The Politics of Time in Legal History: A Reflection on the Power of Graphic Narratives

»And from the wombs of Indigenous women are born the new flowers of intelligence, adorned in richness, they will unite to form a glorious garden in the heart of Colombian territory, drawing the attention of the civilization of national and foreign exploiters. Thus, comrades, our rights will soon change in our favor, because a beggar, the son of an orphaned Indigenous woman, will sit upon the throne of our rightful claims, wielding the scepter of intelligence with which human nature has endowed him. That is why the Nariño indigenous woman is present at this national Indigenous gathering, with courage and unity, like a chorus of enraged eagles. We will achieve our vindication so that justice may be done for us, so that we may be protected by the authorities – or we shall take justice into our own hands ...«¹

Yolanda Guaical
First Popular Meeting of Colombian Indigenous Peoples
Third Regional Indigenous Meeting of Cauca
July 15, 1973
Silvia, Cauca

Camino y Ruptura is a graphic history published in April 2024 by Ediciones Uniandes (Bogotá, Colombia) and funded by the Max Planck Institute for Legal History and Legal Theory (Frankfurt am Main, Germany). The work is based on my doctoral research on Indigenous legal practices in Cauca, Colombia, at the beginning of the 20th century. My study, titled Citizenship, Justice, and Indigeneity: A‍‍‍ Study of Indigenous Legal Practices in Cauca, 1889–1938, examines the land struggles led by various Indigenous leaders in the region, as well as how they utilized, interpreted, and contributed to the creation of new legislation regarding collective Indigenous land ownership. These stories were reconstructed from numerous memoriales (legal petitions) written by Indigenous people in Gran Cauca between the late 19th and early 20th centuries, which I consulted in the Archivo Central del Cauca and the Archivo General de la Nación. Additionally, I drew from other historical sources, such as private correspondence – most notably from the General Bonilla Private Archive –, newspapers, and legislative records.|

Camino y Ruptura is the first legal historical research project published as a graphic history, produced through a collaboration between the Max Planck Institute for Legal History and Legal Theory and the Faculty of Law of the Universidad de los Andes. However, it is not the first legal historical work to explore the comic format to communicate research findings.² As Hillary Chute emphasized in the inaugural lecture at the HistorioGRAPHICS meeting in June 2023 in Munich, graphic history is no longer an ›anomaly‹; it is now a large and complex genre with multiple possibilities for narrative exploration that is also used in academia. However, what can we explore better when using the comic format for legal historical research exactly? In this contribution, I want to talk about the politics of time and the role that this style of reflection has in contemporary legal historical scholarship.

The book opens with the words of Yolanda Guaical, an Indigenous leader from Nariño, Colombia who, in 1973, participated in the First Popular Meeting of Colombian Indigenous Peoples. The first time I encountered the transcription of Yolanda Guaical’s speech, it struck me as enigmatic. In my notes from 2018, I jotted down: »Her rhetoric is too elaborate, almost baroque (reminiscent of Manuel Quintín Lame) ... It is a striking passage, though its meaning eludes me ... To grasp her vision fully, we must anchor female claims for justice more firmly in their context.« It was only later that I began to untangle some of these initial impressions and reflect on them more deeply.

The connection between her words and those of the Indigenous leader Manuel Quintín Lame became clearer to me in 2020, two years after my initial reading. While revisiting the pamphlet El derecho de la mujer indígena en Colombia: manifiesto de catorce mil mujeres lamistas (The Right of the Indigenous Woman in Colombia: Manifesto of Fourteen Thousand Lamista Women), which proposed a right to rebel against unjust laws and circulated widely in Cauca, Huila, and Tolima in 1927, I noticed striking parallels between Yolanda Guaical’s language and that of Quintín Lame. This discovery suggested that the leaflet had not only reached traditionally Lameist regions but had also traveled beyond them – even into Nariño, where Guaical was from – retaining its relevance as late as 1973, nearly half a century after its original publication.

The 1927 document purportedly carries the endorsement of 14,000 Lameist women from across Colombia, yet much about its creation and dissemination remains shrouded in mystery. Scholars have speculated that its composition may have been mediated by Quintín Lame or his secretaries, emphasizing the importance of understanding the collective processes through which such texts were constructed and read. Julieta Lemaitre’s research further revealed that significant portions of El Derecho de la Mujer Indígena drew heavily from José Vicente Concha’s Tratado de Derecho Penal (Treatise on Criminal Law), published in 1890.³ Not only that, Lemaitre’s study also shows how Concha himself paraphrased some discussions about justice from the Catalan theologian Jaime Balmes, who sought to adapt Thomistic philosophy for modern audiences at |the beginning of the 19th century in Spain. It is important to notice that Balmes’ work played a pivotal role in shaping early 20th-century Colombian legal thought, which, after conservatives took power at the beginning of the century, strove to reconcile Catholic doctrine with the tenets of modern legal science.⁴

Despite its foundation in conservative jurisprudence, the manifesto issued by the hypothetical »14,000 Lameist women« in 1927 envisioned a political order vastly different from that championed by elite conservatives of the time. They invoked Balmes’ words not because they saw them as inherently just, but because these writings from the past could be repurposed to legitimize their demands for justice and ensure that they were heard by the Colombian state. At the same time, this rhetoric allowed them to envision an alternative political order. By appealing to Balmes, they not only strengthened their claims before the government but also fueled their vision of a different future.

Over time, this discourse evolved and gained independence, transcending its origins. By 1973, the resonant phrases of the 1927 pamphlet had taken on new life, recontextualized within an era marked by shifting social movements and aspirations. Though Yolanda Guaical’s demands echoed the sense of injustice voiced by earlier Lameists, they expanded into a broader, multisectoral struggle. In her impassioned address, she called for greater solidarity among Indigenous, peasant, and working-class movements, emphasizing the need for collective action to challenge entrenched structures of power. Drawing on the rhetoric of the 1927 pamphlet, Guaical not only honored its legacy but also adapted its message to the evolving political landscape of the 1970s. Her words reflected a shift from a strictly Indigenous claim for justice to a more inclusive call for social transformation, uniting diverse groups in their pursuit of rights and recognition. She demanded

an integral and democratic agrarian reform, for the rights of agricultural workers, for a better standard of living aligned with that of workers, teachers, and students, striving for Colombia to become a free, prosperous, and egalitarian homeland.⁵

An analysis that fails to consider the historical and contextual dimensions of normative discourses might hastily draw a direct line between Thomas Aquinas and Yolanda Guaical, dismissing the possibility of a distinctively Indigenous legal tradition. A‍‍‍ more nuanced, historically grounded approach – one conscious of the pitfalls of teleological and linear thinking – reveals how Guaical’s thought synthesizes diverse strands of discourse, weaving together elements of Catholic theology, colonial legal traditions, democratic expectations, gendered life experiences, and grassroots resistance in order to imagine possible futures.

Her words at the beginning of the book serve as a portent of the comic’s structure, where past, present, and future constantly intertwine, evoking the spiral used by various Andean communities to represent the passage of time. This narrative approach not only reflects the fluidity of temporal experience in the Andean world but also underscores the political role of time discourses in shaping resistance and histor|ical consciousness. The following sections will explore how these discourses challenge conventional notions of historical time and how different political conceptions of time create spaces for political struggle and transformation.

I. The Spiral of Time in the Indigenous Cauca

Qhipnayra uñtasis sarnaqapxañani
Aymara aphorism⁶

Time has been a central category of analysis in understanding the Indigenous movement in Colombia.⁷ These reflections are not only essential for interpreting local historical narratives but also for grasping the dynamics of regional Indigenous organizing. One of the most insightful critiques to emerge in the Cauca region comes from a collective historical knowledge-building exercise known as Los Mapas Parlantes (The Talking Maps).

Developed in the 1970s as an educational tool in collaboration with several Indigenous communities, Los Mapas Parlantes were part of a broader historical recovery project linked to the struggle for land. According to historian María Teresa Findji, who participated in their creation, this collective approach to history sought to challenge dominant narratives of progress that relegated Indigenous peoples to the past and equated them with backwardness. The perception of Indigenous identity as something to be eradicated was reinforced from multiple perspectives: nationalist historiography, which celebrated heroic figures while largely excluding Indigenous presence, and Marxist historiography, which viewed resguardos (Indigenous reservations) as a ›feudal‹ institution that needed to be dismantled.⁸

The recovery of history through Los Mapas Parlantes aimed to transform historical research into a tool for building legal arguments. One of the earliest efforts by the academic and non-academic researchers involved in the project was to focus on locating deeds or colonial titles of regional resguardos, which could serve as legal evidence to shape a new legal reality in courts and government offices. This practice was not new; the search for and preservation of such documents had long been crucial for maintaining resguardos throughout both the colonial and republican periods.

However, as Findji notes, the archival work aimed at recovering lost Indigenous lands needed to be complemented by other forms of historical reconstruction that included diverse records, such as oral accounts. This is where the methodological design of Los Mapas Parlantes played a crucial role. The maps depicted historical scenes open to multiple interpretations, depending on the observer. Elders shared stories based on lived experiences, while younger community members contributed their own perspectives, ensuring the intergenerational transmission of knowledge. As more people participated, the maps became increasingly detailed, incorporating elements like utensils, clothing styles, customs, and stories.

Findji observes that during the creation of these maps, a distinct conception of time emerged – one |that echoed the time-related notions found in Quechua and Aymara languages, where the future is seen as something located in the past, or what Spanish speakers typically regard as the past. A‍‍‍ similar understanding of time can also be found in the languages (Paez and Namtrik) spoken by the co-creators of the Mapas Parlantes. According to Findji, this notion of the past is composed of ancestral tracks meant to be followed.

For Indigenous communities in Cauca, recovering history was not only about reclaiming land; it was also about redefining identity by reinterpreting the past and articulating a new way of understanding historical time. This perspective was visualized as a spiral – one that people traverse by walking backward. Moving toward the future, then, meant stepping into the unknown while being guided by ancestral wisdom to navigate present challenges. In this historical spiral, political arguments are constructed and guide political struggles, shaping the path forward. As a result, the Mapas Parlantes created a spiral path in which the past, present, and future intertwine.

In this spiral, different moments of the past overlapped, not only shaping the lived world but also enabling the imagination of alternative futures. This way of engaging with time resonates with contemporary Indigenous thinkers from other regions, such as Ailton Krenak (Brazil), who speaks of an »ancestral future«,⁹ and Nick Estes (USA), who similarly asserts that »our history is the future«.¹⁰

II. How This Notion of Time Relates to the So-Called Western Concept of Time

Reflections on time as a concept have been diverse within the social sciences and span several decades. Sociologists and anthropologists have long explored how different societies conceptualize time, often drawing distinctions between Western notions and those of ›the others‹.

In anthropology, a seminal work on this issue is E.E. Evans-Pritchard’s The Nuer: A Description of the Modes of Livelihood and Political Institutions of a Nilotic People (1940).¹¹ In this study, Evans-Pritchard examined the Nuers’ conceptions of time and space in Anglo-Egyptian Sudan, presenting them as fundamentally different from Western notions. According to Evans-Pritchard, the Nuer were primarily focused on the immediate present rather than the future. Their perception of time was cyclical, shaped by the repetitive rhythms of agricultural and pastoral activities. In contrast to Western societies, which emphasize recorded history and long-term planning, the Nuer were depicted as having little interest in history or the distant future. While Evans-Pritchard acknowledged the role of oral tradition in transmitting knowledge, he argued that it did not reference a remote past. As a result, he framed Nuer temporality as entirely cyclical, devoid of a linear past or future – a‍‍‍ perspective that significantly influenced the anthropological analysis of non-Western societies worldwide.

These simplistic representations of ›the others‹ conceptions of time faced significant critiques, particularly in the 1980s. One of the most influential critiques came from Johannes Fabian. In Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (1983), Fabian argued that anthropologists, in their attempts to understand and represent cultures distinct from their own, often constructed narratives in which ›the other‹ was placed in a separate or ›timeless‹ period. He termed this phenomenon allochronism – the portrayal of certain societies as existing in a temporality distinct from that of the anthropologist. According to Fabian, such disciplinary frameworks reinforced power relations and established hierarchical knowledge structures, positioning Western societies as temporally ›advanced‹ while relegating others to an imagined past.¹² Following a similar line of critique, Nancy D. Munn (1992) questioned the so-called »anthropology of time«, highlighting the oversimplifications of linear and cyclical frameworks. She argued that all societies exhibit both linear and cyclical temporalities depending on context, calling into question the rigid dichotomy often imposed by anthropological analysis.¹³

In the realm of law, Carol Greenhouse’s work (1989) challenged prevailing assumptions about temporal models. She demonstrated the intrinsic link between temporality and legality, showing that even within Western culture, linear and cyclical conceptions of time had always coexisted. |However, she noted that the predominance of linear time in public life stemmed from its effectiveness in structuring and managing modern social institutions. The linearity of Western temporality, she argued, was not an inherent truth but rather a historical institutional design that shaped modern law and its accompanying ›mythology‹ – the idea that law is impartial, rational, secular, and the primary instrument for creating a just social order.¹⁴

By the late 20th and early 21st centuries, anthropological reflections on time increasingly focused on the relationship between time, power, and order. Scholars emphasized how institutions, governments, and other political actors shape perceptions and uses of time for political and social ends. Concepts such as chronocracies and chronopolitics emerged to analyze how temporal conceptions function as instruments of domination, hierarchy, and inequality. This body of work also underscored how, despite critical reevaluations of the essentialization of ›the time of others‹, such constructs continue to organize the world, reinforcing the structures of the contemporary capitalist system.¹⁵

In the field of history, concerns about time have taken a different trajectory. Studies on the Middle Ages and early European modernity were among the first to engage with reflections on time from various perspectives. One of the earliest contributions came from Lewis Mumford in Technics and Civilization (1934), where he examined how technological advancements influenced social organization and reshaped the experience of time and space.¹⁶

Decades later, historians from various historiographical schools explored transformations in modern conceptions of time. Jacques Le Goff (1960) examined medieval notions of time, particularly the tension between ecclesiastical and commercial time.¹⁷ Carlo M. Cipolla (1967) studied the impact of mechanical clocks on European society from the 14th to the 18th century, highlighting their role in shaping a new temporal consciousness.¹⁸ E.P. Thompson (1967) analyzed how industrialization and capitalism transformed conceptions of time and labor discipline in 18th- and 19th-century England.¹⁹ Through such studies, historical scholarship constructed a narrative of ›Western time‹ as measurable, linear, and productivity-oriented, contrasting it with ›the time of others‹ as conceptualized in anthropology. This opposition reinforced the idea that non-Western societies remained tied to pre-modern temporalities – almost as if they provided a window into humanity’s past within the present

Critical perspectives on historical studies of time did not challenge the notion of a homogeneous Western temporality; rather, they sought to theorize time as a category. Reinhart Koselleck’s work was pivotal in this regard. His famous Zeitschichten: Studien zur Historik (1979) made a major contribution to historical theory and historiography by examining how societies have experienced and conceptualized time, shaping historical writing and understanding.²⁰ Koselleck reaffirmed the coexistence of multiple, sometimes conflicting temporalities, and proposed a periodization reflecting shifts in Western conceptions of time. His theoretical approach led to the development of the influential concept of temporal acceleration²¹ – a transformation in the perception and experience of historical time in modern society. Tracing its origins to the 18th century, he identified the French Revolution as a paradigmatic event in this shift. According to Koselleck, the modern belief in progress and the conviction that the future would be better than the past fostered a stronger future orientation and an increasingly accelerated perception of time. The idea of temporal acceleration as a defining feature of the present has since been explored by various thinkers, including Paul Virilio,²² Zygmunt Bauman,²³ and Hartmut Rosa.²⁴

In historical studies, François Hartog expanded on Koselleck’s periodization by developing the concept of different regimes of historicity.²⁵ He examined how European societies have valued the present over time, ultimately characterizing contemporary society as presentist – that is, prioritizing the present at the expense of deeper historical understanding and long-term future planning.

Over time, historical reflections on time converged with anthropological concerns, linking |temporal analysis to issues of power, institutions, and the global economic order. However, unlike anthropology, historical studies of time have predominantly focused on the experiences of white, Christian, male-dominated Western Europe, often neglecting alternative temporal experiences both within and beyond ›the West‹. These considerations have been more thoroughly explored in anthropological, ethnohistorical, and decolonial studies.²⁶

While contemporary historiography has moved beyond the ›history of the white man‹ framework, reflections on historical time have yet to be fully integrated into broader theoretical discussions. In many ways, efforts to make historical time more inclusive still rely on the dichotomy between ›the time of others‹ and ›Western time‹. Though conceptually essentialist, this dichotomy takes on new significance when viewed through the lens of social movements. The demand for a non-linear temporality has been re-signified as a critique of the Western heteropatriarchal political, economic, and cultural system. Black,²⁷ Indigenous,²⁸ and queer²⁹ communities worldwide have described their experience of historical time as cyclical or spiral-like – an alternative temporal framework that envisions a new political, economic, social, and cultural order. By extension, this perspective calls for a reimagining of law, its mythologies, and its promises.

The stories of struggles waged by those labeled as ›the other‹ serve, across different geographies, as catalysts for imagining new futures – futures untethered from the linearity imposed by progressivism. While European historiography critiques presentism, the unease of modern acceleration, and the sense of a foreclosed future, elsewhere we call for new histories, new narratives. We demand historical justice³⁰ and envision pluriversal futures – futures where we all belong.³¹|

III. The Past, the Present and the Future in Camino y Ruptura

The narrative structure of Camino y Ruptura intentionally intertwines the past, present, and future. The section dedicated to the past explores the land struggles led by various Indigenous leaders in the Gran Cauca region through a sequence of illustrations that highlights both the common threads in the fight for land and the diversity and complexity of these movements. The narrative challenges monolithic views of both Indigenous struggles and the state, presenting a rich tapestry of perspectives and strategies.

The collaborative design process between Miguel Ángel Vallejo (illustrator), María Juliana Vargas (image researcher), Oscar Pantoja (scriptwriter), and myself sought to trace how laws concerning Indigenous peoples – particularly Law 89 of 1890 and its subsequent amendments – were interpreted and utilized not only by state officials but also by Indigenous leaders as tools to challenge injustice. The illustrations in this timeline provide insight into the intricate political life of the region, emphasizing the role of litigation in shaping land struggles. They demonstrate that law is not a static system but a dynamic space of negotiation and contestation. This is achieved by depicting diverse contexts, from the creation of laws by state and non-state actors to their interpretation, discussion, application, and critique in both formal and informal settings. Each chapter brings to life the concept of »law in everyday life« – a law that is fluid, contextual, and constantly evolving.

To bring these stories to life, we engaged in a collective exercise of historical imagination, guided by rigorous research. Our goal was to envision possible realities beyond what the sources explicitly revealed. Drawing from photographs, postcards, newspaper articles, paintings, and personal experiences, we crafted dialogues, imagined emotions, constructed landscapes, and carefully positioned objects. Through these vivid scenes, we invite readers to immerse themselves in the everyday experience of legal practices.|

The sequence addressing »the present« reflects on the research process itself – a dimension often overlooked in academic work. From the outset, it acknowledges the personal and professional journeys that shaped this project. Through visual storytelling, the comic captures moments of movement, archival exploration, fieldwork, family life, and the challenges posed by global events like the COVID-19 pandemic. These elements form the core of the research process, reminding us that even in solitude, historical inquiry is deeply relational. Interactions with colleagues, mentors, and communities provide essential support and inspiration, underscoring the collective nature of scholarship.

Finally, the sequence imagining the future invites readers to engage critically with the narrative, embracing both skepticism and commitment. By envisioning diverse reading contexts, it highlights spaces for intercultural dialogue and represents urban expressions of indigeneity. Through this approach, the comic encourages active participation in reshaping our shared histories. Ultimately, Camino y Ruptura seeks to bridge the divide between ›us‹ (non-Indigenous) and ›them‹ (Indigenous), challenging rigid distinctions between past, present, and future while fostering a more inclusive understanding of mestizo identity in contemporary Latin America.

To further expand the narrative, we invited eight regional illustrators – most of them Indigenous – to create frontispieces for each chapter. Their interpretations, accessible to readers via QR codes, add layers of meaning by drawing connections between the comic’s themes and their own lived experiences. Through accompanying audio recordings, the artists share reflections on ethnicity, worldviews, gender, coexistence, and memory, offering fresh perspectives that complement – and at times challenge – the original research.

The artistic contributions do more than simply illustrate the historical narrative; in many cases, they bring forth contrasting interpretations. A particularly striking example is the theme of unity. While the historical research aimed to uncover the plurality of political strategies employed by Indigenous leaders – highlighting internal conflicts and political disagreements – the testimonies framed division as a challenge to overcome. In everyday life, the weight of these divisions was more deeply felt than historiographic analysis alone could capture.

As a result, the artists’ reflections consistently underscore the urgency of unity in the present, emphasizing the need to revitalize alternative legal frameworks rooted in ancestral traditions and to continue historical struggles. This contrasts with Yolanda Guaical’s words from the 1970s: »Our rights will soon change in our favor.« While Guaical’s statement reflected hope in a moment of political mobilization, the artists’ call for unity today speaks to the ongoing challenges Indigenous communities face in sustaining their struggles across generations.

For colonized peoples, the relationship with state law is one of ongoing contradiction – recognizing its inevitability while also desiring to transform it. A‍‍‍ history of law that focuses solely on the creation, interpretation, and use of legal statutes, without considering how people experience, live, and feel legal orders, remains incomplete. Camino y Ruptura serves as a space where law is not only analyzed but also visualized – where legal norms are lived, experienced, and, at times, suffered. By incorporating regional artists and their interpretations of the |present, the comic fosters dialogue about the contradictions inherent in multi-normative contexts.

Ultimately, constructing these ›scenarios‹ brings research closer to the creation of plural and critical citizenships – no longer rooted in paternalism but in a collective commitment to knowledge production. In weaving together these threads, the comic becomes not just a reflection of history but a call to action – a reminder that the stories we tell shape who we are and who we can become.