Brazil woke up to the nightmare.
The lynching of Moïse Kabagambe and the execution of Durval Teófilo Filho made us realize that we are not the nice, friendly and hospitable subjects that inhabit the collective imagination of Brasuca.
The episodes of these days open the hideous face of Brazil, and there is no facial harmonization that solves such a disaster. Zé Carioca leaves, goalkeeper Bruno enters as ambassador of Brazilianness.
It is a cruel, bestial, underhanded and ferocious country. Racist to the core. We have achieved the feat of losing in comparison with a Congo torn apart by atrocious colonialism and fratricidal wars. Nice service from our militiamen.
Even if sideways, the two appalling crimes force us to look in the mirror. We were never the tropical paradise of Atlantis chanchadas, but it seems to only get worse.
We have a president making fun of a disaster that, if it didn’t kill anyone, will greatly disrupt the lives of the inhabitants of the nation’s largest city. We have the son of the man, who attributes the same disaster to the hiring of female professionals by the construction company.
We have a human rights minister who takes ten days to mourn Moïse’s sacrifice, while propagating abominable lies about the cause of the pregnancies of poor girls and unassisted by the state she represents.
We have police officers who nail a “guilty” in a homicide report because they find the excuse of the confessed criminal acceptable – a naval sergeant who “confused” his black neighbor with the image of a generic thug.
I have just returned from Rio de Janeiro, the land where Moïse and Durval fell. I got there by plane, in Santos Dumont, which makes all the difference.
I didn’t go through the Baixada, the most rotten part of Guanabara Bay, the landscape of the Ramos swimming pool, the signs that isolate the Red Line from the Maré favela.
I fell straight into the home of bossa nova, chopinho, caipirinha, piemontese rice, feijoada, ham with mayonnaise, progressive white people from Gávea who smile all the time, who knows why on earth, while Rocinha almost swallows the whole bagasse.
I left a city once again stunned by shock, by revolt, by hatred and shame in the face of chronic incompetence to heal wounds that are already half a millennium old. Will pass.
Let’s just let ourselves fall asleep and leave the nightmare of real life behind. Have Globo biscuits, shrimp pie, rice with broccoli, mate with lemon, guarana without gas and a crowd of non-religious whites throwing paper boats to Iemanjá in the sea of the south zone.
Have more caipirinha. Have more feijoada. Whoever brings the rango and the booze is an African who works almost for free and, if he complains or drinks too much, he will be beaten to death.
That’s how we’ve been going ever since. The pattern would be tedious if it weren’t disgusting.
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Source: Folha
