The Veiled Rebels

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The veiled rebels: Las tapadas limeñas

How Lima women found freedom in an unexpected garment.

These days, lots of women are slaves to fashion; however, there was once a time in which the women of Lima were more free than their sisters [around the world], all thanks to fashion. They were even able to prevent a ban on their garments of choice, the saya y manto. In his book Lima: A Cultural History, James Higgins describes the typical saya y manto worn by women in Lima: “[T]he traditional street dress of Limeñan women from the early viceregal period […] to the Republican era […] the saya was a n overskirt, worn tight at the waist and raised to show off feet and ankles […] The manto was a thick veil fastened to the back of th e waist; from there it was brought over the shoulders and head and drawn over the face so closely that all that was left uncovered was a small triangular space sufficient for one eye to peep through.” “With saya y manto, one Limeña looks just like another, like two drops of dew,” wrote Peruvian folklorist Ricardo Palma. This allowed women to go into the street without being recognized. In A Pariah’s Pilgrimage, Peruvian feminist Flora Tristan talks about the liberty provided by the manto y saya. Because a wom an dress that way “can go out alone,” as outside of the home she is easily confused with all the other women [wearing manto y sa ya.] She can even “meet her husband in the street and he won’t recognize her. She intrigues him with her gaze, with her expression , she provokes him with phrases, and they converse. She is offered ice cream, fruit, cookies, a date. She leaves, and in a moment she’s chatting with an officer who’s walking down the same street. She can take this little adventure as far as she likes wit hout ever having to take off her veil.” “The vexing saya y manto had the hidden ability to wake up women’s cunning, and one wou ld be able to fill an entire tome with the mischief and schemes that these women tell,” wrote Palma in “The saya y manto conspiracy,” in his work “Tradiciones Peruanas.” The saya y manto facilitated transgressions, and it’s for that reason that the Catholi c church and the Spanish crown attempted to ban it on more than one occasion. Researcher and instructor Juan Luis Orrego Penagos of the Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú writes that [the authorities even instituted] “fines for dressing this way, which wasn’t just ineffective, it actually prompted more use of [the saya y manto].” “The first ordinance that prohibited the use of the manto was put into place in 1561 by Diego López de Zúñiga y Velasco, the fourth viceroy of Peru. It was unsuccessful. Between 1582 and 1583, the Third Council of Lima declared that women wearing saya y manto were committing an offense. And because of the anonymous flirting [facilitated by the saya y manto], Toribio de Mogrovejo proposed another ban in the Council of Lima in 1601, but he failed. The viceroys the Marquis of Montesclaros, the Marquis of Guadalcazar, and Count Chichón all tried the same thing.” Palma wrote that “It goes without saying that the Limeñas bore their flag with courage, and that the viceroys always wen t defeated, because [successfully] legislating on womanly things requires more force than attacking a barricade.” To defend their right to use their customary dress when lawmakers first tried to ban [the saya y manto] in 1561, the women of Lima did not protest. Rather, they simply stopped doing traditionally female work, turning the city upside down in just 24 hours. “As long as there has been a Lima,” wrote Palma, “My lovely countrywomen have been quite the fans of a good uproar.” But what exactly happened in 1561? “The domestic anarchy reigned. Women disregarded completely the care of the house […] the stew was bland, the children couldn’t find their mother to wrap them up or to wipe their noses, husbands walked around with t orn socks and shirts that were dirtier than a dishcloth.” So the issue was dropped, as would happen later, again and again. Eventually, new fashions from Europe arrived in Lima, and the veiled women of Lima dropped their coverings. Slaves to fashion, maybe— but slaves to their men? At least when it came to clothing, never. Ed. Note: This piece is an adapted translation from El Comercio. Additional information and commentary were added by Rachel Chase in order to provide a clearer context for readers who may not have been familiar with the image of the tapada limeña.

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