A few weeks ago, the University of Victoria’s Faculty of Humanities hosted the inaugural Humanitas Awards, which recognizes three Humanists of the Year, and celebrates the ethos and value of the humanities.

(L to R) Coleen Christie, Roméo Dallaire, Chris Goto-Jones, Ashli Akins, credit: Vicky Husband

The Public Humanist of the Year was awarded to Lieutenant General Roméo Dallaire, UN peacekeeper who led troops during the Rwandan genocide and later became a renowned humanitarian. The Historic Humanist of the Year Award was bestowed upon the late Ursula K. Le Guin, extraordinary science-fiction and fantasy author who used her writing to explore complex themes of feminism and equality. And the Emerging Humanist of the Year Award went to our very own Ashli Akins, Mosqoy’s founder and president.

Ashli Akins and General Roméo Dallaire accepting the Humanist of the Year awards Photo credit: Lindsay Stewart

Below is Ashli’s acceptance speech, which highlighted the theme of the night – exploring the role of the Humanities in our world today, and the question of “what it truly means to be human.”

Ashli giving her acceptance speech for the Emerging Humanist of the Year Award Photo credit: Inanna Sokil

"Thank you so much.

Thank you, Dan Russek, for nominating me and supporting my work. And to both of my departments – Hispanic & Italian Studies, and Environmental Studies – for giving me a safe and empowering home from which I can feel free to make mistakes, ask questions, and keep coming back. A lot of my teachers tried to convince me to go into the hard sciences because – as the stigma says – 'that’s where the smart people go.' But I disagree [with this unnecessary dichotomy]. The humanities takes brave people; people who are brave enough to figure out truly applicable solutions to real-world complex problems. Because, people don’t have formulas – and never should. So, thank you to the University of Victoria’s Faculty of Humanities for honouring the true purpose of our discipline – and for exploring this ever-important question of what it truly means to be human. Right now, in an era of disconnect and fear, of barriers and borders – we so need to be reminded of our humanness, and of the sheer goodness – quite frankly, the greatness – of humanity. So, thank you for celebrating that. To me, a “humanitarian” or a “humanist” is someone who believes in humanity, which nowadays is a radical proposition. To be clear, a humanist is not a saviour. We are not there to save, or even to help. We are instead there to listen and most importantly to serve. So most of all, I need to thank the hundreds of Quechua youth, women, families, and communities in the Peruvian Andes, who I am honoured to work with and learn from, and on whose land I am so privileged to live – for trusting in me enough to collaborate with them. And also to Mosqoy’s hundreds of supporters, donors, volunteers, and staff – because, in reality, this is a deeply collective effort. Like anything worth doing in the world, I didn’t do it alone. And while I may be getting the credit today, it is a “we”. I am so humbled to be part of this inaugural celebration, especially alongside such big names that I grew up with – Romeo Dallaire, basically a synonym for the word, grit – and Ursula K. Le Guin, a creative feminist legend. ________________________________________ A couple of months ago, I interviewed Valentina – one of the many interviews I conduct annually with our partnering weavers. The three of us – Valentina, Mishjaky, and I – sat on the sloped grass in her rural community of Amaru. I asked Valentina the usual questions – who taught her to weave, why she chose to join the women’s cooperative, what changes she has noticed in her community over the past 50 years. I sat there with my olive-green notebook, rapidly taking notes as Mishjaky interpreted between Quechua and Spanish.

Ashli interviewing Valentina in the community of Amaru Photo credit: Levin Chamberlain

My final question asked her about her hopes and dreams for the future.

And after quite a jovial, light-hearted conversation, the tone shifted dramatically. Valentina told me that she hoped her children were able to study, to learn to read and write, to speak Spanish, so that they "didn’t end up like her." She nodded at my notebook and said she didn’t want them to feel the same humiliation she felt about not knowing how to read and write, not knowing how to speak the language.

She began crying. She told me about her sister who, as a teenager, moved to the city of Cusco and learned Spanish, while she had to stay in Amaru and thus, did not. Her sister therefore has all of the opportunities, can offer her children all of these skills, while she – in her words – “can offer them nothing.”

The three of us just held the silence together.

“Does your sister know how to weave?” I asked.

Valentina paused for a moment.

“Well, no.”

“So that’s a skill that you are able to pass down to your children and grandchildren that she cannot, no?”

She nodded, pulling blades of grass out of the ground.

If both sisters had gone to Cusco, there would be nobody left to pass down the weaving tradition, or to teach them her knowledge about medicinal and dye plants.

“Do your children know how to weave?” I asked her.


“All of them?”

All of them.


This shifting value of traditional knowledge – of cultural heritage – in an era of rapid economic change, is the question I explore. Both in my interdisciplinary PhD and in my non-profit community work with Mosqoy,