IN Mapudungun, the language of the Mapuche people — over 250,000-strong across southern Chile and Argentina — the word “Wapi” means “island.” That word pulses through Chilco (Charco Press, £11.99), Daniela Catrileo’s haunting and lyrical debut, translated with care by Jacob Edelstein.

Set on a near-mythical island in the southern hemisphere, the novel follows Pascale Antilaf and her girlfriend Mari Quispe — who has Quechua roots — after they escape the suffocating chaos of the Capital City. “Long before I moved to the island, I lived with Pascale on an upper floor in Capital City, like almost the entire working-class population of the country” recalls Mari, whose voice grounds the novel in intimate defiance.  

Catrileo blends Mapudungun, Quechua, and Aymara seamlessly into a story that rages against extractive capitalism, urban alienation, and the violent legacy of colonialism. As protests erupt (mirroring Chile’s Estallido Social of 2019–20), a fractured metropolis collapses around them — riddled with sinkholes, surveillance and fear. The island they flee to is strange and secretive, and what they discover there transforms them. “I invented my own island, my own language, I’m an empty island,” Mari confesses near the end.