Boletín número 213
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El 28 de agosto de 2026
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Anuncio: nuevos vocales
Estimados colegas, con mucho gusto les traemos los resultados del voto de vocales.
Solo hubo que votar por el vocal de Quebec. En las demás regiones se quedaban elegidas las candidatas por aclamación. Nuestros nuevos vocales son:
Provincias del oeste: Mónica Good
Ontario: Irune Berdún
Provincias atlánticas: Samantha Ruckenstein
Quebec: Rafael Nuñez Rodríguez
Los resultados del voto se pueden ver aquí:
Agradecemos a todos los candidatos su interés en servir a nuestros colegas y la asociación de esta manera tan importante.
CFP: Cien años de soledad 60 años después
La propuesta de edición del libro Cien años de soledad 60 años después es un proyecto académico conjunto. La obra se promueve en régimen de cofinanciación entre tres instituciones: el IELAT (Instituto Universitario de Investigación en Estudios Latinoamericanos de la Universidad de Alcalá, España), el Servicio de Publicaciones de la Universidad del Magdalena (Colombia) y la Universidad de Calgary (Canadá).
Se trata, por tanto, de la edición en español de un tercer volumen que conmemora los sesenta años de la publicación de la obra maestra de Gabriel García Márquez. Este libro sigue la estela de los volúmenes anteriores: Cien años de soledad: treinta años después (Universidad
Nacional de Colombia / Instituto Caro y Cuervo, Bogotá, 1997, 19 autores) y Cien años de soledad: 50 años después (Universidad del Valle, 2017, 19 autores).
Los investigadores y estudiosos interesados deben contribuir con capítulos que presenten nuevas interpretaciones de la novela cumbre del escritor colombiano. Los textos deben abordar el análisis desde perspectivas interdisciplinarias o transdisciplinarias en áreas como la literatura, el periodismo, la política, la historia, el derecho, el arte y los estudios de género, entre muchos otros campos. Una vez culminados los procesos de evaluación académica de las propuestas recibidas, los trabajos serán publicados como libro colectivo por la Editorial Marcial Pons (Madrid), cuyas ediciones ocupan los primeros puestos en publicaciones académicas, científicas y humanísticas.
TEMAS SUGERIDOS
1. La desaparición de la estirpe de los Buendía: reflexiones sobre la continuidad histórica a partir de Cien años de soledad.
2. Linaje y desvinculación de Cien años de Soledad: la narrativa escrita por mujeres latinoamericanas en el siglo XXI.
3. Políticas de la sexualidad: poder y dominación en Cien años de soledad y su influencia en las narrativas latinoamericanas del siglo XXI.
4. Cien años de soledad y las representaciones intermodales.
5. La cartografía de los espacios en Cien años de soledad.
6. Discurso, neocolonialismo y decolonialidad en Cien años de soledad.
7. Relecturas de la novela de saga familiar: Cien años de soledad y sus disidentes.
8. Aproximaciones interseccionales (clase, etnia, género, edad) en Cien años de soledad.
9. Modernidad y posmodernidad en la novela latinoamericana a partir de Cien años de soledad.
10. Usos del discurso del realismo mágico y lo real maravilloso en el contexto del siglo XXI.
11. Discursos utópicos y distópicos: Cien años de soledad y las narrativas del siglo XXI.
12. Estudios de recepción de la obra.
CONTACTOS
Correo de Juan Evangelista Moreno Blanco: juan.moreno@correounivalle.edu.co
Correo de Gilberto Daniel Vásquez Rodríguez: gilberto.vasquez@uah.es
Correo de Elizabeth Montes Garcés: montes@ucalgary.ca
PROPUESTAS DE PUBLICACIÓN
1. Los autores y las autoras deben enviar su propuesta de publicación, rellenando los datos personales y profesionales, suministrando el título y el resumen del capítulo, según se ilustra en el boletín que aparece en el ANEXO I de este documento. Tal boletín debe enviarse en una sola página al correo electrónico: gestion_edición_cas@uah.es
2. La fecha tope para recibir las propuestas es hasta el 21 de septiembre de 2026.
3. Los editores comunicarán la aceptación o el rechazo de las mismas la primera semana de octubre de 2026.
4. En el caso de aceptación de la propuesta, se tiene de plazo hasta el 7 de diciembre de 2026 para el envío del capítulo, según las normas.
5. El capítulo será examinado por reconocidos especialistas con el sistema de evaluación por pares, quienes darán su dictamen final para su publicación. El mismo se emitirá a partir del 19 de febrero de 2027. A partir de este momento, los autores y las autoras tendrán que resolver, si así se amerita, las correcciones y recomendaciones que recoja el referido dictamen.
6. La entrega de las versiones finales de los capítulos se realizará, sin prórroga hasta del 8 de marzo de 2027.
FECHAS IMPORTANTES
Lanzamiento del Call for papers: semana del 24 de julio de 2026.
Recepción de resúmenes: 21 de septiembre de 2026.
Comunicación de aceptación de propuestas: primera semana de octubre de 2026.
Entrega de capítulos: 7 de diciembre de 2026.
Comunicación de aceptación de los capítulos: a partir del 19 de febrero de 2027.
Entrega de la versión final de los artículos a los editores: 8 de marzo de 2027.
Publicación del libro: mayo o junio de 2027.
Para más información, hacer click aquí.
Survey on Canadian Universities' Responses to Pro-Palestinian Organizing
Hello colleagues,
I am sharing the survey below in case it may be of interest.
The Anti-Racism Program of the CJPME Foundation is gathering firsthand accounts of how Canadian universities and colleges have responded to pro-Palestinian organizing and advocacy. The survey includes experiences related to disciplinary processes, administrative decisions, campus security, academic freedom, freedom of expression, and other institutional responses.
I think it is important that these experiences are documented by those who lived them. Whether those experiences involved formal disciplinary processes or not, they contribute to a broader understanding of how universities have responded across the country.
If you have firsthand experience that falls within the scope of the survey, you may wish to consider participating. Participation is voluntary and responses are confidential.
Deadline: August 10, 2026
Please feel free to share it with others who may also wish to contribute.
Warmly,
Clelia O. Rodríguez, PhD
Founder & Academic Lead, SEEDS for Change
Author of Decolonizing Academia and Maternizando la Matriz; co-editor, with Josephine Gabi, of Who Are You Without Colonialism.
For Reflection and Serious Conversations: The Authority of Limits
Hello everyone,
I hope you are breathing well.
My grandfather, Vicente Rodríguez, taught me how to celebrate a goal before I knew that institutions also had goals.
There were no strategic plans in front of us. No learning outcomes. No indicators measuring whether the joy had been achieved. No conference program explaining the social significance of football across borders. A goal entered the net and the body knew what to do. The arms rose. The voice escaped. Someone nearby became a relative for a few seconds. Those watching from different chairs, houses, streets, neighbourhoods, countries, and continents inhaled before the ball crossed the line and released the air together afterward.
A goal reorganized the room. He did not call this pedagogy because he did not need to. He taught me what active listening could be: attending to what gathers bodies before institutions arrive to name the gathering. I learned that knowledge could travel through a gesture, a silence, a coffee bean held in the hand, the condition of the soil, the behaviour of an animal, the sound of rain, the arrival of someone at the door. He taught me to trust my palpitations. He also taught me that Mother Earth feeds us and that we must respect and care for her, as we must respect and care for the beings who live upon her. I carried those teachings long before I learned to translate them into academic language. In my own writing, the grandfather has never been background. His political listening is one of the roots from which my work grows.
Years later, Argentina defeated England in a World Cup semifinal in Atlanta and Spain defeated Argentina in the final. The goals travelled quickly. Their repetitions multiplied across screens. Angles slowed down, enlarged, reversed, and replayed until the body of the goal became familiar even to someone who had missed the match. For a few weeks, much of the world knew where to look, a screen. We knew when to look. We knew what counted as an event. A ball entered a net and billions of nervous systems received the signal, “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!
Argentina’s loss in the final did not erase its extraordinary journey there. Spain lifted the trophy and in Gaza, Palestinians celebrated Spain’s victory, drawn not only to the football but to public expressions of solidarity with Palestine. People gathered around outdoor screens wherever electricity, internet access, damaged infrastructure, and the danger of further attacks allowed them to do so. But before the final, Mohammad al-Waheidi, an aid worker who had organized World Cup screenings for displaced Palestinians living among tents and destroyed shelters, was killed in an Israeli airstrike. Two children, eight and ten years old, were also killed. He had worked to bring the matches closer to people whose lives had been pushed farther and farther from anything resembling safety. The screens he helped erect did not stop the bombs. The joy he made possible did not cancel devastation. Joy and devastation occupied the same ground because human beings do not wait for historians to separate life into appropriate categories before living it.
Every time I see children watching football in Gaza while bombs fall nearby, my eardrum trembles. The trembling does not announce equivalence. It does not collapse Gaza into El Salvador or one history into another. Memory does not need to flatten histories in order to recognize a sound. The body knows that children continue finding ways to be children inside conditions designed to make childhood impossible. The body knows what it means when a moment of collective breath must negotiate with the possibility of death. Memory does not collapse histories. It teaches the body how relation survives them. Perhaps this is why football returned me to my grandfather. Not through nostalgia. Through the goals.
The football goal. The development goal. The institutional goal. The sustainability goal. The learning goal. The research goal. The goal written into a grant proposal before anyone has walked the ground where the work is supposed to happen.
Academia has become remarkably skilled at setting goals. Governments set them and universities display them. Departments align themselves with them and conferences organize panels around them. Reports transform them into targets, percentages, deliverables, outputs, outcomes, and impact statements. We have goals for sustainability while the grounds beneath them are burning. We have goals for reconciliation while Indigenous Elders are still required to repeat what they have already said for decades. We have goals for public health while smoke enters the lungs. We have goals for decolonization while the Global South continues to be approached as a destination where academics may arrive, observe, collect, translate, interpret, publish, and leave. Goals proliferate while grounds disappear.
While Argentina moved toward the World Cup final, another Argentina was moving through its Senate. On 20 May 2026, the Senate's joint Committees on Constitutional Affairs and General Legislation issued a majority committee opinion on the Executive's proposed Law on the Inviolability of Private Property, advancing legislation affecting expropriations, evictions, and rural land. At the same time, Javier Milei's government sought to dismantle key protections established by the Rural Land Law (Law 26.737), legislation that declares the protection of rural land a matter of public interest and establishes national, provincial, municipal, nationality-based, and individual limits on foreign ownership and possession.
The football story and the land story reached us through different doors. One entered as sport and the other as politics. The algorithm knew where to place them. It separated celebration from legislation, the flag from the ground holding the flag, the national anthem from the territorial decisions being made beneath it. Argentina could appear on one screen as collective “passion” and on another as property available for economic reorganization. The same country. The same weeks. Different categories. No requirement that one story be allowed to disturb the other. This is how fragmentation becomes ordinary and not because the relationships do not exist but because the systems through which we receive the world are structured to prevent those relationships from remaining present long enough to reorganize us.
The algorithm does not merely select information: It trains duration and it teaches the thumb when to move. It places a child pulled from rubble beside a recipe, a football celebration beside a burning forest, a fundraising appeal beside an advertisement for travel, an Indigenous Elder’s warning beside an academic announcement about a sustainability conference. It does not need to deny suffering. It only needs to place suffering in a stream where the next item arrives before responsibility has taken form. It is shown across digital platforms:
Scroll.
A goal.
Scroll.
A bomb.
Scroll.
A forest.
Scroll.
A joke.
Scroll.
A dead child.
Scroll.
A conference announcement.
Scroll.
A fox searching for somewhere to sleep.
More likes.
The danger is not simply that we become uninformed. We may know more headlines than ever before. The danger is that the ecology of our attention is being reorganized against relation because ecology requires duration and the algorithm rewards interruption. Ecology requires memory and the algorithm rewards replacement. Ecology requires the ability to perceive how one life touches another and the algorithm individualizes the encounter and records it as engagement. Ecology asks us to remain and the algorithm has already prepared the next departure.
Research on ranked feeds confirms that the ordering of otherwise identical content changes what receives attention, even when users do not consciously identify ranking as influencing them. Algorithmic curation does not need to command us visibly. It can direct attention quietly, through placement, repetition, social proof, speed, and the architecture of the feed.
I think of this as a deadly disease and not one that can be diagnosed in an individual brain while the platforms, economies, and institutions producing it remain untouched. The disease is the individualization itself: the repeated training that tells us every event must be received, processed, reacted to, and forgotten alone. Another line in the CV. Another thing that was consumed. The nervous system becomes a private storage unit for planetary catastrophe. We scroll through fires, bombardment, hunger, displacement, celebration, extinction, advertising, and grief while sitting in the same chair. The body receives signals from everywhere and is given nowhere to place them.
Desensitization is not the absence of feeling. Sometimes it is what happens when feeling is continually activated without being permitted to become relation, decision, interruption, or action. We are not simply being rewired to care less. We are being rewired to move on before care develops bones.
My grandfather used to say that the person who does not know how to listen will not grow good bones for old age. In When Aunties Speak, political listening is not a performance of attentiveness. It is ecological presence. It is a continuum through which the difference between disease and medicine can become perceptible. What kind of bones are being formed when our primary pedagogy is the feed? What happens to political listening when the architecture surrounding us rewards the speed with which we abandon one reality for the next?
My grandfather died of lung cancer on July 13, 2004, the year I began my MA at the University of Toronto. For many years, I thought his death belonged only to my family's history. I now understand that it also belongs to the history of development. He spent years working in cornfields where agricultural chemicals were handled as though productivity carried no biological memory. Long before I learned words such as toxicology, environmental health, carcinogens, ecological collapse, or sustainability, my body had already learned another lesson. The same grandfather who taught me to celebrate football goals, to trust my palpitations, to listen politically to the land, and to understand relation also carried inside his lungs the consequences of an agricultural model that taught us to separate harvest from poison.
As a child, I did not know the names of those chemicals. I knew my grandfather. I knew his hands. I knew the way he read the weather, the soil, the animals, and the rhythm of the land without ever calling it ecology. Only much later did I realize that environmental history enters bodies long before it enters policy, universities, or conference programs.
The body has never waited for the university.
Neither has the land.
I cannot write about forests without thinking about cornfields. I cannot write about glyphosate in northern Ontario without remembering the chemicals that entered my grandfather's body. I cannot speak about sustainability as though it begins with carbon accounting while forgetting the workers whose lungs carried development long before climate change became an academic field.
Northern Ontario has been speaking. First Nations across the region have opposed aerial glyphosate spraying in commercial forestry for decades. Forestry operations use glyphosate-based herbicides to suppress broadleaf species classified as competitors to commercially valuable conifers such as pine and spruce. Indigenous knowledge holders have described consequences extending far beyond a single targeted plant: medicines, berries, animal habitat, food systems, cultural practices, community wellbeing, and the relationships holding the forest together. Research conducted with First Nations in the Robinson-Huron Treaty area documents concerns about toxicity, environmental persistence, trophic cascades, and damage to Indigenous cultures and communities. Across the Robinson-Huron Treaty territory, the TEK Elders Group has spent more than a decade calling for an end to aerial glyphosate spraying along the north shore of Lake Huron, while the Temagami First Nation and the Teme-Augama Anishnabai have opposed aerial spraying within N'dakimenan for more than three decades. They did not fail to communicate. As TEK Elder Joe Jones observed, "They don't listen. We've been telling them for years this spraying is affecting all our relations; it is killing our Anishinaabek way of life." The problem is not that their concerns require another translation into the language of environmental management, law, or arbitration. The problem is not a lack of conferences where Indigenous knowledge can be honoured, more land acknowledgements on institutional websites, or another panel devoted to environmental justice. They have already said to stop. The word is glyphosate. The practice is aerial spraying. The plants classified as "competition" have always been living relations.
Naming the chemical matters because “environmental degradation” can sound as though damage occurred without an agent, a decision, a permit, an industry, a helicopter, a budget, or a person authorized to continue on the 10th floor of a boardroom on an address located in downtown Toronto with AC on full mode. Naming prevents poison from disappearing into passive voice.
This is where frustration begins to acquire its full history. Indigenous Elders and people from the “Global South” are repeatedly asked to share knowledge with institutions and academics that often treat listening as complete once the meeting has ended. Their presence becomes evidence of consultation. Their words enter minutes, reports, theses, environmental reviews, conference presentations, and institutional statements. The world receives another document proving that the warning was heard.
Then the spraying continues. There comes a point at which the pursuit of further understanding becomes another technology of postponement. This is not an argument against learning. It is an argument against the morbid conversion of other people’s lives, lands, losses, and survival into an endless opportunity for the observer to understand more. That is a difference and not just something that is different.
I know this demand from somewhere close. A university-funded visit to El Salvador recently, framed as part of a translation process, entered my home and moved toward something else. I was told that the visitor wanted to “sit and observe.” My family, my mother, my partner, my grandmother’s bedroom, my private routines, and the places holding my work were at risk of becoming context. But you see, my home is not a field site. My family is not context. Translation does not require surveillance of an author’s private life. Observation does not become ethical because the observer has travelled far or because the trip carries university funding. That experience does not belong here as a complaint about one person. It belongs to a longer reality of academic movement toward the Global South that just does not stop because professors continue to say it is okay to do so even when they have gone through ethical reviews.
People continue to fly south wanting to understand. They arrive with questions. They arrive with theoretical commitments. They arrive seeking proximity to land, community, violence, ceremony, poverty, resistance, ancestral knowledge, or “context.” Proximity is not solidarity. They may believe the intention to understand protects the encounter from extraction. But intention does not transform observation into relation. Sometimes the desire to understand is itself morbid and violence: a hunger to stand near what has wounded others, to see it, feel moved by it, translate it into professional language, and return home carrying a more authoritative version of someone else’s reality.
Presence is not relation and travel is not accompaniment. Witnessing is not custody and documentation is not responsibility. The world does not owe academics an encounter vivid enough to make their theories feel alive. This matters when we discuss academic conferences because the demand to reconsider flying cannot be reduced to inconvenience, personal virtue, or carbon guilt. It is not a request that individuals purify themselves while universities continue unchanged. Nor is it an argument that no one should ever travel. Movement has sustained diasporas, solidarities, families, survival, political organizing, and relationships that cannot be flattened into a calculation. But a serious commitment begins by refusing to treat every professional journey as inherently necessary.
The question must change. No buts or ifs or excuses:
Not: Why should I stop flying? But: Why is my physical presence required? What relationship cannot be sustained otherwise? Who asked me to come? Who will carry the costs of my arrival?
What labour will my presence create? What will remain after I leave? What decision will become possible because the trip occurred? What am I prepared to stop doing as a result of what I claim to have learned?
A footprint is not merely a number representing carbon dioxide. Yet the numbers matter because they refuse the comfort of pretending that movement leaves no trace. Across studies of international academic conferences, participant travel, particularly air travel, accounts for the overwhelming majority of a conference's carbon footprint, in some cases more than ninety-five percent. The flight may appear in an institutional budget under professional development, knowledge mobilization, networking, internationalization, or partnership. The atmosphere does not receive those categories. It receives emissions anyway. A footprint records passage because it records relation. It asks what was pressed down so that someone else could move. It asks who, or what, continues carrying the weight after the traveller returns home.
The fires in northern Ontario are not a seasonal illustration for a lecture on climate change or another topic that will appear as a highlight in a newsletter. Smoke does not remain within the disciplinary boundaries of forestry, environmental science, emergency management, Indigenous studies, or public health. It crosses borders. It enters houses. It settles into lungs. It affects the child with asthma and the older neighbour without adequate cooling or filtration. Indigenous communities are evacuated from lands they have protected while institutions elsewhere continue discussing resilience.
The squirrel searching for shade beneath a deck is not offering us a case study. The fox entering a suburban street has not arrived to enrich a course module. The raccoon sleeping under a porch is not content. Birds altering their routes do not need a keynote speaker to explain migration. Animals are already sitting outside our homes seeking shelter. The world has arrived at the door. This is the reality beyond scrolling through more ways to decolonize.
Decolonization cannot remain a digital vocabulary we circulate while refusing the decisions that relation requires. Sustainability cannot remain a subject taught by people whose professional practices are exempt from the limits they describe or another goal to get promoted, an award or the next national grant. Public health cannot remain the measurement of disease after institutions have helped produce the conditions making bodies ill. Critical thinking cannot mean becoming increasingly sophisticated at describing catastrophe while preserving the routines through which catastrophe continues.
The curriculum has already changed and the question is whether we have. One of the sentences I continue hearing in universities is, “There is nothing I can do.” I understand some of what lives inside it. Precarity. Exhaustion. Political interference. Shrinking budgets. Managerial governance. Surveillance. Disability. Racism. Care work. Workloads built to keep people moving too quickly to remain present anywhere. Individual instructors did not create these structures and cannot dismantle them alone. I have seen it and living it. But “there is nothing I can do” has also become a recycled positionality.
It allows people to teach sustainability, social justice, human rights, public health, ecology, critical thinking, and change while placing themselves outside the relations through which those teachings acquire consequence. It treats meaningful action as something possible only for presidents, provosts, deans, governments, or someone with greater formal authority.
Teaching authorizes more than content: Attention, duration, what becomes visible and what remains outside the frame, whose knowledge enters the room, whose warning becomes optional, and whose absence passes unnoticed.
Every syllabus authorizes a way of seeing, assessment, reading list, conference requirement, invited speaker, field visit, silence, question the institution does not require itself to answer.
Humans learn more than what we tell them and children and young people are learning what we are normalizing. They learn whether evidence carries ethical consequence, whether knowledge is permitted to reorganize conduct, whether the institution believes its own curriculum. And perhaps the responsibility of an instructor does not begin with possessing unlimited power. Perhaps it begins where the sentence “there is nothing I can do” stops functioning as the final description of one’s relation to the world.
What relationship becomes possible because this classroom exists? What can be refused? What professional habit can be interrupted? What expenditure can be questioned? What flight can remain unbooked? What community can be compensated rather than observed? What Elder’s demand can be acted upon rather than cited? What does the evidence already require us to stop doing?
These are not small questions. They move teaching from awareness to consequence.
The world has stopped waiting for institutional timelines. The river has not paused for peer review. The forest has not postponed burning until the findings are disseminated. The child in Gaza has not waited for a human-rights course to conclude. The animals outside our homes are not waiting for the next climate summit. Indigenous Elders in northern Ontario are not waiting for another academic to understand glyphosate. Argentina’s land does not become less vulnerable because the Senate discussion is placed in the politics section while the goals are placed in sports. Our nervous systems are not protected simply because we can name the algorithm. Understanding is no longer the missing piece everywhere. In many places, the missing piece is the decision:
Stop extracting! Stop arriving uninvited! Stop turning homes into field sites! Stop treating conference travel as an academic entitlement! Stop allowing the algorithm to determine how long another being’s suffering deserves our attention! Stop confusing the production of more language with the practice of relation!
My grandfather taught me to celebrate goals in 1982: Hungary 10. El Salvador 1.
The world in 2026 is teaching me to ask what remains of the grounds beneath them.
A goal gathers us and a ground must sustain us. Without the ground, the goal is only another ball crossing a line while everything that made the game possible disappears from view. The authority of limits begins there and not as austerity, punishment or as the end of movement, scholarship, joy, footfall, or encounter. A goal begins with the recognition that forests, lungs, rivers, homes, nervous systems, communities, and the atmosphere has limits that do not require institutional approval become real. Reality has already spoken. The question is no longer whether we can hear it. The question is what we will stop doing now that we have.
We speak of productivity, modernization, efficiency, and growth as though they exist apart from the bodies that absorb their costs. They do not. We need lungs to breathe. We also need lungs to scream. The same lungs that make life possible make testimony possible. When those lungs are damaged, it is not only breathing that is diminished. It is the world's capacity to be heard. Perhaps this is what political listening has always required: to understand that the world does not begin speaking when we decide to study it. It has been entering our bodies all along. The work now is to read those relations with enough honesty that they change how we live.
In relation,
Clelia O. Rodríguez, PhD
El boletín semanal de la Asociación Canadiense de Hispanistas contiene noticias, convocatorias y mensajes de interés para nuestros miembros. Si quiere enviar un mensaje u otras noticias a los socios, envíe un email a la secretaria, Erin Cowling ach@hispanistas.ca.
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