Guardians of the Amazon: A Peaceful Indigenous Protest in the Heart of Brasília
In April 2022, as the sun dipped over Brasília’s sweeping avenues, I witnessed a protest that felt both timeless and urgent. Indigenous groups from across Brazil had gathered on the Esplanada, marching peacefully yet powerfully toward the National Congress. Their demands were clear: recognition of their ancestral lands, protection of the Amazon, and resistance against laws like the Marco Temporal, which threatened to erase their claims. Against the stark lines of Brasília’s modern architecture, their presence was striking—a reminder that the fight for the rainforest is also a fight for cultural survival, and ultimately, for the planet itself.
I’d been living in Brasília for barely a year, so the city still felt fresh and unfamiliar. When I heard that Indigenous groups had been camping on the Esplanada, beginning their daily march around five in the afternoon, I grabbed my camera, determined to see it for myself. It was a warm day in April 2022, and the sun was already dipping low, setting the stage for something that felt both urgent and overlooked.
Driving into the city center, I could sense a calm intensity in the air. Drums and chatter guided me up the Eixo Monumental, where people in vivid feather headdresses, intricate tattoos, and striking face paint were gathering. The late afternoon sun lit up every color—reds, yellows, blues—and gave the concrete structures around us a softer glow than usual. Beneath any hint of pageantry was a quiet resolve: this was a peaceful protest, but with a clear, purposeful message.
I moved among small groups, capturing photos of elders talking with younger protesters, banners referencing land rights, and children taking it all in. Many participants were there because of the “Marco Temporal,” a law stating Indigenous peoples could only claim territory they had occupied by 1988—never mind that many communities were displaced long before then. Groups like APIB and COIAB had organized these demonstrations, highlighting how Indigenous rights and the protection of the Amazon rainforest are deeply connected. Their perspective was straightforward: what happens to them and their lands will ultimately affect everyone.
As they approached the National Congress, some chanted, others sang in languages I didn’t recognize. Yet the demands were crystal clear: respect, demarcation, and a plea to safeguard the Amazon. Many had traveled great distances to be here, but the issues they spoke of—illegal mining, deforestation, disregard for ancestral lands—didn’t stop at city limits or national borders. When the march reached its endpoint, the sky bled into pinks and oranges. Drum circles echoed beneath the modern lines of the Congress building, while children raced around on the grass, full of energy even after a long day. Elders sat down to rest, their faces reflecting both fatigue and quiet determination.
Driving home afterward, I couldn’t shake the thought of how this peaceful, powerful demonstration had received so little notice beyond Brazil. Though new to Brasília, I was certain moments like these mattered not just for the city or the country, but for everyone who depends on the Amazon—and that’s all of us. What unfolds on this sweeping avenue at sunset is more than just a local march; it’s a vivid reminder that people, heritage, and the natural world are inseparable, and defending one means defending them all.
Mnemba’s Fishing Communities: Holding on to a Changing Sea
As the sun rises over Mnemba, Mozambique, fishermen prepare their boats while women wade through the shallows, searching for shellfish. The sea has always provided, but now, the fish are fewer, the reefs quieter. Illegal fishing and environmental changes have left their mark, yet the community persists—casting nets, weaving baskets, and diving for octopus in the seagrass beds. Their connection to the ocean is unbreakable, but for how much longer?
In June 2024, I found myself once again in Mnemba, Mozambique, camera in hand, on assignment for the Wildlife Conservation Society (WCS). I had been all over Mozambique before, living and working in different corners of this beautiful country. I had visited Mnemba before too, but this time, something felt different.
Maybe it was the golden light stretching across the water at dawn, painting the fishing boats in amber hues. Maybe it was the rhythmic sound of the waves, a heartbeat pulsing through every moment. Or maybe it was the people—the men and women of Mnemba’s fishing communities, who, despite everything, still smiled, still welcomed me, still treated me as one of their own.
Before the first sliver of sunrise broke the horizon, I was already walking barefoot along the shore. The scent of salt and damp nets filled the air. Around me, the fishermen were at work, their hands rough and calloused as they secured lines and checked their gear. Some worked in silence, their focus unshaken. Others laughed, voices carrying over the lapping waves.
But the men were not the only ones working. The women moved with quiet strength and steady purpose, weaving nets, carrying baskets, and preparing the day's catch. Further down the beach, a group of women waded knee-deep in the shallows, scanning the seafloor for shellfish. One of them, an elder named Amina, greeted me with a knowing smile. "The sea is our life," she said, hands sifting through the sand. "But it is not the same sea my mother knew."
She told me how the catches were smaller, how they now had to walk farther to find food. Her daughter, barely sixteen, worked beside her, learning the trade passed down through generations. Yet even as they labored, they laughed, their resilience as unwavering as the tides.
Later, I followed a group of spear fishermen slipping into the shallow waters. Their movements were fluid, practiced, as they swam through the seagrass beds, spears poised, searching for octopus and reef fish. Seagrass, often overlooked, is one of the most important marine habitats, sheltering juvenile fish and providing food for countless species. The fishermen dove deep, disappearing beneath the surface, only to emerge minutes later, triumphant with their catch.
Underwater, I captured the reefs in all their textured beauty—intricate coral formations twisting and sprawling like underwater forests. The colors were impressive, the structures vibrant, but something was missing. The reef fish, once darting between the corals, were almost entirely gone. On some large coral bommies, there were evident signs of bleaching. The ecosystem felt eerily still as if life had slowly drained away.
Over 90% of Mozambique’s annual fish landings come from small-scale fishers, but their catches have declined by nearly 30% in the past 25 years. Illegal and unregulated fishing—much of it from foreign fleets—drains the country’s fish stocks, leaving local fishermen struggling to compete.
Despite everything, they worked. For their children, for their community, for a future they refused to let slip away.
The tide comes in, the tide goes out, and the people of Mnemba continue their quiet, unrelenting fight for the sea that has sustained them for generations. The ocean has changed, and it will continue to change. The question is whether, years from now, there will still be enough left for those who know it best.
