#favelas

Luis Cassiano is the founder of Teto Verde Favela, a nonprofit that teaches favela residents how to build their own green roofs as a way to beat the heat without overloading electrical grids or spending money on fans and air conditioners. He came across the concept over a decade ago while researching how to make his own home bearable during a particularly scorching summer in Rio.

Over the next 10 years, his nonprofit was born and green roofs started popping up around the Parque Arará community, on everything from homes and day care centers, to bus stops and food trucks.

Summer heat has been known to melt water tanks during the summer in Rio, which runs from December to March. Pictured is the water tank at Luis Cassiano's house. He covered the tank with bidim, a lightweight material conducive for plantings that will keep things cool.

Luis Cassiano outside his green-roofed home in Rio de Janeiro.

"When the elite build, they plan," says Cassiano. "They already consider putting green roofs on new buildings, and old buildings are built to code. But not in the favela. Everything here is old and goes up any way it can."

Without the oversight of engineers or architects, and made with everything from wood scraps and daub, to bricks and cinder blocks, construction in favelas can't necessarily bear the weight of all the layers of a conventional green roof.

That's where the bidim comes in. Lightweight and conducive to plant growth — the roofs are hydroponic, so no soil is needed — it was the perfect material to make green roofs possible in Parque Arará. (Cassiano reiterates that safety comes first with any green roof he helps build. An engineer or architect is always consulted before Teto Verde Favela starts a project.)

And it was cheap. Because of the bidim and the vinyl sheets used as waterproof screening (as opposed to the traditional asphalt blanket), Cassiano's green roofs cost just 5 Brazilian reais, or $1, per square foot. A conventional green roof can cost as much as 53 Brazilian reais, or $11, for the same amount of space.

Residents of Brazil’s poorest neighbourhoods say they see their struggles reflected in Israel’s treatment of Gaza.

Cosme Felippsen’s nephew was 17 years old when he was killed by Brazil’s military police in a Rio de Janeiro alley nicknamed the Gaza Strip.

“Almost every favela in Rio has an area residents call Gaza,” Felippsen said, pointing to the bullet holes along the alley walls. Residents have used the name for at least 15 years, he added. “It designates the area where most of the gunfire is concentrated at any given time.”

The neighbourhood where Felippsen’s nephew, José Vieira, died in 2017 is called Morro da Providência. It is one of hundreds of impoverished communities — or favelas — strewn across the city.

Activists and residents say the violence they have seen in the favelas has given them unique insight into the urban warfare currently unfolding in Gaza, a Palestinian territory under Israeli siege. And the parallels they perceive are motivating them to take action.

“Militarisation, armed groups executing inhabitants — many things that happen in Palestine also happen in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro,” said Felippsen, a local politician and tour guide who specialises in Black history.

Some places never really let you go, even when you wave goodbye at the airport as if you’re closing a chapter for good. The favelas of Rio de Janeiro, for me, are one of those places. I lived there long enough to understand that there’s no “final version” of what they are. They’re worlds that shift shape at every corner, depending on the hour, the light, the mood of the street. And when I think about them now, years after leaving Brazil, I realize how much my photos have changed… maybe even more than the favelas themselves.

Back when I lived in Rio, visiting the communities had become almost natural. The big ones like Rocinha, Complexo do Alemão, Vidigal… each with its own personality, rhythm, and soundtrack. I remember the tangled electric wires hanging overhead, the smell of churrasco mixed with exhaust fumes, the music bouncing off chipped walls. In the middle of that wild, beautiful chaos, I walked around with my camera, convinced I had to capture “everything.” I shot instinctively, without really asking myself what I was actually looking for.

When I look at those photos today, I can see a kind of haste I no longer feel. The curiosity was there, of course, but I didn’t yet understand the importance of the position I was photographing from. And that makes all the difference. Shooting in a favela isn’t like shooting in just any neighborhood: every image carries weight. Not just because of the subject, but because of the responsibility. Telling the story of a community that already carries so many stereotypes means being careful not to reinforce them out of laziness or superficiality.

The paradox is that, visually, favelas are irresistible. The light behaves in a strange way, squeezed between narrow alleys and improvised rooftops. The colors are never neutral: rust, bright blues, concrete, and the marks of time mix in a way no designer could recreate. And yet, today, visually “strong” photos wouldn’t be enough for me anymore. I’d look for images that tell a story without taking something away, that participate rather than extract.

If I went back now, I’d do it with a different kind of attention. I wouldn’t chase the dramatic shot—I’d look for the stories. I’d spend more time talking, listening. I’d look for the everyday moments: a woman rolling her hair at her doorstep, a child kicking a deflated ball, a young guy fixing a motorcycle in a dim alley. Small scenes I probably would have ignored back then, too focused on the idea of “documenting.”

With time, you realize that photography isn’t about having the right answer at the right moment. It’s about being present, and being respectful. Especially in places the world often insists on looking at from above. And maybe that’s what would draw me back today: the desire to photograph not just what I see, but what I’ve learned.

ZÉ PEQUENO / LIL ZÉ