Epistolary Echoes: Crafting Peruvian Feminist Memory from the Margins

Patricia Chuquiano-Sánchez^[1]i*, Raisa Ferrer-Pizarro^[2]ii*, Eva Santivañez-Santos^[3]iii *

*These authors contributed equally and share first authorship

Keywords: Feminist Archiving, Feminist Activism, Oral History, Sound Archives, Peru

Introduction

Cartas Sonoras Feministas is a sonic documentary project that draws on oral-archives methodologies, autobiographical narratives, and the epistolary form to narrate the history of contemporary feminism in Peru through the voices of those who build it in everyday life. Its tangible outcome is a living archive of feminist memories that foregrounds underrepresented voices: women and people from sexually and gender-diverse communities whose situated knowledges enrich and challenge hegemonic and urban-centered narratives. Initiated in 2023, the project activates memory from an affective, situated, and intergenerational perspective.

In this text, we share reflections from our first three years as co-facilitators—or carteras (mail carriers, those who mediate exchanges), as we prefer to call ourselves—of the project, emphasizing the oral and epistolary character of the archives on Peruvian feminism that the project has produced.

Setting the Scene: Feminism(s) in Peru

Among Cartas Sonoras Feministas’s (CSF) specific contributions is its commitment to preserving the archival record of feminist struggle and of women’s and sexual-gender dissent in Peru. In what follows, we briefly map the trajectory of the feminist movement in Peru, in order to provide readers with the context needed to then engage with the question of the importance of archives that document this history, as well as CSF’s contribution to the archival effort. We will begin with feminism’s earliest presence in Peru.

Various sources indicate that feminism in Peru emerged among the upper-middle classes of the capital in the early twentieth century; however, this movement has since grown both in the number of its supporters and in the diversity of its constituencies. Peruvian feminist activist and scholar Violeta Barrientos (Infobae, 2022) has noted in several interviews that the contemporary identity of the feminist movement in Peru is heterogeneous, insofar as it brings together people from different socioeconomic backgrounds and with divergent political commitments who, to date, have not converged on a single shared agenda.

Here, it is important to keep in mind that while demands for equal access to education and women’s suffrage can be identified at the beginning of the twentieth century in Peru —mainly led by women belonging to economic elites—the first manifestations of feminism as a broader movement, articulating a critique of the patriarchal system, emerged in the 1970s and were expressed through actions in public spaces (Barrientos and Muñoz, 2014). During that decade, Vargas (1985) explains, many of the women who defined themselves as feminists and began to militate as such came from left-wing parties, disenchanted by the sexual division of labor that was maintained within them.

However, in the Peruvian context, it is important not to conflate the emergence of feminist ideas with the prior absence of women’s organizations or leadership. Many of these organizations, which actively worked for women’s well-being, did not self-identify as feminist. For instance, in the mid-1970s, women played a central role in establishing community kitchens (comedores populares). This strand of women’s organizing has been described by some authors as the popular strand (Barrientos and Muñoz, 2014; Vargas, 2008), characterized by high levels of women’s involvement in addressing community needs, often through roles traditionally assigned to women.

A recurring point of debate within the movement concerns the capacity of its leadership to build relationships with women from diverse social identities, who are often subject to racialized and class-based forms of marginalization. While moments of collaboration have emerged between this popular strand of feminist action and those who explicitly identify as feminists, such alliances have not been consistently sustained over time. As Silva Santisteban (2004) notes, although links were established between the feminist movement and the popular women’s movement between 1985 and 1992, these connections later weakened.

One explanation for this distance is offered by Rousseau (2009), who observes that the feminist movement’s investment in technical policy work and its shift into sophisticated nongovernmental organizations brought meaningful progress but also carried an unintended cost: a growing disconnect from grassroots and popular sectors. Moreover, this same drive to reform legal frameworks and influence core political institutions, the author points out, fostered an ambivalent relationship with the Fujimori regime; one that ultimately deepened the movement’s internal fragmentation.

Turning to the more recent history of feminism in Peru, it is worth highlighting that the second half of the century saw of the most significant episode in the country’s feminist movement: the emergence of Ni Una Menos (NUM). In 2016, this movement united around protests against gender-based violence and femicide, as part of a broader regional and global wave. In Lima, it mobilized one of the largest demonstrations in a decade, drawing approximately 150,000 participants (Caballero, 2018). This was accompanied by a process of decentralization through the formation of local platforms in regions beyond the capital (Yagui, 2022), as well as the viral spread of testimonies through a Facebook group that began as a coordination space for the march but quickly became a forum where thousands of women shared accounts of violence, giving rise to a process of mutual recognition (Soto, 2019). Yet, despite its visibility and initial capacity to mobilize broad popular support, Ni Una Menos was not immune to the tensions described in the movement’s earlier stages, and it subsequently demobilized. This is particularly notable given that the platform was organized around what seemed like uncontested common ground for feminist activists: ending gender-based violence.

Despite the heterogeneity, tensions, and distances explained, both knowledge and memory have been continuously produced through activist practices. However, there remain insufficient spaces for their preservation. The following section examines the archival efforts that have emerged in response to this need, exploring both their potential and their limitations.

Why Feminist Memory Needs Other Archives

Historically, the most visible archives of Peruvian feminism have been concentrated in Lima and have primarily documented the experiences of urban, middle-class women, often those linked to institutionalized, NGO-based feminism. While these actors have played a fundamental role in advancing gender equality in Peru, the predominance of textual archives has tended to privilege the perspectives of women with greater access to formal education and publication circuits.

Institutional initiatives have been central in this regard. The Centro de Documentación sobre la Mujer (CENDOC–Mujer), established in 1985 and now defunct, served as a key repository of bibliographic and periodical materials; its collections were later transferred to the Centro de la Mujer Peruana Flora Tristán and to the Centro de Documentación del Perú Contemporáneo (CEDOC) at the Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos. Today, the latter institution provides digital access to historical materials, including the correspondence of Zoila Aurora Cáceres Moreno, a feminist journalist who led early twentieth-century campaigns for women’s education and suffrage in Peru. Similarly, the Centro de la Mujer Peruana Flora Tristán maintains a small archive comprising publications by Peruvian feminist intellectuals and outreach materials produced by Lima-based feminist NGOs.

Within this predominantly textual and urban-centered archival landscape, the magazine Chacarera (1989–2014), edited by journalist Gaby Cevasco and promoted by the Centro de la Mujer Peruana Flora Tristán, stands out as a notable exception, serving as a written source on women’s organizational experiences in rural Peru, which has been digitalized and now takes part of the CEDOC at the Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos.

Even so, these efforts remain insufficient to fully account for forms of struggle unfolding beyond formal, funded spaces. In recent years, however, the landscape of feminist archiving in Peru has begun to shift. Emerging initiatives seek to broaden the scope of what is remembered and how it is remembered, foregrounding community-based histories and dissident sexualities. Projects such as the Archivo de la Memoria Marica del Perú (est. 2021) and the Archivo Lésbico del Perú (est. 2025) exemplify this turn. As noted by the director of the former, this is not a traditional archive that simply stores materials, but rather “a mutation, a project that is still being actively constructed,” one that draws on and resonates with the work of artist and philosopher Giuseppe Campuzano, creator of the Museo Travesti del Perú (Mere, 2025). Within this evolving landscape, CSF can be understood as part of a growing set of initiatives committed to reimagining feminist archiving in Peru.

Many of the aforementioned initiatives are digital and have emerged in response to silence or deliberate erasure. According to Rogel-Salazar et al. (2025), feminist protest traces and feminist organizing in Latin America face many threats: their ephemeral nature, political erasure, and the neglect of official memory institutions (libraries, archives, and museums). The authors also note that, while digital counterarchives are important, these initiatives are also fragile because the internet itself offers no guarantee of permanence.

These initiatives not only expand the scope of feminist archiving in Peru but also help challenge broader patterns of exclusion that shape how feminist histories are produced, preserved, and circulated. In doing so, they problematize what Guzmán (2020) identifies as a so-called universal history of feminism, structured according to European parameters and framed in terms of “waves”, which claims universality while simultaneously erasing local forms of resistance, women in the labor movement, and those active in indigenous organizations. In addition, as Cook (2001) notes, the archival enterprise has generally been “remorselessly and intentionally patriarchal” (p. 26) Together, these dynamics contribute to the systematic marginalization of subaltern feminist voices.

This project departs from the premise that historically oppressed voices hold epistemic privilege—an embodied, experiential form of knowledge that has not been sufficiently recognized (Restrepo and Rojas, 2010) —and that such knowledges can be transformative. In this regard, LaBelle (2020) highlights the transformative potential of the sonic, discussing sonic agency as an emancipatory practice that uses sound.

As facilitators of the project, and as both scholars and activists, we became particularly interested in the stories of those who had not come to occupy positions of authority within NGO or State hierarchies, yet who had nonetheless actively participated in social and emancipatory processes that have benefited and continue to benefit women and LGBTIQ+ persons. Thus, while acknowledging with gratitude the work of the so-called “historical feminists” (a term used in Peru to refer to the women who founded some of the most influential and still active feminist NGOs, and who produced books and academic articles), we began to ask ourselves about the stories of other women whose contributions have remained largely invisible within dominant feminist narratives.

Cartas Sonoras Feministas as a research-creation

When we began Cartas Sonoras Feministas (CSF), we were clear about our purpose, yet we continuously reflected on how to avoid reproducing the extractivist logics of the academy from which we come. We were particularly concerned with the unidirectional production of archives and the creation of impersonal repositories. We were also skeptical of traditional archiving formats, which are predominantly textual. We suspected that many women leaders had been excluded from the history of feminism and the women’s movement in Peru due to multiple structural factors, including limited access to formal education. For this reason, we chose to work with oral archives collected through horizontal exchanges.

Our CSF methodology is grounded in an epistemic critique of traditional paradigms and intentionally positions testimony at the core of the process. We invite local feminist activists—often strangers to one another—to exchange audio letters about everyday forms of resistance, inspired by the idea that archives can emerge through practices of reciprocal vulnerability. These exchanges are later assembled and shared on social media and in intimate collective listening spaces. In this section, we further elaborate on our methodology, explaining why letters, why audio material, why exchanges between activist peers (rather than between researcher and research subject), and why we position ourselves as carteras (mail carriers).

After developing a timeline of diverse social struggles, encompassing issues traditionally associated with the feminist agenda as well as others, we mapped potential participants and engaged with activists and defenders of women’s and gender-diverse people’s rights from diverse backgrounds and regions across Peru.

Regarding participant demographics, those involved in the project range in age from 26 to 80 and come from diverse backgrounds, including party politics, trade union movements (i.e., SUTEP), student activism, and rural/community organizing (i.e., FENMUCARINAP, ADEMUCP). A small number have also engaged with NGOs and state institutions as part of their trajectories. They are also geographically based in various regions of the country, including Cajamarca, Loreto, Puno, Lima, Piura, Cusco, and Lambayeque.

Our first campaign to establish epistolary exchanges involved twelve participants. While we conducted interviews with approximately twenty-five researchers and social activists, the exchange-based methodology for producing oral archives was implemented through six paired dialogues. This proved to be a challenging exercise, as we developed hypotheses about which pairings might generate more meaningful exchanges. These decisions were informed by a balance between shared elements—such as common themes emerging from the individual interviews—and points of contrast, including differences in age and place of residence.

Following this process, we invited selected participants to engage in audio letter exchanges. In an initial session, we introduced the project’s objectives and timelines, as well as the cartera’s role as a mediator of dialogue. While we initially suggested that participants record messages on their phones and share them as email attachments to ensure audio quality, we soon found that using WhatsApp as the primary platform led to more timely responses and fostered interpersonal intimacy. Engaging with Wolton’s (2010) reflections on communication helped us recognize that the value of the oral archive (and of expression more broadly) does not lie in the technical performance of recording devices or the sophistication of their support, but in the human capacity for communication. Each cartera supported the exchange through guiding prompts and ongoing accompaniment. Despite geographical distances, diverse activist trajectories, and the absence of prior acquaintance, shared affinities enabled participants to establish strong connections.

The final stage is the editing and assembly phase. While each audio letter holds value as an archive in its own right, we chose to edit and assemble them into podcast episodes to broaden their accessibility and strengthen their role as vehicles of memory. The resulting episodes circulate through the project’s Instagram account and via WhatsApp groups; however, we also organize in-person gatherings that create spaces for collective listening and conversation.

Having outlined this process, we now turn to the question: Why letters? The chosen format is that of audio letters, understood as both an expressive medium and a space for the exchange of subjectivities. We chose the letter format because, since its inception, it has functioned as a key artifact for crossing geographical barriers and reducing distances between people from different latitudes—and therefore from different territorial and experiential contexts. Put simply, letters travel across time and space. In their audio form, they operate similarly: those who record a letter hope to be heard in the future, while those who receive it listen to something that was thought and articulated in the past. As an artifact, the audio letter moves from one place to another, from the site of enunciation to the site of listening (Catalá, 2019). This format enables reflective encounters between people who, due to differences in life trajectories, geographic locations, or socioeconomic capital, might otherwise not have had the opportunity to meet. In CSF, audio letters are the primary means through which feminist memory is produced, circulated, and preserved.

The sonic nature of CSF is also relevant to address. As Ginouvès and Rodríguez (2021) explain, books and printed documents were for a long time the primary means of transmitting and safeguarding knowledge. However, since antiquity, oral tradition has been a central mode of knowledge transmission and preservation, and today many scholars consider it a valuable historical source (Ramírez Poloche, 2012). It is also worth noting that, for us, sonority is not limited to the audio letters exchanged by the participants; we also preserve ambient sound. In line with Carles (2013), we consider that every space—a street, a neighborhood, a natural environment—carries a unique sonority that enriches memory.

Building on this, we understand the archive as a living fabric where the act of recording and sharing sounds allows us to thread the past with the present. In this archive, preservation does not mean storing, but rather sharing them to keep community memory visible and continuous. As Álvarez Malvido and Parra Hinojosa (2021) suggest, memory is not found in a single place or a single mind, but rather a collective “partitioned disk” that flourishes only when it is spoken and shared back with the community. By treating these audio letters as threads in a larger social fabric, the archive becomes a collective provocation in which the primary value lies in the conversations and anecdotes that emerge as the community listens to itself. This approach ensures that the digital record functions as a mirror for identity, reflecting the community from a place of dignity, and acts as a tool for everyday resistance, keeping memory rooted in the territory rather than frozen in a static repository.

Moreover, the type of production we seek in CSF deliberately departs from studio recording conventions. Rather than pursuing technical perfection or acoustic isolation, we privilege recordings that emerge from everyday contexts. Voices are captured in domestic spaces, community centers, streets, or during ordinary pauses in daily life. The immediacy of the voice, the echoes of a room, background noises, and ambient sounds are not treated as imperfections to be corrected, but as constitutive elements of the archive itself. These sonic traces situate each letter within a lived context, giving the project a distinctive register. For this reason, even in post-production, we preserve much of the original audio material, resisting the impulse to sanitize or standardize it. In doing so, we affirm that everyday life is the site of feminist knowledge production.

Seeing ourselves as mail carriers is another way of conceptualizing our role as mediators: we facilitate conversational spaces and encourage exchanges that may, at times, extend beyond the platform itself. What is most significant about the project is not the final product of dissemination, but the conversational process that takes place between the participants. We draw on Martin-Barbero’s (1987) understanding of communication as a process of putting in common, sharing, and circulating meanings; rather than merely disseminating content.

That said, in our methodology, we sought to move away from interviews, and the format of audio letters exchanged between activists enabled us to foster dialogical communication, in which speaking and listening alternate. Corona’s (2020) ideas on the horizontal production of knowledge, the pursuit of equality between interlocutors, and generative conflict—where the logos of each participant is shared with the other to co-construct something new—have been particularly inspiring. Her critique of the conventional notion of the “researched” as one who simply knows how to respond and the “researcher” as one who knows how to reason has also been highly influential in shaping our approach. In particular, we argue that, in the case of CSF, horizontality is reinforced by practices of reciprocal vulnerability, which are essential conditions for memory-making.

We understand reciprocal vulnerability as a practice that cannot be imposed or designed in advance; rather, it emerges organically from horizontal encounter. As a practice, reciprocal vulnerability takes many forms and should not be conflated with comfort or softness. It also lives in tension, confusion, and the willingness to critique (and to be critiqued). The interviews conducted prior to the audio exchanges already anticipated some tensions and discomfort: questions about the place of trans communities and dissident identities within feminism, including the exclusion of trans men from certain spaces; uncertainty about whether to identify oneself as a feminist at all; and whether feminism and religious belief can coexist.

Decentering feminist narratives from their urban and middle-class origins toward the representation of a territorialized movement opened space for voices that rarely occupy center stage: peasant women in Puno and Cajamarca resisting the toxic consequences of mining, and indigenous women reclaiming territory as part of a struggle five centuries in the making. We also gained an appreciation for how contested and layered words such as solidarity, justice, and death can be within a feminist life. Ni Una Menos appeared across many of these accounts as a common point of inflection, though the women’s movement also finds expression through forms of organization that both precede and exceed it.

Nevertheless, beyond documenting the past, the letters proved to be a generative site, producing findings that a more conventional format would struggle to reach. In one exchange, a younger participant critically questions the role of NGOs and their perceived detachment from local communities, to which an activist in her sixties responds that such critiques can feel dismissive of years of work she took part in. In another, a co-founder of an NGO is paired with a rural community leader who, as it turns out, had herself participated in workshops organized by that very organization, an experience she recalls with appreciation, while also emphasizing the need to adapt what she learned to her own reality, one in which gender-based violence operates as a tool wielded by those who exploit natural resources. Rather than foreclosing dialogue, these moments of friction opened into spaces of mutual recognition, illustrating both the emotional intensity of sustained political commitment and the challenging work of holding difference.

Finally, we would like to offer some reflections on the archival function performed within the project, which involves collecting testimonies both for the present—understood as knowledge that can be mobilized to resist inequalities here and now—and for the future, as expressions of contemporary feminism in Peru. In this regard, the notion of feminist archiving has been particularly fruitful in making sense of our work in the project. According to Eichhorn (2010, 2013), the archive should not be understood as a static repository; rather, it functions as a generative, creative practice embedded in everyday activism, enabling the documentation of women’s public and private lives and amplifying their voices in the public sphere. Memory, as Hirsch (2009) reminds us, is not only oriented toward the past but is actively constituted in the present and projected into the future. In this sense, the archives produced by activists do not merely serve as repositories for future remembrance; they also operate in the present as mechanisms for authorizing political legacies (Eichhorn, 2010). In this way, CSF positions archives as living instruments that connect past, present, and future struggles for feminist and LGBTIQ+ justice in Peru.

Final thoughts: Expanding What Is Worth Remembering

So far, the project has been implemented over the course of three years and has produced sonic objects that function as vehicles for the memory of the struggles of women and LGBTIQ+ communities in Peru (podcasts, reels), as well as activities (workshops, public presentations, collective listening sessions, audio walking routes connecting testimonies and neighborhoods) and alliances with activists from six regions of the country.

As co-facilitators of Cartas Sonoras Feministas, we have learned over time and adapted our methodology to be more sensitive to the lived experiences of the participating activists. Nevertheless, important questions remain. We have shifted from providing semi-structured guides to initiate the first audio exchanges to offering broader thematic prompts, allowing participants to determine what they wish to archive and how over time, we moved toward facilitating initial encounters in which participants meet one another and collectively identify the concerns that will shape their exchanges. While these shifts aim to redistribute decision-making, they also reveal the limits of our attempts to withdraw from framing the archive: even as we loosen our interventions, we remain implicated in shaping both what is said and how it is articulated within the project’s horizons. The question of whether the prompts truly allow participants to decide what to archive, or whether we continue to impose certain frameworks, remains salient.

These tensions foreground our necessarily mediatory role as carteras: not only as carriers of the letters, but as facilitators of the infrastructure through which the archive takes form. This entails recognizing how our positionalities, as capital-based, formally educated women, inform the conditions of possibility of the project itself. In response, we have sought to foreground the methodological dimension of CSF, not as a neutral set of tools, but as a situated practice that can be shared, adapted, and critically reworked. Yet this openness does not resolve the fact that archiving is always in need of further revision.

Flexibility has been crucial. Although archiving and the circulation of memory through cultural forms such as podcast episodes often imply certain standards of sound quality, we chose not to rely on professional studio recordings; instead working with audio produced in familiar, accessible conditions. Throughout the process, we worked with WhatsApp audio recordings produced in everyday contexts, often accompanied by background sounds. In this sense, our methodology gradually shifted away from technical expectations and instead became grounded in the digital practices and familiarities that participants already inhabit in their daily lives. We now understand that memory must transcend the physical device to be situated within the real context and needs of those who narrate. By prioritizing familiar tools, we ensure that technology serves as a bridge for sonic agency rather than a barrier

Concerns about accessibility, visibility, and preservation also exist. In a context marked by the rollback of gender equality policies, we have felt an urgency to ensure that these conversations have a place in the present; in this regard, digital circulation of the audio letters through online platforms has proven particularly effective. At the same time, questions about long-term preservation, the need for a stable repository, and future access remain pressing, especially in an attention economy shaped by algorithmic logics that determine visibility and risk, rendering these archives ephemeral, and how to engage with more durable physical formats that offer distinct possibilities for safeguarding these materials over time. Rather than privileging one form over another, we position ourselves in an intermediate space, navigating the demands of immediacy and accessibility alongside concerns for sustainability. As Rogel-Salazar and colleagues (2025) note, web content is inherently unstable and, without deliberate preservation efforts, risks include gradual degradation or loss.

We continue to reflect on the project's long-term horizons, the resources required, and the way the project’s design might still reproduce existing hierarchies of visibility or participation. These ongoing reflections are essential to ensure that the project remains accountable to the communities with whom we work.

Author Information

Acknowledgements

We would like to extend our sincere gratitude to the activists who participated in the CSF project, without whose willingness and trust, this text would not have been possible. We also thank the anonymous reviewer of this piece for their insightful feedback, which greatly strengthened this work, and Professor Juan Llamas- Rodríguez for his comments on the very first version. Finally, we wish to acknowledge the support from Servicios Educativos El Agustino (SEA), the Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú (PUCP), and the Ministerio de Cultura del Perú (MINCUL), whose grant funds have supported the exchanges among activists across Peru.

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Notes

1. i Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, co-founder of Cartas Sonoras Feministas.

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2. ii University of Bielefeld, co-founder of Cartas Sonoras Feministas. Corresponding author. Contact: [email protected]

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3. iii Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, co-founder of Cartas Sonoras Feministas

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