I’ve been thinking a lot about communication. Perhaps because, in some way, it has always been my way of being in the world, even before it became any of those words we use to try to organize what often begins in a more intuitive way. It’s no coincidence that when I created Lunga, the phrase that came to define our existence was: our nature is to listen and express ourselves in words.
At the time, it already made a lot of sense to me, but today—especially since I’ve been pursuing a graduate degree in Performance Writing at PUC-Rio—that phrase seems to take on new layers of meaning, because I’ve come to reaffirm that communication isn’t limited to written text, published posts, submitted reports, or news stories posted on a website. Communication is in everything! It manifests itself in words, yes, but also in gestures, rhythms, silences, drawings, dances, music, ways of doing, ways of receiving, ways of telling, and ways of remembering.
Communication Beyond Words
This insight seems simple, but it changes a lot when we really take the time to consider it. After all, if letters are also symbols that we’ve learned to interpret, why couldn’t other forms of expression be understood as writing?
A gesture can also tell a story. A song can also narrate. A moving body can also tell a story. A drawing made in the dirt can also be a language. I think, for example, of Conceição Evaristo, when she speaks of her mother drawing on the dirt floor, as someone who writes with what she has, with what she knows, with what she carries.
This image resonates with me precisely because it shifts the concept of writing away from that Eurocentric, colonizing, “more official, more academic, more legitimate” perspective—the one we in the West are accustomed to. And it reminds us that there are many ways to record the world, to communicate existence, and to say “I was here,” “this is how I learned,” “this is how I was taught,” “this is how we carry on.” This ties in somewhat with the lessons from the book “A Terra Dá, a Terra Quer,” which was one of our readings here in the book club.
And perhaps that is why this topic has become so closely tied to my relationship with Raízes. Because communicating about a social enterprise like Raízes has never been, for me, just about recounting what has been done. Of course, that aspect exists too, and it is important. We need to talk about the projects, the results, the methodologies, the territories, the lessons learned, the data, the paths taken. But when I look back on these nearly 11 years of overseeing Raízes’ communications—in a company that will celebrate its 20th anniversary in 2026—I realize that communication is present in far more places than those typically labeled as such. It is in the interpretation of a client’s pain, in the care taken not to turn a solution into something imposed, in the dialogue with communities, in the mediation between the expectations of different stakeholders, in the way a report organizes what happened in the field, in the responsibility to cite sources in the texts that go on the website, in the choice of one word over another, in the constant attempt to convey complexity without oversimplifying life.
Responsible communication starts with listening
When we talk about communication in a more traditional sense, we often think of the sender, receiver, message, channel, code, context, and noise. Someone speaks, someone listens, and something is conveyed. But in practice—especially in Raízes’ work—it’s never quite that straightforward.
The client comes to us with a question, a need, or a problem that needs to be addressed. Often, there is a very specific challenge at the heart of it: how to develop a particular area, how to structure a social and environmental project, how to strengthen a supply chain, how to generate income, how to support communities, or how to create a positive impact responsibly. But the answer doesn’t come solely from listening to that client. It needs to go through other forms of listening, other layers and ways of understanding. A relationship is being built—and no relationship can be sustained without communication.
When we talk about traditional communities, local communities, or groups that have historically been overlooked in development processes, this becomes even more evident, because it is not merely a matter of conveying information, presenting a methodology, or organizing an institutional statement. It is about recognizing that a given territory already communicates before any project arrives. It communicates through the landscape, the food, the festivals, oral traditions, crafts, the way space is occupied, the memories that circulate, and the absences as well. There is much being said there, even when it does not appear in a formal document, a spreadsheet, or an indicator.
And perhaps one of the most beautiful and most difficult responsibilities of communication is precisely this: not to erase these languages in the name of a narrative that is easier to sell, simpler to explain, or more comfortable for outsiders. In fact, we talked about this during our last immersion session, which is a time for the team to come together, since we’re located in different parts of Brazil. We discussed the fine line between fully adapting to the market and capital—and running the risk of losing our essence—or using terms that are only understandable within a very specific niche. Like almost everything in life, we settled on the ideal: balance, the middle ground. It’s no coincidence that Raízes is a social enterprise, part of the not-so-famous “2.5 sector,” which isn’t completely there, nor totally here.
Raízes has “sustainable development” right in its name, and that also makes me think about how much communication is part of that process—since it involves the way we understand a client, listen to and engage with a community, the way we present a proposal, document what we’ve learned, share knowledge, and the way we decide what should or shouldn’t be highlighted.
Where communication meets responsible tourism
This line of thinking is also closely tied to the field of responsible tourism, which runs through the history of Raízes and my own work, including Raízes’ and Lunga’s participation in the MUDA Collective. If we advocate for tourism that respects territories, communities, cultures, ways of life, and more balanced relationships between visitors and hosts, we must also advocate for communication that lives up to these standards. It makes no sense to talk about responsible tourism with irresponsible communication. It makes no sense to talk about sustainable development with a narrative that erases contradictions, simplifies territories, or uses diversity merely as an aesthetic resource.
In this case, communication must align with the values it promotes. It must be committed to sources, context, authorship, active listening, transparency, and the complexity of the stories it helps tell. And this applies equally to a campaign and an assessment, to a report and a caption, to a meeting with a client and a roundtable discussion in the field.
Everything is connected.
And if everything communicates, the question goes beyond “what do we want to say?” to “how do we want to listen?”, “which senses do we want to strengthen?”, and “what kind of future are we helping to shape when we string words together?”
