Focus on Arts and Ecology

Kenyan researchers are working with local people to redesign homes and keep out the double threat of heat and mosquitoes. 

By Brian Obara, August 20, 2026

In many parts of Africa, keeping a window open can be a complicated decision.

It allows air to circulate, making it cooler and easier to sleep through increasingly hot nights. But it can also provide an entry point for mosquitoes carrying malaria.

For Daniel Kwaro, a climate and health scientist at the Kenya Medical Research Institute, this dilemma is a useful shorthand for the larger challenge facing vulnerable communities across the Global South.

Kwaro and his colleagues are supporting communities to strengthen their resilience to the changes already underway in Africa.

In this interview with Dialogue Earth, he discusses how they have involved communities in designing cooler houses that keep mosquitoes out.

The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Dialogue Earth: Why has your work concentrated on adaptation?

Daniel Kwaro: My overall goal is to build resilience among vulnerable populations and people without many resources. This is one of the parts of the world that suffers greatly from climate change. We say that so often that it can sound like a cliché, but it is true. We see it.

I do not feel that I have much influence over the people producing greenhouse gases. Where I feel I can contribute is in adaptation. We know climate change is already here. The question is what can we do about it? How can communities survive these crises and continue to thrive?

How is heat involved?

When it is very hot, people change their behaviour. They pace themselves so that they do not suffer from heat-related illness. On the coast of Kenya, for example, people may avoid physical work around midday and concentrate it in the early morning. The problem with climate change is that this cooler working window may continue to shrink.

Heat affects people through several pathways. There is the direct risk of heat-related illness, but there are also effects on sleep, recovery, movement and productivity.

When you sleep well, you recover and can be more productive the following day. Reducing the temperature inside the house may therefore have consequences beyond comfort.

How did that lead you to look at adapting houses?

We asked whether it was possible to resolve the tension between ventilation and mosquito protection. Both heat stress and malaria are climate-sensitive conditions. Through the window dilemma we can see clearly that you should not focus on only one problem when designing an intervention.

And how are you trying to resolve this tension?

We are renovating houses so that they can cool themselves passively, without electricity. We use reflective roofing so that radiant heat is reflected away from the house. We also provide windows for ventilation but add screening to prevent mosquitoes from entering.

We do not screen only the windows. We also screen the open eaves and the doors. At the entrance, there is a curtain-like screen that people can walk through and that closes behind them.

Essentially, the entire house is screened. That is completely different from the mosquito-net strategy.

How is whole-house screening better than bed nets?

Sometimes bed nets are distributed at a rate of perhaps two per household, even though the household may have four people.

There is also the question of timing. People may not go to bed until 10 pm, but mosquitoes may begin biting from around 6.30 pm. What protects people during the hours before they enter the net?

If the entire house is screened, mosquitoes do not get inside in the first place.

How did the communities shape the screening designs?

We held a workshop lasting roughly five days. After brainstorming possible solutions, participants developed physical prototypes. We gave them materials such as wooden planks, nails and other items they could use to build model houses. They worked in teams, deciding where windows should go, how large they should be, and what other features the houses required.

We analysed the prototypes and then held another co-creation workshop involving architects, engineers, the National Construction Authority, the Ministry of Health, and other experts. We showed them what the community wanted and asked, can you make this real?

The architects and engineers translated the community’s models into design specifications and architectural plans. They were improving on the community’s work, not starting from scratch. Many of the architects were impressed. They said they had learned a great deal from the community.

Does the same design work in every community?

The mechanism is the same: air can pass through, but mosquitoes cannot. The design, however, is different.

In coastal Kenya, humidity is very high, and people told us they wanted windows that remained open all the time but were permanently screened.

In Siaya, security was a greater concern. People wanted windows they could open and close. The screen therefore sits on one side while the window itself remains operable.

That difference is important. A standard solution would not necessarily work in both places.

What’s been the impact of the intervention so far?

In a pilot, we reduced indoor mosquito populations by about 70%. We also demonstrated a reduction in indoor temperature.

A larger study is intended to show what those environmental changes mean for people’s health and behaviour. We are looking at sleep quality, movement and heart rate, including data collected through wearable devices.

How have you tried to ensure things can continue beyond the trial?

The materials are locally available. That is very important because we do not want an intervention that cannot be implemented after the study ends.

We have also trained local artisans, the fundis who make and install the windows and other components. In addition, the curriculum in nearby vocational colleges has been updated so that students learning masonry and related trades are also taught about healthy housing and passive cooling.

Local fundis who are making the screened windows are already receiving interest from households outside the trial. People who are not participating in the research are asking for their services. That makes me happy because it suggests the intervention may be able to sustain itself through a business model.

What lessons can other places take from this success?

The main lesson is that climate-related health problems do not occur one at a time. An intervention that reduces one risk may unintentionally increase another.

Housing gives us an opportunity to address several risks together. But the solution cannot be developed only by scientists, architects or policymakers. It must also reflect the knowledge, preferences and aspirations of the people who will live in those houses.

The community may understand the climate better than the experts expect. However, the experts can then help translate that knowledge into something technically workable, safe and, of course, scalable.

The creation of the first Ministry of Indigenous Peoples heralded a new dawn for Indigenous rights in Brazil. But has it led to real change? 

By Kevin Damasio, August 13, 2026

When Sonia Guajajara was appointed leader of Brazil’s first Ministry of Indigenous Peoples in 2023, it was supposed to bring the Indigenous agenda to the centre of power.

In an interview with Dialogue Earth, she described it as an “historic act of redress” and a demonstration of the role of Indigenous peoples in strengthening Brazil’s democracy.

The creation of the Indigenous ministry was part of a broader strategy by the government of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva to reposition Brazil as a global climate leader, following the socioenvironmental setbacks of the previous administration. Last year, more than 5,000 Indigenous representatives took part in the UN climate change summit, COP30, held in Brazil’s Amazonian city of Belém, Pará state. Progress was made on key proposals, such as the demarcation of Indigenous lands.

Despite significant strides in protecting Indigenous lands and the environment, however, challenges remain. Illegal mining and extraction continue.

In this Brazilian election year, Dialogue Earth analyses whether the ministry’s creation has led to concrete results – and how this impacts Brazil’s ambitions to be a global climate leader.

Our analysis found:

● The Lula government demarcated 41 Indigenous territories, a significant increase from the previous, Bolsonaro government, but lower than during Lula’s first two terms.

● Deforestation in Indigenous territories reached 483 km2 in the year to July 2025, close to the record set in 2019.

● Approximately one fifth of civil servants at the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples come from Indigenous backgrounds, something which activists say has led to more Indigenous inclusion in policymaking.

Andreia Fanzeres, director of the Indigenous rights programme at Opan, an organisation that has worked on Indigenous issues for more than five decades, stated that these efforts had enabled Indigenous demands to reach more public and decision-making forums: “The voices of Indigenous peoples have reached unprecedented levels in terms of advocacy and being heard, and are now treated with greater respect than in the past.”

A ministry is born

The new Indigenous ministry has been guided by a strategic plan, setting out priorities such as the recognition and protection of Indigenous territories and the inclusion of more Indigenous people in positions of power.

Some success has been made but there is still work to be done, according to Dinamam Tuxá, executive coordinator of the APIB, Brazil’s largest Indigenous organisation: “We want specific and strengthened health and education services, more young people in universities, public policies implemented in our territories and, above all, for our lands to be demarcated.”

Guajajara said her greatest challenge was to rebuild the Indigenous policy framework dismantled by Jair Bolsonaro, president until 2023, on a shoestring budget. Much of the legislature she worked with remained largely hostile to socioenvironmental issues. Even so, she stated, it had been possible to resume land demarcations, combat illegal mining and secure Indigenous representation in senior government posts.

Recognition of territories

The Manoki Indigenous people have fought through legal disputes and state evictions for more than 50 years to protect their territory. They finally found success at COP30 in November, when their land in Mato Grosso state was approved for demarcation. However, intruders continue to extract timber, set fires and clear land for pasture and crops within the territory, all while plots are illegally auctioned off.

“We still cannot enjoy, plant or live on that part of the land,” Manoki leader Marta Tipuici told Dialogue Earth.

Land demarcations, which boost Indigenous rights to manage zoned land, are seen as a solution to the climate crisis. They have been found to reduce deforestation and empower communities to protect their environment. In her ministerial role, Guajajara had been advocating for the recognition of Indigenous lands as part of the solution to the climate crisis, at multiple international events.

Indigenous lands, such as the Manoki territory, protect at least 36% of the world’s intact forests, whilst deforestation and degradation account for 15% of global greenhouse gas emissions. In the Brazilian Amazon, of the 63,000 km2 deforested between 2012 and 2024, only 3% was on Indigenous lands, according to the organisation Imazon.

During Lula’s term, 41 territories have been formally recognised (20 ratified with full protection; 21 “declared”, an earlier stage) covering 4.8 million hectares. Further demarcations are still expected this year, according to Guajajara.

Even so, the pace of formal recognitions had been “modest”, according to the APIB. “Historically, the demand has been enormous, and no government has managed to meet it,” said Tuxá. “We know there is a political context, but there are processes that could have moved forward.”

Joenia Wapichana, who chaired Funai until March this year (the agency responsible for implementing the policies of the Indigenous ministry), has highlighted her team’s efforts to Dialogue Earth: there are 156 groups actively working on studies to identify and demarcate new territories. But the processes, she said, have become bogged down in other governmental bodies or in the courts.

The governments of the Brazilian states of Santa Catarina and Mato Grosso, for example, have taken legal action against the formal recognition of five territories. Those include the Manoki people’s. The matter remains unresolved and is now mired in legal uncertainty.

“The state in which we took over Funai – with no staff, no resources and no infrastructure – it was disheartening,” Wapichana said. But, she added: “I handed over a stronger Funai. We recognised Indigenous lands. The demarcation processes made progress.”

Defending territories against invasions

But demarcation alone is not enough. Without a state presence, Indigenous peoples are left to monitor territories that sometimes rival entire countries in size. Illegal activities such as landgrabbing, mining and deforestation can simply persist.

To help address this, the Indigenous ministry says operations have been carried out in 12 territories since 2023, primarily to combat gold mining.

One of the regions subject to these operations is the Yanomami territory, an area the size of Portugal straddling Amazonas and Roraima. An estimated 20,000 illegal miners have encroached here. The government claimed to have removed 98% of the intruders but locals say the issue is broader. They say they require protection units and measures to combat malaria, amid a growing public health emergency caused by the invasions.

To fund the Yanomami operations the Lula turned to the Amazon Fund, which had been paralysed for four years by the Bolsonaro government. The fund once again began attracting foreign donors, such as Norway and Germany, and became one of the main symbols of the rebuilding of Brazil’s environmental image abroad.

Nevertheless, deforestation on Indigenous lands in the Amazon – generally caused by landgrabs – reached 483 km2 between August 2024 and July 2025, according to data from the National Institute for Space Research (INPE), which monitors deforestation.

The figure is close to the 2019 record of 493.8 km2. It was partly driven by arson attacks in September 2024, which occurred around the Xingu and Capoto/Jarina territories in Mato Grosso. The extreme drought that year exacerbated the damage caused by the fires, which spread into Indigenous lands, according to INPE.

In the Munduruku territory, in Pará, operations lasted for three months between 2024 and 2025. Locals say their effects were short-lived. “The gold panners returned in force because they saw that the government did not maintain a permanent presence,” said Alessandra Korap, a Munduruku leader.

Guajajara acknowledged that Funai does not have enough staff to maintain a continuous presence across all territories. She admits the re-invasions have taken place, but insists that the situation “is nothing like it was before” the operations.

A ‘village-based executive’

Before taking up her post as minister, Guajajara argued for the urgent need to “bring the villages to the executive”. Today, Indigenous people hold unprecedented positions in public life, an achievement that experts believe is set to endure beyond this administration.

They account for a fifth of the ministry’s 163 posts, distributed across departments and directorates. Furthermore, the National Council for Indigenous Policy was re-established in 2024 after being abolished by Bolsonaro. It has restored a means through which Indigenous communities may influence public policy. Half of its members are Indigenous people and Indigenous rights activists, the other half civil servants.

“We have had the doors opened to us in all ministries to present the demands of the Indigenous movement,” said Tuxá, from APIB, who serves as vice-chair of the council.

For Adriana Ramos, executive secretary of the Socioenvironmental Institute, greater Indigenous presence in government has led to tangible progress: territorial management policies, a unit for mediating land disputes, and more quotas for Indigenous people in public sector recruitment exams.

The council’s discussions also helped to ensure their demands were included in the Climate Plan, the government’s flagship programme to tackle the climate crisis. It called for solutions to chronic problems such as insufficient access to drinking water and basic sanitation, which only makes adapting to climate change more difficult. The government also doubled investment in Indigenous health between 2022 and 2025, and set up a sanitation programme for Brazil’s Indigenous territories.

“Without addressing the most basic needs in these territories, there is no miracle plan to tackle extreme weather,” said Opan’s Fanzeres.

With presidential elections in October, Ramos warns that a future government opposed to Indigenous rights could reverse all this progress. This, she says, would have consequences not only for the territories but also for Brazil’s image abroad. The protection of Indigenous lands is now “a climate asset” that attracts international funding and partnerships. “A future anti-Indigenous government could trigger a devastating domino effect,” she said.

Fanzeres agreed that setbacks were possible but also said the spaces and positions occupied by Indigenous people in the country’s public and economic life were irreversible: “This is undoubtedly already a legacy.”

Amanda Magnani contributed to this report.

The ‘cocar’ caucus is stronger than ever but it faces a bitter battle with agricultural interests this election year. 

By Amanda Magnani, August 7, 2026

It is almost half past nine in the morning on Tuesday, 7 April. The federal MP Célia Xakriabá leaves her office in the Chamber of Deputies in Brasília, the capital of Brazil, accompanied by her team. She wears a headdress of white feathers that extends down her back, and her face is painted with the natural dye urucum, prepared from the seeds of the annatto tree.

She walks towards the chamber’s assembly hall, where she is to preside over the formal session honouring the 22nd Acampamento Terra Livre (ATL; Free Land Camp), the largest annual gathering of Indigenous peoples in Brazil. During the 10-minute walk, she is stopped several times by visitors, Indigenous leaders and other politicians, who offer compliments or pose for selfies.

Xakriabá was one of a record 178 Indigenous candidates who stood in the 2022 elections. This wave was seen as a move to counter the setbacks imposed against these communities by the incumbent president Jair Bolsonaro and his government. Just five Indigenous candidates were ultimately elected to the Chamber of Deputies. 

Xakriabá and her fellow deputy Juliana Cardoso lead the so-called cocar (“feather headdress”) caucus. The group champions the Indigenous agenda, pushing pro-environmental policies such as land demarcation.

However, despite being a part of the largest Indigenous representation in the history of the country, they face a David v Goliath battle against the mighty ruralist bloc. This group of parliamentarians, linked to agribusiness, accounts for around 60% of the 513 federal deputies.

Adriana Ramos, executive secretary of the Socioenvironmental Institute, an NGO, says this bloc works against Indigenous rights. It is economically motivated to impose barriers to demarcation, she says, because it attempts to open territories up to environmentally damaging activities. Bills put forward by the ruralist bloc distance Brazil from climate targets, according to the Talanoa Institute think-tank.

Xakriabá claims the ruralists repeatedly block legislation concerning Indigenous peoples, particularly in committees reviewing land policies. “There was already a predetermined stance not to let our agenda move forward,” she tells Dialogue Earth.

These seemingly insurmountable odds have not prevented Xakriabá and her colleagues from fighting to advance Indigenous and environmental causes. But with the polls for Brazil’s general election in October currently predicting a knife-edge result, that battle feels more important than ever.

An uphill battle

On the day of the ATL, Indigenous people from across the country, decked out in headdresses and traditional attire, fill the public galleries of the chamber. Xakriabá enters the chamber to a chorus of songs accompanied by maracas.

Representing Indigenous rights in congress is lonely work. This massive presence of fellow activists reinforces Xakriabá’s commitment, according to her parliamentary secretary Beatriz Mendonça: “She really misses having other Indigenous people in the chamber.”

Since the start of her term, in January 2023, Xakriabá has proposed 83 bills, only three of which have been enacted: one aimed to protect Indigenous women from violence, another to protect pregnant women from discrimination and a third dedicated to rural education.

But she is keen not to be pigeonholed, also joining parliamentary committees on culture, human rights and education. She says this is her bid to move beyond the “stereotyped and romanticised” role to which Indigenous representatives are often reduced.

As Xakriabá heads to another meeting she is greeted enthusiastically by a deputy from the PL, the far-right party of Bolsonaro. Despite their diametrically opposed politics, this scene comes as no surprise to her parliamentary secretary and is testament to her collaborative approach. “She tries to listen to all sides and draft legislation that does not roll back rights, but that can actually be passed,” says Mendonça. “We build within the gaps.”

Joenia Wapichana was the first Indigenous woman to be elected a federal MP, in 2018. She has charted a similar course, seeking dialogue and advocacy beyond her own parliamentary group. Wapichana tells Dialogue Earth she has spoken out “on all kinds of issues”, and that “this has helped me gain access, respect and influence.”

Progress on gender rights, for example, has enabled Indigenous representatives to form alliances beyond their own caucus. In other areas, however, Wapichana says this bridge building has been harder to achieve.

Ruralists against the climate

The ruralist caucus is pushing dozens of bills with “high potential for socioenvironmental damage,” according to a survey by a national network of environmental organisations, the Climate Observatory.

In May, the caucus organised Agro Week to vote – under urgent procedure – on a series of these proposals, including restricting the use of satellite imagery for identifying illegally deforested areas. The Ministry of the Environment, along with other official bodies, stated that the bills “undermine environmental protection” by weakening deforestation enforcement and making it harder to classify certain threatened species as endangered.

The Federal Senate, Brazil’s upper house, followed through on this effort in July. In about 10 minutes, it approved a bill that weakens protections for 486,000 hectares (approximately 37%) of the Jamanxim National Park in Pará state. According to the Climate Observatory, this has paved the way for the “formalisation of agricultural invasion”.

Brazil’s Nationally Determined Contributions under the Paris Agreement aim to cut emissions by between 59% and 67% by 2035, compared to 2005 levels. Increased deforestation as a result of these bills would make it harder to meet this goal, according to analysis published in May by the Talanoa Institute’s Política por Inteiro (Policy in Full) initiative.

In 2024, agriculture and land-use change accounted for more than 70% of national emissions. This was driven mainly by livestock farming and deforestation, according to an independent Brazilian platform called the Greenhouse Gas Emissions and Removals Estimation System.

These emissions drive climate change, which, as Política por Inteiro says, leaves Brazil more vulnerable to extreme weather events. These in turn threaten the agricultural goods that make up almost half of national exports. Environmental and social trading rules, such as the European Union’s anti-deforestation legislation, pose further threats to the profitability of these exports.

Bolstering Indigenous peoples’ rights, including via land demarcation, is a key tool in combatting climate change. The World Resources Institute found that forests managed by Indigenous peoples in the Amazon removed 340 million tonnes of CO2 from the atmosphere per year between 2001 and 2021. That is equivalent to the amount of greenhouse gases emitted annually by the United Kingdom through the burning of fossil fuels. Furthermore, rainfall generated by preserved Amazonian forests on Indigenous lands is crucial for agribusiness.

Indigenous representatives are also involved in debates over Brazil’s reserves of rare earth elements, which are second only to China’s in size. Rare earths, which fall under the broader term of critical minerals, are essential for the global energy transition. Their role in the manufacture of wind turbines, electric vehicle motors and electronic equipment has made them hot property.

The Energy Transition Observatory has surveyed Brazil’s critical minerals exploration applications and says they overlap or are adjacent to 278 Indigenous lands – 44% of Brazil’s Indigenous areas.

In May, Indigenous activists were excluded while the Chamber of Deputies approved the National Policy on Critical and Strategic Minerals. It is currently being debated in the senate. In mid-July, another bill on critical minerals policy was introduced, also behind closed doors.

Xakriabá is chairing a committee to discuss the potential impacts. “The energy transition must not mean further violations, conflicts and violence against Indigenous and traditional peoples,” she says.

Electoral challenges

As Xakriabá rallied her team on the day of the ATL, her political future was likely to have been forefront in her mind. To date, an Indigenous federal MP has never been re-elected. With the October elections looming, she wishes to at least end her term on a high note.

But the winds may be blowing more favourably during this year’s elections. Indigenous candidates will be entitled to a larger allocation of funds and campaign airtime than in the past. This measure was approved by Brazil’s Superior Electoral Court following a formal petition made by Xakriabá in 2024. She successfully extended funding quotas already guaranteed to women and black people to also cover Indigenous people.

During the ATL in Brasília, dozens of new Indigenous candidates were announced.

Marcos Sabarú, of the collective campaign of the Articulation of Indigenous Peoples of Brazil, says congressional representation for Indigenous peoples is vital.

“We want people to discuss and defend the rights of Indigenous peoples in the National Congress,” he tells Dialogue Earth. “We want a warrior to be in the space that we cannot easily enter ourselves.”

Ramos from the Socioenvironmental Institute explains that higher numbers of Indigenous people in congress has made it harder for non-Indigenous politicians to force specific agendas onto communities: “They can no longer use the voices of some Indigenous people who are in favour of an activity as if they represented the will of the entire movement.”

Martha Fellows, an advisor to Brazil’s Ministry of Indigenous Peoples, says electoral success for the cocar caucus should be judged against the partnerships it builds to ensure its longevity and impact, not just on pure numbers. Ramos emphasises that, given Brazil’s role in the global climate debate, this admittedly limited presence remains essential in giving visibility and weight among international partners to the demands of Indigenous peoples.

Xakriabá, meanwhile, is looking ahead to the upcoming elections. Her ambition is to advance the Indigenous agenda through “a combative climate caucus that transcends the cocar caucus”.