She had confronted police and soldiers. She had absorbed tear gas.
En las calles convulsionadas de El Alto, Juana Machaca sostuvo la bandera boliviana mientras el gas lacrimógeno la envolvía, y una fotógrafa capturó ese instante de resistencia para el mundo. Meses después, ese mismo mundo comenzó a atribuirle su valentía a otra mujer, borrando a la persona real detrás del símbolo. El caso de Machaca nos recuerda que las imágenes poderosas pueden separarse de quienes las vivieron, y que el reconocimiento —cuando llega tarde o equivocado— puede convertirse en una nueva forma de injusticia.
- Una fotografía de la agencia AP convirtió a Juana Machaca en símbolo internacional de resistencia contra el golpe que derrocó a Evo Morales, pero ella permaneció en el anonimato mientras su imagen recorría el mundo.
- Activistas que buscaban honrar a la 'mujer valiente' de la foto difundieron la imagen de otra persona, presentándola públicamente como la protagonista de ese momento histórico.
- Machaca reconoció la suplantación de inmediato: alguien más recibía aplausos por el coraje que ella había ejercido, por el arresto que ella había sufrido, por el gas que ella había respirado.
- A través de su abogada, Machaca presentó una denuncia legal, exigiendo que se reconozca la diferencia entre quienes estuvieron en la calle y quienes simplemente reclamaron ese lugar después.
- El caso desnuda una fragilidad estructural del activismo popular en la era viral: una imagen puede volverse tan abstracta que el cuerpo real que la habitó queda desplazado por una narrativa más conveniente.
En medio del caos político de El Alto, la fotógrafa Natacha Pisarenko de la AP capturó a una mujer con pollera tradicional sosteniendo la bandera boliviana mientras el gas lacrimógeno la rodeaba. La imagen se volvió icónica, símbolo de resistencia contra el gobierno interino que había tomado el poder tras la caída de Evo Morales. Esa mujer era Juana Machaca. Había enfrentado a policías y militares, había sido detenida. Pero durante meses, nadie supo su nombre.
Cuando activistas emprendieron la búsqueda de la 'mujer valiente', una organización llamada Bloque Jema difundió la fotografía de otra persona, describiéndola como una vendedora trabajadora de El Alto. La narrativa era ordenada y emotiva. El misterio parecía resuelto.
Machaca vio la publicación y supo de inmediato que algo estaba profundamente mal. Otra mujer recibía el reconocimiento que le pertenecía, era celebrada por una valentía que no había ejercido, por un riesgo que no había corrido. La impostora no había enfrentado al ejército. No había sido arrestada. No había absorbido gas lacrimógeno en las calles.
A través de su abogada Eliana Rojas, Machaca formalizó una denuncia legal. Su reclamo va más allá del robo de identidad: es una exigencia de que se reconozca la diferencia entre estar presente en la historia y apropiarse de ella después. Ella estuvo. Ella fue vista. Y sin embargo, tuvo que volver a probarlo.
Su caso ilumina una vulnerabilidad profunda del activismo de base en tiempos de imágenes virales: una fotografía poderosa puede desprenderse de la persona que la vivió, circular como símbolo puro hasta que alguien más llena el vacío entre la imagen y su sujeto real.
In the chaos of El Alto's streets during Bolivia's political upheaval, a woman in a traditional pollera held her country's flag while tear gas burned around her. The photograph, taken by AP's Natacha Pisarenko, became iconic—shared across continents, a symbol of defiance against the interim government that had seized power. That woman was Juana Machaca. She had stood against the coup that toppled Evo Morales. She had faced police and soldiers. She had been detained. And then, months later, someone else claimed to be her.
The search for the "brave woman" in the photograph had become something of a cause. Activists wanted to find her, to honor her, to tell her story. When a photograph circulated with the caption "Our brave sister woman has appeared," it seemed the mystery was solved. A political organization called Bloque Jema shared the image, describing the woman as a hardworking vendor from El Alto who sold goods at local markets. The narrative was tidy. The woman had a face. The search was over.
But it wasn't over. Machaca saw the photograph and recognized immediately that it wasn't her. Someone else was being celebrated for her courage. Someone else was receiving the recognition that had eluded her while she actually fought. The anger was sharp and justified. She had confronted police and military forces. She had absorbed tear gas. She had been arrested. And now, as her lawyer Eliana Rojas confirmed, another woman was stepping into her story, claiming the identity that belonged to someone else.
Machaca's response was a demand for respect—for her image, for her actual participation, for the distinction between those who were there and those who were not. She had not sought fame. She had simply protested. But once her image entered the world, it became something that could be stolen, claimed, repackaged. The imposter had not fought the coup. The imposter had not been detained. The imposter had not stood in the street as security forces deployed chemical weapons. Yet the imposter was being introduced to the world as the woman in the photograph.
What Machaca's case exposes is a particular vulnerability of grassroots activism in the age of viral imagery. A powerful photograph can outlive its subject. It can be separated from the person who lived it, circulated so widely that it becomes almost abstract—a symbol rather than a document of someone's actual body, actual risk, actual choice. The search for the brave woman had been well-intentioned. But in the gap between the image and its subject, space opened for someone else to step in and claim what was not theirs.
Machaca's legal complaint is not just about identity theft, though it is that. It is about the erasure that happens when credit for resistance is given to the wrong person. It is about the difference between being there and being seen. She was there. She was seen. But now she had to prove it all over again.
Citações Notáveis
I have confronted police, I have confronted soldiers, I have put my chest on the line— Juana Machaca
A hardworking and brave woman from El Alto who earns her daily bread selling at different markets— Bloque Jema, describing the imposter
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does it matter who is actually in the photograph? Isn't the symbol what counts?
The symbol only means something because a real person lived it. Machaca was detained. She faced tear gas. The other woman wasn't. If we let the image float free from the person, we're saying the actual risk doesn't matter—only the appearance of resistance.
But Machaca didn't seek recognition. She was just protesting.
Exactly. She wasn't looking for fame. But once her image became famous, she had a right to it. The imposter is getting credit for courage Machaca actually showed. That's not just unfair—it's a kind of theft from the movement itself.
How does this happen? How does someone just claim to be someone else?
In the chaos of a moment like that, with a powerful image circulating widely, the original person can be hard to find. Activists want to honor the brave woman. Someone steps forward. No one has verified it. The story feels complete. By the time the real person surfaces, the false one already has momentum.
What does Machaca want now?
Respect for what she actually did. Recognition that she was there. And probably—legally—to stop the imposter from being presented as her. But more than that, I think she wants people to understand that the photograph is hers. Her body. Her choice to stand there. Her consequence for standing there.
Is there a way to prevent this from happening again?
Harder to say. You'd need better verification when activists are being identified. You'd need people to be more careful about claiming to be someone they're not. But mostly you'd need to remember that images of resistance are still images of real people who took real risks.