Not long ago, in Santa Clara del Cobre, the New Fire was kindled—a symbolic spark said to revive ancient rituals, rekindle collective memory, and forge an unbreakable bond with tradition. After the ceremony, the community of Tingambato was chosen as the host site. Yet what appeared to be a straightforward decision soon stirred up a storm of dissent. Critics argued that some communities “didn’t deserve” the honor, insisting instead that the celebration should have taken place elsewhere. In the midst of this age-old rite, a complex interplay of light and shadow unfolded: voices emerging from the depths of cultural identity, interwoven with traces of bitterness.
Harsh sentiments were expressed by those who believed that only those who live and breathe the language truly grasp the essence of their heritage—that only fluent speakers can serve as the rightful custodians of tradition. Questions abounded: Must one speak Purépecha, have close kinship ties, chant ancient songs, or have endured discrimination in order to claim a stake in this living history? For many, these views only deepened the divide, marking those who fail to meet strict criteria as outsiders and reducing the ceremony to a mere spectacle.
Amid the clamor, however, a thoughtful and calm voice emerged: Who truly holds the power to decide who is worthy of carrying forward this cultural mantle? Does excluding a community from hosting this sacred event somehow erase its existence? The reminder was clear—the honor lies not in claiming a superior version of cultural purity, but in embracing humility and embodying the spirit of kaxumbeti: serving one’s people with dignity and respect. History, scarred by migration and resistance, teaches us that true authenticity is measured not by the quantity of preserved customs but by the noble effort to protect what is sacred, free from the elitism that fractures communities.
My own journey into the heart of the Kurhikuaeri Kuinchekua began with an insatiable curiosity to understand the ritual’s meaning and value. I ventured through pages of literature, engaged in heartfelt conversations, and sifted through memories in search of how a culture’s identity is truly forged—especially one that has long suffered from both external suppression and internal neglect. When the flame is ignited with the hope of reuniting communities with their roots, the pressing question becomes: Shouldn’t the chance to host come first to those who are drifting away, whose voices have been silenced over time?
Sadly, the answer often becomes obscured by prejudices that are quick to divide what is inherently one. What purpose does it serve to belittle those who, for myriad reasons, have lost touch with parts of their heritage—just to elevate an unattainable ideal of cultural “purity”? Is authenticity really determined by birthplace, bloodline, or linguistic mastery? Or does the enduring spirit of our ancestors live on beyond every unspoken word? In many ways, this debate has taken on an ironic tone, echoing the unsettling reality that, in the name of cultural purity, some voices mirror oppressive ideologies more than genuine acts of resistance.
The Kurhikuaeri Kuinchekua is not a medal to proclaim who is “more authentic,” nor a trophy that justifies looking down on others. It is a heartfelt call to awaken our collective memory, to recognize that culture is like a powerful river—flowing with countless stories and histories from every community, regardless of size, location, or language fluency. True tradition thrives in respect, in the humble act of sharing the fire without exclusion, and in rejecting narrow definitions that seek to confine our identities.
Perhaps what is needed is a profound reexamination of how we define authenticity—a move away from rigid rules toward an appreciation of the complex legacy that each of us carries. This is a plea for reflection: to abandon divisive tendencies and acknowledge that, within the vast tapestry of Purépecha culture, every community survives because it endures, and within each of us burns an ancestral flame that remains vibrant against the forces of oblivion and discrimination.
In the end, there are no winners or losers in this call for unity—only an urgent need for reconnection and reconciliation between who we once were and who we have yet to become. For in the whisper of the wind, the warmth of the fire, and the murmur of ancient voices, lies a simple truth: identity is a shared journey, with every step—no matter how modest—leaving an indelible mark on the history of a people who refuse to be divided.
Perhaps the words of division come only from those who have never truly embraced this celebration; if they had, they would understand that when the fire burns, it offers warmth to all, and when it is shared, its light grows ever brighter.
