Ongoing personal projects

Benzedeiras – women who heal

(Brazil, 2022 - Ongoing) In the Jequitinhonha Valley, in the Brazilian countryside, faith, superstition and reality wander together. Centuries-old syncretic rituals that combine Catholicism with African and Indigenous beliefs converge in the practices of the benzedeiras, women with the God-given gift of healing. From “the evil eye” to diseases such as erysipelas and shingles, benzedeiras know the plants and prayers to cure a myriad of physical and spiritual evils. And each one of them has her own unique rituals. An important element of the Brazilian cultural and religious formation, the tradition of benzer, dates back to the colonial era and has been transmitted orally across generations. Since the year 2000, the craft of the benzedeiras has been nationally recognised as an intangible cultural heritage. Nonetheless, there are no records of how many remain active nor any documentation of their many prayers and rituals. Meanwhile, they are on the verge of disappearing. For benzedeiras, it is a challenge to pass on their knowledge. Most of them live in low income and underserved communities, where there is a growing presence of neopentecostal religions, who condemn the craft as sinful. Besides, new generations, now more urban than ever, are not interested in learning the tradition. As benzedeiras age and pass on, their knowledge fades with them.

Maria Teixeira, benzedeira from the quilombola community of Vai Lavando.
Maria Teixeira, benzedeira from the quilombola community of Vai Lavando.
Andrezinho (left) sits next to his mother, Maria Teixeira, from whom he has learned the trade of benzer.
Andrezinho (left) sits next to his mother, Maria Teixeira, from whom he has learned the trade of benzer.
In her home, Maria Teixeira heals her son Andrezinho from "espinhela caída".
In her home, Maria Teixeira heals her son Andrezinho from "espinhela caída".
Maria Teixeira shows the string used to measure whether or not one is suffering from "espinhela caída". The same string is used in the healing process.
Maria Teixeira shows the string used to measure whether or not one is suffering from "espinhela caída". The same string is used in the healing process.
Maria Helena, bendezeira from Araçuaí, shows with her hand where in the body the "espinhela" is located. When the "espinhela" falls, a person gets "espinhela caída", which can cause a myriad of different ills.
Maria Helena, bendezeira from Araçuaí, shows with her hand where in the body the "espinhela" is located. When the "espinhela" falls, a person gets "espinhela caída", which can cause a myriad of different ills.
Maria Helena sits in front of her altar.
Maria Helena sits in front of her altar.
Maria Helena shows an image of Iemanjá, an orixá adored in Afro-Brazilian religions.
Maria Helena shows an image of Iemanjá, an orixá adored in Afro-Brazilian religions.
Generina, 109 years old, the eldest known benzedeira in Araçuaí.
Generina, 109 years old, the eldest known benzedeira in Araçuaí.
Rosaries hanging in the wall of Generina's home.
Rosaries hanging in the wall of Generina's home.
Generina in the process of healing (benzer).
Generina in the process of healing (benzer).
An image of the Virgin Mary is displayed on the table in Maria, known as Liquinha’s living room, in Diamantina.
An image of the Virgin Mary is displayed on the table in Maria, known as Liquinha’s living room, in Diamantina.
Maria, known as Liquinha, poses for a portrait at her home in Diamantina.
Maria, known as Liquinha, poses for a portrait at her home in Diamantina.
The notebook where Liquinha’s granddaughter has been writing down her prayers and instructions for conducting the healings lays on top of a tablecloth hand embroidered by Liquinha.
The notebook where Liquinha’s granddaughter has been writing down her prayers and instructions for conducting the healings lays on top of a tablecloth hand embroidered by Liquinha.
Raimunda, benzedeira from Diamantina, demonstrates how to heal nose haemorrhages, by making a cross with her fingers on the forehead of the person suffering from that, and saying the corresponding prayer.
Raimunda, benzedeira from Diamantina, demonstrates how to heal nose haemorrhages, by making a cross with her fingers on the forehead of the person suffering from that, and saying the corresponding prayer.
Raimunda holds three green leaves taken from her garden, which she uses to conduct her healing. According to her, any leaf can be used, provided it is green and new.
Raimunda holds three green leaves taken from her garden, which she uses to conduct her healing. According to her, any leaf can be used, provided it is green and new.
Raimunda, benzedeira, sits at the backdoor of her house in Diamantina.
Raimunda, benzedeira, sits at the backdoor of her house in Diamantina.
Flora, a Benzedeira from Diamantina, performs a benzeção (healing) on Stella, a Maths professor at the University in Diamantina.
Flora, a Benzedeira from Diamantina, performs a benzeção (healing) on Stella, a Maths professor at the University in Diamantina.
Flora kisses her praying beads after performing the healing, as she thanks God for her gift, and asks for her own quick recovery.
Flora kisses her praying beads after performing the healing, as she thanks God for her gift, and asks for her own quick recovery.

Alinhavo

(Brazil, 2019 - Ongoing) Alinhavo, basting in English, is a sewing technique used to temporarily hold layers of fabric together. As time goes by and loved ones move one, basting is the only way to keep memories and family history more or less in place. Alivanho is not a definite sew. It is but part of an ongoing process, always that one step before the needle and thread take their final turn. Alinhavo is a project I started right before I moved out of Brazil in January 2020, to try to cope with feelings I’m unable to express with words, and to try to hold on to my family, my ancestrality and my heritage. It is a way to document my own personal history and to better understand who I am and where I come from.

My mother, Maria Cláudia, in our home in Diamantina.
My mother, Maria Cláudia, in our home in Diamantina.
My mother, Maria Cláudia, holds a handful of wild berries from our garden. These same berries were always cultivated by my grandfather Edivaldo, in his garden.
My mother, Maria Cláudia, holds a handful of wild berries from our garden. These same berries were always cultivated by my grandfather Edivaldo, in his garden.
My grandmother Elvira, in her home.
My grandmother Elvira, in her home.
My grandmother Elvira holds in the palm of her hand a photograph of herself with my grandfather, Edivaldo, in their youth.
My grandmother Elvira holds in the palm of her hand a photograph of herself with my grandfather, Edivaldo, in their youth.
My grandmother Elvira and my grandfather Edivaldo sit side by side in the kitchen. It was the last photo I took of them together before my grandfather passed.
My grandmother Elvira and my grandfather Edivaldo sit side by side in the kitchen. It was the last photo I took of them together before my grandfather passed.
Elvira, my grandmother, stands against the living room window from the balcony.
Elvira, my grandmother, stands against the living room window from the balcony.
Elvira, my grandmother, wears a necklace made for her by my grandfather. On one side, the necklace shows the letters E.O., for Edivaldo Orlando, and on the other side the letters E.A., for Elvira Almeida.
Elvira, my grandmother, wears a necklace made for her by my grandfather. On one side, the necklace shows the letters E.O., for Edivaldo Orlando, and on the other side the letters E.A., for Elvira Almeida.
Edivaldo, my grandfather on my mother’s side, sits in his living room and holds a mirror where my image is reflected.
Edivaldo, my grandfather on my mother’s side, sits in his living room and holds a mirror where my image is reflected.
Elvira, my grandmother, contrasted to an old photo of her in her late teens.
Elvira, my grandmother, contrasted to an old photo of her in her late teens.
Elvira, my grandmother, poses in her bedroom as I photograph her from the mirror.
Elvira, my grandmother, poses in her bedroom as I photograph her from the mirror.
Edivaldo and Elvira, my grandparents, talk to each other in the kitchen.
Edivaldo and Elvira, my grandparents, talk to each other in the kitchen.
Carlo, my grandfather on my father’s side.
Carlo, my grandfather on my father’s side.
Carlo, my grandfather on my father’s side, in his new bedroom. Once he was unable to walk on his own, his daughter, with whom he lived, moved his bedroom into the first floor, to avoid the stairs.
Carlo, my grandfather on my father’s side, in his new bedroom. Once he was unable to walk on his own, his daughter, with whom he lived, moved his bedroom into the first floor, to avoid the stairs.

In the media

Seeds for a sustainable future

(Roraima, Brasil, 2023) Despite the centrality of the environmental agenda in the new government, saving Amazonia will be no easy task. And this process, complex and multidimensional, begins by getting to know the initiatives already underway and learning from their possibilities and limitations. From agricultural production in community gardens and the circular economy generated by them, to the traditional seed bank with an increasing involvement of Indigenous youth, Serra da Lua shows the way to save the Amazon. The second-largest Indigenous community in the state with a population of almost 10,000, mostly of the Wapichana and Macuxi ethnic group, the region is made up of 32 communities divided into nine Indigenous Territories. Faced with a world that yearns for environmental solutions, this project will document the complexity of this struggle, focusing on the solutions it produces and the lessons to be learned, by Brazil and the world, to save the Amazon and halt climate change. This project received the Dom Phillips Reporting Grant from the Pulitzer Center’s Amazon Rainforest Journalism Fund.

Residents of the Willimon community get together to help weed the land of a local family, to help them prepare for seeding.
Residents of the Willimon community get together to help weed the land of a local family, to help them prepare for seeding.
The Tabalascada farmers’ association’s fish pond is located behind the home of Andreia Machado and Deodato Leocadio da Silva Filho. In the community, nearly all production, from crops to poultry to fish, is traded and consumed within the community.
The Tabalascada farmers’ association’s fish pond is located behind the home of Andreia Machado and Deodato Leocadio da Silva Filho. In the community, nearly all production, from crops to poultry to fish, is traded and consumed within the community.
A map of Novo Paraíso’s land and environmental management plan, or PGTA. The red house at the bottom represents the flour mil, and the plants drawn on either side are coconut and mango trees, to be planted in front of the house.
A map of Novo Paraíso’s land and environmental management plan, or PGTA. The red house at the bottom represents the flour mil, and the plants drawn on either side are coconut and mango trees, to be planted in front of the house.
A member of the Novo Paraíso Indigenous community takes cassava paste out of a press, from where it will be processed in an oven to make flour.
A member of the Novo Paraíso Indigenous community takes cassava paste out of a press, from where it will be processed in an oven to make flour.
The cassava flour ovens of Maria Loreta Pascoal’s family. The community chose cassava flour as the bedrock of its farming economy in the early 2000s, to help protect their territory while providing sustainable income for families.
The cassava flour ovens of Maria Loreta Pascoal’s family. The community chose cassava flour as the bedrock of its farming economy in the early 2000s, to help protect their territory while providing sustainable income for families.
Cassava crops in Novo Paraíso, located in the Manoá-Pium Indigenous Territory, in the Brazilian state of Roraima. The local community relies heavily on the production and trade of cassava flour.
Cassava crops in Novo Paraíso, located in the Manoá-Pium Indigenous Territory, in the Brazilian state of Roraima. The local community relies heavily on the production and trade of cassava flour.
Since becoming the tuxaua of Novo Paraíso, Maria Loreta Pascoal has taken on the job of warning the community about the risks of deforesting new areas for farming. There’s enough cleared land for sustainable rotational farming, she says.
Since becoming the tuxaua of Novo Paraíso, Maria Loreta Pascoal has taken on the job of warning the community about the risks of deforesting new areas for farming. There’s enough cleared land for sustainable rotational farming, she says.
Maria Loreta Pascoal’s sister toasts cassava flour. A study developed by World Resources Institute (WRI) Brazil found that adopting bioeconomic models that replicate productive arrangements already existing within Indigenous communities could increase the region’s GDP by $8 billion and create 312,000 new jobs.
Maria Loreta Pascoal’s sister toasts cassava flour. A study developed by World Resources Institute (WRI) Brazil found that adopting bioeconomic models that replicate productive arrangements already existing within Indigenous communities could increase the region’s GDP by $8 billion and create 312,000 new jobs.
Since 2017, Machado and Silva, along with five other members of the farmers’ association, have cultivated fish in a pond behind the couple’s house.
Since 2017, Machado and Silva, along with five other members of the farmers’ association, have cultivated fish in a pond behind the couple’s house.
“The first time we tried to raise fish, we put more than 2,000 fry in the pond, and almost all of them died from lack of space,” Silva says. Today, fish farming has become an answer to the problem of how to eat healthy fish, as well as a source of income for the family.
“The first time we tried to raise fish, we put more than 2,000 fry in the pond, and almost all of them died from lack of space,” Silva says. Today, fish farming has become an answer to the problem of how to eat healthy fish, as well as a source of income for the family.
A plastic bottle filled with beans and ashes, to keep the seeds fertile and protected from pests.
A plastic bottle filled with beans and ashes, to keep the seeds fertile and protected from pests.
Telma Macuxi and her husband pose in front of their field in the Willimon community.
Telma Macuxi and her husband pose in front of their field in the Willimon community.
Amarildo Mota, former coordinator of the Willimon traditional seedbank and one of its creators. When planting season arrives, the community helps each farmer prepare their land, exchange seed variants, and joke about who’s the best grower.
Amarildo Mota, former coordinator of the Willimon traditional seedbank and one of its creators. When planting season arrives, the community helps each farmer prepare their land, exchange seed variants, and joke about who’s the best grower.
House which will shelter the seedbank in the future, currently under construction.
House which will shelter the seedbank in the future, currently under construction.

Across the border

(Roraima, Brasil, 2022) By 2022, over 7 million Venezuelans had fled their country, escaping hunger, poverty and political oppression – the biggest humanitarian crisis in the Americas. Over 365 thousand lived in Brazil. Roughly 312 thousand had already received their residence permits and 48,9 thousand had been recognized as refugees. Since 2018, Operação Acolhida, a partnership between the Brazilian government, UN agencies and local NGOs, has concentrated the Brazilian response to this migration. In the state of Roraima, where 75,6 thousand Venezuelans live, Acolhida has eight migrant camps and two transit lodgings that shelter around 7,5 thousand people. But while the country has been internationally praised for its welcome of Venezuelans, the militarization of the humanitarian response and the lack of long-term public policies have been working against the full inclusion of those who arrive. According to IOM’s reports, a population of roughly 3.850 people live in the streets and spontaneous occupations and settlements in Boa Vista, capital of Roraima, and Pacaraima, at the border with Venezuela. The conditions of these settlements are poor. As the land is irregularly occupated, residents are not allowed access to piped water, sewage and electricity. Yet, many choose not to be a part of Operação Acolhida, for different reasons, such as the allegations of mistreatment inside the camps, which include threats, intimidation and even physical assault. Across the border is a project that documents the life of Venezuelan migrants in Boa Vista, both inside and outside of Operação Acolhida.

Otiene Carillos, a 26-year-old mother of three from the city of Cumaná near her home in Alvorada, one of the 14 spontaneous settlements in Boa Vista.
Otiene Carillos, a 26-year-old mother of three from the city of Cumaná near her home in Alvorada, one of the 14 spontaneous settlements in Boa Vista.
Lilia Betzaida Vargas Gomez in her tent at Rondon 5, a migration camp meant for people who already started their interiorization process. Lilia and her family are waiting to be transferred to the state of Rio de Janeiro.
Lilia Betzaida Vargas Gomez in her tent at Rondon 5, a migration camp meant for people who already started their interiorization process. Lilia and her family are waiting to be transferred to the state of Rio de Janeiro.
Distribution of non-food items at Operação Acolhida's migration camp 13 de Setembro, in Boa Vista. Before becoming a migration camp, 13 de Setembro was a spontaneous settlement.
Distribution of non-food items at Operação Acolhida's migration camp 13 de Setembro, in Boa Vista. Before becoming a migration camp, 13 de Setembro was a spontaneous settlement.
Children walk in front of the toilets at Jardim Floresta, the smallest of two Operação Acolhida's indigenous migration camps in Boa Vista.
Children walk in front of the toilets at Jardim Floresta, the smallest of two Operação Acolhida's indigenous migration camps in Boa Vista.
Tents in Rondon 5, a migration camp meant for people who already started their interiorization process. The camp has two levels: one for those coming from other camps in Boa Vista, and one for those who arrive straight from Pacaraima, at the border with Venezuela, to be interiorized.
Tents in Rondon 5, a migration camp meant for people who already started their interiorization process. The camp has two levels: one for those coming from other camps in Boa Vista, and one for those who arrive straight from Pacaraima, at the border with Venezuela, to be interiorized.
Residents who remained in Pintolândia after the camp closed build their shack.
Residents who remained in Pintolândia after the camp closed build their shack.
Located on municipality-owned floodplain grounds, Alvorada is home to roughly 25 Brazilian and Venezuelan families. Poorly built stilt shacks rising above ground level can be reached by a lifted footbridge so unstable it can only hold one person at a time, stepping on two planks simultaneously to avoid any breaking.
Located on municipality-owned floodplain grounds, Alvorada is home to roughly 25 Brazilian and Venezuelan families. Poorly built stilt shacks rising above ground level can be reached by a lifted footbridge so unstable it can only hold one person at a time, stepping on two planks simultaneously to avoid any breaking.
Euligio Baez, one of the five Warao aidamos (indigenous leaders) still living in Pintolândia, formerly an Operação Acolhida migrant camp, and currently an occupation.
Euligio Baez, one of the five Warao aidamos (indigenous leaders) still living in Pintolândia, formerly an Operação Acolhida migrant camp, and currently an occupation.
Resident of the Pintolândia occupation, in Boa Vista. Until March 2022, Pintolândia was one of Operação Acolhida’s migrant camps. It was closed when Waraotuma a Tuaranoko camp, the largest shelter for migrants and indigenous refugees in Latin America, was inaugurated. Dozens of families chose to remain in Pintolândia, where they had lived for years. The occupation now suffers from high levels of food insecurity.
Resident of the Pintolândia occupation, in Boa Vista. Until March 2022, Pintolândia was one of Operação Acolhida’s migrant camps. It was closed when Waraotuma a Tuaranoko camp, the largest shelter for migrants and indigenous refugees in Latin America, was inaugurated. Dozens of families chose to remain in Pintolândia, where they had lived for years. The occupation now suffers from high levels of food insecurity.

First stop to safety

(Slovakia, 2022) In Vyšné Nemecké, at the Slovakian border with Ukraine, those who cross the border are welcomed by a wide range of smiley volunteers, who offer from legal information and transport arrangements to food, clothing and shelter. Slovakia is currently the 5th country with the highest number of Ukrainian refugees, having welcomed almost 280 thousand, according to the UNHCR - the biggest migration to the country since the civil wars in the former Yugoslavia. The coordinated efforts of local and international organisations, such as the Red Cross, People in Need, Scouts and Malteser Aid Slovakia, with the support of the local government, have resulted in a camp area with a very organised infrastructure: a complex of volunteer tents, heated sleeping shelters, healthcare teams, a children area and flushing toilets. This project documents the reality of Ukrainian refugees who arrive at this border, in the time they spend between fleeing their country and moving towards their final destination.

Twelve-year-old Christina wears a traditional Ukrainian outfit she carried in her luggage.
Twelve-year-old Christina wears a traditional Ukrainian outfit she carried in her luggage.
Inside the tent where refugees and volunteers can access electricity.
Inside the tent where refugees and volunteers can access electricity.
Slovakian volunteers with the Adventist Development and Relief Agency leave the tent where refugees can access electricity.
Slovakian volunteers with the Adventist Development and Relief Agency leave the tent where refugees can access electricity.
Ukrainian siblings Bogdan (15) and Christina (12).
Ukrainian siblings Bogdan (15) and Christina (12).
Olga Bilous, entrepreneur and former owner of an eyeglass stand in a Bazar in Zaporizhzhia, poses in front of a sleeping tent in Vyšné Nemecké.
Olga Bilous, entrepreneur and former owner of an eyeglass stand in a Bazar in Zaporizhzhia, poses in front of a sleeping tent in Vyšné Nemecké.
A complex of tents with heating, where refugees can stay overnight before continuing their journey towards their final destination.
A complex of tents with heating, where refugees can stay overnight before continuing their journey towards their final destination.
Irina (left), with her son, mother in law, best friend and her two daughters in Vyšné Nemecké.
Irina (left), with her son, mother in law, best friend and her two daughters in Vyšné Nemecké.
Prams and strollers donated to Ukrainian refugees in Vyšné Nemecké.
Prams and strollers donated to Ukrainian refugees in Vyšné Nemecké.
Vasyl Kapustej, a 27-year-old law student in Prague, next to his mother Erika Kapustej. With the help of friends, family and strangers on social media, they have collected donations for Ukrainian refugees.
Vasyl Kapustej, a 27-year-old law student in Prague, next to his mother Erika Kapustej. With the help of friends, family and strangers on social media, they have collected donations for Ukrainian refugees.
Newly arrived Ukrainian refugees wait for the next step of their journey.
Newly arrived Ukrainian refugees wait for the next step of their journey.
Donated toys are displayed, so children can pick them.
Donated toys are displayed, so children can pick them.
An elderly Ukrainian refugee kisses her dog.
An elderly Ukrainian refugee kisses her dog.
Tent provided for children in Vyšné Nemecké.
Tent provided for children in Vyšné Nemecké.
Tatiana, Ukrainian refugee who fled with her daughter.
Tatiana, Ukrainian refugee who fled with her daughter.
Fifteen-year-old Liza with her dog.
Fifteen-year-old Liza with her dog.
Sister Lamiya, nun who volunteered at Vyšné Nemecké.
Sister Lamiya, nun who volunteered at Vyšné Nemecké.
Volodymyr and Liudmyla stand in front of one of the heated sleeping shelters. They fled Ukraine through Slovak upon their daughter’s recommendation, to avoid the situation in Poland.
Volodymyr and Liudmyla stand in front of one of the heated sleeping shelters. They fled Ukraine through Slovak upon their daughter’s recommendation, to avoid the situation in Poland.
Night at Vyšné Nemecké.
Night at Vyšné Nemecké.
Permanent make-up artist Maria Stus, in the tent where electricity and a space dedicated for children are provided.
Permanent make-up artist Maria Stus, in the tent where electricity and a space dedicated for children are provided.

Confined Away

(Dublin, Ireland, 2020) Quarantine caught me in a weird place. On March 27th 2020, less than two months after I migrated to Ireland, the whole country was placed under full lockdown. For weeks, two kilometres was the maximum radius within which I was allowed to travel – an infinitesimal fraction of the more than 8.000 km separating Dublin from Belo Horizonte, my home town in Brazil. If you’re a human being on Earth in 2021, you’ve probably experienced some kind of confinement or restriction of movement due to Covid-19 over the past year. And if you’re not incarcerated or a refugee, I’m guessing your experience probably didn’t involve being in an unfamiliar place, lockeddown with people you didn’t know beforehand. I’m guessing you were, at least to some extent, home. I wasn’t. Nor were Beatriz, Alan, Eduardo, Everton, Jonathan, Diane, Pedro, Carla, Felipe and Jéssica – my housemates at 177, Clonliffe Road, Dublin 03. Eleven strangers spread across five bedrooms. Ten Brazilians and one Guatemalan, all but one newly arrived immigrants, who had had no previous contact with one another before setting foot on that house – and before being confined together. It felt like we were the subjects of a social experiment – except there was no one conducting it. Once Covid-19 came upon us, we were no longer allowed to leave for anything other than going to the supermarket. Suddenly, the place I only expected to go back to for eating, showering and sleeping, became my cloister. The sole table in the house, used for eating, studying and working, was never empty – and never silent. Except for a few lucky days, we had to wait in line for cooking and taking a shower; and, in some very unlucky ones, we might even have to wait in line for using the toilet. It was a hard couple of months. During this time, I started photographing everyday life at 177 Clonliffe Road, to try and make sense of my experience. But as the weeks of confinement went by, we went from sharing a house to living together. On Easter morning, Eduardo and Everton got chocolates for everyone in the house. For birthdays, we would get a cake and a card, signed by “your Irish-Brazilian family”. When June finally came, we didn’t skip the traditional Festa Junina: we improvised on costumes and decoration, but the typical food was there. And on almost every Sunday we would have lunch together, like any other ordinary Brazilian family. Although most of us have left 177, Clonliffe Road, we do our best to stay in touch. And as we recollect our time together, the shared memories, the ones we kept, are those of mutual respect and support.

From left to right: Jonathan going downstairs, Carla sitting on the ground doing English lessons on her phone, and Jéssica at the door, coming back from taking the trash out. As the house didn’t have many common areas, the residents would often study or work sitting on the hallway floor.
From left to right: Jonathan going downstairs, Carla sitting on the ground doing English lessons on her phone, and Jéssica at the door, coming back from taking the trash out. As the house didn’t have many common areas, the residents would often study or work sitting on the hallway floor.
Daiane and Jonathan lived together in bedroom 2. They didn’t know each other before moving to Dublin.
Daiane and Jonathan lived together in bedroom 2. They didn’t know each other before moving to Dublin.
Unlike the other residents, Beatriz didn’t move to Dublin on an English studying visa. With her Brazilian/Italian double citizenship, she moved in the search of work. Beatriz shared the bedroom with Amanda and Bárbara, until the latter moved out of the house.
Unlike the other residents, Beatriz didn’t move to Dublin on an English studying visa. With her Brazilian/Italian double citizenship, she moved in the search of work. Beatriz shared the bedroom with Amanda and Bárbara, until the latter moved out of the house.
In the house, cloths were divided into those used for cleaning the bathrooms (photo), and those used for cleaning the kitchen and other common areas. They were washed and put to dry separately.
In the house, cloths were divided into those used for cleaning the bathrooms (photo), and those used for cleaning the kitchen and other common areas. They were washed and put to dry separately.
Jéssica cleans the kitchen window, while Allan prepares his meal. Cleaning schedules were organized on a bedroom rotation basis in which each week, the occupants of one of the bedrooms were responsible for cleaning the bathrooms, whilst the occupants of another cleaned the kitchen and other common areas.
Jéssica cleans the kitchen window, while Allan prepares his meal. Cleaning schedules were organized on a bedroom rotation basis in which each week, the occupants of one of the bedrooms were responsible for cleaning the bathrooms, whilst the occupants of another cleaned the kitchen and other common areas.
Everton cuts Eduardo’s hair in the backyard. They knew each other from Brazil, as they attended the same church in São Paulo. In Dublin, Everton and Eduardo lived in Bedroom 1 with Alan, from Guatemala.
Everton cuts Eduardo’s hair in the backyard. They knew each other from Brazil, as they attended the same church in São Paulo. In Dublin, Everton and Eduardo lived in Bedroom 1 with Alan, from Guatemala.
Some of the residents got together in the entrance hall after dinner as Jonathan (center) tried to replicate a trending challenge from TikTok, where he took his shirt off and put it back on while doing a handstand against the door. From left to right: Beatriz, Pedro, Felipe, Jonathan and Everton.
Some of the residents got together in the entrance hall after dinner as Jonathan (center) tried to replicate a trending challenge from TikTok, where he took his shirt off and put it back on while doing a handstand against the door. From left to right: Beatriz, Pedro, Felipe, Jonathan and Everton.
First barbecue held in the backyard after some of the residents bought a grill. As it traditionally happens in Brazilian barbecues, besides the meat, there was rice, farofa, vinagrete and maionese, typical barbecue side dishes. From left to right: Alan, Beatriz, Jonathan, Daiane, Eduardo and Carla.
First barbecue held in the backyard after some of the residents bought a grill. As it traditionally happens in Brazilian barbecues, besides the meat, there was rice, farofa, vinagrete and maionese, typical barbecue side dishes. From left to right: Alan, Beatriz, Jonathan, Daiane, Eduardo and Carla.
Pedro and Carla prepared typical São Paulo pastel for a common dinner, the last time all 12 residents of the house got together, before Bárbara moved out. During the months of lock down, such shared meals became a habit. From left to right: Bárbara, Eduardo, Felipe, Jonathan, Alan, Beatriz, Everton, Jéssica, Carla, Pedro and Diane.
Pedro and Carla prepared typical São Paulo pastel for a common dinner, the last time all 12 residents of the house got together, before Bárbara moved out. During the months of lock down, such shared meals became a habit. From left to right: Bárbara, Eduardo, Felipe, Jonathan, Alan, Beatriz, Everton, Jéssica, Carla, Pedro and Diane.

Other projects

Casa, Apartamento, Sobrado - BARRACO

(Diamantina, Brasil, 2023) Casa, Apartamento, Sobrado – BARRACO is a multimedia exhibition that combines installation and photojournalism to bring Ocupação Vitória – a spontaneous settlement in the periphery – to the center of Diamantina. The occupation has existed for years but has grown exponentially during the pandemic when residents of the city and nearby towns and villages found themselves without livelihood alternatives. The idea for the exhibition came to be at a coffee table with Márcia Melo (National Coordinator of the MTST), Helga Espigão (professor at UFVJM) and me, sparked by a question asked by Márcia Melo about the erasure of Barracos (shacks/sheds) in the public sphere. Why do digital platforms, when requesting an address, only offer the options house, apartment or townhouse? What is the difference, if any, between these forms of inhabiting? What is the meaning of a Barraco for people who experience the reality of a settlement? After a meeting with the local Attorney General's Office and Ocupação Vitória, we felt the need for an action that would bring the periphery to the center, where the decisions that define the lives of the 150 families who live at the settlement are taken. Decisions that permeate a fundamental right of any Brazilian person: dignity to live. In the exhibition, my photographs are accompanied by sounds of the settlement (which can be heard through QR codes), by posters where residents answer the question posed by Helga Espigão: “if your shack could talk, what would it say?”, and by a canvas shack built by residents from Ocupação Vitória to mirror the reality of the occupation.

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Unbroken

(Denmark, 2021) In March 2021, Denmark became the first country to declare the Damascus area in Syria safe enough for refugees to be sent back. Since then, many people are having their visas reviewed and denied, risking deportation—which, since the country has no diplomatic relations with the Assad government, means being sent to a deportation camp indefinitely. For many families, that means uncertainty and the fear of separation. I had the chance to document three Syrian families as they went through this.

Mahmoud Alrifai holds his Misbaha (praying beads).
Mahmoud Alrifai holds his Misbaha (praying beads).
Tarek,holds a photo of the family. In the photo, taken in the United Arab Emirates, Tarek carries Saed, while Sohad, Sara’s mom, carries her.
Tarek,holds a photo of the family. In the photo, taken in the United Arab Emirates, Tarek carries Saed, while Sohad, Sara’s mom, carries her.
Awatif, Ahmad (sitting), and their children Maya and Mohammad pose for a photograph in the parents home.
Awatif, Ahmad (sitting), and their children Maya and Mohammad pose for a photograph in the parents home.
Sara poses for a portrait in her bedroom, holding the teddy bear she got upon her arrival in Denmark, to replace a similar one she had back in Syria.
Sara poses for a portrait in her bedroom, holding the teddy bear she got upon her arrival in Denmark, to replace a similar one she had back in Syria.
Tahany translates to her father Mahmoud Alrifai questions about his life in Syria.
Tahany translates to her father Mahmoud Alrifai questions about his life in Syria.
Tarek, 57-year-old Syrian lawyer who has received death threats from ISIS and the Al-Assad government, was still waiting for an answer about the reopening of his case when on the 21st of October 2021, he visited the authorities and was told he had to leave the next day. Since immigration apparently forgot to inform him about it, he was given until the end of the month. Meanwhile, his family, among whom is 19-year-old Sara, who moved to Denmark to join him six years ago, are still awaiting as their own asylum process develops. The two younger children, who are still at school, speak better Danish than Arabic.
Tarek, 57-year-old Syrian lawyer who has received death threats from ISIS and the Al-Assad government, was still waiting for an answer about the reopening of his case when on the 21st of October 2021, he visited the authorities and was told he had to leave the next day. Since immigration apparently forgot to inform him about it, he was given until the end of the month. Meanwhile, his family, among whom is 19-year-old Sara, who moved to Denmark to join him six years ago, are still awaiting as their own asylum process develops. The two younger children, who are still at school, speak better Danish than Arabic.
Sara, in her room, looks at old photographs of herself and her family that were able to survive the journey when they fled Syria.
Sara, in her room, looks at old photographs of herself and her family that were able to survive the journey when they fled Syria.
Awatif poses for a portrait at her home.
Awatif poses for a portrait at her home.