Born in Campos dos Goitacazes, Sonia Ferreira spent her childhood holidays in the seaside town of Atafona. She and her husband built a vacation home there in their later years after their marriage. In the 1990s, she took up permanent residence there. Now 79 years old, retired and widowed, Sonia still lives with her daughter in Atafona due to coastal erosion. 500 houses destroyed In recent decades. Many more people are at risk and the sea is expected to push further inland by up to 150 degrees. meters in the next 30 years.
When we built our house in 1978, we didn't have a view of the ocean. There were two blocks in front of the house, then Calle Atlantica, paved with asphalt and a sidewalk, then a wide stretch of sand, and finally the beach. I never imagined that the day would come when it would arrive at my house.
In front of us was the construction site of Atafona's only apartment complex, the four-story Julinho building. Destroyed at sea in 2008. In a sense, the debris protected my home, but the sea was moving slowly. The kids started saying I should leave. Considering staying there, I followed the tide as if I were a fisherman.
In 2019, I was on my bedroom balcony when my neighbor called me and asked me to photograph the ocean crashing against the side of his house. The foundations of the walls were already gone, as the sea had removed the sand from beneath the first floor. I took a picture of it with my phone and sent it to her, but when I looked up, water was coming in from the collapsed wall. It feels like living in a sandcastle.
I thought about putting stones in front of the wall to stop the advance, but while it might protect me a little, it would harm the neighbors. The sea doesn't stop coming, it just keeps circling.
A large metal plate fence was erected to slow the progress. In my bedroom, which was closest to the sea, there was already a large crack in the wall due to water leakage. When the fence touched the house, we had no choice. There was a small house behind my house and the housekeeper lived there, so I moved there.
It was very painful to see the sea getting closer and closer and gradually destroying the house. My children and I decided to demolish it in 2022. It was a very difficult time. I had just found out I had ovarian cancer and needed to have both ovaries removed, and I couldn't get out of bed. It took me 3 months to beat it.
After that, I continued to live in the small house in the back until October of this year. Then a lot of sand started coming in so I had to leave too.
When I still lived there, I remember holding my hands over my face and feeling the sand. Sand dunes began to form on the road, one of which reached the entrance wall of the house. Then another large sand dune appeared in the garden. The main gate no longer opens, and the garage gate only opens a little. The road is so sandy that cars cannot enter.
I asked someone with a tractor to remove the sand, but I was told that every time I removed the sand, the wind would blow and create another dune, so I was throwing money down the drain. The wind was originally strong from the northeast, but it became even stronger.
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This is a climate breakdown compiled by the Climate Disasters Project at the University of Victoria, Canada, in collaboration with the International Society of the Red Cross. read more.
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I can talk more easily today, but the experience itself was very painful. I already felt that way when I saw the suffering of other people, my community, and my friends who lost their homes. I lived through it and felt those emotions.
But when that happens to you, everything turns upside down. It's a whirlwind of emotions. I began to remember my children from my childhood, my family, and the people I lived with. What I felt I had lost was not material things, but rather the moments I spent in that house. That context cannot be reconstructed elsewhere. Just go to another house and build another story.
But despite the loss, I feel like a happy person. I live with my children and grandchildren and have many friends here in Atafona. The relationship here is pure. People will like you for who you are, not what you have. I have a 13 year old granddaughter and she likes to sit and talk to me. One day she asked me: “Grandma, how can you always be so calm, as if everything is fine?” I replied that I learn through life from what God has given me.
The connection with Atafona is so strong that when I lived in Rio, I felt stressed by such activities and noises. I say, “I need to charge my battery in atafona,” and here it comes. When we arrived, we left our shoes in the car and took a walk on the beach. After two days here, usually Saturday and Sunday, I come back reborn. I think it's a mental and emotional thing.
And it's not just me, everyone who lives or has a home here still loves Atafona despite this disaster. There is so much euphoria, intimacy, happiness and joy that no one wants to leave here. Some people who lost their homes do not want to leave and end up living among the rubble, which is dangerous.
We have an organization called SOS Atafona, of which I am currently the president. We continue to expect something to be done here. We thought we could do some erosion control like what is being done in other states and cities.
But we know that in a sense, it's our fault as humans for not being as environmentally considerate as we should be. Historically, the seas here were at their roughest in March and August, when the seas were known to move forward. But now that is not the case. It's always possible.
This story was created with the help of: climate disaster project; Thanks to Sean Holman, Aldyn Chwelos, Darren Schuettler, Ricardo Garcia, Cristine Gerk, Tracy Sherlock, and Lisa Taylor.
