribbean
Coast
JANE FREELAND
This paper aims to contribute to an emerging literature which treats multilingualism as
more than, and distinct from, bilingualism plus. It considers some paradoxes and tensions which
arise when current Latin American models of intercultural-bilingual education are applied to
plurilingual and interethnic regions, such as Nicaraguas Caribbean Coast region. Here, three
indigenous and two Afro-Caribbean minorities interact in common or overlapping territories, in ways
which often entail the development of multilingual repertoires and dynamic, multifaceted identities.
The paper focuses on intercultural-bilingual education programmes initiated in 1985, in two
indigenous languages and in English/English-Creole, each with Spanish. It explores some complexities of Coast peoples linguistic and cultural practices through autobiographical accounts, by workers
in the programmes, of the development of their multilingual repertoires and allegiances. Finally, it
suggests that the programmes efficacy for the maintenance and revitalisation of cultures and
languages and for the development of interculturality is limited by their binary conception and
design (vernacular dominant language), and offers some pointers for further research towards their
modification.

ABSTRACT

Introduction [1]
Multilingualism and bilingual education is a surprisingly frequent collocation in the literature, suggesting an image of plurilingual societies as mosaics of discrete linguistic and
cultural groups (see, for example, Edwards, 1994; Fishman, 1991, 2001; Calvo Perez &
Godenzzi, 1997; Godenzzi, 1997, and studies of Canada (Carey, 1997), Australia (Clyne,
1997), and the USA (McKay, 1997) in the 1997 Annual Review of Applied Linguistics survey
of multilingualism research). This might be a legacy of early language policies designed to
assimilate minorities, indigenous or immigrant, conceived simply as outsiders to be absorbed
into societies imagined as monolingual or monocultural, though many of these works have
pluralist aims. Where such mosaics do exist, multilingual education might legitimately aim to
produce people with bilingual competences in their original language and a dominant or state
language.
Research from other perspectives suggests that the multilingual, multicultural mosaic
itself is ideologically constructed. Historical studies of ethnogenesis reject the traditional
billiard ball conception of indigenous cultures (e.g. Hill, 1996, pp. 79); ethnographic

Correspondence to: Jane Freeland, 3 Greville Road, Southampton, SO15 5AW, UK. Email: jane@freelanj.demon.co.uk
ISSN 0305-0068 print; ISSN 1360-0486 online/03/020239-22 2003 Taylor & Francis Ltd
DOI: 10.1080/0305006032000082452

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J. Freeland

studies of multilingual communicative practices in modern societies contest essentialist

assumptions that communities and cultures are clearly bounded and internally homogeneous,
and isomorphic with similarly bounded languages (e.g. Le Page & Tabouret-Keller, 1985;
Rampton, 1995; Rampton et al., 1997; Urciuoli, 1998), whilst work on ideologies of language
relates these assumptions to European traditions of nation-building (e.g. Blommaert, 1996,
1999; Blommaert & Verschueren, 1999; Schieffelin et al., 1998).
From India (for example, Pattanayak, 1990), Africa (for example, Heugh et al., 1995;
LANGTAG, 1996; Rassool, 2000), and the Pacific (Muhlhausler, 1996) come demonstrations of the models inadequacy for language policy and planning in complex plurilingual
societies where fluid multilingual identities are the stuff of normality. In light of such work,
there are calls for a revision of the underlying language planning paradigm to incorporate an
understanding of the relationships between languages and the significance of their use in
specific social and historical contexts (Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997; Muhlhausler, 1996).
In practice, however, this revision is difficult. The paradigm and its ideological underpinnings still dominate both lay and professional thinking about education. As Cenoz and
Genessees recent collection (1998a) demonstrates, it is difficult to move beyond bilingualism, in the face of powerful myths about language education (Tucker, 1998, p. 9) and a
lack of direct evidence concerning multilingual acquisition and multilingualism (Cenoz &
Genessee, 1998b, pp. 2829). In Latin America, it is proving difficult for countries like
Bolivia to realise their genuine commitment to diversity in education in the absence of
linguistic and pedagogical models appropriate to its lowland Andean and Amazonian regions,
where people resort to more than two languages to satisfy their basic communicative needs
(Hornberger & Lopez, 1998, p. 223).
Moreover, as May (2001), Jaffe (1999), and Warren (1998) show for different contexts,
minorities themselves strategically adopt essentialist discourses to claim recognition from
state-nations who understand no other. Probably for similar reasons, so do the international
instruments and declarations of linguistic rights on which these claims rest. The resulting
double bind makes it difficult to deal with the sociolinguistic shortcomings of the paradigm
without appearing to undermine the political struggle (Blommaert, 2001; Skutnabb-Kangas
et al., 2001).
Against this background, with all its political pitfalls, this paper explores some problems
of revitalising and maintaining indigenous and minority languages in Nicaraguas plurilingual, interethnic Caribbean Coast region. It first outlines the essentialist construction of the
Coasts interethnicity that informs current policy, and contrasts it with Costeno (Coast
peoples) interethnic practices, drawing on linguistic autobiographies by students of the
Licenciatura (BA) in Intercultural-Bilingual Education at the Universidad de las Regiones
Autonomas de la Costa Caribe de Nicaragua (URACCAN). It then examines tensions
between these practices and the model of intercultural-bilingual education currently operating in the regions state schools, and finally draws out some of their implications for language
maintenance programmes in such regions.
An Interethnic Region
The Coast, as it is commonly called, was once part of the Mosquito Coast which extended
northwards through present day Honduras to Belize and southwards through Costa Rica. In
the early 1980s, it became a theatre of the US-backed counter-revolutionary war against the
Sandinista revolution, into which existing indigenous-state disputes became co-opted (see
Gordon, 1998; Hale, 1994; Vilas, 1989). In 1987, peace negotiations culminated in a Law

Interethnic-bilingual Education 241

on Autonomy for the Atlantic Coast, which established two autonomous regions, the North
and South Atlantic Autonomous Regions (respectively RAAN and RAAS) with extensive
economic, political and cultural rights for their peoples. Subsequent governments have
observed only the cultural rights, primarily through the Intercultural-Bilingual Education
Programme (PEIB), which for many Costenos has become a key symbol of autonomy
(Gonzalez Perez, 1997, p. 193; McClean Herrera, 2001, p. 121).
The Coast is home to four indigenous minoritiesthe Miskitu (population 70,000), the
Sumu/Mayangna (population 12,000) of whom the Ulwa are a sub-group of about 600
(Green, 1996), and the Rama (population 1,000); and to two Afro-Caribbean minorities
the Creoles (population 50,000), and the Garfuna (population 3,000). Mestizos (of mixed
Hispanic and Amerindian descent) now dominate the state, constituting 95% of the national
and 47% of the Coast population (URACCAN, 1998). In many parts of the region different
combinations of ethnic groups interact within common or overlapping territories, although in
some rural areas there are also mono-ethnic communities [2].
Interactions within and between groups take place through four different languages:
Spanish, the first language of the Mestizos, the national language and the regional lingua
franca; Creole (and some Standard) English; and two related indigenous languages, Miskitu
and Sumu/Mayangna. The Garfuna and the Rama peoples both speak distinctive varieties of
Creole English as their first language, though Garfuna is alive in Belize and has recently been
strengthening in Honduras. Rama was thought to have virtually disappeared until the 1980s,
when a project to record what was left of it triggered a revival movement (Craig, 1992a, b).
As we shall see, many Costenos, even some Spanish-speaking Mestizos, grow up with
dynamic bi-, tri- and even quadrilingual repertoires, and use frequent code-switching to
negotiate identity in conversation. Daz-Polanco aptly describes this as an interethnic region
() to be understood not as an area of dual relationships but as a space opened up by
economic, political, social and other forms of interaction between groups () the product of
accumulated historical events and social processes which have come to define complex
relationships within a specific area (1985, p. 100, /S/) [3].
These relationships are commonly represented as an ethnolinguistic hierarchy, produced
by the Coasts conflictive history as the site of Anglo-Hispanic competition for the Caribbean,
a representation which informs current language planning discourse at regional and local
levels (see Figure 1).
In this construction, different groups gained ascendancy over others as they were
favoured, or not, by different colonial and other agencies, leaving a clear ethnolinguistic or
polyglossic hierarchy with concomitant differences in the functional range and vitality of
languages (Freeland, 1995; Hale, 1987; Holm, 1978). Whilst this approach does reveal the
asymmetrical power relations between the regions ethnic and indigenous groups as reflected
and reproduced through language, and should also alert us to the need for carefully
differentiated approaches to their use in education, it also has serious drawbacks as a basis for
language policy.
It is inherently essentialist, treating ethnicities as discrete, monolithic blocks in competition, and languages as distinct, bounded, autonomous systems which correspond directly
with and define cultural identities (Jaffe, 1999, pp. 120121). Its emphasis on conflictive
relations overlooks other forms of contact between groups, and its assumption that language
choice is determined by overarching structural forces underplays individual agency in language use. Consequently, it presupposes that groups will necessarily mobilise around an
ethnic language or mother tongue, and provides the rationale for the mosaic approach to
plurilingualism discussed above, and for bilingual (mother tongue dominant language)
education.

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J. Freeland

Key: Name of group in capitals, name of language in brackets. Name of original ethnic language in square brackets. Numbers
refer to state of codification and intergenerational transmission of languages and varieties.
1. Languages with long-established written systems: Miskitu written language generally restricted to religious use until
1980 (National Literacy Campaign, bilingual programmes), since when the range of written language use has
extended, though not throughout Miskitu speakers; good intergenerational transmission.
2. Grammars, dictionaries, orthography developed in other parts of Central America; intergenerational transmission
broken in Nicaragua; Garfuna restricted to oldest generation, and specifically to traditional religious ceremonial.
3. Descriptive grammars, dictionaries etc. begun following revolution and autonomy process; intergenerational
transmission broken.
4. No standardised variety: Miskitu varieties have high degree of mutual intelligibility, three mutually intelligible
Mayangna varieties (one in Honduras), low mutual intelligibility between Ulwa and Mayangna varieties;
intergenerational transmission highly variable.

FIG. 1. Ethnolinguistic hierarchy of the Caribbean Coast Region of Nicaragua.

Costeno identities and linguistic practices are far more complex than this. To my
knowledge, these have so far been closely analysed only in Jamiesons fascinating work on the
bilingual Miskitu village of Kakabila (1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002). I shall therefore
explore these multiple identities by drawing on a set of linguistic autobiographies, one from
published sources, the rest narrated by students on my courses at the URACCAN in July
2000 and July 2001. Given the well-known limitations of personal testimony, the fact that
students were performing in a context removed from their communities of practice, and that,
as teachers committed to bilingual education they may not be representative of the general

Interethnic-bilingual Education 243

population, these data permit only tentative conclusions. Nevertheless they raise sufficiently
interesting questions about the appropriateness of the current educational model to pinpoint
aspects worth reassessing, as well as suggesting possible lines of further research.
The autobiographies were narrated informally during class sessions designed to explore
the implications for curriculum design and teaching of the multilingual verbal repertoires
developed by individuals and communities in regions like the Coast. This paper focuses only
on what the narratives reveal about language choice and identity; their significance for the
development of multilingual competences will be dealt with in another paper.
I asked students to recount how they came to acquire the languages they spoke; some
later opted to write their narratives for an assessed folder of short homework pieces, and I
quote them verbatim in my translation of both modes of narrative [4]. As third- and
fourth-year students they knew each other well and were keen to share their experience, so
mutual feedback formed part of the process. There were two groups, whose ages ranged from
mid-20s to early 60s. They all used Spanish, the class lingua franca, their language of
education, variously their L1, L2 or L3, my second and strongest foreign language. From a
total of 18, from both the South Atlantic and North Atlantic Autonomous regions (RAAS
and RAAN), I refer in detail to twelve narratives. Six narrators came from monolingual
homes, six from bi- or multilingual ones, five were men and seven women; four self-ascribed
as Miskitu, three as Creoles, two as Sumu/Mayangna, and three as Mestizos. Unfortunately,
there were no Garfuna and the one Rama student did not produce an autobiography (see
appendix for further details).
The hierarchical construction of ethnolinguistic relations presented in Figure 1 might
lead us to expect certain recurring motifs. Firstly, narrators achieving this measure of
educational success would likely have been obliged to develop bi- or multilingual repertoires
according to the position of their language in the hierarchy: the further down, the more
multilingual the repertoire required to negotiate its structural constraints. Secondly, histories
might predominate of assimilation to a higher language and culture, followed by a return to
roots. Given the constructs emphasis on ethnicities in competition, one might also expect
manifestations of ethnic absolutism, the view that ethnicity is the most important part of a
persons social identity and that this is fixed during their early years of socialisation
(Rampton, 1995, p. 328), and powerful claims to an identifying ethnic language (Rampton,
1995, pp. 340343). Such features are certainly present, but as part of more complex
accounts of hybrid, dynamic identities, expressed multilingually.
Multilingual Repertoires
All but narrators with L1 Spanish had indeed been obliged to become bi-/multilingual by an
assimilationist, Spanish-medium school system that proscribed and punished their vernaculars. Several also developed what could be called defensive skills in a third language from
further up the power hierarchy. So Perla, as a novice Miskitu teacher with many Creole
pupils in her Spanish-medium primary classroom, had to have enough Creole to make them
feel comfortable. Id tell them you be careful what you say, I understand everythinga
highly focused, even fictitious skill, she admitted, necessary to maintain her authority. Franco
used Miskitu as a bridge between classroom Spanish and his L1 Sumu: when I began school,
I spoke only Sumu, so I had to learn what they were teaching and the language at the same
time, which was a serious problem () so I had to make friends with a son of the pastor who
lived in our village, and wed speak Miskitu in class. Francos strategy reveals the lowly
position of Sumu/Mayangna even in their own communities, where the church language of
the predominant Moravian mission has historically been Miskitu. The point recurs obliquely

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through other autobiographies: Livia has sometimes been required to do training workshops
with Sumu leaders, using Miskitu; Amelias Sumu/Mayangna work colleague has to use
Spanish with her colleagues, since Sumu is the one language none of them speaks.
Among the narratives considered, there were four instances of shift to the dominant
language, followed by a return to roots. The most dramatic is Abanel Lacayos development
of a six-language repertoire without moving far from his community, Karawala (RAAS) [5].
Born in 1934 into a mixed (Sumu/Mayangna and Miskitu) family in an ethnically mixed
village, Abanel acquired Ulwa to interact with his contemporaries living in its Ulwa district
[6]. His Spanish would be acquired in the unfavourable conditions of the state monolingual
primary school instituted in 1939, and he may have acquired Miskitu Bible literacy through
the Moravian mission (Freeland, 1995). By the age of fifteen, he could draw on a repertoire
of four languages/varieties according to context and interlocutor, although we have no
detailed information about his language choices.
Between 1950 and 1957, when Karawala became the boom town of a US-owned logging
company, incoming Miskitu, Creole and Mestizo workers demographically swamped the
Sumu population. Miskitu gradually dominated village interactions, reducing both varieties
of Sumu to private use. Logging work brought Abanel into contact with Creole managers
from whom he acquired Creole skills. Seven years later, when the company and its followers
withdrew, Karawalas shift from Sumu and Ulwa to Miskitu was complete. When bilingual
education was introduced in 1986, it was provided in Spanish and Miskitu, the L1 of the
primary school generation. Now, as a Creole-speaking Evangelical Church extends its
activities from neighbouring communities, Creole is gaining ground. In 1989, Ulwa speakers
initiated claims under the Autonomy Law to their right to promote and develop Ulwa as their
groups original language, and Abanel, although not a native speaker, became a key member
of the Ulwa Language Committee (CODIUL/UYUTMUBAL) working with linguists Hale
and Green on codifying their language.
Pablos trajectory illustrates a different kind of return to roots. Now in his sixties, he
grew up in a Miskitu community, in a home which had already shifted to Spanish (his
mothers L1) from his fathers Miskitu, a shift reinforced by family moves to various Coast
towns (the Miskitu mainly lived in the communitiesin the centre of the town people spoke
only Spanish), and later by teacher training in Managua. He returned to the Coast to teach
in the Ro Coco Pilot Project in Fundamental Education, a 1960s UNESCO-sponsored
Castilianisation programme for indigenous communities (Freeland, 1995), where he renewed
his contact with Miskitu. Id give my classes in SpanishId studied 20 years for thatbut
in the communities I had problems communicating with people. Id talk to them in Miskitu,
but badlybut they helped me and I learned () I worked nearly three years in the
communities, speaking only Miskitu, so I recovered quite a lot only orally of course, I never
learned to write. Later, his experience brought him into the technical team for the Miskitu
PEIB, where I had to make a big effort to master my second language (Miskitu), guided and
helped by my colleagues [7].
Even so, Spanish remains Pablos home language: My wife is also Miskita, but Ive
taught her to speak only in Spanish () even with my grandchildren she speaks Spanishbecause their mother is from Managua. They sometimes speak in Miskitua few wordsbut
the official language at home is Spanish, and we only speak Miskitu when my wife and I are
alone. One senses that Pablo, like many of his generation, would find it unnatural to change
the habits of a lifetime, which seem inextricable from perceptions of class associated with the
ethnolinguistic power structure. Despite his commitment to Miskitu education, he does not
feel obliged to speak Miskitu, or to push his grandchildren to do so.
Five other narrators were born, like Abanel, into ethnically mixed families speaking

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various combinations of languages. Intermarriage has a long history among the Miskitu,
Creoles and Mestizos, and is increasing among the Sumu/Mayangna and Garfuna. Also like
Abanel, these first language bilinguals variously maintained, extended or recouped their
families languages according to circumstance and opportunity. More strikingly, in doing so
they have moved not only up but also down the language hierarchy.
Both Amelias and Irenes homes spoke their fathers Creole rather than their mothers
Miskitu. Irenes father also taught her to read Standard English. Spanish was the third-acquired language of both, Miskitu their second. Amelia acquired hers with my neighbours in
the barrio [district] here () and with Miskitu children at school (). Irene acquired hers
from her mother and grandmother, against her fathers will: I always got stick from my Dad
because Id do all my activities round the house in Miskitu () My Grannyon my mothers
sideused to visit and () shed take me off to [the River Coco] for the holidays () and
every time () hed grumble when my daughter comes back she cant speak proper English
any more. Now Irenes preferred language is Miskitu. Both women deploy multilingual
skills in their work. Irene uses Miskitu and Spanish as a member of the Miskitu technical
team and her narrative included significant code-switching between Spanish and Creole.
Amelia switches languages throughout the working day according to the communicative
event because I attend to [people] who speak Spanish, Creole English and Miskitu, and has
developed her Standard English as the lingua franca with foreign clients.
Selinas home used three languages: her mother grew up bilingual, acquiring Miskitu
from her adoptive aunt, Spanish from her Mestizo madrina [godmother /S/] and English
working in her madrinas restaurant. Although her stepfathers Spanish later dominated,
Selina says her mother passed on all three languages. She also learned English as a subject
at her North American-run convent school. Nevertheless, like Irene, she became increasingly
drawn to Miskitu. Like Pablos, her Miskitu was re-activated when she became a teacher in
a Miskitu-speaking community: I had to put into practice all the Miskitu Id learned from
my grandmother, so I () communicated most fluently with the older people. Relocating to
another Miskitu-speaking community, she found the old Miskitu () wasnt much use;
now she is sensitive to the social nuances of two varieties of Miskitu. Such geographical
mobility is common on the Coast, appearing also in the narratives of Irene and Pablo. Since
the 1980s it has increased, first under pressure of war and subsequently with rural migration
to work in urban centres.
Two further trajectories of this kind began in monolingual Mestizo homes. Pedro (60)
was born in a predominantly Mestizo River Coco community with a large Miskitu population, to Spanish-speaking Mestizo parents, who also spoke some Miskitu and English. His
attempts to speak Miskitu at school were blocked by a gang of Mestizo boys in the higher
grades [who] appointed themselves defenders of Spanish and forbade any communication
with the Miskitu-speakers, or theyd beat you up, but out of school he persisted with his
Miskitu baseball friends: I didnt learn the best Miskitu, but I can communicate quite
satisfactorily with Miskitu-speakers, I can read and write it quite well, and I even risk a little
translation of simple things.
These latter skills developed from his teachers conviction of the value of vernacular
education. Turned down for the 1960s Ro Coco Pilot Project where Pablo taught, because
teachers who spoke () the vernacular languages () might have hindered the process of
Castilianisation, he was recruited only when the Mestizo teachers (flown in from the Pacific
region by Air Force plane) failed to return after the holidays. Observing the effects of the
Projects punitive submersion model, he began to flout its rules and experiment with some
elementary bilingual teaching. Later, his Mestizo identity and Miskitu sympathies enabled
him to take a leading role in the PEIB at a time of some political tension.

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Livia, a much younger Mestiza from a monolingual home, was the only one of seven
brothers and sisters to learn Miskitu, though we all went to the same school () most of the
children were Miskitu and I always talked to them in their languageit was so satisfying to
know that they could understand me and that they counted me as part of their social circle
() Im the only one at home that speaks Miskitu, my [Mestizo] husband and my children
speak only Spanish. During the 1981 Literacy Crusade in vernacular languages, Livia dared
to become literate in Miskitu () since then Ive been able to write it. She went on to work
in the PEIB, and is now a social worker, where her Miskitu skills are important: its clear the
Miskitu people in the communities are pleased when you communicate with them in their
own languagethey feel youre part of their world and they trust you more.
Over the 66 year span of these narratives, then, narrators developed bi- and multilingual
competences for highly varied motives. Some, mainly from monolingual Miskitu or Sumu/
Mayangna families, were obliged to do so by the educational language-power structure.
Others, even from Spanish-speaking families, did so to make friends across social boundaries
imposed by others, or because multilingualism was valued in their home, like Carlos, whose
Miskitu father pushed him to learn Spanish and English, because boys should learn several
languages. Yet others, from bi-/multilingual families, developed their home languages in
response to changes in their linguistic environment, among them changes in the social status
and economic value of these languages arising from the autonomy process. Nevertheless, this
has produced not only returns to the mother tongue, but a positive valuation of multilingual
capabilities in general.
Mother Tongue, Identity and Affiliation
As I have already suggested, the di-/polyglossic model of Costeno plurilingualism (Figure 1)
might lead us to expect signs of ethnic absolutism among this group, and a tendency to
correlate language with ethnic identity. Indeed, these would not be incompatible with the
multilingual competences just discussed. Whilst such claims do appear, apparently associated
with membership of particular groups, other narratives manifest more flexible identifications.
I shall focus particularly on narrators usage of the term mother tongue, because it often
co-occurred with direct or oblique references to identity, and because it has important
implications for my analysis of the PEIB. In multilingual settings, this phrase has several
meanings: first-learned, best-known, most-used language, and language of ethnic
identification, and may refer over time to different languages in a repertoire (Skutnabb-Kangas, 1981, pp. 1234). These narratives use the notion in all these senses, and with other
shadings particular to the Coast.
Francos usage comes closest to an ethnic absolutist equation of culture, identity and
language: In Sumu villages fully based on our culture and identity I always speak our mother
tongue (). I dont use my mother tongue in class or in the office unless I meet a friend or
acquaintance from my people (my emphases). Sumu, then, is our mother tongue, indexing
authenticity in fully Sumu/Mayangna villages, and personal solidarity with fellow Sumu/
Mayangna, even in the presence of non-Sumu/Mayangna. This more essentialist usage is
notable among the Sumu/Mayangna, who perceive their language to be dominated both by
Miskitu and Spanish (see, for example, Frank, 2001, p. 176; Samuel, 2001, pp. 98100), and
among groups endeavouring to revive lost original languages under the terms of the
Autonomy Law, notably the Ulwa (Knight, 1998) and the Rama. It signals their defensive
recourse to strategic essentialism, and might have occurred more frequently had my sample
included more narrators from these groups.
In contrast Gloria, brought up speaking (Standard) English and Spanish, claims no

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mother tongue. Her languages express different aspects of her identity: I identify with my
Mestizo brothers and sisters because were all Nicaraguan Costenos. In my opinion anyone
who doesnt feel that speaking Spanish is part of their identity either has a complex or doesnt
feel interculturality as a living reality () and I identify fully with [Creole] () as a Black
woman. Glorias statement is interestingly dialogic; she seems to argue against a more
ethnically absolutist position which she senses in her environment, although it was not
apparent within her class group. Less intensely, Carlos also associates different languages
with aspects of identity: Ive always spoken three languagesSpanish, Creole English and
Miskitu. Although I dont use my Creole English much, when Im among morenos I feel like
a moreno [8] and I begin to speak it.
Two of the women, Selina (born Mestiza) and Irene (born Creole), not only chose to
cultivate Miskitu, the less powerful language of their family, but to re-ascribe ethnically as
Miskitu. Yet Selina uses the expression mother tongue to refer to the several languages
acquired from her mother, emphasising a multilingual inheritance. Irene uses it in two senses:
Ever since I was born my mother tongue [ first language] wasisCreole () but from
a child I didnt like my mother tongueI preferred Miskitu () nowadays I hardly mix with
morenosI mix more with Miskitu people () I consider Miskitu my mother tongue
[ language of identification] and my life style at home is Miskitu () wherever I go I
present myself as Miskitu.
It may not be fortuitous that this re-ascription is made by women, to a Miskitu identity,
since Miskitu society is traditionally matrilocal, but also favours village exogamy preferably
with an English-speaker (Helms, 1971; Jamieson, 1998, 2001, pp. 262264), a pattern which
may well have been followed by Irenes and Amelias mothers. The added nuances this
tradition might give to Miskitu womens sense of mother tongue surfaces interestingly in
Amelias narrative. Her family language was her fathers Creole and she declares herself a
member of the Creole ethnic group. Then, referring to Miskitu, she begins: my lengua
materna [mother tongue /S/] is and hesitates. In the pause, Miskitu women interject:
Miskitu, yes, yes, as though inviting her to identify ethnically through her mothers tongue.
She continues: la lengua de mi madre [my mothers language /S/] is Miskitu. Her written
account explains that she hadnt identified with Miskitu until the course: I feel less relaxed
with Miskitu () Im sorry I dont speak it as fluently as Id like to, especially as its my
mothers language () My colleagues here on the course helpthey speak to me in Miskitu
and dont exclude me because Im a Creole speaker; they include me as another Miskitu and
now I feel very much identified with the group and with this language. This interchange
suggests that the literal meaning of lengua materna [mothers language] may have particular
connotations and salience for this group; it also demonstrates a Miskitu tendency to
inclusiveness and a tolerance of variable competence which facilitate entry or re-entry into
this group, evident from Selina and Pablos accounts.
Some narrators also use mother tongue with narrower senses, which may derive from
their acquaintance with the discourse of official education policy. Selina, describing university
language policy on another occasion, uses it with the apparent sense of minority vernacular:
URACCAN is the only university aiming to operate multilingually, with students making
their presentations in their mother tonguethe only problem is that many teachers dont
know a mother tongue (my emphasis). Pablos usage seems to include an even narrower
sense of (rural) indigenous community language. Although his family spoke Spanish, there
were people near us who spoke the mother tongue, Miskitu. When I interjected: But you had
a mother tongue [ L1) too, no? Pablo replied: Yes, I spoke Spanish as my mother tongue
(my emphasis), and it is still his best-known and most-used language, whilst Miskitu, the
mother tongue, remains associated with the rural communities where he relearned it: All my

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relations, especially my mother and all my aunts, speak Miskitubut we never speak it with
them () but with the people in the communities, we speak Miskitu.
Taken together, these narratives paint a complex picture of Costeno multilingualism and
its relation to identity. As their references to parental, school, sibling and peer attitudes
demonstrate, their discourses are shaped by experiences of conflict and prejudice. How
strongly these are felt apparently varies between ethnicities, according to their position in the
ethnolinguistic power structure, or influenced by traditional language ideologies. Some
(Franco) defend themselves against these prejudices with a strategic essentialist discourse in
which totemised languages (Le Page & Tabouret-Keller, 1985, p. 236) become badges of
resistance, symbolically marking ethnic boundaries and in-group continuity and solidarity
(Franco). For them, multilingualism may be a resented burden. Others manifest a relaxed
flexibility and other motives for becoming bi-/multilingual. For some, language expresses
different aspects of multi-faceted identities (Gloria, Carlos), or degrees of convergence
towards other groups, from practical solidarity (Pedro, Livia) through growing affinity (Livia,
Amelia) to affiliation (Irene, Selina), which can involve a stronger sense of attachment, just
as the bond between lovers may be more powerful than the link between parents and
children (Rampton, 1995, p. 343). Moreover, language choices express not only ethnic
aspects of identity, but those relating to other social categories, for instance between urban
and rural dwellers, and their socioeconomic class connotations (Pablo).
In situations like this (and indeed in general), identities are not digital, either-or
choices, but analogic, a bit of this and a bit of that (Eriksen, 1993, pp. 157158), not
definitively within or beyond some ethnic or other social pale, but emergent from experience
and interactive practice, in different combinations and more or less salient according to
context (West & Fenstermaker, 1995). So it is unconvincing to interpret the fluidity and
dynamism these narratives display only as signs of acculturation to dominant cultures and
identities, to be arrested or reversed through mother tongue education. This insults
narrators with an evident confidence in who they are and how they became so. It would also
be mistaken to assume that this kind of interculturality is just a consequence of modern
interethnic contact; recent research suggests that it is a long-standing feature of Coast
culture, with antecedents beyond the remembered time of these narratives (Gordon, 1998;
Jamieson, 1998; Offen, 1999). This has long been a Creole space where people have
developed the kinds of hybrid identities which could form the basis for a new approach to
interethnicity (Hall, 1992a, b).
As observed in the introduction, current approaches to societal plurilingualism do not
cope easily with this kind of complexity. In the next section, I examine the tensions and
paradoxes generated between these realities and the construction of culture and language
which underpins the Programme of Intercultural Bilingual Education (PEIB) instituted in the
Coasts state schools from 1984.
Interethnicity and Bilingual-intercultural Education
Lacking its own tradition of indigenous education, Nicaragua has drawn upon Latin American experience of the last four or five decades, adopting a version of the intercultural-bilingual model developed there [9]. However, this experience has generally been restricted to
contexts of indigenous monolingualism or of incipient bilingualism, in line with the tradition
of transitional bilingual policies (Hornberger & Lopez, 1998, p. 232). So these are bilingual
programmes, pairing a mother tongue (or in the 1993 law, official community language)
with Spanish, as if for a mosaic of separate groups and languages. The mother tongue/community language is the medium of instruction for pre-school and early learning, and Spanish

Interethnic-bilingual Education 249

is introduced orally from Grade 2 and for literacy and writing from Grade 3. They are then
maintained together, in principle to 6th grade, in practice for as long as corpus development
in each language allows.
Their intercultural element, in line with the Latin American consensus (Aikman, 1996,
1997), aims to help children to progress from a confident grounding in their own ethnic
identity and local culture towards the society at large, in ever widening circles (Maclean,
1996, p. 5 /S/). Yet this conceptualisation also tends towards the binary and essentialist in
assuming a starting point in one local culture clearly associated with one language, and a
society at large that operates in Spanish. Consequently, it brackets out the interlingual and
intercultural complexity of the widening circles between them.
This is not to suggest that the PEIB has brought no gains. Along with official status, it
has helped legitimate Coast languages, ended the torture of Castilianisation by submersion
and punishment, brought improvements in retention and success rates in the schools where
they operate (Freeland & McLean Herrera, 1994; Munoz Cruz, 2001; Venezia, 1996), and
corroborated the pride in multilingualism found in the student autobiographies. It is also
stimulating linguistic and cultural research, especially as the creation of teaching materials
devolves to the minorities.
Nevertheless, in many communities the PEIB is not well accepted (Daniel, 2001; Munoz
Cruz, 2001; Venezia, 2001). These evaluators identify several causes, mainly related to a lack
of financial support from a state under extreme economic pressure: lack of infrastructure,
poor teacher pay, poor pedagogical methods, lack of teacher training. Another, arguably
particular to the PEIB, is community attitudes, frequently mentioned but never related
clearly to the Coasts multilingual and interethnic culture. Yet, as Mesthrie and Leap suggest
(2000, pp. 272273), educational programmes that presume clear differences and unambiguous attitudes concerning in-group versus out-group identities, may force children into
narrower identities than they might choose, creating tensions with more complex multilingual and intercultural traditions that lead to rejection.
Perhaps predictably, the PEIB is best accepted in rural, mono-ethnic communities which
are either monolingual or incipiently bilingual with Spanish, such as the Sumu-only villages
of the north (McLean, 1996), rural Miskitu communities in the municipality of Puerto
Cabezas (McLean, 2001, p. 180), or Creole communities around Pearl Lagoon in the south
(Bonilla et al., 2000). Here, the mother tongue/official community language is simultaneously childrens first-learned, best-known, most-used and ethnically identifying language,
and teaching materials reflect the local culture. In principle, then, the programmes can fulfil
their cognitive-linguistic, revitalisation and intercultural goals, at least as long as life in these
communities remains economically viable. Nevertheless, the cultural, traditional and linguistic [factors of identity] are important, but the economic factor, which ensures the presence
of people, is essential. () Without satisfactory economic conditions, identity is a pipedream (Ager, 2001, p. 36).
The more mixed or intercultural the community, the less good the fit between
programme design and local practices. There are many variations, of which the following
cases illustrate three.

Case 1
Kakabila is one of three small bilingual (Miskitu/Creole) communities in the Pearl Lagoon
Basin, a highly interethnic micro-region of the RAAS. Most Kakabila people identify as
Miskitu, and consider Miskitu their proper language (Jamieson, 2002, p. 4), although they

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J. Freeland

are aware that their Pearl Lagoon Miskitu (PLM) variety differs markedly from what they
revealingly call real grammatical Miskitu (Jamieson, 1998, p. 719).
These villages opted to receive the PEIB in English, because parents () knew that
their children, most already fluent in both languages, would be better capacitated (educated) if taught in English rather than Miskitu for life in their locality (Jamieson, 1998,
p. 728, n. 13). Yet Kakabila people were surprised to learn that a senior figure in the PEIB
feared that this choice would lead to the loss of their ethnic identity (Jamieson, personal
communication). For this option is not a simple case of acculturation, of succumbing to a
modern language-power structure, but relates to other aspects of the fluid, intercultural
identity Kakabila people negotiate between Miskitu-ness and Creole-ness [10]. They
understand these primarily as moral, relational and transactional orders: the first inclusive
and communitarian, the second more individualistic, their combinations relative, negotiable
according to intent and context in individual, family, and village practice (Jamieson, 2002,
p. 14; see also Jamieson, 2000).
Further, as Jamiesons (1998) intriguing comparison of kinship terms in PLM and
northern Miskitu shows, language is part of the negotiation. Pearl Lagoon Miskitu communities still practice a form of language exogamy which goes back hundreds of years. So Kakabila
children spend their early years speaking mostly English [Creole], [but] tend to switch into
Miskitu as they reach adolescence as though to indicate their availability to English-speaking
bridegrooms from outside the village (Jamieson, 1998, p. 727). English and Miskitu are thus
in some sense totems of potential affinity for the bilingual speakers of [Pearl Lagoon
Miskitu], as cross-cousin and parallel cousin () have been gradually replaced as the
focus of cultural differentiation by the powerful and pervasive image of English-speaking man
and Miskitu-speaking woman, a representation which first arrived three and a half centuries
ago (Jamieson, 1998, p. 727). Paradoxically, as long as English-speaking husbands are
available, Miskitu is needed [11].
Arguably, then, Kakabila Miskitu have negotiated within the PEIB system the programme which best fits their identity. Early learning and acquisition of literacy in their
Creole/English mother-tongue or community language meets the programmes cognitivelinguistic aims, and this language also expresses childrens pre-adolescent identity. Teaching
materials reflect Creole aspects of the local culture, leaving responsibility for the Miskitu
aspect of their identity to the community. Given that both aspects are perceived as moral
orders, this may be appropriate. What is missing is any maintenance and revitalisation of their
Miskitu language and culture. But these cannot be achieved in Kakabila by a programme
which assumes a starting point in an identifying mother tongue and the development of oral
competence in it towards literacy.
Case 2
In El Muelle, a district of Bilwi, municipal capital of Puerto Cabezas and the main northern
town, a comparable situation obtains to that of Kakabila. According to interviews taken in
19967 for a general evaluation of the PEIB, people speak Creole English at home and in
the barrio, although they are Miskitu, and they consider that the two languages are dominant.
But they identify more with Miskitu, they say. Although they speak more English they dont
stop being Miskitu; out of respect for their maternal or paternal language [la lengua materna
o paterna] they consider themselves Miskitu. These parents consider the bilingual programme
very good. (McLean, 2001, pp. 179180, /S/). According to a teacher in this programme,
other parents in the barrio register their children for the bilingual programme only if they
cannot get them into a Spanish-medium monolingual school or because it costs less, and

Interethnic-bilingual Education 251

they say the bilingual programme holds [their children] back (Venezia, 2001, pp. 13940
/S/).
El Muelle parents, then, have an open choice between the Miskitu PEIB or Spanish
monolingual programmes (the English PEIB is not yet available in the north). Since neither
corresponds fully to their practice, different parents choose different programmes. In interview responses, parents who favour the bilingual programme relate their choice to an ethnic
identity linked to their mothers or fathers language, although since they are not cited
verbatim it is not clear whether they do so spontaneously or in response to questions
assuming this link (they are reported under a general heading Use and command of the
language and acceptance of the PEIB) [12].
One interpretation of such choices is that acceptance of intercultural bilingual education
is in inverse proportion to acculturation, andto a certain degreeto Castilianisation
(Venezia, 2001, p. 140 /S/); parents who prefer monolingual schooling manifest the doubts
and lack of understanding typical of urban areas where acculturation is found (Venezia,
2001, p. 139 /S/). Whilst this assessor pays careful attention to other sources of parental
dissatisfaction (Venezia, 2001, p. 140), his conclusion coincides with calls in other evaluations for better information or sensitisation to the importance of the programme (Daniel,
2001 reports that such work is currently ongoing).
Such interpretations, though, make the same assumptions about language and identity
as the PEIB itself, and show their own lack of understanding of cultural values which form
the field where social decisions to support or reject institutional projects are constructed and
legitimated, almost independently of the technical quality and the scientific foundations of
the educational innovations it is hoped to implant (Munoz Cruz, 2001, p. 221 /S/).
This is not to say parents are always rightfor instance, many do not appreciate the
difference between learning a language and learning through itjust that they have their
reasons which deserve more careful investigation. For instance, in what sense do El Muelle
parents feel that the bilingual programme holds their children back? Is this a linguistic issue,
to do with learning Spanish, or might they find the identity offered by the PEIB too
monolithic? As in Kakabila, their own intercultural identity is probably not less Miskitu, but
their way of being so. Conversely, what is it about the bilingual programme that appeals to
parents who choose it? Again is this simply linguistic: that teaching in their childrens L1 or
best language helps them learn, or makes a bridge to Spanish? Or does it help revitalise and
maintain their language of symbolic identification, and if so how?
Case 3
In the Ulwa, Rama and Garfuna communities of the RAAS, which have long shifted to
another language, intercultural-bilingual provision effectively splits into two parts, a split
instituted during the Sandinista period but not followed through. When the PEIB was first
instituted, it was provided in the mother tongue ( L1) of the majority of the children
(Miskitu, in the first case, English in the other two). At various points, the Sandinista
Ministry of Culture enlisted help from North American field linguists to record the Rama and
Ulwa languages before they died out, and from Honduran and Belizean Garfuna to support
revival of this culture in Nicaragua, all as part of a general programme of cultural rescue.
Colette Craig, who led the first of these projects, in Rama, modestly attributes its success
to a political context where the uncommon matching of the letter of the law with the real
possibilities in the field provided it with a supportive and safe space and the political will
behind the peace and reconciliation process ensured strategic, logistical and ideological
support (Craig, 1992a, pp. 2122). In 1989, the Ulwa claimed their right under the Autonomy

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J. Freeland

Law to promote and develop their languages, religions and cultures (Article 12. 2), and have
since enjoyed comparable, though less concentrated support from the late Ken Hale and
Tom Green (Green & Hale, 1998). Garfuna efforts initially focused on other aspects of
culture than language (Colindres, 2001).
Arguably, the linguistic-cognitive goals of mother-tongue education for these groups
were adequately served by the earlier transitional form of bilingual education, in L1
Spanish, with separate support for cultural revitalisation from outside the formal education
system. This left to the community any decisions as to whether, when and how to bring their
heritage language into education. Today, elements of Rama, Ulwa and Garfuna language
and culture are being taught informally to primary school children as a subject, whilst the
childrens L1 is the medium of instruction.
If this solution were fully developed both financially and in curriculum planning along
the lines of heritage programmes elsewhere (see e.g. Aikman, 1996, 1998; McCarty &
Watahomigie, 1999; Ryan, 1999), it has several advantages: it responds to community
demands, places cultural and linguistic rescue and revival in community hands, and by not
forcing mother tongue identification through the education system it permits flexibility and
dynamism in the expression of individual identities. A curriculum of this kind would require
teaching materials which reflect the culture and history associated with the heritage language,
rather than, as is currently the case, that associated with their L1. The PEIBs English
materials do attempt to recognise this need, but not yet the Miskitu texts used by the Ulwa.
Now however, the political context has changed. Although the 1993 Language Law
stipulates that [t]he State will establish programs to preserve, rescue, and promote the
Miskitu, Sumu, Rama, Creole and Garfona [sic] cultures () studying the future feasibility
of providing education in the respective mother tongues (Article 6), in fact support for these
cultural projects comes largely through URACCAN and is precariously dependent on
short-term projects.
These cases are not discussed just to highlight failings of the PEIB and recommend
modifications, but because the reactions of parents and communities, and the pragmatic
compromises they have negotiated within the PEIB pinpoint particular tensions between its
underlying ideology and Costeno interculturality. Given both the ubiquity of this model in
Latin America and the general increase in phenomena which foment interethnic contact,
such as the exploitation of mineral resources, geographical mobility, urbanisation and
globalisation, these have more than local implications.
Implications and Conclusions
Many of the tensions and paradoxes examined here stem from a classic conflict between
policy decisions rooted in a particular linguistic culture and the sociolinguistic realities they
are supposed to address (Schiffman, 1996). In this case, the linguistic culture originates in
the European linguistic nationism imported to Latin America, with its hard-edged, essentialist notions of ethnicity and culture, and its image of plurilingual societies as mosaics of
discrete linguistic and cultural groups to be incorporated into one unified, national culture
(May, 2001). Although approaches have improved since the blatant Castilianisation of the
River Coco Pilot Project, evolving through transitional bilingual programmes of the kind
initially instituted by the Sandinistas (Shapiro, 1987, pp. 8385) to the current interculturalbilingual model, incorporation of culture is still envisaged primarily in linguistic terms with
interculturality added in (Venezia, 2001, pp. 136137). Yet this kind of improvement by
extension is plausible only within the logic of the dominant linguistic culture, according to
which mother tongues are always expressions and markers of corresponding mother
cultures.

Interethnic-bilingual Education 253

As the case studies suggest, this model cannot be further stretched to encompass
interethnic situations like the Coast. Not only does it create problems for those who are
mother tongue bi-/multilinguals, by forcing them into narrower moulds than they would
choose; its slipperiness also produces disparities in the way different groups linguistic rights
are met. For some, their rights to be taught in a familiar language and to promote, maintain
and develop their cultures are met simultaneously; for others, they become separated in
varying degrees.
Besides, the model critically affects the conceptualisation of interculturalism, envisaging it, paradoxically, as a movement outwards from the mother culture, breaking down
barriers (arguably built up by the ideology) in order to establish dialogue based on recognition and respect for differences. This helps explain why, despite rich debate on interculturality in Latin America and a variety of local experimentation, globalisation and standardisation
of one particular model (Aikman, 1996, p. 155) closely resembling this one, focused on
formal schooling and reform of the primary school curriculum, has been increasingly
officialised and funded at national and international levels (Aikman, 1998, p. 199).
From this language-centred, ultimately monolingualist perspective, it is difficult to
understand people whose mother tongue is already multilingual and their cultures already
intercultural, except as acculturated (a notion also arguably constructed by the discourse),
as we saw in official interpretations of parental choice in Kakabila and El Muelle. Thence
arises an unresolved dilemmahow to foster interculturality without risking acculturation?
The dilemma becomes less acute if we start from the other end, from the living practice
of interculturality, by Costenos or indeed any but the most isolated of groups, and treat
language as part of it. First, though, Costeno interculturality should not be romanticised. As
the student narratives show, people experience it differently according to their place in the
power structure. Some more than others, and all at some time, feel threatened or coerced not
only by the dominance of the national, Western, official culture, but alsosometimes
moreby that of other groups slightly more dominant in the competition for scarce and
unequally distributed resources. This is why the students discourses manifest both flexibility
and openness as well as defensive essentialism. As recent Latin American discussions
emphasise, true interculturalism must be more than dialogue and harmonious coexistence,
for where power is asymmetrical, these can only be unequal and acculturating (Aikman,
1997). Rather than in recognising and respecting differences in cultural forms and then
aiming to transcend them, interculturality must start by understanding how Costenos
negotiate their dynamic intercultural cultures. Only then can we begin to recognise when
there is a real danger of acculturation and when a culture might be absorbing and incorporating on its own terms useful aspects of another, and so improve our still uncertain grasp of
what constitutes healthy or unhealthy change within a particular set of circumstances
(Dorian, 1994, pp. 490491).
The same applies to language. Standard bilingual-intercultural programmes, departing
from language difference and emphasising formal education and literacy, tend to treat
languages as abstract systems, rather than in terms of how people use them in interaction.
From this comes a need for codification, graphisation and standardisation, and a research
focus on describing decontextualised formal systems. At least as necessary is a sociolinguistic
understanding of the multilingual repertoires that emerge from intercultural practices, how
they function instrumentally and in the construction of identities, and how best to develop
them through education [13].
The difference between these two approaches is well illustrated by Kakabilas choice of
the English PEIB. Interpreted as part of an intercultural, multilingual identity, it makes
perfect sense, demonstrating awareness of the differentiated role each language plays within

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J. Freeland

it. Particular styles of spoken Miskitu serve certain aspects of this identity (see, for instance,
Jamieson, 2000 on Miskitu laments), whilst particular styles of English serve others, with
appropriate overlap. In this expressive and instrumental verbal repertoire, literacy is assigned
to English. Interpreted in essentialist, language-centred terms, however, Kakabilas choice
becomes a rejection of their whole language and the culture deemed to go with it. The
problem is not that Kakabila Miskitu are acculturated; it lies rather in a dominant linguistic
culture which identifies languages with their written forms, and language revitalisation with
literacy. Rather than deprive Kakabila people of their right to maintain and revitalise their
Miskitu, this goal could be achieved in other ways, decoupled from its use as the medium of
instruction and literacy, at other than primary level. It might, for instance, be appropriate,
given their awareness of real grammatical Miskitu (RGM) in written grammars, and the
belief this has encouraged that theirs is not the correct way to speak Miskitu (Jamieson,
1998, pp. 718719), to provide Kakabila people with appropriate access to this touchstone at
a later stage of education, when it would not threaten the vitality of their own variety but
perhaps even counteract rejection of it on puristic grounds.
Approached in such terms, it is clear that creating an intercultural-multilingual curriculum is not just a matter of adding more languages to the current model on its own terms, but
of thinking about when, how, even whether, to teach Coast languages and Spanish. It means
deciding whether it is more appropriate to teach a weakened language as a second, third or
subsequent language, rather than using it as the medium of instruction. It means admitting,
as we saw for the Ulwa, Rama and Garfuna, that transitional bilingual programmes in
childrens L1 are perfectly acceptable, provided they are chosen by the community and used
as a vehicle for the history and culture the group wishes to revive, rather than only as a bridge
to Spanish.
These are also the terms in which to consider how to include Mestizos in an intercultural project which is so far conceived only unidirectionally. As the student autobiographies
show, many Mestizos do become multilingual and this should not be treated as exceptional.
Nevertheless, as Perus experience demonstrated in the 1970s, attempts to introduce even so
major a language as Quechua into the national curriculum can meet a wall of prejudice
(Cerron-Palomino, 1989). It is crucial first to develop language awareness as part of the
national (i.e. monolingual) curriculum, with accompanying opportunities to study a Coast
language of choice, of the kind that URACCAN provides for staff, students and others.
Exchanges with monolingual Mestizos on my URACCAN Sociolinguistics course suggest
this approach is already working. All URACCAN students have courses on interculturality,
and several not involved in the PEIB attended one of my Sociolinguistics courses. Some
monolingual Mestizos among them expressed a feeling that their monolingualism was
becoming a handicap. As one put it: Im immersed in a bath of languages, but I feel isolated
because I cant speak any of them. Language awareness of this kind should also be fostered
deliberately throughout the national curriculum and especially in teacher training courses at
all levels, like that successfully run by Pat Daniel for URACCAN staff (Daniel, 2001).
Finally, if this approach is taken to multilingual education, its organisation will have to
change, from a centralised, one-size-fits-all programme to one in local control. Costenos
should not only be developing materials for an adapted national curriculum, but influencing
curriculum design itself. Hamel (1994, pp. 275276) summarises what this entails:
sufficient economic, political, and cultural autonomy and resources () to organize
themselves according to their own principles. Only then a new relationship of
integration, i.e. a process of mutual negotiation and change () could be initiated
that might eventually lead to minority programmes of maintenance and enrichment
without segregation.

Interethnic-bilingual Education 255

The legal basis and the multicultural awareness of both minorities and dominant groups
for such a framework of autonomy is, however, far from the reality in Latin America.
Nicaragua has the legal framework for autonomy, and the beginnings of a practice in
institutions like URACCAN. However, without the wider multicultural awareness, and above
all the political will of the state, it will be difficult for the PEIB to progress from being a
symbol of autonomy to one of its best examples.

NOTES
[1] This paper is based on contact with the region since 1980, including fieldwork in 1989, 1991, and 1994, and,
in 2000 and 2001, teaching units in Sociolinguistics and Language Planning for the Licenciatura (BA) in
Bilingual-Intercultural Education (EIB) for the University of the Autonomous Regions of the Caribbean Coast
of Nicaragua (URACCAN). I am grateful to the Sahwang Consortium of European NGOs for supporting this
teaching, to my URACCAN students for many insights into the communicative practices of the Coast, and
particularly to the owners of the linguistic autobiographies for permission to publish them. Many wished to own
them under their own names, but since this feeling was not unanimous I have opted to observe the usual
convention of anonymity.
[2] Designations are complex and contentious. Costenos use this term to refer to their regional identity. Following
the usage of the 1987 Nicaraguan constitution, I use indigenous and ethnic groups to cover the totality of
groups, for which neither component is sufficiently inclusive. Sumu/Mayangna is another compromise designation in view of current debate among this group about their name. For instance, Mayangna does not include
the Ulwa, who consider themselves part of a Sumu people.
[3] To save space, I use the convention /S/ to indicate my own translations from Spanish.
[4] I recorded often, with students permission; switching on usually signalled my interest in students contributions.
[5] This account is adapted from Green (1996) and Green and Hale (1998), emphasising repertoire development.
Using different criteria, Green and Hale describe him as a linguistically gifted individual whose perfect mastery
of Ulwa is comparable to that of a native speaker (1998, p. 194).
[6] Mayangna is the Northern Sumu variety then spoken in Karawala, Ulwa is Southern Sumu, then the dominant
Sumu language in the village (Green, 1996, p. 31). Hale (1991) argues, on the basis of their present morphologies and low mutual intelligibility, that they are separate but cognate languages.
[7] Technical teams develop teaching materials in agreement with national authorities, conduct teacher workshops
on the use of school texts and follow-up through school visits. They receive in-service training for this role, and
some are first generation students of the URACCAN degree in EIB.
[8] Moreno, dark skinned, is a non-pejorative reference to one of many ethnic category markers, which also appears
in Creole Irenes narrativesee Le Page and Tabouret-Kellers analysis of comparable use of identifying features
in Belize (1985, pp. 209217). Depending on user and context, black/negro is either an insult or a reappropriated badge of ethnic pride.
[9] Aikman (1997) discusses differences in the development and understanding of this concept between Latin
America and Europe or the United States. See also Aikman (1996, p. 153) on why Latin America refers to
intercultural rather than bicultural education, and Byram (1998) on this distinction in Europe. The name of
Nicaraguas programmes has changed in response to this debate, from bilingual-bicultural (PEBB) in the
1980s, through bilingual intercultural (PEBI) in the 1990s, to the current intercultural-bilingual (PEIB),
which may be a misnomer. These changes signal Nicaraguas dependence on an imported model.
[10] See also Gordon (1998, pp. 262263) on how Miskitu and Creole identities are negotiated and manipulated
among bilingual Miskitu- and Creole-speakers in this micro-region.
[11] Jamieson points out that this custom has become more difficult to maintain in the RAAN, where English-speakers are less plentiful. Moreover, English in earlier centuries went a considerable way towards facilitating the
conceptual separation between Anglocentric Miskitu and the various Sumu peoples (1998, p. 179). Modern
PLM uses distinctly Miskitu linguistic mechanisms to absorb and grammaticalise English borrowings, a sign of
vitality rather than decline (Jamieson, 1999).
[12] If there is a problem of research method here it may be a manifestation of strategic essentialism motivated by
an understandable need to defend the PEIB in an environment perceived to be hostile.
[13] I propose to explore in a separate paper the implications of some of the issues raised here for language research,
especially the conceptualisation of threat, revitalisation and maintenance.

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Appendix
Linguistic AutobiographiesInformants
[NoteIt was not always possible to determine a clear acquisition order, so L1 Ln indicate an approximate order.
Ethnic ascriptions as given by speakers. Ages approximate in most instances.]

1. Francisco (30s): Miskitu

L1 Miskitu: monolingual home; L2 Spanish: monolingual schooling.
2. Perla (50 ): Miskitu
L1 Miskitu: monolingual home; L2: Spanish: from monolingual, convent primary school; L3 Creole English:
acquired as adult for (elementary) communication with Creole primary school pupils.
3. Amelia (early 30s): RAAN Creole. Creole father, Miskitu mother
L1 Creole English: home language; L2 Miskitu: acquired in neighbourhood; L3 Spanish: monolingual schooling;
L3/4 Standard Nicaraguan English: studied as a subject in secondary school, includes Bible and other literacy.
4. Pedro (60): Mestizo. Spanish-speaking parents with some Miskitu and English
L1 Spanish: home language; L2 Miskitu: acquired with neighbourhood friends.
5. Selina (50 ): Miskitu. Mother spoke Miskitu, Spanish, some English
Home languages Spanish (from mother and stepfather) Miskitu (from mother) some English (Standard) from
mother.
Schooling: Spanish with English as a subject.
6. Livia (30s): Mestiza
L1 Spanish: language of home and school, and now of her own family home; L2 Miskitu: learned with neighbours
and friends, subsequently maintained and developed in context of revolution.
7. Gloria (mid-40s): RAAS Creole
L1 Spanish (monolingual grandfather) and English (Caribbean Standard) most other family members); L2/3
Creole: I must have learned () with my playmates () it was indispensable to speak Creole well in Creolespeaking neighbourhoods. Forbidden at home So I spoke Creole when I was out, and English when I was home.
8. Franco (late 20s): Sumu/Mayangna
L1 Sumu/Mayangna: monolingual family; L2 Miskitu: acquired with my school mates; L3Spanish: learned at
school, instrumentally important: to get work and exchange experience with other sectors.
9. Carlos (30s): Miskitu
L1 Miskitu: both parents Miskitu, father also spoke Spanish and Creole English, mother spoke Spanish and they
helped me a lot. Father valued multilingualism: I want you to learn three languages () boys should learn
several languages; L2 Spanish: from monolingual schools, and with Spanish-speaking friends; L3 Creole: acquired
from Creole-speaking schoolmates.

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10. Irene (early 30s): Miskitu

L1Bilingual Creole and Miskitu: Creole-speaking father, Miskitu mother; L2: Standard English learned to read
with father early schooling with private Creole teacher; L3: Spanish: monolingual schooling from 3rd grade, in
Spanish-medium school English taught as a subject.
11. Pablo (60s): Miskitu
L1 Spanish: Mestizo mother, in my family we only spoke Spanish, Spanish monolingual schooling; L2 Miskitu:
Miskitu father, grandparents, wife. Develops further in 1960s, for teaching in the communities, and literacy for
PEIB materials development; home language still Spanish, Miskitu as the language of privacy and in the
communities.
12. Abanel (over 60): Sumu-Miskitu
L1 Bilingual Miskitu Sumu/Mayangna: some Miskitu Bible literacy from Moravian mission; L3 Ulwa: with
Ulwa neighbourhood friends; L4 Spanish: monolingual Spanish schooling; L5 Creole English: from work in logging
companies.