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| In addition to natural hazard vulnerability, the lack of access to basic infrastructure and financial services imposes restricted production and consumption conditions for this population, as well as limits technological innovations that for some privileged experts, would be promising for reducing our environmental degradation [2]. Hence, when thinking along the United Nation’s promise of “leaving no one behind” for a sustainable future, one must think – What is really possible in marginalized, peripheral, poor contexts?
In my diverse experiences in social projects in Brazil, I came to face situations where from the lack of options, these populations have been actively resisting their existence through informal and creative ways of production, consumption and education. Ways that have been excluded from the respect of government officials and policymakers, but that we can learn from to ressignify our modus operandis that have overpassed the bearable impact on the planet.
I bring to the discussion the practice of mutirão, a word with indigenous roots from Tupi-Guarani mutyrõ (within many other variations), freely translated to English as “common work”. The practice, with debated origin [3], has been present in diverse cultural contexts and geographical regions, suggesting a common intrinsic human trace of solidarity [3], but that aggregates different layers of political and social challenges. Deteriorated by the growing individualization of work configuration, some practices of mutual help survive their remote past’s heritage [3], yet incorporating new complexities of contemporary urban configuration.
In Brazilian cities, despite the legal effort to make cities accessible [4], these challenges include housing deficit, lack of basic services such as sanitation and electricity, and restricted land access [5]. In the overall neglect of this urban ill by some government officials, it creates a condition that obliges people to find informal ways of occupying the city – usually in configurations such as favelas, and ocupações. In these scenarios of poor infrastructure assistance, climate vulnerability is enhanced, being common phenomena of landslides, extreme rainfall and floods that cause significant dwelling damage and human loss. Yet invisibilized by officials, the segregated people find political and social strength by unification of their voices, knowledge and workforce abilities in a territory that is not assisted by formal governance. They collectively construct housing, infrastructure, and collective spaces in labor that are generally non-remunerated, non-hierarchical, and do not aim for a financial profit. Therefore, the mutirão incorporates a political view of anti-hegemonic activity that is contrary to capitalist work relations [6].
To bring this into practical terms, I share a practice of an informal occupation located in Santa Maria, a city in south of Brazil, that is in a current legislative process for the State to formally allow 53 families to live where they have been for the past seven years – “Vila Resistência” – in direct translation – “Villa of Resistance”. The name coherently suggests their will of power, as 15 of the pioneer families came from a situation of eviction from a past land they occupied, and in the current site, they have already been through at least three direct threats of removal [7]. The disputatious situation introduces other various conflicts these organizations encounter, and their need to urgently resist to be able to live.
In addition to natural hazard vulnerability, the lack of access to basic infrastructure and financial services imposes restricted production and consumption conditions for this population, as well as limits technological innovations that for some privileged experts, would be promising for reducing our environmental degradation [2]. Hence, when thinking along the United Nation’s promise of “leaving no one behind” for a sustainable future, one must think – What is really possible in marginalized, peripheral, poor contexts?In my diverse experiences in social projects in Brazil, I came to face situations where from the lack of options, these populations have been actively resisting their existence through informal and creative ways of production, consumption and education. Ways that have been excluded from the respect of government officials and policymakers, but that we can learn from to ressignify our modus operandis that have overpassed the bearable impact on the planet.
I bring to the discussion the practice of mutirão, a word with indigenous roots from Tupi-Guarani mutyrõ (within many other variations), freely translated to English as “common work”. The practice, with debated origin [3], has been present in diverse cultural contexts and geographical regions, suggesting a common intrinsic human trace of solidarity [3], but that aggregates different layers of political and social challenges. Deteriorated by the growing individualization of work configuration, some practices of mutual help survive their remote past’s heritage [3], yet incorporating new complexities of contemporary urban configuration.
In Brazilian cities, despite the legal effort to make cities accessible [4], these challenges include housing deficit, lack of basic services such as sanitation and electricity, and restricted land access [5]. In the overall neglect of this urban ill by some government officials, it creates a condition that obliges people to find informal ways of occupying the city – usually in configurations such as favelas, and ocupações. In these scenarios of poor infrastructure assistance, climate vulnerability is enhanced, being common phenomena of landslides, extreme rainfall and floods that cause significant dwelling damage and human loss. Yet invisibilized by officials, the segregated people find political and social strength by unification of their voices, knowledge and workforce abilities in a territory that is not assisted by formal governance. They collectively construct housing, infrastructure, and collective spaces in labor that are generally non-remunerated, non-hierarchical, and do not aim for a financial profit. Therefore, the mutirão incorporates a political view of anti-hegemonic activity that is contrary to capitalist work relations [6].
To bring this into practical terms, I share a practice of an informal occupation located in Santa Maria, a city in south of Brazil, that is in a current legislative process for the State to formally allow 53 families to live where they have been for the past seven years – “Vila Resistência” – in direct translation – “Villa of Resistance”. The name coherently suggests their will of power, as 15 of the pioneer families came from a situation of eviction from a past land they occupied, and in the current site, they have already been through at least three direct threats of removal [7]. The disputatious situation introduces other various conflicts these organizations encounter, and their need to urgently resist to be able to live.
In addition to natural hazard vulnerability, the lack of access to basic infrastructure and financial services imposes restricted production and consumption conditions for this population, as well as limits technological innovations that for some privileged experts, would be promising for reducing our environmental degradation [2]. Hence, when thinking along the United Nation’s promise of “leaving no one behind” for a sustainable future, one must think – What is really possible in marginalized, peripheral, poor contexts?
In my diverse experiences in social projects in Brazil, I came to face situations where from the lack of options, these populations have been actively resisting their existence through informal and creative ways of production, consumption and education. Ways that have been excluded from the respect of government officials and policymakers, but that we can learn from to ressignify our modus operandis that have overpassed the bearable impact on the planet.
I bring to the discussion the practice of mutirão, a word with indigenous roots from Tupi-Guarani mutyrõ (within many other variations), freely translated to English as “common work”. The practice, with debated origin [3], has been present in diverse cultural contexts and geographical regions, suggesting a common intrinsic human trace of solidarity [3], but that aggregates different layers of political and social challenges. Deteriorated by the growing individualization of work configuration, some practices of mutual help survive their remote past’s heritage [3], yet incorporating new complexities of contemporary urban configuration.
In Brazilian cities, despite the legal effort to make cities accessible [4], these challenges include housing deficit, lack of basic services such as sanitation and electricity, and restricted land access [5]. In the overall neglect of this urban ill by some government officials, it creates a condition that obliges people to find informal ways of occupying the city – usually in configurations such as favelas, and ocupações. In these scenarios of poor infrastructure assistance, climate vulnerability is enhanced, being common phenomena of landslides, extreme rainfall and floods that cause significant dwelling damage and human loss. Yet invisibilized by officials, the segregated people find political and social strength by unification of their voices, knowledge and workforce abilities in a territory that is not assisted by formal governance. They collectively construct housing, infrastructure, and collective spaces in labor that are generally non-remunerated, non-hierarchical, and do not aim for a financial profit. Therefore, the mutirão incorporates a political view of anti-hegemonic activity that is contrary to capitalist work relations [6].
To bring this into practical terms, I share a practice of an informal occupation located in Santa Maria, a city in south of Brazil, that is in a current legislative process for the State to formally allow 53 families to live where they have been for the past seven years – “Vila Resistência” – in direct translation – “Villa of Resistance”. The name coherently suggests their will of power, as 15 of the pioneer families came from a situation of eviction from a past land they occupied, and in the current site, they have already been through at least three direct threats of removal [7]. The disputatious situation introduces other various conflicts these organizations encounter, and their need to urgently resist to be able to live.
The contributions in Reader #4 focus on a variety of methods used to instigate, plan and sustain environmental learning practices and pedagogies. The Reader explores environmental learning as a practice of care, bringing together authors who examine how care is embedded in the tools we use—and the ways we plan and design those tools—to support meaningful environmental engagement. They also ask: How do the methods we choose shape the kinds of learning that emerge? What positionalities, assumptions, and relationships become visible through these methods? How might we navigate and address the tensions and power dynamics that arise? The papers also consider the many roles played by participants, designers, researchers, and educators, and invite us to rethink and adjust these roles in light of the challenges and possibilities of future practice. Together, these contributions encourage us to reflect critically on what it means to learn with and care for our environments, and how our collective efforts might cultivate more just and resilient ways of knowing and acting in the world.
In the first paper "Co-design Tools as Boundary Objects", Nicola Antaki explores the elements necessary for sharing across communities of practice (Wenger 1999) in two environmental learning projects on the edges of institutions. The first takes place in Mumbai with NGO Muktangan schoolchildren and teachers and the Mariamma Nagar informal settlement (2012-2021) and the other in Saint Denis, Paris, with La Courtille Middle School year 7 students and staff (2022-ongoing). The paper focuses on collective encounters - using the concept of boundary objects (Star and Griesemer 1989) - in each case as site-specific tools for learning, (co)designing, sharing and commoning in situated pedagogies. In each case the boundary object reflects the local material culture in some way - through an embroidered tapestry in Mumbai, to the soil of a school vegetable garden in Paris.
In an investigation of shared vocabularies, "Sharing Practices Workshop", Pia Palo, Marco Adelfio and Emilio Brandao explore a workshop method that aims to understand a local vocabulary connected to practices of sharing and circularity in Hammarkullen, a late modernist suburb of Gothenburg in Sweden. Collectively, with a group of residents and local actors they investigate potential futures for sustainable practices in a specific context. Conversations centred around the meaning of circularity and sharing in Hammarkullen today prepared for the creation of speculative storylines. A conclusion evolved in a gathering of concrete ideas on possible hands-on actions within the specific conditions of Hammarkullen. Palo et al. recognise the strength of this method in its potential to root abstract concepts in local vocabularies and lived practices, building onto existing networks and local knowledge rather than trying to prescribe preexisting solutions and systems.
The contribution "Community-engaged Design-build Pedagogy Of and For the Commons" by Effrosyni Roussou discusses a pedagogical method and practice based on the consideration of the context in order to renegotiate architectural education’s hegemonic influences and implications. Set in a suburb of Nicosia in Cyprus the paper focuses on the “cocreation studio” of the University of Cyprus, that attempts to create impact in the way architecture students and local communities relate to and care for urban space through community-engaged design-build activities. Commoning is seen here as an everyday activity of managing shared resources such as spaces, knowledge and skills. Part of the live education experience of the studio is role-shifting to reconfigure both how students learn and how they transform their ability to relate to other agents in urban space.
Eeva-Maarja Laur’s contribution focuses on the transformative potential of a community self-building renovation. Laur explores, in an ethnographic study, a community‐led initiative in Denmark which redefines building renovation as an act of cultural and environmental regeneration. Rather than simply replacing old materials, the project harnesses them as part of the atmosphere bringing a place to life through sensory experiences: the cool drafts of spring, the tactile coldness of clay plaster, and the dialogic reciprocity of historical and modern architectural elements. The project demonstrates that renovation, when approached as a process of unlearning and relearning, can reconnect communities with their heritage and reshape their future environment. This perspective calls on architectural pedagogy to go beyond technology and to embrace holistic, experiential, and community-based tactics in renovations.
Sadia Sharmin’s paper “Learning With and From a Slow Garden” invites the reader to the suburb Tynnered in Gothenburg, Sweden, to explore a garden and its activities that have been self-initiated and curated by a mother and a son living in the neighbourhood. Sharmin employs the concept "caring curation" to address informal environmental learning beyond institutionalised structures. Through her method of visual storytelling she aims at foregrounding the making and keeping of the garden by a community of neighbours, mostly parents and children in an otherwise stigmatized neighbourhood, as a story of empowerment and pride. Sharmin argues that the capacity to imagine and enact change starts with small acts of care, not grand gestures and that spatial practices rooted in trust and collective responsibility may have the power to turn marginal spaces into sites of possibilities.
Ziana S. Madathil contributes to the exploration of care by investigating "practices of care and ecology in an intentional community" at The Old Hall - a community living in the United Kingdom. She identifies three caring types - social, spatial and environmental - caring practices such as sustainable ways of living and using ecological practices to reduce carbon footprint, but also as tools for commoning, sharing resources and knowledge. A part of her empirical research is discussed using drawings, diagrams and maps, showing the inhabitants’ practices of care and their associated spaces, in a bid to assess the spatial influence on communal life. Sajid argues that there is a vital relationship between human and non-human members of the community, and that it is an important setting to learn to care collectively and work towards ensuring ecological well-being.
The paper "What is a Caring Spatial Education for You" by Zuzana Tabaková, Spolka gathers 18 workshop formats that the group has developed in four editions of their “Never Never School”, in Košice, Slovakia. Since 2018, Spolka, a group of sociologists and architects, has brought together multiple actors such as young professionals, city administrators, planners, interest groups and concerned citizens around urgent planning issues in public workshop formats and conversations. The gatherings emerged from a need for dialogical learning and research about cities. They served as possibilities to speculate and imagine together situated utopias for the city marked by former utopian modernist visions of the socialist regime. Ultimately, the Never Never School aims at raising awareness among local actors to collectively understand the city and create a space for a caring spatial education.
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