Vanity Fair UK April2020

THE MASSACRE

Brazilian police patrol the Santa Lucia farm (opposite and below left) after

officers opened fire on squatters in 2017, killing 10. That year, Brazil had

more murders over land disputes than any other country. A relative of one of

the victims, at the funeral in the nearby town of Redenção (below right).

As the years dragged on, the squatters grew tired of their

leader, a man named Ronaldo da Silva Santos, who seemed

more interested in enriching himself than in helping the land-

less. “Every Sunday he would hold a meeting to raise money,”

recalls Fernando Araujo, a member of the sem terra movement

who participated in every occupation at Santa Lucia. “At the time

there were about 150 families in the occupation, and he’d ask

for money from all of us. He would leave with all this money in

a suitcase and say it was for meetings with lawyers.”

In 2017 , frustrated by their lack of progress in the courts, the

families †red Santos and held a meeting to †nd a new leader.

One of the squatters raised his hand. He knew of someone with

experience leading occupations. It was his aunt, Jane de Oliveira.

the settlement with legal assistance. “She was meeting with gov-

ernment oŠcials, holding meetings with hundreds of people.

She liked the respect, and being known as a leader.”

When the squatters at Santa Lucia elected Oliveira to lead

their occupation, she promised that things would change. Work-

ing with Vargas, she set out to prove that the farm was located on

public land and the deeds proving ownership were fake. Rather

OLIVEIRA HAD ADMIRED

THE SEM TERRA

MOVEMENT FOR YEARS.

Her husband, Tonho, had grown up along the BR 155 , and like

many young men he had started working for the large landown-

ers, known as colonels. His brother Lico, a hired gunman for

local ranchers, had even worked for the late Honorato Babinski,

running squatters o’ the land.

In 2012 , a friend of Tonho’s named Celso invited Oliveira to

visit a sem terra settlement on the outskirts of Redenção. Cov-

ering 1 , 200 acres, it sat on the abandoned property of a tannery,

which had been shut down for operating without a license.

Celso needed Oliveira’s help. He didn’t belong to any organi-

zation of landless workers, and he didn’t know how to petition

the courts for legal guardianship of the land they’d occupied.

Oliveira agreed to pitch in. Together they created a settlement

called Nova Conquista, or New Conquest, which soon grew to

156 families. Each squatter farmed a small plot of land and took

part in communal work, building fences and sharing supplies.

Oliveira, who dreamed of starting a farm with Tonho, fell in love

with her new role. “She had never been involved in politics, in

this sort of community organizing, and I think it gave her a sense

of purpose,” recalls Jose Vargas, a young attorney who provided

than pocketing money raised by the squatters, she used it to buy

food and repair shacks built on the property. In the four months

she led the encampment, its population grew to 180 families.

“Jane was very charismatic and very energetic,” says Ana

Lucia, Lico’s wife. “She had a way of making you believe the

impossible could happen, and that her cause was right.”

But Oliveira also had her critics. Some in the sem terra

movement considered her too confrontational, relying on out-

dated tactics that only heightened tensions. That March, after

a judge once again ruled in favor of the Babinski family, she

led a protest of 170 people to block the BR 155 , preventing soy

and cattle trucks from passing. She agreed to call o’ the block-

ade only when the head of the civil police, Antonio Miranda,

approached her on the road and made her a deal: If she would

clear the highway, he would delay the judge’s eviction order,

giving them time to †le an appeal.

A month later, however, Miranda broke his promise. Arriv-

ing at Santa Lucia, his men forcibly evicted the squatters,

burning their shacks and gardens. Miranda warned Oliveira

that the Babinski family had hired a private security œirm.

“They can act violently against you,” he told her. “And I can’t

do anything to stop them.”

Most of the squatters fled, scattering to towns along the

BR 155. But a small group stayed behind, setting up a new camp

on a back road considered public property.

The next day, žanked by armed guards, Santa Lucia’s owner

arrived at the camp. A tractor began to dig a trench, to prevent

the squatters from entering the farm.

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APRIL 2020