Over the past six months, Indigenous journalist Brandi Morin has travelled repeatedly to Ecuador, reporting on the impact of Canadian mining projects on the Indigenous Peoples who live there. She reports from the rolling hills outside the city of Cuenca, Ecuador, where Dundee Precious Metals, a Canadian company, plans to develop the underground Loma Larga gold mine.
By Brandi Morin (Iriquois, Cree)
The morning mist clings to the rolling hills of páramo de Kimsakocha as a dozen water defenders approach the chain link fence marking the entrance to what could become Ecuador’s next major gold, copper and silver mine. The stunning high-altitude landscape north of Cuenca, in Ecuador’s Azuay province, is home to four rivers that converge and flow through the valleys, nourishing farms, villages, and the city below.
“This is our ancestral land. We have the right to be here,” whispers Hortencia Zhagüi, who represents the Kimsakocha Women’s School of Agroecology, as she edges past a security guard who immediately reaches for his phone to document the intrusion. The guard shouts warnings about trespassing, but the group moves forward undeterred, their footsteps barely audible against the soft, water-laden moss underfoot.
The water defenders walk several kilometers while the security guard follows at a distance, recording their every move. They eventually arrive at a small clearing where an Ecuadorian flag they installed months earlier still flaps proudly in the mountain breeze. The panorama is breathtaking — rolling emerald hills stretching toward the horizon, the land spongy with moisture, small creeks threading through the terrain, and water bubbling up from the moss beneath their feet.
“Look at this,” says Koldo (no last name given), a member of a grassroots group called Community Water Systems of Tarqui and Victoria del Portete, kneeling to scoop a handful of berries from a low-growing shrub. “The páramo gives us medicine, food, and most importantly, water. How can they put a price on this?”
The group spreads blankets on the ground and arranges their picnic — locally grown potatoes, cheese, corn, chicken and fruits — sharing everything communally in the shadow of their flag. As they eat, they discuss strategies to protect this ecosystem from Canadian mining company Dundee Precious Metals, which plans to develop the underground Loma Larga gold mine here.”We have already said no three times,” says Koldo firmly. “In 2011, 2019, and 2021, we held consultations. Each time, our answer was clear: no mining in our páramo. Yet they keep trying to push this project through.”
After the meal, the group stands quietly for a moment, taking in the landscape they’ve fought to protect for over two decades. Then they begin their trek back toward the entrance, stopping at a small creek that cuts through the moss. They join hands in a circle, bowing their heads in a ceremony asking for protection of this sacred place.
Their prayer is interrupted by the sound of an approaching truck. Two police officers step out, ordering the group to leave immediately.
“You are trespassing on private property,” one officer announces firmly.
The water defenders comply, but without hurry. They gather their belongings with deliberate calm, occasionally stopping to point out plants or water features to each other as they walk. The police and security guard follow closely behind, escorting them to the gate.
Ricochet Media made multiple attempts to contact Dundee Precious Metals for comment on this story, including visiting the company’s office in Cuenca in person, however interview requests were declined. Dundee Precious Metals has not publicly addressed the concerns raised by community members.
A ticking time bomb
What these water defenders are fighting against is no small threat. According to a 2022 independent review, the proposed Loma Larga gold mine represents a “ticking time bomb” for arsenic contamination in the region. The páramo de Kimsakocha, a high-altitude wetland ecosystem, plays a crucial role in providing fresh water to the entire region, including the city of Cuenca.
Zhagüi, who also represents the Board of Potable Water Administrators, a community group dedicated to preserving clean water, explains the profound connection between the communities and this land.
“This wetland has sustained our communities for generations,” she says. “The water that springs from here flows to our crops, our animals, and our homes. Without clean water, we have nothing — no food, no health, no future.”
“The Ecuadorian and Canadian governments support the miners as we become weaker in the face of this situation. That’s why we say: The only thing left for us is to surrender — but we would rather die first.”
In October of 2024, Zhagüi was part of a delegation of Ecuadorian Indigenous women and rights defenders who traveled to Canada to voice concerns about ongoing trade negotiations between the two countries. During meetings with government officials, parliamentarians, and Indigenous leaders in Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal, she warned about the devastating impact the proposed mine would have.
During that trip, she said, “We came to Canada to speak out against Canada-Ecuador free trade, given the lack of respect for life, for nature’s fragile ecosystems and the beings who depend on them in Ecuador. The FTA (free trade agreement) would open the doors to uncontrolled mining, which would cause massive environmental destruction, affecting sensitive ecosystems and depleting water sources that we’ve protected for 30 years now.”
Despite these serious concerns raised in Canada, the FTA continues to be negotiated and the Loma Larga project continues to be promoted by both governments.
The guardian of the water
Just over the mountain valley behind Zhagüi’s home in Tarqui, Ecuador, fresh sources of water drain down into the village — water that could be contaminated if mining begins in the páramo. At 65 (CHECK) years old, Zhagüi has spent her life growing food and raising farm animals on this land that has sustained her family for generations.
It’s midafternoon, and Zhagüi moves through her garden in a brightly colored skirt adorned with flower patterns, the traditional attire of the region. Her mixed-breed dogs loyally follow as she tends to her plants and feeds her animals.
“I work in agriculture, livestock, I work raising small animals,” she explains, moving between her garden beds with practiced efficiency. “Where I spend most of my time is raising guinea pigs, chickens, large cattle, milk production. Regarding agriculture: corn planting, potato planting, I have some potatoes planted up there. I have also barley cultivation, oats.”
She gestures proudly to her vegetable garden. “In the garden I have carrots, lettuce, cauliflower, radish, celery, cabbage, all the vegetables. Here, when you plant, everything grows.”
Inside her modest kitchen, after serving a meal of roasted cuy (guinea pig), chicken soup, and vegetables from her garden, Hortencia sits at her wooden table, eyes glistening with tears of both sadness and determination as she describes the daily labor her life requires, and the unending battle to defend her way of life.
“This involves labor, it’s very hard because you have to dig, remove the grass, fertilize, prepare the fertilizer,” she says. “For example, I wake up every morning at 5 a.m. to milk the cattle. Giving water and grass to the cattle, cutting and throwing oats if needed, and moving the cattle when necessary — I do it all. It’s a hard and heavy job that we must do.”
“They will take us prisoners, they will kill us, because they shoot bullets straight to the body. We already saw it during the exploration stage.” Her voice drops to a near whisper. “Imagine what exploitation will bring — for us, the only option left will be to resist. We are not going to give up. We must give our lives, that’s what I believe. It’s the only thing left for us.”
This agricultural life is entirely dependent on water — the very resource threatened by the proposed Loma Larga gold mine. “That’s why it’s an ongoing struggle for us — we need water for our daily tasks on the farm, such as agriculture and livestock,” she explains, her voice growing more intense.
As a representative of the Kimsakocha Women’s School of Agroecology and the Board of Potable Water Administrators of Victoria del Portete and Tarquí, Hortencia Zhagüi has been at the forefront of resistance against mining projects for decades.
Her voice breaks as she speaks of the threats to her homeland. “I will never get tired of saying that we have a very difficult life, very hard. Before, we used to live well and peacefully, we never imagined that we would face this problem.” Her weathered hands tremble slightly as she continues. “This problem isn’t just mine; it affects all the communities that depend on the water sources originating here in QuimsaCocha.”
The visit to Canada was disappointing. “When I went to Canada, they didn’t take us into account, they listened, but they claimed to have presented a different perspective, where, to them, our paramos were just dry mountains, making exploitation more justifiable.” Her voice rises with indignation. “So, it was for us, especially for me, outrageous to hear such nonsense, which is not true, as you can see — these paramos are life for us; they are our nature. Humanity and life hold no value for these companies when they seek to exploit.”
Despite multiple community consultations rejecting mining in the region, the pressure from corporations and government continues. “We have tried everything we could,” Zhagüi says, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “We went to the capital and we did everything in our power, but there’s no way to stop them; they continue toward exploitation.”
Her words become more desperate as she describes the current situation. “The Ecuadorian and Canadian governments support the miners as we become weaker in the face of this situation. That’s why we say: The only thing left for us is to surrender — but we would rather die first. That’s all we expect now; there’s nothing else to be done.”
The fight has created deep divisions within once-united communities. “There is already division between our communities, our neighbors. We have completely divided, because (some) support [mining],” she explains. “They claim that nothing (bad) will happen, that exploitation will be done with high technology. This has been said, nothing will happen, so there is no need to fear.”
“That’s why I’m desperate — there’s so little time left. They’re just waiting for an opportune moment to begin the exploitation.”
Zhagüi doesn’t believe these reassurances. “Those who support mining don’t stand with us. Of course, they will feel the consequences once the water starts to become contaminated, and the diseases will follow. But, for those of us who don’t support mining, it is a very desperate situation.”
Her determination to resist remains unwavering, even in the face of potential violence. “So, in our fight to resist, we will not peacefully accept them (mining companies) to enter and exploit our land. No!” Her eyes flash with fierce resolve. “We have to fight back even if it’s using stones as a weapon, in order to defend ourselves. We can’t just accept them.”
Zhagüi is keenly aware of what might happen when the mining companies move from exploration to exploitation. “As the mining companies will need electricity, they will have to widen the roads. At that moment, they will begin exploitation, bringing in heavy machinery. At that precise moment we have to be steadfast and not allow them to enter.”
The consequences could be dire. “Because the armed forces and the police will come. And what will they do to us? They will take us prisoners, they will kill us, because they shoot bullets straight to the body. We already saw it during the exploration stage.” Her voice drops to a near whisper. “Imagine what exploitation will bring — for us, the only option left will be to resist. We are not going to give up. We must give our lives, that’s what I believe. It’s the only thing left for us.”
Despite this grim outlook, Zhagüi expresses gratitude for those who stand in solidarity with their struggle. “I appreciate that there are still people in the world who stand in solidarity, fighting for those who have no voice. We live far away, we can’t reach the government, we are on the outskirts, but we continue to fight.”
As the afternoon light fades across her garden, Zhagüi points to the mountains where the water begins its journey to her home. Her voice trembles with emotion. “It’s sad, it’s unfortunate that in 30 years of struggle we have not been able to solve anything. We can neither be at peace, nor be free, nor finally declare that our land and paramos are completely safe from mining, untouchable and free from exploitation.”
The most painful part for her is the sense of time running out. “That’s why I’m desperate — there’s so little time left. They’re just waiting for an opportune moment to begin the exploitation.” But even in her desperation, she finds some hope in faith. “And hopefully, with God’s will, it will never come to that. That’s why I say, God comes first. And after God, we as humans must find the strength to face this situation.”
Recalling a recent sighting of mining equipment, her voice breaks again. “The other day heavy machinery arrived in Zamora, we were scared and desperate. Seeing those massive machines and enormous trucks driving down these roads was overwhelming. In our desperation, we started asking, ‘What do we do now?'”
For Zhagüi and many other women in the community, the fight is deeply personal. “That’s our struggle, our suffering — especially for us as women and mothers. We stand at the forefront, living daily with our hands in the water.”
The growing tensions: violence against water defenders
Not far from Hortencia’s home lives Fanny Paute, a 62-year-old farmer who embodies the escalating human cost of this environmental struggle. Seated at her kitchen table, her face still visibly bruised, Paute recounts a recent violent attack she experienced for opposing the mining project.
“This struggle has been going on for about 30 years,” she explains, her voice breaking and tears welling in her eyes. “We’ve been fighting for water all this time.”
On March 6, while checking on her animals in her field, Paute says she encountered a woman known locally as “Miss Minera” — a nickname for residents who support the mining project. This chance encounter quickly escalated.
“I went out to see a little animal I have, and I went out with my daughter-in-law,” Paute recalls, touching the discolored marks on her face. “We saw this lady… we already know her, that she’s a miner.”
What happened next still haunts her. After a brief interaction that brought police to the scene, Paute returned to her field after the officers left. That’s when she was suddenly attacked by a group of pro-mining women.
“We were attacked, beaten, as you can see my face is still bruised,” she says, tears now streaming down her weathered cheeks. “They insulted us with harsh words. They took out scissors, hit us with a lock. The mother came with a big rock, and the other daughter also had a rock to hit us.”
Paute was not alone in suffering the attack — her daughter, daughter-in-law, and another water defender named Carmen were also assaulted. The physical wounds are healing, but the emotional trauma remains raw.
“Pain,” she says when asked about the impact of the attack, her hands trembling. “A physical pain, but a pain filled with a lot of anger. Because imagine, we are not doing anything wrong when we defend the water. It’s not just today or yesterday, it’s been for many years. And they, in just a minute, come out, grab us, and beat us.”
Despite filing legal charges against her attackers, Paute fears this violence is just the beginning as tensions escalate between those defending water and those supporting mining interests.
When asked if she believes the violence will increase if mining operations begin, her determination shines through her tears: “We will have to keep fighting and see what happens. But there won’t be another time, because now, we will have to fight harder.”
The attack on Paute represents a troubling escalation in a conflict that has primarily been waged through legal battles and peaceful protests. For the water defenders, this increasing hostility only underscores the high stakes of their struggle and the powerful interests aligned against them.
The group stops in front of the Dundee Precious Metals entrance as tension mounts. The police demand that everyone get back into the vehicle. Although this is a public road, the police order the group of Indigenous locals to leave.
This is part one of two in a series covering local opposition to the Dundee Metals mine. Read part two.
--Brandi Morin (Cree/Iroquois/French) is an award-winning journalist reporting on human rights issues from an Indigenous perspective.
Photos by Julien Defourny. Julien is a Belgian explorer, photographer, and documentary filmmaker committed to sharing the voices of people and ecosystems often overlooked.
