In October 2020, I received an invitation to interview and photograph people affected by the mining industry in Brazil. I was about to spend a few months there and wanted to create something similar to my project in India with Tibetan refugees, but I wasn’t yet sure what form it would take or which story to tell. With so much happening in my country, the range of possible topics felt overwhelming. That was when the proposal to document the impact of mining in Brazil reached me.
I’ll admit that at the time I didn’t fully understand what that meant. I knew about Mariana and Brumadinho, had heard of Carajás, and carried only vague notions of the issue. I didn’t truly grasp the scope of the topic or the extent of the damage this industry has caused in my country. I agreed to consider it and began reading and researching. The more I learned, the more outraged I became — and the deeper I felt compelled to keep digging.
I read about the environmental devastation, the social consequences, and the countless lives lost to mining operations in Brazil. Toward these corporations, I felt something similar to what I had felt toward the Chinese government while in India: I am so little compared to the power and influence they wield, and no matter how much I do to oppose this industry, it will never be enough to solve the problem. But not being able to do everything has never been a reason not to do what I can — a principle I’ve carried with me for years.
So I packed my bags, grabbed my camera, and spent three days in Brumadinho with environmental engineer and close friend Amanda Araújo, listening to and photographing survivors of the dam collapse that occurred in January 2019.
What we present here is the result of hours of conversations with people who endured experiences no one should ever have to face. We listened as they cried, as they opened up to us — strangers — offering their time, their stories, their grief, and their anger.
I am deeply grateful to everyone who agreed to share their story with two women from São Paulo who arrived in Brumadinho knowing no one, knocking on doors and ready to listen. I hope the outcome of these interviews honors the trust of those who spoke to us, reaches others who are equally willing to listen, and contributes to the struggle of people who ask for nothing more — and nothing less — than the right to their own lives.
So let us begin with the part you may already know. At 12:28 p.m. on January 25, 2019, a tailings dam from an iron ore mine collapsed near the city of Brumadinho, releasing tens of millions of tons of waste. Like a tsunami of toxic sludge, it destroyed everything in its path.
The dam belonged to the mining company Vale and was located above the company’s cafeteria, killing 272 people. It became the deadliest workplace disaster in Brazil’s history, the second largest industrial disaster of the 21st century, and placed Brazil at the top of the global list of countries with the highest death toll in this type of “accident.”
“Accident”, deliberately in quotation marks, because the more accurate word would be crime. But we’ll get to that shortly.
The disaster in Brumadinho claimed 272 lives: children, mothers, fathers, siblings, friends — including two unborn children carried by pregnant women who did not survive the tragedy. Each of these victims left behind dozens of others in grief. Brumadinho is a small town, which means an entire community in mourning.
The images of the dam collapsing spread across the country that week. We heard the death toll, the number of missing, saw the interviews, the accusations. But, as so often happens, our collective memory shifted into self-preservation mode, and the story was slowly pushed aside. Today, the tragedy of Brumadinho is often treated as something distant, no longer capable of stirring the same outrage or sorrow. For those who lived through it, however, the tragedy never ends.
With this work, we seek to honor their pain — to remind them that they have not been forgotten, that we will continue to speak about Brumadinho, and that this story needs to keep being told. We propose a different approach from the coverage that followed the dam collapse: we want to tell the story through the voices of those who were there, who lost loved ones, who fell ill, and who survived to bear witness.
Only they truly know what they went through. That is why we believe they are the ones who must tell this story.
Natália de Oliveira
Teacher, born and raised in Brumadinho.
“I was at home on a Friday, watching a Netflix series, when messages suddenly started coming in on a WhatsApp group. One of them said, ‘the dam collapsed.’ I forwarded it to my sister, who worked at Vale, and kept going about my evening, just passing the messages along. The third message said it was here, in Córrego do Feijão. That’s when I sent my sister a voice note — and at that moment I noticed that the two messages I had sent earlier still hadn’t been delivered. I said, ‘Lé, please, for the love of God, call me,’ and that’s when the anguish began.
I called my sister’s boys, I spoke to Luis Eduardo, my youngest nephew, and told him, ‘Go to Vale, pick up your brother and the car, and see what your mom needs.’ I went out, and walking down the street felt like being inside a horror film: shop owners were pulling down their shutters, people were throwing things into their cars, leaving, saying the dam had collapsed and was headed toward Brumadinho.
I remember running toward the town center. People who knew me were screaming, ‘Natália, don’t go downtown. turn back, go back!’ But I kept going. All the bridges were blocked, and people there were saying the mud would take everything in its path. Downtown Brumadinho looked like a war zone.
I decided it was better to go to my mother’s house. Someone would tell her anyway, and she’s 78 years old. When I arrived, she already knew, everyone knew. They were telling her to turn on the television, and everyone was trapped in that same state of anguish.
From that day on, we started searching for my sister. The silence was overwhelming. She was very well known here, and people kept calling, asking if we had any news. We had nothing to tell them.
I remember managing to speak with Betinho’s sister, Betinho is a Vale employee who survived. He worked in the same room as my sister. When I asked about him, she said, ‘Betinho has been in touch. He answered the phone. He can’t come back yet, but he’s okay.’ When I asked what Betinho had said about Lé, she couldn’t answer. There was such a deep silence that, in that moment, I understood my sister had died.
Everyone in my mother’s house was still holding on to hope. When my husband arrived, I broke down, crying uncontrollably, saying, ‘Lecilda is dead. Lecilda is dead.’ He asked who had confirmed it, and I said:
‘The silence.’ ”
Lecilda, Natália’s sister, is one of the ten people who remain missing to this day. Her family never truly received the confirmation of her death.
“Everyone you talk to here has a story. Everyone lost a friend, lost a relative. I lost at least ten close friends, people I saw every day, not counting the others you’d play soccer with on the weekend, or run into at a party. All in all, around 150 people: friends, acquaintances, family.
And what does it feel like to bury one friend in the morning, another in the afternoon, and then have another funeral waiting for you the next day?
That’s what we lived through.”
- Breno Renato Coelho
“I have a little boy who’s six and a daughter who’s twelve. How do you explain something like this to them? To this day, any rain, any noise at all, and they panic.
Here, in many cases we buried only a leg, a foot, a shoulder. We stayed there, and helicopters kept arriving, over and over, with nets full of body parts. They would bring them in and lay them out on the football field right there. You could see heads, legs, feet. Pieces of bodies covered in mud. It was madness.
Today, everyone here is in therapy. Both my children are, they’re six and twelve.
On that one stretch of street only, right by my house, my wife’s cousin died, he was a friend of ours — along with the neighbour across the street and the one above us. Just that small area. So yes, it was truly a nightmare. And this place was left behind. All that media attention, all of it was at the beginning. And then they forgot.”
- Alessandro de Jesus Alves
Clique play para ouvir parte do áudio de Alessandro
“For them, it’s just numbers.
It’s not Mr. João, or Mrs. Maria.
It’s bizarre, but that’s the logic.”
- Marcelo, activist for MAM
“No one has ever come knocking on our door to talk to us, to see what we need, how we’re doing. Those Vale commercials are pure hypocrisy, full of lies. You can go door to door and ask. They’ve never been here. Not once. No one ever came. The only support we get from Vale is the water and that emergency payment they give to the whole region.
Psychological support? I’m the one who had to look for a psychiatrist, and I’m the one who pays for it. Vale doesn’t want to know. Vale is nothing like what they say on television. Those of us who live here know that. […] No one does anything to help us.
The water was affected, and they give us bottled water every week. But for bathing, brushing our teeth, and cooking, we use the contaminated water. We’re afraid, we don’t feel safe, but what are we supposed to do?”
- Alessandro de Jesus Alves
Paraopeba river
The dam collapse also affected the Paraopeba River, which was overtaken by a tsunami of mud and toxic waste, effectively killing it. Two years after the tragedy, the SOS Mata Atlântica team analysed the condition of the river and detected iron, manganese, and copper at levels far above the maximum limits allowed by law. Before the dam collapse, cities along the Paraopeba River relied on its waters for supply. Today, Vale provides potable water to residents throughout the region so they do not drink water from the contaminated river.
However, it is this same water that residents continue to use for cooking, bathing, and brushing their teeth. Coincidence or not, since then, cases of various illnesses have begun to appear among the local population. “Several people have reported rashes on their bodies, bacterial stomach infections, and itching when they bathe. Since December, a large part of the community has suffered from diarrhea, vomiting, and severe abdominal pain,” a resident told G1.
Marcelo e Sara
Activists for MAM.
“Respiratory problems, skin conditions, depression, a dengue outbreak like never before. These people are not officially counted as affected by the dam collapse, but these are things that had never happened here before. It dismantled the entire ecosystem of the region.
There are impacts we will only be able to measure 20 or 30 years from now, when we see the imbalance in the ecosystem.”
Mrs. Ana was telling us that you noticed major changes in people’s health here since the dam collapsed.
“Drastically. These heavy metals, we are inhaling them. You don’t even notice it, but we are. In plant irrigation, it’s unavoidable. We’ve seen it clearly. Respiratory issues are overwhelming. We’ve suffered a lot because of that.
There were people with severe wounds. Even if someone doesn’t have direct contact with the water, they inhale it and are affected anyway.”
- Rogério Gregorio da Silva
Rogério Gregório da Silva
Coordinator of the Health Sector at the Pátria Livre Camp, along the Paraopeba River.
“Look at the condition that woman’s leg was left in. We referred her to a clinical dermatologist, and the conclusion was that it was caused by heavy metals.”
“How do you explain to a child that their father died because of irresponsible decisions made by strangers?
Because it wasn’t an accident. They knew the risk.
The stories are disturbing. The press doesn’t tell them.
About the level of responsibility involved in keeping the entire operation running, knowing the risks.”
- Breno Renato Coelho
AND DID VALE
REALLY KNOW?
One thing we heard from nearly everyone we interviewed in Brumadinho was that Vale knew the dam would collapse at any moment, yet deliberately chose to do nothing, knowingly placing hundreds of lives at risk.
Before diving fully into this issue, a brief technical and historical overview is necessary. I promise it will be quick. As we know, mining involves, among other things, extracting minerals from beneath the earth’s surface. Brazil is considered one of the countries with the greatest mineral potential in the world, and it is no coincidence that the country’s relationship with mining dates back centuries, to the arrival of the Portuguese in search of gold in the countryside. Today, Brazil has thousands of mines, most of them located in the state of Minas Gerais. The name of the state is no accident.
Since the discovery of the riches beneath our soil, mining has formed the backbone of the local economy in Minas Gerais. It is because of mining that we have computers, cosmetics, roads, metal structures, and countless other products.
In the process of extracting ore, waste materials must be stored somewhere, and this is the function of tailings dams. There are several types and construction methods for dams. The one that collapsed in Brumadinho, at the Córrego do Feijão mine, followed a model known as upstream raising. In simple terms, it functions like a lake of mud and toxic waste that grows vertically over time. Of all existing dam designs, this is considered the most dangerous, with the highest risk of failure.
It is also the cheapest.
Still used in Brazil, this model has been banned in several countries precisely for safety reasons. The Brumadinho dam was already classified as being at risk, and this is where the situation becomes even more troubling:
In the year prior to the collapse, Vale hired a third-party company, Tractebel, to inspect the dam and assess its safety. The inspection concluded that the dam was not safe and that corrective measures were necessary. Vale then dismissed the company and hired a second firm, Tuv Sud, to conduct a new inspection. This second report declared the dam to be safe.
There is more. Before the collapse, Vale had also produced its own financial risk assessment, which indicated a probability of dam failure above acceptable levels and estimated a potential cost to the company of US$1.5 billion. In other words, Vale not only knew the dam was at risk, but also calculated the financial impact of a collapse and concluded that it would be cheaper for the dam to fail than to repair it.
When we ask whether the tragedy could have been foreseen, the answer is not only yes, but that it actually was foreseen. There are documents that prove this. However, in Brazil, mining companies wield enormous power. They invest heavily in the legislative and executive branches, finance political campaigns, and exert control over public institutions. In a country where accountability is fragile, they end up shaping the rules themselves.
This is economic power placing itself above political authority, and above human life.
The purpose of this work is not to oppose mining itself. It cannot be denied that mining is essential to socioeconomic development. The intention here is to question how it is being carried out. The questions that remain are clear: Are the necessary safeguards being taken? Are human life and the environment being treated as priorities? Do the benefits mining brings to the country outweigh its costs?
“The numbers are against us, but we refuse to say that no one is missing, because they were there. The last information I have about my sister is that she was in the cafeteria, having lunch. She went to work and never returned. By now, she’s worked around sixteen thousand hours of overtime.”
- Natália de Oliveira
“We wake up every day without them, and we go to sleep without them. Dona Arlete says we sleep to forget, and wake up to relive the nightmare. In every good moment and every bad one, my sister was there. I never imagined a single day of my life without her. She was healthy, she didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, she did everything right. It felt like she was going to live forever. It’s unbearable because her absence is constant. I want the entire world to know.
I speak for Lecilda, but I also speak for Eva, Renato’s mother; for Luciano, Natália’s father; for Juliana’s parents, whose daughter was also never found; for Seu João Miguel, Luís’s father; and for the families of all the others, all these precious lives that have yet to be found. I carry them all in my heart. No one should have a family member who was abandoned. We represent the families who cannot attend the meetings, who cannot speak. It’s incredibly hard, but what I tell everyone is this: I will not be silent. I will not stop. I will go as far as I am able to go.”
- Natália de Oliveira
“Mining today is not geared toward meeting the needs of society. For example, we mine far more than we actually need. That’s the first point. China, which is the main buyer, is purchasing from Vale and stockpiling, because prices are favorable now. What if they go up later? In other words, this is not mining to meet an immediate need of the population.
Another question is: what does this leave us in terms of social return? The ore is ours. It belongs to the Brazilian people. It is our ground, literally our ground, that is being shipped off to China and the United States. And what is left for us? Nothing.
And even if we accept that we cannot live without mining, we must understand that there are areas that must be off-limits. Not every place can be mined. We need to establish environmental and social criteria that define territories where mining cannot exist. There should be no mining on Indigenous lands, near quilombola communities, close to major river basins, or near cities.”
- Marcelo, ativista pelo MAM
“Another battle is to end the Kandir Law, which exempts all primary products destined for export from ICMS, the tax levied on goods. What does that have to do with mining? Ore is classified as a primary product. When it is exported, the state collects almost nothing.
No money comes back.”
- Sara, ativista pelo MAM
“If we were a serious country, after Brumadinho we would have paused mining activities and reexamined the entire system. That didn’t happen. Instead, 595 new mining processes were approved. It increased.
In January, when the dam collapsed, iron ore was priced at around US$72 per ton. It closed last year at US$96. In other words, they are making enormous profits. Based on Vale’s market value on the São Paulo stock exchange in October of last year, just a few months after the collapse, the company had already recovered the losses it suffered. So yes, they are making a lot of money off this.”
- Marcelo, ativista pelo MAM
AND WHAT HAS BEEN DONE SO FAR?
As previously mentioned, Vale provides bottled water to all residents in the affected region and pays a monthly stipend equivalent to one minimum wage to each person living in the impacted area. Compensation for families, however, is more complex. Vale offered payments ranging from R$150,000 to R$850,000, depending on the degree of kinship. Some families accepted the offer, while others chose to file lawsuits seeking higher compensation. As a result, each case has followed a different path. More recently, Brazil’s Regional Labor Court of the 3rd Region (TRT-3) ordered Vale to pay R$1 million in moral damages for each worker killed in the dam collapse.
Beyond these measures, earlier this year Vale and the government of Minas Gerais reached an agreement under which the company committed to paying R$37.68 billion in reparations for the damages caused by the collapse. However, a significant portion of this sum will be allocated to infrastructure projects such as metro improvements and the construction of a ring road in Belo Horizonte, the capital. This means that not all of the funds will be directed to Brumadinho itself, and a considerable share will likely end up under the control of political actors far removed from the affected community.
It is also important to note that Vale is the most valuable company in Latin America, valued at US$103.8 billion on April 27, 2021, and the second-largest mining company in the world, behind only Australia’s BHP Billiton. Just one year after the Brumadinho tragedy, Vale had fully recovered its market value and returned to profitability.
Less than a year after the disaster, the company announced it would distribute R$7.25 billion in profits and dividends to its shareholders. This amount is more than double the R$2.8 billion that Vale had, up to that point, reported spending on compensation, donations, and emergency assistance. After the Mariana disaster, for example, Vale paid US$25 million to U.S. investors who filed lawsuits over losses caused by the dam collapse. Vale’s directors, including four executives who held leadership positions at the time of the disaster and were later charged with aggravated homicide, received R$19 million in performance-based compensation in 2019, the year of the tragedy.
Hearing figures quoted in dollars, and seeing millions paid to foreign shareholders or invested in infrastructure projects, while compensation for each worker killed is limited to R$1 million (reais), is deeply unsettling. It is disturbing to watch mothers, fathers, children, siblings, and spouses of victims forced to fight in court for minimally fair compensation, forced to keep working to survive after losing loved ones in such a violent way, while the company responsible continues to generate billions in profits.
Brazil’s National Mining Agency (ANM), the body responsible for overseeing dam safety, requires a stability declaration as part of its safety controls. However, this declaration must be issued by a third-party audit firm hired by the mining company itself, just as Vale hired Tractebel and later Tuv Sud. In other words, the risk of corruption and fraud is embedded in the system from the outset. Besides that, studies ranked Brazilian public agencies by their susceptibility to fraud and corruption, and have placed the ANM second on that list.
Meanwhile, as you read this report, Minas Gerais still has more than 400 abandoned mines, many considered “time bombs,” and Vale remains the owner of the majority of mining dams currently under embargo in Brazil. Residents living near these high-risk structures describe the feeling as living beside an active volcano, one that could erupt at any moment, and likely will. The question is no longer whether another Brumadinho will happen in the near future, but when.
Anastacia do Carmo Silva
Cleiton Luiz Moreira Silva, her son, was one of the victims of the dam collapse.
“I’ve always been open to giving interviews, and I’ve always spoken out because… my son is gone, there’s nothing to be done about that. But sometimes what I say can reach other mothers or people who are going through what I’m going through, and with the world watching, maybe something will be done to prevent this from happening again. In a way, I am the voice of my son and of others who no longer have the right to speak. So I try to express what my son would express. The sadness of seeing impunity, and knowing that those with money can kill and nothing happens.
It’s a feeling of hatred, of anger. Why? It wasn’t an accident. If it were an accident, I would suffer too, but it wasn’t an accident — it was homicide. And yet no one is jailed, no one is truly charged. People are indicted for nothing, receiving profit shares, receiving money. And we, the families, get these crumbs. I, for example, received nothing. Vale humiliates us by killing our family member, and then humiliates us even more by paying this pittance, while in the U.S. shareholders received $25 million, someone else got $12 million to compensate for this ‘accident.’ And us? We are the family. We lost our loved ones. We will never have them back. The life of someone who literally gave their blood for that company is worth nothing. Vale humiliates us constantly.
It’s not like money will bring our loved ones back, but I, for example, went a year and a half without being able to work. I had to return to work out of financial necessity.
Press play to hear part of Anastacia narration (pt)
Vale always told the world: ‘Safety and life first.’ It’s all a lie. Safety and life were never first. For them, money is what matters, profit is what matters — nothing else. Employees mean nothing. Today 272 die, tomorrow there are 500 more to work. For these big companies, killing is like stepping on an ant. You understand?
The sadness I feel thinking about these directors, knowing all the risks, while employees work innocently, unaware that at any moment a tsunami of mud would wipe out everyone — just like my son. My son suffered blunt polytrauma. He was identified through DNA. Do you know what it’s like not to even have a whole hand of your child to see? For a mother, it’s unbearable. To lose a child under these conditions, and to face this humiliation. These people have died in the most complete humiliation.
I'm a grain of sand in Vale’s shoe, but they are a knife lodged in my chest.”
272 people killed, an entire region shaken, an ecosystem destroyed, and consequences that will only truly be measurable in the decades to come. Of everything we have discussed so far about the nature of this tragedy, let one point be clear: this is not a story about an industrial accident. It was not an accident. This is a story of corporate negligence toward human life. It is a story about how economic power outweighs responsibility, about humanity’s disregard for our natural resources, and about Vale’s indifference to the pain it has caused — and continues to cause — over the years.
Like Natália, we cannot stop speaking out about what happened. And like Anastacia, we may be just grains of sand in Vale’s shoe, but by fighting and sharing this story, we can raise awareness and try to prevent it from happening again.
We will not forget. Brazil cannot forget Brumadinho.
Adail dos Santos Junior
Adair Custodio Rodrigues
Ademário Bispo
Adilson Saturnino de Souza
Adnilson da Silva do Nascimento
Adriano Aguiar Lamounier
Adriano Caldeira do Amaral
Adriano Gonçalves dos Anjos
Adriano Junio Braga
Adriano Wagner da Cruz de Oliveira
Alaércio Lucio Ferreira
Alano Reis Teixeira
Alex Rafael Piedade
Alexis Adriano da Silva
Alexis Cesar Jesus Costa
Alisson Pessoa Damasceno
Amanda de Araújo Silva
Amarina de Lourdes Ferreira
Amauri Geraldo da Cruz
Anailde Souza Pereira
Anderson Luiz da Silva
André Luiz Almeida Santos
Andrea Ferreira Lima
Angelita Cristiane Freitas de Assis
Angelo Gabriel da Silva Lemos
Anízio Coelho dos Santos
Antonio Fernandes Ribas
Armando da Silva Roggi Grissi
Bruna Lelis de Campos
Bruno Eduardo Gomes
Bruno Rocha Rodrigues
Camila Aparecida da Fonseca Silva
Camila Santos de Faria
Camila Taliberti Ribeiro da Silva
Camilo de Lelis do Amaral
Carla Borges Pereira
Carlos Augusto dos Santos Pereira
Carlos Eduardo de Souza
Carlos Eduardo Faria
Carlos Henrique de Faria
Carlos Roberto da Silva
Carlos Roberto da Silveira
Carlos Roberto Deusdedit
Carlos Roberto Pereira
Cassia Regina Santos Souza
Cassio Cruz Silva Pereira
Claudio Leandro Rodrigues Martins
Claudio Marcio dos Santos
Claudio Pereira Silva
Cleidson Aparecido Moreira
Cleiton Luiz Moreira Silva
Cristiane Antunes Campos
Cristiano Braz Dias
Cristiano Jorge Dias
Cristiano Serafim Ferreira
Cristiano Vinicius Oliveira de Almeida
Cristina Paula da Cruz Araújo
Daiana Caroline Silva Santos
Daniel Guimaraes Almeida Abdalla
Davyson Christhian Neves
Denilson Rodrigues
Dennis Augusto da Silva
Diego Antonio de Oliveira
Diomar Custódia dos Santos Silva
Dirce Dias Barbosa
Edeni do Nascimento
Edimar da Conceição de Melo Sales
Edionio José dos Reis
Edirley Antonio Campos
Edson Rodrigues dos Santos
Edymayra Samara Rodrigues Coelho
Egilson Pereira de Almeida
Eliane de Oliveira Melo
Eliane Nunes Passos
Eliveltom Mendes Santos
Elizabete de Oliveira Espindola Reis
Elizeu Caranjo de Freitas
Elis Marina da Costa
Emerson Jose da Silva Augusto
Eridio Dias
Eudes José de Souza Cardoso
Everton Guilherme Ferreira Gomes
Everton Lopes Ferreira
Fabricio Henriques da Silva
Fabricio Lucio Faria
Fauller Douglas da Silva Miranda
Felipe José de Oliveira Almeida
Fernanda Batista do Nascimento
Fernanda Cristhiane da Silva
Flaviano Fialho
Francis Erick Soares
George Conceição de Oliveira
Geraldo de Medeiro Filho
Gilmar José da Silva
Giovani Paulo da Costa
Gisele Moreira da Cunha
Gislene Conceição Amaral
Glayson Leandro da Silva
Gustavo Sousa Júnior
Heitor Prates Máximo da Cunha
Helbert Vilhena Santos
Hermínio Ribeiro Lima Filho
Hernane Junior Morais Elias
Hugo Maxs Barbosa
Icaro Douglas Alves
Janice Helena do Nascimento
Jhobert Donanne Gonçalves Mendes
João Paulo Altino
João Paulo de Almeida Borges
João Paulo Ferreira Amorim Valadão
João Paulo Pizzani Valadares Mattar
João Tomaz de Oliveira
Joiciane de Fátima dos Santos
Jonatas Lima Nascimento
Jonis André Nunes
Jorge Luiz Ferreira
José Carlos Domeneguete
Josiane de Souza Santos
Josué Oliveira da Silva
Juliana Creizimar de Resende Silva
Juliana Esteves da Cruz Aguiar
Juliana Parreiras Lopes
Julio Cesar Teixeira Santiago
Jussara Ferreira dos Passos Silva
Kátia Aparecida da Silva
Kátia Gisele Mendes
Lays Gabrielle de Souza Soares
Leandro Antônio Silva
Leandro Rodrigues da Conceição
Lecilda de Oliveira
Lenilda Cavalcante Andrade
Lenilda Martins Cardoso Diniz
Leonardo da Silva Godoy
Leonardo Pires de Souza
Letícia Mara Anízio de Almeida
Letícia Rosa Ferreira Arrudas
Levi Gonçalves da Silva
Lourival Dias da Rocha
Luciana Ferreira Alves
Luciano de Almeida Rocha
Lucio Rodrigues Mendanha
Luis Felipe Alves
Luis Paulo Caetano
Luiz Carlos Silva Reis
Luiz Cordeiro Pereira
Luiz de Oliveira Silva
Luiz Taliberti Ribeiro da Silva
Manoel Messias Sousa Araújo
Marciano de Araujo Severino
Marciel de Oliveira Arantes
Marciléia da Silva Prado
Márcio Coelho Barbosa Mascarenhas
Márcio de Freitas Grilo
Márcio Flávio da Silva
Márcio Flávio da Silveira Filho
Marcio Paulo Barbosa Pena Mascarenhas
Marco Aurélio Santos Barcelos
Marcus Tadeu Ventura do Carmo
Maria de Lurdes da Costa Bueno
Marlon Rodrigues Gonçalves
Martinho Ribas
Maurício Lauro de Lemos
Max Elias de Medeiros
Milton Xisto de Jesus
Miramar Antonio Sobrinho
Moisés Moreira de Sales
Natalia Fernanda da Silva Andrade
Nathalia de Oliveira Porto Araujo
Nilson Dilermando Pinto
Ninrode de Brito Nascimento
Noé Sanção Rodrigues
Noel Borges
Olavo Henrique Coelho
Olímpio Gomes Pinto
Paulo Geovane dos Santos
Paulo Natanael de Oliveira
Pedro Bernardino de Sena
Peterson Firmino Nunes Ribeiro
Priscila Elen Silva
Rafael Mateus de Oliveira
Ramon Junior Pinto
Rangel do Carmo Januário
Reginaldo da Silva
Reinaldo Gonçalves
Renato Eustáquio de Sousa
Renato Rodrigues da Silva
Renato Vieira Caldeira
Renildo Aparecido do Nascimento
Ricardo Eduardo da Silva
Ricardo Henrique Veppo Lara
Robert Ruan Teodoro
Rodney Sander Paulino de Oliveira
Rodrigo Henrique de Oliveira
Rodrigo Miranda dos Santos
Rodrigo Monteiro Costa
Roliston Teds Pereira
Ronnie Von Olair da Costa
Rosaria Dias da Cunha
Roselia Alves Rodrigues Silva
Rosiane Sales Souza Ferreira
Rosilene Ozorio Pizzani Mattar
Samara Cristina dos Santos Souza
Samuel da Silva Barbosa
Sandro Andrade Goncalves
Sérgio Carlos Rodrigues
Sueli de Fátima Marcos
Thiago Leandro Valentim
Thiago Mateus Costa
Tiago Barbosa da Silva
Tiago Coutinho do Carmo
Tiago Tadeu Mendes da Silva
Uberlândio Antônio da Silva
Vagner Nascimento da Silva
Valdeci de Sousa Medeiros
Vinicius Henrique Leite Ferreira
Walaci Junhior Candido da Silva
Walisson Eduardo da Paixão
Wanderson Carlos Pereira
Wanderson de Oliveira Valeriano
Wanderson Paulo da Silva
Warley Gomes Marques
Warley Lopes Moreira
Weberth Ferreira Sabino
Wellington Alvarenga Benigno
Wellington Campos Rodrigues
Wenderson Ferreira Passos
Weslei Antonio Belo
Wesley Antonio das Chagas
Wesley Eduardo de Assis
Wilson José da Silva
Wiryslan Vinicius Andrade de Souza
Zilber Lage de Oliveira
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All reporting, photography, and layout were produced by Amanda Areias and Amanda Araújo.