Behind the scenes: The world’s deadliest countries for environmental activists

This post is also available in: Español

Defending the planet isn’t just hard work. It can also be extremely dangerous, especially in Latin America.

In 2023, 196 land and environmental defenders were murdered around the world – the vast majority of them in Latin American countries.

In fact, just four countries – Brazil, Colombia, Honduras and Mexico – accounted for over 70 percent of those killings.

Colombia was by far the deadliest country, with 79 murders, followed by Brazil, with 25.

Latin America has long been a lethal region for those working to safeguard rivers, forests and Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples from corporate interests, organized crime groups and often the state.

We spoke with some of these brave activists to learn more about the threats they face, how they stay safe and how Colombia and Brazil are working to keep them alive.

In Brazil’s quilombolas, a constant state of siege

“When we recognized ourselves and declared ourselves a quilombo, our peace was over”, recalls Elza,* a Brazilian Quilombola leader in her late 50s.

In December 2008, she was shot and injured in an attack that killed her brother and sister. Since then, she hasn’t left her home alone – not even for a walk in her own territory, one of the 11 urban quilombos in Porto Alegre, the capital of Rio Grande do Sul in southern Brazil.

Quilombos are Afro-Brazilian communities that were originally founded by escaped slaves in colonial times.

Today, they are officially defined as “ethno-racial groups that, by self-definition, have their own historical trajectory, maintain specific territorial relations and are presumed to have Black ancestry related to resistance against historical oppression.”

Brazil has recognized quilombos in its constitution since 1988, but the process of gaining legal recognition is time-consuming and often fraught with obstacles.

Elza’s community was officially designated a quilombo in 2005, but only after its residents agreed to give up half their territory.

Ever since, they’ve been battling gangs and real estate speculators who want control of the same 58 hectares of land they call home.

In 2022, they once again came under attack. Armed men showed up at their door in an attempt to take over a housing project under construction in the quilombo, which had been put on hold due to a dispute with the bank financing it.

Once again, the community managed to fend off the invasion, which garnered substantial media attention as universities, activist groups and other quilombos rallied around them.

After the attack, police stepped up surveillance and patrols in the area, and the bank agreed to release the remaining funds, allowing the housing project to be completed. 

Elza and her family are cautious when speaking to the media for fear of attracting unwanted attention, but she hasn’t lost her sense of humor.

“My daughter keeps saying she will buy me armor so I can walk around the quilombo again like I used to”, she jokes.

Elza and her daughter, Carolina,* live under the protection of the Brazilian government, which has a program to safeguard human rights defenders, environmentalists and communicators.

Carolina, who is in her early 40s, takes medication to deal with the constant danger. She believes the threats against their community are partially rooted in racism.

“We have our Black identity here, so that’s why they want us to vanish from this territory,” she says.

“What helped us move on was my young cousins – the children of my uncles who were murdered”, she recalls, reflecting on the aftermath of the 2008 massacre and how it changed her community.

The family view themselves as land defenders rather than environmental activists. “I never saw myself as an environmentalist,” Elza explains.

“I just defend my territory, the place where I was born and live. I always intuitively had to do it.”

Is activism too dangerous for young people?

Jesús Pinilla is a 26-year-old Afro-Colombian activist from a small community in the Chocó Department in western Colombia.

He is a member of the Network of Young Guardians of the Atrato, a group composed of 36 young people defending the Atrato River – considered the mightiest river in Colombia.

Back in 2016, the Atrato was the first Colombian river to be given legal rights. Enforcing those rights are a group of 10 guardians, along with the Young Guardians, who are embroiled in a constant battle against mining companies exploiting the river’s waters.

Pinilla works as an environmental educator. He first became an environmental activist at the age of 14, but he fears that the risks often drive young people away from climate and environmental movements in Colombia.

“Some of them are afraid to get started in activism because of that”, he points out.

“I feel the lack of safety is an issue, especially for many young people. We want to work for the environment, but we don’t see any support from the government.”

While Pinilla has never personally felt any threats to his life, he says illegal mining has created conflicts with local communities and activists in his region. 

In particular, some mining companies use heavy machinery that pollutes the river, affecting both wildlife and local people who depend on it.

One of the ways he aims to raise awareness among children and teenagers is by working with art, and music. He composes alabados – popular chants used at ceremonies – to teach them about the importance of preserving the Atrato River.

“My community is located by the river, so we are constantly dealing with it on a daily basis,” he says. “We depend on it for our basic needs.”

The weak arm of the law

Both the Brazilian and Colombian governments have programs to protect environmentalists and human rights defenders. But policing isn’t enough: policymakers must also address the root causes of the problem, which are unique to each country.

In Colombia, guerillas, paramilitaries and drug cartels have been involved in an armed conflict against the state and each other since 1964. 

This context adds an extra dimension to the country’s current land conflicts, which are driven by illegal mining, logging and the expansion of agriculture for cattle ranching.

“When combined with the interests of communities, the internal armed conflict becomes even more dangerous,” says Leonardo González Perafán, director of the Institute for Development and Peace Studies (Indepaz) in the capital, Bogotá.

“That’s when actions against environmental defenders and communities come into play,” he explains, adding that environmental conflicts often occur in countries with abundant mineral resources.

In most cases, communities are forced to self-organize to ensure their own safety due to the absence of the state.

“They provide self-protection through Indigenous or campesino [farmer] guards,” he explains. 

The communities have also developed communication strategies to share information with each other, as well as with the authorities and other organizations.

But as long as the armed conflict persists, it will be very difficult for the government to tackle systemic threats against environmental defenders, especially in areas where it has little authority, says Franklin Castañeda, director of human rights at Colombia’s Ministry of the Interior.

Castañeda explains that more than 15,000 people are currently protected under the National Protection Unit (UNP), which aims to ensure the safety of members of Congress, mayors, journalists, human rights defenders, community leaders and other individuals facing threats due to their work.

The majority – around 9,000 – of these people are social leaders, including environmental defenders. The UNP provides them with security measures such as bulletproof vests, private escorts, armored vehicles or other measures as deemed necessary on a case-by-case basis.

Still, Castañeda emphasizes that individual measures are a last resort. The government has also invested in prevention, such as ensuring that the military and police are not involved in illegal activities.

“Nowadays, we have no records – or, at most, minimal records – linking state actors to actions against environmentalists,” he says.

Another measure has been to expand dialogue between the government and social movements. This aims to reduce the stigma against land and environmental defenders, who are often seen as threats to governments and corporations due to their activism.

Despite these efforts, Castañeda concedes that there is still plenty of work to be done to address the structural drivers of conflict, such as high levels of socioeconomic inequality.

“Most of the territories where social conflicts arise are the least developed ones that the government still cannot reach.”

He says these areas will need internet access, highways and other infrastructure to improve the government’s ability to ensure safety and the rule of law.

Defending Brazil’s defenders

In Brazil, the main drivers of conflict are deforestation, illegal mining, real estate speculation and the expansion of agriculture.

In response, the government is supporting 1,304 people through the Program for the Protection of Human Rights Defenders, Communicators and Environmentalists (PPDDH), linked to the Ministry of Human Rights and Citizenship. 

Many of these protected people are Indigenous, Quilombolas or members of other traditional communities, including Elza and Carolina.

The program’s coordinator, Igo Martini, emphasizes the importance of listening to the communities to respond quickly to their protection needs. 

Last year, it carried out 54 public consultations to devise a National Plan to address threats to these communities. But Martini also points out the need to address the root causes rather than merely deploying the police.

“If we don’t solve the underlying causes, the program will continue for another 20 or 40 years just responding to emergencies,” he warns. “A movement from the states is also necessary, not just from the federal government.”

“We need to strengthen agencies, monitoring systems and prevention systems, like the Brazilian Institute of the Environment and Renewable Natural Resources (Ibama), for example.”

The PPDDH operates in three areas: state protection, justice protection and collective protection.

While state and justice protection are offered by the police and courts respectively, collective protection involves strengthening communities and providing them with the tools to communicate with each other and report threats to the authorities to safeguard their territory.

This doesn’t mean shifting the responsibility to communities to protect themselves. “But once they are organized, they can pass information more quickly to the authorities and police,” says Martini.

Back in Porto Alegre, local police routinely carry out patrols around Elza and Carolina’s quilombo. Still, the family lives in constant fear of another invasion.

“But what can I say?” Elza shrugs. “We are not going to give up.”

After all, says Carolina, it’s important to remember the bigger picture.

“We can’t deny our stories of pain, but we can still prevent more stories of pain.”

*Names have been changed