Brazil dam disaster: Five years on, are new laws enough?
| Paracatu de Baixo, Brazil
A few crumbling walls 鈥� stained a deep, muddy red 鈥� are all that remain of what Marta de Jesus Arcanjo Peixoto once called home. As the forest edges closer, dense vegetation is enveloping the concrete shell that used to be her kitchen. An antique clock, its hands frozen in place, still hangs on a living room wall.
鈥淗ere was my room and, over there was the boys鈥� bedroom,鈥� Ms. Peixoto says, yanking at the towering weeds as she moves through the rubble. 鈥淣ow, there is just mud and forest.鈥�
Five years ago, Ms. Peixoto鈥檚 house was swept away when a dam holding waste from a nearby iron ore mine burst. It released millions of tons of toxic sludge over the Mariana region in Brazil鈥檚 mineral-rich Minas Gerais state, killing 19 people, polluting the region鈥檚 most important river, and poisoning water supplies that fed into fishing villages across nearly 40 municipalities. The torrent of mud traveled more than 400 miles before spilling into the Atlantic Ocean, making this one of Brazil鈥檚 worst environmental disasters to date.
Why We Wrote This
We often hear 鈥渘ever again鈥� after disasters. Following a devastating dam break in Brazil, new safety measures were created and a mining company pledged reparations. Is that enough to make 鈥渘ever鈥� a reality?
Ms. Peixoto, along with hundreds of thousands of others across the region, is still feeling the impacts of the catastrophe. The new home that was promised to her by the mining company has yet to be built. The land where she grows crops and raises dairy cows is still covered in a thick, red sludge of mining waste. Her income has been decimated, leaving her dependent on monthly assistance of roughly $200, equivalent to a minimum salary in Brazil, from Samarco, the owner of the failed dam.
鈥淭he land is no good anymore 鈥� it鈥檚 dry, it鈥檚 hard,鈥� Ms. Peixoto says. 鈥淢any crops end up dying.鈥�
This town traces its very existence to the mining rush that gripped Minas Gerais at the start of the 18th century. But in recent decades, it avoided the region鈥檚 dependence on mining, thanks to a thriving small-scale agricultural industry. Then the dam collapsed. It displaced the tightknit community of farmers who lived off the land for generations.
鈥淲e didn鈥檛 just lose our crops,鈥� says Vicente Celestino Arcanjo, Ms. Peixoto鈥檚 older brother, whose house in the hills of Paracatu survived the dam collapse. Before the sludge blanketed his family鈥檚 farm, Mr. Arcanjo grew sugar cane, just as his father had. 鈥淲e lost a community. It was the football field, it was the school where my boys went, it was the church we prayed in.鈥�
The 2015 disaster seemed poised to mark a turning point for Brazil. In the aftermath, lawmakers in Minas Gerais penned a new bill called 鈥淎 sea of mud, never again,鈥� which vowed to impose strict safety rules on mines. Pressure mounted听in 2019, when another dam burst near the town of Brumadinho, also in Minas Gerais, and killed 270 people.
Last month, Brazil鈥檚 Senate adopted new legislation banning the type of dams that caused the two disasters, giving companies until February 2022 to bring existing structures in line with the new rules. Though important wins, the overhaul will do little to make mining safer in practice, experts warn, amid weak enforcement and an ongoing push to liberalize Brazilian markets 鈥� in part by opening the country up to more natural resource extraction.
鈥淭he [federal] law is a lost opportunity,鈥� says Bruno Milanez, a professor at the Federal University of Juiz de Fora in Minas Gerais and the coordinator of PoEMAS, a research group that studies the political, economic, social, and environmental impact of mining.
Now, with toothless laws on the books, winning truly effective reforms may be that much more difficult, he says. 鈥淲e could have made significant strides. And we didn鈥檛.鈥�
Watered down
The cause of the Samarco dam failure remains under investigation. But internal documents seized by authorities shortly after the catastrophe the structure could collapse. Samarco denies knowledge of structural weaknesses.
Samarco, a joint venture between Brazil鈥檚 Vale and Anglo-Australian BHP Billiton, was ordered to pay billions in environmental cleanup and damages to victims. Twenty-one people were and a landmark suit was filed against BHP in England, alleging the company was 鈥渨oefully negligent.鈥� The UK . The claimants plan to appeal the decision.
The disaster sparked outrage across Brazil, but regulatory change was slow to come. 鈥淭he law didn鈥檛 have the traction needed to advance because nobody believed another collapse would happen,鈥� says Mauro Marcos da Silva, a former resident of Bento Rodrigues, one of the towns destroyed in the collapse, and a member of the Commission for People Affected by the Fund茫o Dam (CABF). 鈥淲e kept saying that Mariana was not the first and it won鈥檛 be the last.鈥�
More than brick and mortar were wiped out. The historical village of Bento Rodrigues was built by enslaved people in the late 1600s, back when colonial powers descended on the Mariana region in a mad scramble for gold. Even after the sludge erased most of the town, residents have fought to keep their land.
鈥淭he mud took everything. It destroyed the house where I was born,鈥� Mr. Silva says. 鈥淭oday, there is nothing. ... But it鈥檚 still our land. We still have a strong connection to this place.鈥�
Efforts to tighten mining oversight are running up against a broader agenda of deregulation. Brazil is trying to attract investment and kick-start its economy, which is still recovering from a crippling 2014 recession. With the COVID-19 pandemic, Brazil now faces further fiscal pains as emergency aid balloons public spending.
The push toward liberalization of the mining sector began , but has only intensified under far-right President Jair Bolsonaro. The populist leader has repeatedly railed against environmental protections, calling them a barrier to development. Informal, unregulated mining is also making inroads under Mr. Bolsonaro. He is pushing to open Indigenous lands to wildcat mining, which has encouraged illegal invasions into protected areas.
The government says it of the National Mining Agency, tasked with monitoring and regulating hundreds of dams across Brazil. Critics say this will likely make it more difficult to police mining companies and ensure they are following new regulations.
While Minas Gerais passed its state-wide law last year, Mr. Milanez says lawmakers have not outlined how it should be put into practice, making it impossible to enforce. Critics say Brazil鈥檚 new federal law, meanwhile, was watered down by a series of loopholes and exceptions in Brazil鈥檚 chamber of deputies.
鈥淚t was gutted. It became so lax that it is unlikely to improve security,鈥� Mr. Milanez says. Brazil鈥檚 legislature remains vulnerable to lobbying from mining interests despite a ban on campaign financing, he adds. 鈥淚t is easy to comply with the law without you having to actually change the way you operate.鈥�
On a local level, mining companies wield power. They often employ whole communities and serve as a lifeline for cash-strapped municipalities that might need funding for infrastructure projects like roads or hospitals.
Mr. Silva, the community activist, says the region is dependent on the mines. 鈥淗ere in Mariana, it鈥檚 the activity that guarantees the survival of the city.鈥�
With municipal elections starting Nov. 15, the influence of mining companies has come into sharp focus. In neighboring Esp铆rito Santo state, where mining has less clout, candidates in towns affected by the Samarco disaster have been vocal against the sector. But in Mariana, those running for office are treading carefully, making vague calls for change. None are proposing alternative engines for growth.
鈥淣o mayoral candidate wants to spar with a big mining company,鈥� says Mr. Milanez. 鈥淎t the end of the day, it will be this mining company that will likely help him renovate a sports field or a wing in a hospital if he needs to.鈥�
Residents of Mariana, where the economy has struggled to recover, seem to be warming to mining once again. At first, public sympathy was with the survivors, Mr. Silva says. 鈥淏ut soon, it was back on the side of the company, asking for it to come back and guarantee jobs.鈥�
Samarco says it plans to restart operations at its Mariana site by the end of the year, using a new dry tailings method widely seen as a safer alternative to dams.
鈥淲e just hope this really means it鈥檚 now safe,鈥� says Sandro Jos茅 Sobreira, a former resident of Bento Rodrigues.
At the mercy of others
The day the contaminated waters wiped out the town, Mr. Sobreira was working in his family鈥檚 store, in the house where he grew up. 鈥淚t was a shop that was passed on from generation to generation,鈥� he says.
The sludge swept away the store, the house, and much of the town, leaving behind reddish rubble, stained from the mix of mud and heavy metals. Five years on, he says his family is living in limbo as they await a new house and try to piece together how to move ahead. Like most of those affected, he is still living in a temporary home with rent subsidized by Samarco. 鈥淲e鈥檙e at the mercy of the company, waiting for a resolution,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 know when it will come.鈥�
The COVID-19 pandemic has dealt another blow to Mariana, where infection rates are nearly . The pandemic has further slowed progress on rebuilding the communities devastated by the disaster. Five years on, just two houses have been completed and another five are slated to be finished by the end of the year, according to Mr. Silva. That鈥檚 out of the roughly 280 promised to the victims in Bento Rodrigues and Paracatu de Baixo.
The Renova Foundation, the group set up by Samarco to lead reparations, says it has allocated more than 10 billion reais ($1.7 billion) toward compensating families, rebuilding the destroyed towns, and cleaning up the environmental damage. So far, it says it has paid out 2.6 billion reais ($451 million) in damages and assistance to 321,000 people in the region.
CEO Andr茅 de Freitas said Renova鈥檚 work had been stymied by the pandemic, which has slowed construction. He announced in November that reconstruction will likely take .
For Mr. Silva, COVID-19 is just the latest in a string of excuses. 鈥淭hey are constantly looking for a justification for the delays,鈥� he says. 鈥淣ow, it鈥檚 the pandemic.鈥�
Brazilian authorities seem to agree: Last month, federal and state prosecutors sought to reopen a suspended 155 billion reais ($27.4 billion) civil action lawsuit, alleging that Renova, Samarco, Vale, and BHP were dragging their feet on meeting their obligations after the disaster. A recent none of the 42 projects to repair damage from the collapse are on track.
A ticking clock
For some of the victims, time is running out. Three years ago, Mr. Arcanjo buried his mother in the red dirt of the small cemetery overlooking the rubble-covered remains of Paracatu. The sludge swept through the homes of three of his siblings and destroyed swaths of the family鈥檚 farm.
鈥淭he mud didn鈥檛 kill my mother, but seeing her children left with just the clothes on their backs hurt her,鈥� Mr. Arcanjo says. 鈥淎nd she ended up dying without seeing us get justice.鈥�
From the roughly 600 families that were directly affected in Bento Rodrigues, about 400 are still stuck in negotiations with Renova over compensation, according to CABF, which is made up of affected residents advocating for fair compensation and reparations.
For Mr. Silva, whose ancestors built Bento Rodrigues as enslaved people more than three centuries ago, the ongoing fight for justice is about preserving the legacy of the land.
鈥淲hat we are living today is not the life that we wanted. Our future is so uncertain,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut we鈥檙e fighting so it doesn鈥檛 put an end to our story in this place, so it doesn鈥檛 wipe it off the map.鈥�
Ana Ionova鈥檚 reporting in Brazil was supported by the International Women鈥檚 Media Foundation.
Editor's note: The original story incorrectly stated a UK court decision was pending. That's been updated.听
