‘Canadian Companies Destroy in the Name of Canada’

Government and industry will do whatever it takes to push through mining projects, but Indigenous opposition is strong in the heart of the Andes

By Brandi Morin (Cree/Iroquois), Photos by Ian Willms

In this series, we’ve sought to tell the stories of Indigenous Peoples standing, largely alone, against the forces of government and industry. They have found support for their claims from International legal teams, organizations like Amnesty International, branches of the United Nations, and Ecuador’s largest Indigenous association. As is the case globally when it comes to mining, many of these companies are Canadian — and yet the abuses and excesses of the global mining industry are rarely mentioned in Canada.

But there are those locally who support the mining projects, and the jobs they bring. After returning to Canada, we received a series of emails from a local manager with Atico Mining insisting that we return, and meet with a handpicked group of supporters. Across many dozens of pages, he characterized the resistance to Atico’s project as orchestrated by “violent anti-mining groups” supported by “political platforms and transnational organized crime.”

His claims, as you will read in the pages that follow, are in large part at odds with what we heard from the sources we interviewed. And a return trip to attend such a staged meeting is both logistically difficult and ethically questionable.

But his desperation to orchestrate media events that showcase local support for the mining project show both how important it is to the company, and to those locals whose jobs or livelihood are tied to its completion.
 

‘Feeling powerless’

From her office in Palo Quemado, where another round of consultations hosted by the Ministry of Environment are happening next door, Gabriela Guarachico speaks with the weight of a community divided on her shoulders. At just 32, the young president of the GADs (Decentralized Autonomous Government) Palo Quemado parish finds herself at the center of a mining conflict that has torn apart the social fabric of her traditionally peaceful village.

“Before all this, children from Las Pampas would come here to play sports. We used to share activities between communities,” she says, adjusting her black ball cap, her dark ponytail visible beneath it. “But since this process began, everything has changed. That social bond is broken. There’s distrust now. They don’t visit Palo Quemado anymore.”
 

The presence of military forces in their once-quiet parish particularly troubles her.

“Seeing so many police makes you uncomfortable. You can’t do your daily activities as you used to,” she explains, her casual attire contrasting with the gravity of her words. “Palo Quemado has always been characterized by being a quiet parish. This has never happened before.”

She describes a community fractured into three camps: those for the mine, those against it, and those who remain silent. As their leader, she finds herself in an impossible position. “As an authority, you feel powerless,” she admits. “Your hands are tied. We can’t go against the national government.”

What frustrates her most is that despite Palo Quemado being just three kilometers from the mine site — close enough to see the future camp from town — they aren’t considered within the direct impact zone. “We have fought for the entire population of Palo Quemado to be considered as an area of direct influence. The noise of the vehicles that are going to pass through here, the dust, all that kind of thing — it will affect us too. But unfortunately, the technicians only considered two locations.”

Looking toward the mountain range where private property signs now mark the mining company’s territory, she voices the community’s deepest fear: “They talk about remediation in their documents, about how they will reforest, but the soil will not be the same. And water — we don’t have water in abundance here. That is the concern.”
 

Atico CEO blames ‘violent anti-mining protesters’

The forced nature of the consultation process is evident — designed not to listen but to legitimize. Armed guards stand at attention, supposedly protecting against “violent” protesters, though the only violence many here have known came from government forces during peaceful resistance.

Atico Mining CEO Alain Bureau, speaking from his Quito office via Zoom surrounded by La Plata project maps and promotional posters, tells a dramatically different story about the conflict.

“The community of Palo Quemado invited the police,” he insists, claiming that approximately 100 residents within the affected zone requested military protection from “violent groups” coming from Las Pampas and elsewhere.

Bureau goes further, suggesting criminal elements are at play: “The biggest challenge right now is the organized crime. The organized crime doesn’t want formalization of the zones.”

The company claims illegal mining operations have been discovered in Las Pampas, suggesting links between environmental defenders and criminal networks — allegations that community members vehemently deny.
 

Protestors labeled ‘outside agitators’ by mining CEO

From her office in Quito, appearing professional and composed over Zoom, Maria Silva, executive president of Ecuador’s Mining Chamber, also presents a stark contrast to the violent reality on the ground in Las Pampas and Palo Quemado. Her voice remains steady as she defends the mining industry’s position, repeatedly emphasizing their commitment to “standards” and “responsible mining.”

“First of all, I would like to understand or to specify what alleged violations of human rights law have occurred,” she says, her tone dismissive of the documented violence. When pressed about the March 2024 incident where military forces were deployed and Mesias was shot, leaving him in a coma for three months, she pivots to legalistic justifications.

“There has been no criminalization of the protests,” she insists, despite evidence to the contrary. “The events that occurred in the previous months involve serious acts of violence perpetrated by individuals outside of the affected communities.” She characterizes Las Pampas residents as outside agitators, despite their proximity to the mine.

When confronted directly about Mesias, Silva deflects. “Our response is what I told you,” she says flatly. “This process has been undertaken peacefully, in the communities that were identified by the anthropological studies as direct influence communities for this project.”
 

She repeatedly falls back on technical language about consultation processes and constitutional court judgments, avoiding any acknowledgment of the human cost. “The consultation is not held by the company, it’s held by the Ecuadorian state,” she insists, distancing the mining company from responsibility.

Her Zoom background shows a pristine office, worlds away from the tear gas and bullets that met Las Pampas residents. “We honestly want to promote our industry with the best standards that are available,” she concludes.

The violence against community members opposing the mine has drawn international condemnation. UN Special Rapporteur on Human Rights Defenders Mary Lawlor expressed alarm about “risks for human rights defenders” in the communities, while Amnesty International denounced security forces’ “excessive use of force,” noting that “live ammunition is prohibited as a means to break up protest.”

Lawyer Alejandra Zambrano Torres told Ricochet how Decree 754 epitomizes the government’s approach: “The consultation process has become a rubber stamp to permit mining, imposed under conditions of militarization, intimidation, and police violence. When left to project regulators themselves, participation is usually restricted.”

She points out that the decree contradicts both Ecuador’s constitution and international standards for free, prior, and informed consent.

Meanwhile, Bureau paints a picture of a project that would bring prosperity through jobs and development. “We’re going to try to formalize the whole zone,” he says, describing plans for training programs and high-quality employment. “Our suppliers could be the corner store, the guy that rents us their pickup truck — they will have to formalize themselves, have a bank account, know how to manage their stuff, pay their taxes. That’s going to change the whole region.”
 

However, Juan Carlos Carvajal Silva (see part three) challenges several key claims made by the mining company. “It’s one thing to talk about another country, and another to come to the territory and really know the reality,” says Carvajal Silva, highlighting the disconnect between corporate presentations and local experiences.

He directly challenges Atico’s characterization of the project’s impact zone, explaining that while the company only acknowledges two communities — Las Minas and San Pablo — as being within the impact zone, the actual project footprint spans 2,230 hectares, affecting many more communities. He believes that communities within the project’s geographical scope are being systematically excluded from consideration, despite their proximity to the mining operations and potential impacts on their livelihoods.

The stakes are especially high for the Las Pampas community, where over 80 per cent of local producers export organic products to international markets, including Italy, Spain, the United States, and ironically, Canada — Atico Mining’s home country.

“We are manufacturers of organic sugar cane. With a mining company next to us, with so much contamination that they themselves accept they are going to produce… we are going to lose the seven organic certifications that we have, and we don’t want that,” he explains.

Water concerns stand at the forefront of local opposition. The company’s plan to extract 46 liters of water per second raises alarm in a region already experiencing water scarcity. Carvajal Silva emphasizes that the underground mining operations will impact groundwater sources that local communities depend on, noting that Palo Quemado already “does not have water” due to drought and hydro power extraction.

Responding to allegations of violence from anti-mining groups, Carvajal Silva offers a rebuttal: “The violence is a game of the government, which provokes violence. The government, under an unconstitutional decree, militarizes Palo Quemado. We simply defend our territories.”

He frames local resistance not as aggression but as a defense of fundamental resources: “If defending water is violence, in the face of extractivism that comes voraciously… defending water is defending one’s own life.”
 

‘Blasting every angle of the mountain’

Deep beneath the threatened peaks within the mine’s concession area, Atico’s mining plans reveal an aggressive network of tunnels designed to penetrate every angle of the mountain where the minerals may lie. The company’s engineers have mapped out a relentless extraction strategy, employing three different methods to chase the ore wherever it leads, regardless of the mountain’s natural structure.

In the steepest sections, where the ore runs almost vertical, they’ll blast open massive chambers using the ‘bench-and-fill’ method, leaving gaping voids that will later be packed with waste rock. Where the ore body twists and weakens, they’ll switch to ‘cut-and-fill,’ carving their way through the mountain layer by layer. Even in the flattest portions, they’ll pursue the minerals using drift-and-fill, ensuring no profitable section escapes their reach.

The scale of machinery planned for this operation is massive: electric-hydraulic jumbos will bore through the rock face while ten-tonne loading units scrape up the broken ore. Twenty-five-tonne trucks will thunder through the tunnels day and night, hauling ore and waste rock to growing stockpiles on the surface — stockpiles that locals fear will leach contamination into their water sources during the rainy season.

Their blasting plans call for a mixture of ANFO and emulsion explosives, powerful enough to shatter sections of mountain ranging from four to eight meters thick. While the company claims this approach minimizes damage to surrounding rock, community members worry about the impact of constant explosions on the mountain’s stability and their water sources.

Each mining method has been selected to maximize extraction efficiency, transforming the living mountain into a maze of tunnels and filled cavities.

Globally, Canada is a top player in the mining industry. Toronto serves as the international epicenter of mining finance, with its stock exchanges hosting over 70 per cent of the world’s mining companies. This outsized influence shapes resource extraction across Latin America, where Canadian firms operate under a regulatory framework that critics say prioritizes profit over human rights and environmental protection. Despite the Canadian government’s “Voices at Risk” guidelines for supporting human rights defenders, and much-touted Responsible Business Conduct strategy, mining companies face few meaningful consequences at home for their actions abroad.

Ecuador’s pivot toward mining exemplifies the reach of Canadian influence. After decades of relying primarily on oil revenue, Ecuador’s government now promotes mining as key to economic development, with Canadian companies leading the charge. At the 2024 Prospectors and Developers Association of Canada (PDAC) conference, President Daniel Noboa pitched Ecuador as “the next mining destination,” promising streamlined permits and stronger investment protections. This marks a dramatic shift from Ecuador’s 2008 constitution, which enshrined rights of nature and mandated Indigenous consultation on extractive projects.

 

The Canadian government actively facilitates this expansion through various mechanisms: Export Development Canada provides financing and insurance to mining companies, Canadian embassies offer political support, and trade commissioners help mining companies navigate local regulations. Meanwhile, attempts to establish stronger oversight — like the failed Bill C-300 that would have created accountability mechanisms for Canadian extractive companies operating abroad — have been defeated under industry pressure.

This dynamic plays out across Ecuador through a familiar sequence of events: mining concessions are granted without adequate consultation, communities that resist face criminalization and state violence, and Canadian diplomatic missions remain notably silent about human rights violations while continuing to promote mining investment. Decree 754 and the deployment of military forces to protect mining interests, demonstrate how Canadian investment priorities can reshape a country’s legal and security apparatus.

International human rights organizations have repeatedly called attention to this pattern, noting how Canadian mining interests contribute to the militarization of rural areas, the criminalization of environmental defenders, and the erosion of Indigenous rights. Yet in both Ottawa and Quito, the focus remains on expanding Ecuador’s mining frontier, with Canadian companies positioned to be primary beneficiaries of this resource rush.

Atico Mining has incorporated some environmental mitigation measures into their plans. They plan to implement rainwater collection systems and surface water pumping, but the long-term impact on local watersheds remains a concern for community members. The company’s commitment to using a filtered, stacked tailings system for waste storage represents a more modern approach compared to traditional wet tailings ponds, but still requires careful monitoring and management.

The project’s impact on wildlife extends beyond habitat disruption. Noise from daily operations, increased human activity, and habitat fragmentation from new infrastructure will affect local fauna in ways that may not be immediately apparent. This is particularly concerning in Ecuador, where delicate ecological balances have evolved over millions of years.

Energy consumption presents another environmental challenge. The operation’s power demands necessitate new infrastructure, contributing to the project’s overall carbon footprint. While the company has outlined plans for power line construction, details about renewable energy integration or carbon reduction strategies remain unclear.

Yet, several crucial aspects remain unaddressed in public announcements, including long-term environmental monitoring plans, specific biodiversity protection measures, and comprehensive post-mining rehabilitation strategies.

The project exemplifies the ongoing tension between economic development and environmental protection, particularly in countries like Ecuador where natural resources and unique ecosystems coexist.
 

‘Canadian companies that come to destroy in the name of Canada’

The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the church courtyard in Las Pampas, where Father Patricio Broncano tends to his beloved garden. His weathered hands, the same ones that bless his congregation and comfort the wounded, carefully adjust a flowering plant. Despite his graying temples and the deep creases around his eyes that speak of both laughter and sorrow, there’s a youthful energy in his movements. His black-rimmed glasses catch the light as he settles onto a tree stump, surrounded by the vibrant blooms he’s cultivated with the same care he shows his community.

Father Broncano’s journey to Las Pampas wasn’t a straight path. Born in the mountains of Pelileo, near Baños, his family moved to Latacunga in search of better opportunities. Before arriving in Las Pampas, he spent two decades in the Amazon, devoted to evangelization.

“I came here to rest,” he says with a bitter smile, “but I think I haven’t been able to.” His voice breaks slightly as he continues, “It’s contradictory. I came for them, because I came to rest with them.”

His eyes grow distant as he recalls his earlier battles. “I had a few years of conflict with the broccoli growers there in the mountains, very large companies, with the flower companies… There were a lot of abusive situations, like pesticide and ecological abuse.” He shakes his head, “So, I came to rest here, and I came across the sad story that here they were in a process of mining exploitation.”

The pain in his voice deepens when he speaks of broken friendships. “I have friends in Palo Quemado, well, I had friends. Because of this issue they separated from me and those who used to be my friends from a very young age don’t want to see me.” His hands clench slightly in his lap. “I have nothing against my people, against my friends. {My anger] is against the company that came to destroy that friendship, that familiarity and has destroyed the family bonds here in the province.”

When speaking about the Canadian mining companies, his tone shifts from sorrow to controlled anger. “I think the Canadian people don’t know what is happening here. But Canadian companies are the ones that come to destroy in the name of Canada.” His voice rises with passion as he describes his community: “We export panela, we export meat, we produce meat for the whole country. We have a beautiful ecosystem, we live here and we live very well.”

The violence of the recent protests has left deep scars. Father Broncano’s voice trembles as he describes the aftermath: “Right now we have several brothers beaten, we have a comrade (Mesias) in struggle who is totally disfigured. They shot directly to the body, not even toward the sky, but toward people’s bodies.” His glasses fog slightly as he fights back tears.

The media has been silent on the issue, he says. Despite that silence, and the physical violence and threats, his faith remains unshaken. “God is our father and loves us all, but he gave us the possibility to decide, he gave us the possibility of freedom and in this case the freedom to help ourselves, to protect what God has given us.” He looks out over his garden, a small paradise of resistance. “Unfortunately, the image of the father was darkened in some people that gave in.”

Father Broncano turns his attention back to his garden, gently touching a flower petal. The gesture reveals both the tenderness of a priest and the determination of a resistance fighter. His close friendship with Carvajal Silva has strengthened their community’s resolve. Together, they stand as pillars of the movement – Carvajal Silva leading the protests while Father Broncano provides spiritual guidance and unwavering support to those on the front lines. His collar doesn’t keep him from standing shoulder to shoulder with his people during demonstrations, showing that his commitment goes far beyond prayers and sermons. His presence in Las Pampas serves as a powerful reminder that the struggle for justice requires not just courage in the streets, but also the nurturing of hope and community spirit – much like the garden he tends with such care.
 

Friday brings the weekly market in Las Pampas, a vibrant reminder of what’s at stake. The town square teems with life – tables laden with freshly harvested carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, plantains, and berries of every variety. The bounty of their unspoiled land stands proudly on display. Here, Carvajal Silva embraces the role of a passionate leader who has united his community in resistance. Setting up a small speaker and microphone amid the market’s bustle, he draws a crowd. Farmers pause their selling, gathering around with handmade signs declaring their opposition to the mine. His presence electrifies the square, his voice carrying above the market’s chatter.

“We cannot give up in these moments, we have to remain firm, comrades, defending [what we have], we have worked hard and we are not going to allow them to take away our livelihood!”

The crowd grows larger, their attention fixed on this wiry, black-haired man with a microphone. “We have shed tears, we have shed blood and we can’t allow this to continue with impunity,” Carvajal Silva continues, his voice rising with emotion. “We will continue. With your support, I will continue. Alone, I will not be able to do anything. You are my strength, you who have been behind, supporting this struggle that we have been carrying for all this time.”

The response is immediate – cheers and shouts erupt from the gathered families. Songs of resistance and revolution rise in Spanish, echoing off the church walls where that illuminated cross stands sentinel. Below the cross, a mural tells the story of these people in verse – a prayer against the mining that they fear would destroy this sacred place. As the songs fade into the mountain air, the scene captures the essence of Las Pampas. These are not the “violent protesters” of government and industry claims, but farmers, families, and workers united in defending their water, their land, and a way of life as deeply rooted as the Andes themselves.
 

The struggle here is not just about land and resources – it’s about identity itself, with often profound legal implications. The government’s refusal to recognize Las Pampas and Palo Quemado as Indigenous communities conveniently allows them to bypass the constitutional requirement for Indigenous consultation on mining projects. Yet, CONAIE (Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador) vice president Zenaida Yasacama visited Carvajal Silva while Ricochet was there to express solidarity, affirming what the community has long known: their Indigenous identity is legitimate, despite the state’s attempts to erase it through colonial tactics of assimilation. CONAIE is Ecuador’s largest and most powerful Indigenous organization, uniting 14 Indigenous nationalities in their struggles for territorial rights, environmental justice, and Indigenous self-determination since 1986.

Yasacama emphasizes that the violence exemplifies the state’s systematic attempt to deny Indigenous identity and rights. “The government refuses to recognize these communities as Indigenous precisely to avoid proper consultation requirements,” she explains. “But we stand with Las Pampas and Palo Quemado — their Indigenous identity is legitimate; their resistance is just.”

 

The government’s denial of their Indigenous status is no accident – it’s a calculated move to sidestep the more rigorous consultation processes required for Indigenous territories.

“People from outside have come and said: you are mixed,” explains Carvajal Silva, tracing the systematic erasure of Indigenous identity.

“But we have gone back to examine our roots,” with the full backing of CONAIE, he says.

“Our ancestors all came down from the Ecuadorian highlands – from Píllaro, from Tungurahua, from Cotopaxi. Most of us have Kichwa surnames: Calos, Totas, Chucines, Chachas. We can’t change history. We have to understand it, and be able to say what our roots really are,” asserts Carvajal Silva.

Speaking to Ricochet in the central city of Puyo, Ecuador days later, Yasacama is sitting on the balcony of a local hotel, surrounded by emerald plants that populate the courtyard garden.

“These are the methods they use to destroy our mountains from within. Each blast, each tunnel they drill, threatens our water, our peace, our very way of life,” she says.

Rain drums heavily against the tin roof as her voice rises above the downpour. As CONAIE’s first female vice president, dressed in her traditional Kichwa blue blouse and skirt, she wants to speak directly to the Canadian government and mining companies about the violence unleashed on Indigenous Peoples and farmers in Las Pampas who oppose the Atico mine.

“Today we raise our voice to the world to hear us. We live on the land, we are in the fight, we are planting daily in our territory,” she declares, her long black hair tied back, her small frame leaning forward. “Listen, Government of Canada, Mr. Prime Minister of Canada, we kindly ask you to respect the rights of Indigenous Peoples here; if you want to help, don’t destroy our territories.”

The rain intensifies as she describes the terror that mining operations have brought to their communities: “We can’t live in war; we can’t live with this fear. Our children are scared every day, when they hear the helicopter, when trucks pass by daily. We haven’t lived like this before, but today we do. How long will this trampling of Indigenous People’s rights continue? Where is the right of children, where is the right of all Indigenous Peoples, to live in peace?”

Looking out over the lush garden beyond the balcony, she calls for immediate action: “We don’t live in peace, that’s why today we want you [Canada] to immediately withdraw these mining companies that are based in the province of Cotopaxi, Las Pampas and other territories here in Ecuador which are being threatened.”

The injustice of criminalization weighs on her words: “We are going through a lot, we are being judicialized, without having any guilt, just for defending our territories. Mr. Prime Minister of Canada, this is the reality of what is happening to us.”

Meanwhile, Carvajal Silva is waiting to learn when he will be headed to court to face criminal charges for his dissent against the mine.

University of Virginia law student Jacson Khandelwal is part of a team of volunteer lawyers helping to defend Carvajal Silva and others.

“What’s happening to Juan is a classic case of weaponizing anti-terrorism and organized crime laws against environmental defenders,” he says. “The company went to the Fiscalía — that’s a government prosecutor — and claimed Juan was intimidating them, committing acts of terrorism, that this was all part of an organized crime scheme. Any reasonable prosecutor would see that Juan is not a terrorist, but the Fiscalía decided to take the case anyway.”

The tactic is common, he continues.

“This happens all over the world to human rights and land defenders during times of conflict. The government has these laws which are meant to target narcos and cartels. Instead, you have companies going to the Fiscalía saying, ‘Oh, but this land defender is also committing these crimes.'”

Khandelwal’s frustration is palpable. “That’s what makes this criminal process against Juan look so corrupt. He’s clearly not a terrorist. He’s clearly not involved with the narcos. He’s clearly not part of any organized crime. He’s part of a social movement.”

“The problem,” he continues, “is that the government is siding with the company and their complaint, despite all the evidence showing that Juan is not a terrorist or an organized criminal. It really exposes the faults in Ecuador’s criminal justice system — the fact that these laws can be used against innocent people who are actually doing good work.”

Khandelwal emphasizes his final point: “These laws about terrorism and organized crime and intimidation are not meant for people like Juan. They’re being weaponized against him for doing environmental defense work and human rights defense work. The 12 investigations against him aren’t just cases — they’re a systematic attempt to silence environmental defense through legal intimidation.”

 

‘The only thing we have for sure in life is death’

Nevertheless, Carvajal Silva’s message to the foreign mining companies, particularly Atico, is clear: “You come from a foreign country to invade our lands, to intimidate us, and you accuse us, when the true terrorists are you – the ones who want to destroy our land. You are blinded by economic power and don’t look back to see that within these territories there are human beings who struggle to survive, to put food in the mouths of our children, our families.”

Ecuador’s National Anti-Mining Front and CONAIE have announced plans for sustained resistance, including an encampment in Quito. But for now, the people of Las Pampas and Palo Quemado remain in an uneasy limbo — their legal victory against Decree 754 undermined by its continued enforcement, their peaceful resistance met with militarized repression, their Indigenous identity denied to facilitate extraction.

Carvajal Silva finds strength in his faith and his community’s unity. “Everything is left in God’s hands,” he says. “If I give up, they will give up. I cannot give up, I must not. I have to stay strong so that I can support my people with the spirit to keep fighting.”

He speaks of death with the calm acceptance of one who has faced it many times. “Our best ally, and the only thing we have for sure in life, is death. Therefore, we should not be afraid of it. It is good to die doing something for your people, something that remains as a reference for others. I would do it. It’s the best thing that comes from a person who fights with his heart, without the goal of perhaps earning a salary or reaching a political position.”

As night falls over Las Pampas, Carvajal Silva’s deepest hope emerges: “The beauty would be to finish this struggle and live life with my people in this beautiful land that we have. We want our [future] generations to live in peace, not to continue as they are today.”

Until then, he stands ready to defend it all – the rivers he grew up with, the trees that grew alongside him, and the way of life that sustains his community, just as it has sustained generations before.