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The women of the indigenous land of the Yavarí Valley in the Brazilian Amazon dream the same as mothers in any other city in the world: that their children will study, graduate from university and become successful professionals. But in their case, that dream can turn into a nightmare when, due to the lack of secondary education in their villages, they give up the good life in the jungle and suffer from hunger and overcrowding in squalid huts in the poor neighborhoods of Atalaia do Norte. This city, located in the interior of the state of Amazonas, in northern Brazil, is the last before reaching one of the most important indigenous territories in the world, due to its size – they inhabit an area similar in size to that of Portugal – and to accommodate larger numbers of groups in voluntary isolation.
“My struggle comes from seeing my people go through difficult situations,” says Silvana Marubo, daughter of an indigenous father and a white mother, supporter and coordinator of the MAI “Indigenous Artisan Women” collective. “I feel compelled to help because I understand Portuguese and White Law well. That’s why I decided to team up with other women.” Since 2019, MAI has been supporting mothers who move to the city accompanied by their children. “They are hungry and needy here. In the end they suffer because there is no work, everything is bought and they have no money for food, clothing or gas. These women practice their craft or work in family agriculture, and our job is to help them sell their production.” But in Atalaia, a poor city with the third-worst human development index in Brazil, selling is not easy .
Silvana Marubo, coordinator of MAI (Indigenous Artisan Women), holds two typical spears of the Matsés people in the shop that the collective runs in Atalaia do Norte.CARLOS SUÁREZ ÁLVAREZ
The world learned about the Yavarí Valley last year through the murders of British journalist Dom Phillips and Brazilian indigenous activist Bruno Pereira by illegal fishermen, executors of a deep and dark conspiracy that has not yet been solved. His case revealed how the illegal exploitation of resources in this area of the Amazon, coupled with the pervasive drug trade, is putting unbearable pressure on the rich and extensive but fragile territory dominated by the Kanamarí, Korubo, Kulina-Pano, Marubo and Matís is occupied, Matsés and Tsohom-Dyapa as well as an unspecified number of towns in voluntary isolation.
In these countries there is also another dizzying process that heralds fundamental changes: the migration from villages to cities so that young people can attend secondary school, which is not offered in their communities. According to the Special Secretariat for Indigenous Health, in 2013, 181 of the 5,481 indigenous people registered in the territory lived in Atalaia. That number increased to 780 by 2018, according to a study by the city’s Indigenous Affairs Secretariat. Over the past five years, the Indigenous Missionary Council and the Center for Indigenous Work (CTI) have estimated that they are two of the most active NGOs in the region and already represent half of the current 6,317 registered indigenous people.
“In the case of the Matís, virtually all young people come to the city to study,” explains Clayton Rodrigues, an anthropologist at the CTI. “In other ethnic groups, there are some villages where all the young people have migrated to the cities.” The consequences of this migration are far-reaching. According to Clayton, this means that in the short term “in villages where there are only women, old people and very young children, some jobs are at risk because there are not the young people to do them”. In the medium and long term, and given that the balanced relationship of the Amazon peoples with nature is based on a set of practices and knowledge that can only be acquired by living in the area, the consequences are unpredictable but certainly critical.
A group of young people from the Marubo people practice a traditional dance during the celebration of a festival in the village of Maronal, in the Yavarí Valley.CARLOS SUÁREZ ÁLVAREZ
Lindalva in the city
To get to the Lindalva Stilt House in a neighborhood built in a flood plain, you have to avoid several rotten boards on a wooden walkway. The 38-year-old woman from the Matsés appears suspicious. The strange staccato of his language underlines the vehemence with which he demands money to conduct the interview. She lives with seven children, her husband, several nephews and their parents. He misses the vastness of his village, the many opportunities for hunting and fishing, the existing cassava and banana deposits, but his goals are clear: “I came here because there are only two teachers in the community and my children couldn’t learn.” , he says. “I thought it would be better in the city, but it was difficult.” The only regular income in this house is the Bolsa Familia, a government subsidy that only she receives and which is not enough to cover electricity, water, gas and to pay for groceries. According to anthropologist Clayton Rodrigues, Lindalva is a typical case: “There are very difficult scenarios: families of twenty people where no one has an income.” Most indigenous people do not manage to eat all their daily meals. “You are in a very fragile situation.”
She is one of the 120 women who make up MAI. “I didn’t know you could make money with crafts,” he admits. Her specialty is bags, hammocks and bracelets, which she weaves from the fiber of the Utucum, a type of Amazon palm. He periodically brings his production to the headquarters of Univaja, the organization that represents all the towns in the valley where MAI has its operations. But selling is anything but easy: the residents of Atalaia are already saturated with handicrafts, tourism is a small phenomenon and the Instagram page where they offer their production for sale by post has few followers.
In the afternoon, Lindava grabs her fishing rod and sets off in search of dinner, accompanied by her children. But fishing is not easy in the city’s harbor either, according to a well-known Amazon equation: many people, few fish.
Lindalva Mayoruna weaves bags, bracelets and hammocks from the fiber of Utucum, an Amazon palm, which she sells through MAI.CARLOS SUÁREZ ÁLVAREZ
Business adaptation
Lindava’s parents belong to the Matsé generation, who established stable contacts with the white world in the 60s and 70s. It was the time of nudity, of communal houses, of half-madism, of bows and arrows, of war against the invading whites or against the usual enemies. Other Yavarí peoples, such as the Marubo or the Kanamarí, have a longer history of contact, but in any case the forest and the urban way of life remain separated by an abyss. When you see the western-dressed compatriots in the streets of Atalaia, fascinated by their small screen, you can believe that this abyss has disappeared. It would be a mistake: the differences, however profound, remain hidden, but they emerge dramatically when, for example, it comes to setting up a women’s association to market handicrafts.
“Everything will be fine,” reads a small sign on the door of the tiny office that Univaja has made available to the MAI, but Silvana Marubo, the coordinator, admits that she sometimes feels overwhelmed. He explains that they lack training, for example to convert the group into an association, which would allow them to be eligible for aid and subsidies, but which would entail complex bureaucratic processes, administrative costs, tax obligations or accounting reports. In addition, they have difficulty finding a market in major cities in Brazil or abroad and channeling production efficiently. And they are also limited by the lack of their own headquarters with computers and internet access.
Silvana Marubo, in the office of the MAI collective at the headquarters of Univaja, the organization that represents all indigenous peoples in the region. CARLOS SUAREZ ÁLVAREZ
It is also not easy to lead more than a hundred women from five peoples with different languages, who until not long ago had conflictual relationships and even war. “Because they are different people and different thoughts, there will always be conflicts, but our fight is for people to unite more and more,” says Silvana. To bridge these internal differences, the women of each city appoint a coordinator to address their specific needs and problems.
Praise of the court
Patricia Mayoruna came to Atalaia 30 years ago as a child. Her command of the native language and Portuguese makes her ideal for the role of coordinator of the Matsés women, who are MAI’s specialists in the production of fariña, a roasted cassava flour that is our daily bread in the Amazon. Patricia is one of the lucky ones in the group who owns a farm near Atalaia, on the edge of the region’s only road, 20 kilometers of sinkholes that connect this town with neighboring Benjamin Constant. There she grew up and learned from her mother about female work par excellence: the chagra, the family plantation, a cornerstone of nutrition in indigenous societies.
Patricia Mayoruna, coordinator of the women’s group of the Matsés people, picks cassava, one of the main crops of the Yavarí towns.CARLOS SUÁREZ ÁLVAREZ
Barefoot and with a machete that she skillfully swings, Patricia walks proudly and happily through her kingdom. “In the city it is very difficult for us locals to get food. There is cassava and plantain here, the chagra is very important to feed our children. Because that is our concern,” he says. Until Silvana appeared, its production was intended for family consumption: “She explained to me: ‘Cassava gives money, Fariña gives money. You have to gather your compatriots and think this through their minds.” But only a few dared to sell: “They are ashamed, they are afraid of the white man, that he won’t buy their products.” As with crafts, MAI is responsible for marketing.
“We go to the market or on the radio and say that there is cassava and vegetables from our compatriots,” explains Silvana. But there is always a but: the costs of transporting produce from farms to cities are so high that profits disappear. The two women dream of finding a sponsor who will help them buy their own motorcycle.
deadly addiction
The case of María Potsad, from the Matsés people, gives a new twist to the transport problem. María traveled by boat from her village for two weeks to sell 300 kilos of fariña and buy necessary items such as soap and salt, machetes and knives, lighters, batteries and gasoline. But he undercut his Fariña and then faced rampant inflation. “I couldn’t afford to buy anything,” she tells her compatriot Patricia Mayoruna, who is visiting the port to spread MAI’s work among women arriving from the villages. “I didn’t know you existed. I wish I had known,” adds María dejectedly. Since she has no family in town to welcome her during her stay, she stays on the boat with her son and other villagers. There are several sick people, perhaps with malaria. They are starving. “It is very difficult because the community here is not like that. We have to buy some food and I’m spending the day there in the canoe.” Her sadness is dramatically underlined by the trash floating around the boat: beer cans, Styrofoam trays, soda bottles… The set of a nightmare.
María Potsad of the Matsés people traveled by boat from her village to Atalaia do Norte for two weeks to sell her agricultural production, but received a lower price than expected.CARLOS SUÁREZ ÁLVAREZ
A day earlier, just a few meters from where the woman was languishing, a Kanamarí child died. The family had gone to the city to collect the Bolsa Familia grant, but as is often the case, there was no money in the office responsible for payment. The family waited and waited, living on the boat in miserable conditions. Cold, rain, hunger. Then illness. In the end, death.
And that’s why the women of Yavarí dream that their villages will have schools and hospitals, doctors and teachers, computers and medicine. And that’s why Silvana Marubo founded MAI and fights for its own headquarters, for transport, for regular customers, for allies who will help them overcome the difficulties of the market economy. “We dream that MAI will start walking on its own two feet,” he implores. “We are women fighting for our people; Women who want to talk.”
This report was produced with support from the Amazon Rainforest Journalism Fund in collaboration with the Pulitzer Center.