Chief Merong’s fight against ecocide ends in tragedy
In the heart of Brazil, in the state of Minas Gerais, the lush green canopy veils both the stunning beauty of nature and the shadowy depths of exploitation. Here, an age-old conflict persists between those committed to protecting the land and water and those who profit from its destruction.
Chief Merong, a respected leader of the Kamakã Mongoió tribe, stood steadfast as a guardian of his territory against the encroachments of Vale, a multinational mining corporation notorious for its environmental destruction. Vale’s relentless pursuit of profit clashed with Chief Merong’s commitment to safeguarding the sacred springs and forests that sustained his people.
Talles, my interpreter and local fixer, and I journeyed into the verdant hills and dense foliage that surrounded Brumadinho. Along the border of fenced-off land claimed by the mining giant Vale, I encountered a stark juxtaposition: guarded and private land stripped of its life to bare red soil alongside open, teeming canopies of flourishing jungle.
We followed a narrow and winding road as instructed by our contact until it ended abruptly into a wall of vines and trees, an impassable berm. We parked, and there, peering through the green shadows, spear in hand and a small headdress, was our guide to the village. As we walked, he pointed out edible and medicinal plants and shared with excitement about the wild boar they hunt and the fish from the pools of fresh water they harvest. It was as if he was introducing us to members of his family. It was clear: this land was a part of him.
The path began to ascend. At the top of the hill, we could look west across a small ravine and see the scars left by Vale: barren land, naked red soil, and the ominous distant roar of lifeless machines with an endless appetite. From where we stood, paths continued in different directions, a patch of land open to the sky where rows of seedlings sprouted among taller coffee and corn plants. We had arrived at the Kamakã Mongoió Village, a humble bastion of resilience amidst the encroaching threat of exploitation. A simple banner reading “Territory of the Kamakã Mongoió” marked the border of the tribe’s claimed land. There waiting for us was Chief Merong.
Legacy of ecocide
Vale’s history in Brazil is marked by catastrophic failures and enduring environmental destruction. In 2015, the Vale-operated Mariana Dam collapsed, unleashing 60 million cubic meters of iron ore waste, creating a toxic mudflow that devastated communities, killed 19 people, and polluted the Doce River, affecting hundreds of thousands of residents. This disaster was not only the worst environmental catastrophe in Brazil’s history but also a stark warning of the risks associated with lax safety standards in large-scale mining operations. Just last week, a Brazilian court did not find Vale and mining giant BHP “legally” responsible for the damn collapse. Despite the ruling, over 620,000 complainants, including many Indigenous communities, continue to seek over $45 billion in damages from Vale.
Despite this avoidable tragic event, necessary reforms and safety measures remained unimplemented. Just four years later, in 2019, history repeated itself when the Brumadinho Dam, also operated by Vale, catastrophically failed. Ignoring prior warnings and expert reports of imminent risk, the dam’s collapse released 12 million cubic meters of toxic tailings, which swept through the area’s infrastructure, including a busy cafeteria and several villages, and claimed 272 lives. The surrounding community of Brumadinho was devastated by the loss of life, environmental destruction, and erosion of trust with the region’s largest employer.
As we recount the devastations wrought by Vale, it’s crucial to recognize the demand driving such destruction. The iron ore extracted from these mines, a cornerstone for the steel used in buildings and vehicles across the developed world, ties global consumers directly to the ecocide in Brazil. Each ton of steel in our cities’ skylines to the appliances in our kitchens starts with ore mined at great environmental and human cost—facilitated by a global market system that prizes low costs over ecological or social impacts.
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Listen: “Indigenous disaster response: The fight against a mining giant in Brazil with Allen Myers” |
In Brumadinho, the relationship between the residents and Vale is fraught with contradictions. On one hand, Vale is seen as a benefactor that has brought economic prosperity to the region. Jobs provided by Vale are often well-paying compared to local alternatives, bringing a level of economic stability previously unattainable for many families. Schools, healthcare, and infrastructure have all seen improvements directly or indirectly due to the presence of mining operations.
However, this financial dependency is a double-edged sword. The economic benefits come with a high cost. The environmental degradation caused by Vale’s activities has not only scarred the landscape but also undermined the community’s long-term sustainability. Fishing and agriculture, once staples of local subsistence, are now compromised by pollution and land use changes.
Interviews with local residents reveal a spectrum of emotions—from gratitude for the economic opportunities Vale provides to a profound sense of loss and betrayal after the dam disaster. Geraldo Oliveira Silva, a resident of Brumadinho and employee of Vale lost his brother in the 2019 dam collapse. He expressed his dilemma this way: “What are we to do? We need jobs and yet, these jobs could cost us our lives.”
While many in Brumadinho feel economically tied to Vale, they live under the shadow of a grim statistic: according to data from Global Witness, Brazil is the second deadliest country in the world for environmental and land protectors, with hundreds killed over recent years. This underscores the high stakes of any opposition to the mining giant.
The sentiment of being trapped in an “abusive relationship” with Vale is echoed throughout the community. Many express anger and frustration over the disasters, recognizing the preventable nature of these tragedies if Vale had prioritized safety and environmental concerns over profits. Yet, the fear of losing their primary source of income keeps many from voicing their concerns too loudly.
Community division on the issue strains the social fabric. Talles shared, “Many people have been paid lots of money for the disaster, they feel grateful to the company, while others have received nothing. There is inequality in the community based on how close you are with the mining companies.”
The story of Brumadinho is a microcosm of a global issue where local communities are caught in the web of corporate influence and malpractice, dependent on the very forces that threaten their way of life and environment. The tragic irony is not lost on the residents, who continue to grapple with their realities, hoping for change yet wary of the consequences.
For the Kamakã Mongoió, who are not employed by Vale, who live simply on land claimed by the company, Vale’s role in the story is much more straightforward: They are a villain, unceremoniously exploiting land and water for profit, land and water they hold to be sacred, the dam collapse in their eyes is an unsurprising continuation of disastrous behavior.
Learning from disaster: A personal connection
As I embarked on my journey to Brazil, my initial intent was to glean insights from communities grappling with the aftermath of catastrophe. I’m from Paradise, California, a community intimate with major disasters. The 2018 Camp Fire reduced the mountain town of 28,000 to rubble and ashes in a single day. The inferno claimed 85 lives and laid waste to 14,000 homes, including my parents’ home.
Like the tragedy unfolding in Brazil, our own disaster bore the fingerprints of corporate greed. Pacific Gas and Electric Company (PG&E), entrusted with maintaining our vital electric infrastructure, had long ignored the warning signs of impending danger.
On November 8th, 2018, as unrelenting winds, accelerated by the effects of the man-made climate crisis, swept through our parched landscape. An outdated transmission line broke free, sending a shower of sparks into the tinder-dry brush below. These sparks fanned by unseasonably high winds whipped up a wildfire of unprecedented magnitude. By year’s end, the Camp Fire stood as the most costly disaster in the world in 2018, another grim testament to the perils of corporate negligence, climate change, and poor forest management.
Exploring Post-Disaster Recovery: A Journey to Brumadinho, Brazil
Armed with a keen sense of inquiry and a commitment to understanding the intricate dynamics of post-disaster recovery, I embarked on a journey to Brumadinho, Brazil. There, amidst the wreckage left by the dam collapse, I sought to unravel the complexities of community resilience and response to disaster in a cultural context.
I connected with survivors, dedicated search and rescue workers, community organizers, and journalists who tirelessly chronicled the aftermath. While much of the focus was understandably on immediate relief efforts and survivor support, I was compelled to delve deeper, probing into the vital work of prevention and regeneration. This led me to the Kamakã Mongoió tribe.
The Kamakã Mongoiós are a family of the Pataxó-hã-hã-hãe people, whose mother village is located on the southern coast of Bahia state, Brazil. Chief Merong, as prompted by spirits in the dream world, relocated to Menias Gerisis with a mission to heal the land from the destruction of Vale. “I was called by the Earth to be here,” he shared with me.
Indigenous wisdom
We settled into the Kamakã Mongoiós’ communal gathering space, a maloca made from logs from the forest and thatch from its fronds. Chief Merong greeted us and broke into song and dance with members of his tribe; they moved in unison, weaving a rich tapestry of harmonious sound in a circular dance. What transpired before me was far more than merely settling in for an interview, it was a revered and vital ritual for welcoming outsiders and commencing a conversation. It felt, for lack of a better word, holy.
I posed questions that weighed heavy on my mind: How can communities organize after disaster to address the underlying conditions that led to catastrophe? How can they rebuild in a manner that meets the diverse needs and aspirations of all members? And, crucially, how can future disasters be mitigated through informed decision-making and collective action?
Chief Merong, a young man of 35, wore an exquisite headdress of Macaw feathers. Adidas flip-flops protected his feet, and tattered board shorts hung from his hips. His resolute gaze matched the clarity and directness of his words. “Our connection to this land and water is not merely about survival—it’s a profound relationship with all beings,” he explained. “Being good stewards of this earth is an ancestral duty, deeply ingrained in our way of life. The examples of destruction we see are because they are hurting the Earth. This is just the Earth reacting, balancing. The company [Vale] does not care about the Earth. We are here to defend the land and water.”
The land settled by the Kamakã Mongoió was in contention: Vale believed the land was theirs to expand their iron ore extraction. The Kamakã Mongoió believed their duty was to restore and protect the land and water. Courts sided with Vale, but the Kamakã Mongoió remained on the land. The stage was set for conflict.
Chief Merong recounted chilling encounters with modern threats: unidentified men appearing without notice that issued stark ultimatums to vacate their land, drones that buzzed overhead as symbols of surveillance and intimidation. “These aren’t just intrusions; they’re direct assaults on our sovereignty and well-being,” Merong stated. The cold mechanical whirring of drones— celebrated technologies in the global north—became harbingers of fear in the otherwise tranquil village.
After some time in conversation, with children playing nearby and chickens pecking at some sweet morsel, Merong wanted to show us the sacred spring and offer another song. We walked past simple structures made of local materials. Coffee, taro, and other edible plants lined the path to a modest pool of water shaded by the thick canopy of the jungle. There, Chief Merong and other tribal members recited another song. There was reciprocity in all of his interactions with the environment; the water wasn’t merely there for his taking but something to be worshiped.
Tragedy strikes
On March 4, 2024, I received a text from Talles notifying me that the Chief was found lifeless and hung from a tree. As the days unfolded, news reports emerged that cast his death in stark terms: murder. His death sent shockwaves not only through the Indigenous community but the residents of Brumadinho, who all the more starkly felt the internal conflict of loyalty to a company that provides them with jobs and victimization by a corporate power that values profit over life.
According to data from the Inter-American Court of Human Rights (IACHR) published on Tuesday, March 5th (a day after Chief Merong was found dead), at least 126 human rights and environmental defenders were murdered in Latin America in 2023. That’s a murder every 3 days in Latin America alone. Chief Merong’s death fits into a larger, menacing trend. According to Global Witness, five percent of the world’s population are Indigenous peoples, yet they make up 40 percent of the murdered land and water defenders. They are the frontline communities seeking to protect that which we all depend upon and yet are at the greatest risk for reprisal.
Despite knowing his life was under constant threat, Chief Merong bravely stood his ground and ultimately sacrificed his life for the sacred lands he cherished.
Colonialism is alive and well. It operates as it has for hundreds of years by exploiting and extracting resources to the benefit of the few. It hides behind the innovation of “free markets,” presenting an incomplete story devoid of cause and effect. In the global north, we are encouraged to seek personal opportunity and indulge without limitations. We reap the benefits of environmental exploitation and are shielded from the consequences of our appetite for consumption.
As we mourn the loss of Chief Merong, we are compelled to confront the stark realities of our world—a world where Indigenous voices are silenced, where the pursuit of profit can trump even the sanctity of human life, and where the legacy of colonialism continues to build systems of exploitation in the present. In honoring Chief Merong’s memory, we must redouble our efforts to dismantle the structures of oppression that continue to plague our world.
Yet amidst our resolve, a troubling reality looms large: the pervasive influence of the very systems we seek to dismantle. Indeed, we find ourselves entangled within a web of exploitation as both victims and unwitting accomplices. It is only through collective awareness and concerted action that we can hope to break free from the grip of the “company” and forge a future rooted in justice and equity, where we are all water and land protectors.
Editor’s note: Allen’s interviews on this trip were captured on film with the help of a local fixer who also served as a translator. The original project was intended to produce a film as a follow-up to our award-winning documentary, “The Response: How Puerto Ricans are Restoring Power to the People,” but have had to put it on the back burner for some time due to a lack of funding. Please contact theresponse@shareable.net if you would like to support bringing this story to the screen.
