The Other Side of the Dream; Behind an International Space

By Adela Tuy /Translated by Jonathan Lott

When people hear “International Conferences,” they think of luxurious buildings, people speaking English, lots of formal photos, and beautiful speeches; they also think of the elegance of participating in a conference and including it on their resume.

However, no one tells them about what lies behind an international conference, all the barriers that seem invisible to the public eye, such as subtle exclusion, the language barrier, and personal struggles. Especially what the Indigenous population faces in these spaces, especially Indigenous women.

19 years old, with a suitcase in hand, many emotions—joy, nostalgia, and fear—with no idea how airports, flights, and airplanes worked, there I was, ready to travel and participate in an international conference for the first time in my life. It was a dream come true.

I am an Indigenous Mayan Kaqchikel woman, committed to education, sustainability, women’s rights, and social inclusion. I grew up in a small town, far from the city, surrounded by trees and mountains, in a house where the sun’s rays wake you up before the roosters in the morning. Sololá. A community where machismo has prevailed for years, education remains a privilege rather than a right, and women’s participation in decision-making remains low.

In 2024, I was fortunate to be part of The Latin American Youth Climate Fellowship (LAYCS), an exclusive project created for Latin American youth from Black, Indigenous, and/or People of Color (BIPoC) communities. I had the opportunity to participate in the 61st session of the subsidiary bodies (SB61) in Bonn, Germany, and the 29th Conference of the Parties (COP29) in Baku, Azerbaijan. 

Together with a group of young people, we left our countries to participate and learn in these spaces. During these trips, I got lost several times in airports, with voices announcing the next flights and people running around with suitcases. Where should I go? What should I say?

Traveling alone was an important milestone for me because it sparked my desire to move, discover new things, and seek out opportunities.

I was part of the civil society movement at both conferences, SB61 and COP29. I followed topics related to Climate Adaptation, one of the most relevant issues in a country like Guatemala. I didn’t speak English very well, and my first impression was that it wasn’t a space for me.

There were young people who claimed to represent young people around the world, but I didn’t feel they represented me, or my peers, or our voices. They only spoke from their privileged perspectives. Nor was there any discussion about how developed countries exploit the resources of vulnerable countries in the Global South, or the effects and consequences they are suffering from their actions.

Challenges

Many spoke about inclusion in an interesting way, but questions quickly began to creep into my head: How can we talk about inclusion if the spaces feel incomplete? There was no interpretation at the sessions, negotiations, and conferences because everything was conducted in English, and although we were fortunate to have interpretation, there were people who didn’t.

The language barrier was evident, and this became a major limitation for those trying to access these spaces and be part of the decisions. Hearing so many terms, the technicalities, and not understanding them, reading documents—most of which are translated—to understand what they are talking about was challenging.

Adapting to these spaces wasn’t easy for me, but my friends helped me a lot along the way. I was able to give a short presentation at a conference; I challenged myself to speak in English in public for the first time, wearing my Sololá costume. Together with my classmates, we demonstrated why our voice matters in decision-making, and we were there because we wanted these spaces to be more inclusive.

So many things were going through my head. The people I met made me realize that even though we came from different countries and cultures, we speak the same language: the language of resistance. Seeing other people’s outfits, and hearing them speak their languages, was incredible. I felt empowered, and it made me realize that even though we were colonized many years ago, they were never able to take away our languages, our beliefs, and our identity.

I felt small in the large space. There was a moment when some people wanted to take pictures with me just because I had my Sololá costume. They didn’t ask for it; they just came up to me and stood with me to take a picture. They weren’t friendly, and it felt uncomfortable, as if I were something exotic in that place, but I was a person. I wasn’t the only one who experienced it; several of my classmates did too.

There was a lot of bureaucracy, something that’s often not visible from the outside in international spaces. I felt like there were powerful people, who simply spoke English, who dominated the spaces and the negotiations.

Traveling abroad for the first time at an international conference has been a total privilege. I learned a lot about various topics, how to build self-confidence, and how to be resilient in all processes. I am an introvert, but the people I met made me realize the power of a support network. I firmly believe that things worked on collectively go much further.

After this experience, I returned a different person. It changed my way of seeing life and what’s happening around me, in Guatemala and the world. Today, more than ever, I believe that true change begins within us and that walking hand in hand with others helps us make visible what’s missing in our territories.

Many people say that participating in an international conference gives you a higher status or makes you superior to others. But I’m still the same girl who lives in the mountains and goes to university. Someone who is still learning about the world and its mysteries, about communication and art, about writing and photography, climate change, and life itself.

I am not the first woman to attend these spaces; there were several before me, and it is precisely because of all of them that I was able to attend. Our ancestors hold our hands so that we can pave the way for other women. I hope that in the future, more Indigenous young women will occupy these spaces, and that they will not be afraid to speak out and express what is happening in their territories.

Adela Tuy is an Indigenous Maya Kaqchikel woman, originally from a community in Sololá, Guatemala. Since the age of 13, she has used writing and drawing as tools of expression and resistance. She is the author of the poetry book Keme. She is currently studying Social Communications and seeks to continue participating in leadership spaces to amplify the voices of Indigenous youth.