News
"As paredes caem primeiro na vida dos que têm menos chão."
francisco melim
Jul 24, 2025
Summary
Desde 2022, acompanho o bairro do Segundo Torrão, na Trafaria, onde dezenas de famílias vivem sob risco de remoção. Este projeto documental expõe o impacto humano das demolições e a crise da habitação nas periferias de Lisboa. Mais do que retratar a precariedade, pretende dar voz à resistência e denunciar a ausência de respostas públicas. Porque quando o país escolhe onde cortar, também escolhe quem pode ficar — e quem tem de sair.
O meu primeiro contacto com o bairro do Segundo Torrão foi em 2022. Desde então, tenho voltado regularmente. Levo a câmara, mas o que trago de volta são histórias que pesam mais do que qualquer equipamento. Estive presente em várias fases de demolição, acompanhando famílias que viam as suas casas desaparecer pedra por pedra. Máquinas a rasgar estruturas frágeis, crianças a saltar entre entulho, adultos a fazer contas ao impossível — como recomeçar com um salário que mal chega para pagar um quarto? Quando arrendar uma casa ultrapassa, muitas vezes, um ordenado inteiro?
Desde esse primeiro momento, tenho vindo a acompanhar de perto a vida no bairro. Trabalho num projeto documental de longo termo sobre o impacto do desmantelamento destas zonas informais, mas profundamente vivas. Um território onde muitas das comunidades migrantes — sobretudo da África Ocidental — continuam a resistir. A sua luta não é só por abrigo. É pela dignidade de existir.
Mas já não se trata apenas de etnia, nem de origem. Basta andar pelas ruas de Lisboa — ou do Porto, ou de qualquer outra cidade — para perceber que a crise da habitação já não escolhe cara. Cada vez mais famílias portuguesas vivem sem teto, sem casa, sem qualquer apoio. Por mais que se tente camuflar esta realidade, o número de pessoas em situação de sem-abrigo cresce a olhos vistos. E quando falamos de sem-abrigo, não falamos de um estereótipo abstrato — falamos de pessoas que perderam os seus bens, os seus empregos, e que simplesmente já não conseguem pagar um quarto, quanto mais uma casa.
Em Loures, no Talude, repete-se o guião: operações de despejo, famílias deslocadas para longe dos centros urbanos, sem garantias nem alternativas habitacionais claras. Lisboa e as suas periferias enfrentam um grande desafio social relacionado com o acesso à habitação.
A habitação em Portugal tornou-se um privilégio. E num contexto de trabalho cada vez mais precário, com rendimentos instáveis, contratos intermitentes e um custo de vida em escalada, a maioria das pessoas já não procura “a casa ideal” — procura apenas um teto que não desabe.
Como fotojornalista e jornalista independente, não vejo estas zonas informais como um problema em si, mas como um reflexo da ausência de políticas públicas eficazes. O essencial é garantir que todas as pessoas tenham acesso a condições de vida dignas, inclusão e direitos básicos. Quando as soluções habitacionais não acompanham as necessidades das pessoas que vivem nestas áreas, o problema mantém-se sem resolução, e a vulnerabilidade aumenta.
Trago histórias. Histórias de sobrevivência, de desalojamento, de comunidade. Histórias que dizem respeito a todos nós.
Porque quando o país escolhe onde cortar, escolhe quem pode ficar.
E quem tem de sair. Importa também lembrar: o bairro do Segundo Torrão não nasceu com migrantes. Cresceu com pescadores e moradores vindos de várias zonas de Lisboa e da Margem Sul. Só mais tarde, ao longo das décadas de 80 e 90, começou a acolher também antigos colonos e trabalhadores oriundos dos PALOP, especialmente da Guiné-Bissau.
Hoje, o bairro é o reflexo de uma mistura complexa — mas profundamente portuguesa — que insiste em resistir ao apagamento.
"Walls fall first in the lives of those with the least ground."
My first contact with the Segundo Torrão neighborhood was in 2022. Since then, I have returned regularly. I bring my camera, but what I bring back are stories that weigh more than any equipment. I have been present during several demolition phases, accompanying families watching their homes disappear stone by stone. Machines tearing fragile structures apart, children jumping over rubble, adults calculating the impossible — how to start over on a salary barely enough to pay for a room? When does even renting a house often exceed a whole monthly wage?
From that first moment, I have closely followed life in the neighborhood. I am working on a long-term documentary project about the impact of dismantling these informal, yet deeply alive, areas. A territory where many migrant communities — especially from West Africa — continue to resist. Their struggle is not just for shelter. It is for the dignity of existing.
But it is no longer just about ethnicity or origin. Walking through the streets of Lisbon — or Porto, or any other city — it becomes clear that the housing crisis no longer chooses faces. More and more Portuguese families live without a roof, without a home, without any support. No matter how much one tries to mask this reality, the number of homeless people is visibly increasing. And when we talk about homeless people, we are not talking about an abstract stereotype — we are talking about people who have lost their belongings, their jobs, and simply can no longer afford a room, let alone a house.
In Loures, in Talude, the script repeats itself: eviction operations, families pushed away from urban centers, with no guarantees or clear housing alternatives. Lisbon and its outskirts face a major social challenge related to access to housing.
Housing in Portugal has become a privilege. And in a context of increasingly precarious work, unstable incomes, intermittent contracts, and rising living costs, most people no longer look for “the ideal home” — they simply look for a roof that won’t collapse.
As an independent photojournalist, I am neither for nor against the existence of informal settlements — a term currently used for these areas. What I defend is that all people, regardless of their origin, should have access to decent conditions, real integration opportunities, and basic rights. When housing solutions do not meet the needs of the people living in these areas, the problem remains unresolved, and vulnerability increases.
I bring stories. Stories of survival, displacement, and community. Stories that concern us all.
Because when the country chooses where to cut, it chooses who can stay.
And who has to leave.
It is also important to remember: the Segundo Torrão neighborhood was not born with migrants. It grew with fishermen and residents from various parts of Lisbon and the Margem Sul region. Only later, during the 1980s and 90s, did it begin to welcome former colonials and workers from the PALOP countries, especially Guinea-Bissau. Today, the neighborhood reflects a complex — but-deeply Portuguese mix that insists on resisting erasure.
My first contact with the Segundo Torrão neighborhood was in 2022. Since then, I have returned regularly. I bring my camera, but what I bring back are stories that weigh more than any equipment. I have been present during several demolition phases, accompanying families watching their homes disappear stone by stone. Machines tearing fragile structures apart, children jumping over rubble, adults calculating the impossible — how to start over on a salary barely enough to pay for a room? When does even renting a house often exceed a whole monthly wage?
From that first moment, I have closely followed life in the neighborhood. I am working on a long-term documentary project about the impact of dismantling these informal, yet deeply alive, areas. A territory where many migrant communities — especially from West Africa — continue to resist. Their struggle is not just for shelter. It is for the dignity of existing.
But it is no longer just about ethnicity or origin. Walking through the streets of Lisbon — or Porto, or any other city — it becomes clear that the housing crisis no longer chooses faces. More and more Portuguese families live without a roof, without a home, without any support. No matter how much one tries to mask this reality, the number of homeless people is visibly increasing. And when we talk about homeless people, we are not talking about an abstract stereotype — we are talking about people who have lost their belongings, their jobs, and simply can no longer afford a room, let alone a house.
In Loures, in Talude, the script repeats itself: eviction operations, families pushed away from urban centers, with no guarantees or clear housing alternatives. Lisbon and its outskirts face a major social challenge related to access to housing.
Housing in Portugal has become a privilege. And in a context of increasingly precarious work, unstable incomes, intermittent contracts, and rising living costs, most people no longer look for “the ideal home” — they simply look for a roof that won’t collapse.
As an independent photojournalist, I am neither for nor against the existence of informal settlements — a term currently used for these areas. What I defend is that all people, regardless of their origin, should have access to decent conditions, real integration opportunities, and basic rights. When housing solutions do not meet the needs of the people living in these areas, the problem remains unresolved, and vulnerability increases.
I bring stories. Stories of survival, displacement, and community. Stories that concern us all.
Because when the country chooses where to cut, it chooses who can stay.
And who has to leave.
It is also important to remember: the Segundo Torrão neighborhood was not born with migrants. It grew with fishermen and residents from various parts of Lisbon and the Margem Sul region. Only later, during the 1980s and 90s, did it begin to welcome former colonials and workers from the PALOP countries, especially Guinea-Bissau. Today, the neighborhood reflects a complex — but-deeply Portuguese mix that insists on resisting erasure.
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