The City That Breathes Lead

A neighbourhood that no longer feels like a city: six streets built on mining waste

by Giulia Desideri

Photo Credit Marco Garro https://marcogarro.com/children-of-the-mine/

In Cerro de Pasco, Peru, living next to the mine means living every day with heavy metals, contaminated water, and limited services. For children, exposure is not a future risk — it is a daily condition.

This case study follows the everyday lives of families living in one of the most contaminated areas of the city, built beside — and in part on top of — one of the country’s largest open-pit mines. Through interviews with three women and direct observation, it shows how environmental exposure shapes children’s health and their chances in life.

The study is part of the work of Future Rights APS, which explores the link between environmental contamination and children’s rights, with the aim of making these realities visible and strengthening advocacy tools.

I arrive after dark, on a small shared bus. This is how people move around Cerro de Pasco.

The road is unlit. For a moment, it feels like we’re leaving the city. Then the neighbourhood appears. Six streets. Half-built houses, yet inhabited. Bare walls, improvised materials — built slowly, over time, by the residents themselves. Almost complete silence.

Behind the houses, just a few meters away, rises a large hill. Smooth, almost perfectly shaped. It looks like a barrier, a shield from the vast open pit — el tajo abierto — stretching out on the other side.

Only later does it become clear: it is not a hill, and not a protection. It is mining waste, covered with a thin layer of soil.

When I meet the women, we begin to talk about daily life here.

What does it mean to live in a place like this?

It quickly becomes clear that contamination is simply part of everyday life.

“The windows are always covered in lead dust. We have to clean them every day.”

Wastewater runs behind the houses — not only from the mine, but from the city itself: homes, shops, hospitals — all flowing into an open channel, untreated and uncontrolled.

Water arrives, when it arrives, once a week. It is delivered by tanker trucks, but it contains heavy metals.

Families store it in buckets — often reused paint containers — and use it for everything.

“It’s not enough.”

When it runs out, people use local water, already contaminated by waste and sewage.

I take notes.

Then the question comes almost on its own:

What does it mean to grow up here?

The school stands next to mining waste. The football field is worn down.

There are no safe spaces.

“They don’t go out much… because of the contamination and the cold.”

Many children stay indoors. Others, alone, play outside — even at night, in the cold, often barefoot.

Exposure is constant.

“When we were children, we all had high levels of heavy metals.”

The effects are widespread: anemia, respiratory problems, chronic fatigue.

“They told us we could develop diseases like leukemia.”

The women speak of sick children, late diagnoses, a child who died at one year old, another, three years old, just recently diagnosed.

One child, they say, used to read when he was young. Now he cannot even recognize vowels.

“He has attention problems… he doesn’t grasp things, he forgets.”

Learning, remembering, growing — all become more difficult. One of the most invisible impacts is on cognitive development. Teachers adapt, repeat, support. But the problem is not pedagogical. It is biological.

Contamination, combined with malnutrition, directly affects the ability to learn.

I look at the women.

I know these facts. I have studied them. But here, they carry a different weight.

“How do families manage to survive? How do they protect themselves from something that seeps into everything?”

Families look for help, but face constant barriers. Not everyone can access care. Tests do not always come back. Results sometimes disappear. Medical campaigns are seen as insufficient.

They try to give children what they can — yogurt, vitamins, milk.

“I do what I can.”

As one speaks, the others quickly write everything down on their hands, as if this information did not circulate elsewhere. This is not shared prevention. It is improvised, everyday risk management — and not everyone can afford it.

The women know. They know their children are exposed, and that their options are limited. Still, they go on — caring for their children, supporting one another.

Here, contamination is the norm. And as institutional responses remain inadequate, the burden of managing risk falls on families. Cerro de Pasco is not an exception. It is one of many places where environmental exposure directly shapes people’s lives and health.

According to the World Health Organization, around 13 million people die each year from preventable environmental causes — nearly one in four deaths globally.

It is in this gap that the work of Future Rights APS takes shape, developing a practical workbook to support young people and communities in documenting the impacts of contamination and turning them into tools for advocacy.

As I leave the neighbourhood, a feeling lingers.

On one side, the evidence of an environment that harms.

On the other, the strength of those who continue to endure.

There is something there that is not immediately visible.

And perhaps it is the only thing that has not been contaminated.

In Cerro de Pasco, one of the most contaminated cities in Peru, infant mortality is higher than the national average. Studies suggest that around one-third of deaths are linked to congenital malformations associated with pollution, while thousands of children are exposed to heavy metals, with severe consequences for their health and development.