Trial by Facebook, or Mob Justice for the Digital Age

An engagement in Rio has ended after 26-year-old carioca Nina Mandin caught husband-to-be Rafael Hermida mistreating her two French bulldogs. Mandin became suspicious after the dogs became scared of Hermida; mysterious wounds also started appearing on the animals. To get to the bottom of things, she installed a hidden camera in her living room, which subsequently recorded images of Hermida headbutting one of her dogs before picking the other one up by its paw, swinging it round and throwing it to the floor. Mandin uploaded the video to Facebook where it has been viewed nearly 300,000 times and provoked widespread outrage. The story has been covered by major newspapers such as O Globo and Folha de S. Paulo, it appeared on TV Globo’s popular daytime TV show Mais Você and has drawn condemnation from various (in my view, opportunistic) celebrities.

Unsurprisingly, Mandin has kicked her fiancé out and cancelled their wedding, while he has also been summoned by the police to make a statement and may face animal cruelty charges. However, beyond that, there are several other consequences Hermida is facing which are arguably less deserved. He part owns a bar in Rio, which has received threats, and his partners are taking legal action to remove him from the business. Predictably, he has also received a torrent of abuse and a number of death threats. He published a statement on Instagram in his defence (rather foolishly I thought), but I’d be surprised if he ventures out much in public over the next week or two.

A similar case took place last August in Porto Alegre, when Patrícia Moreira da Silva, a 23-year-old Grêmio fan, was caught on camera at a Copa do Brasil match racially abusing Aranha, the Santos goalkeeper. The images, which were filmed by an ESPN TV camera and then widely circulated on television and online, clearly show her yelling the word macaco (monkey). As in Hermida’s case, there were a series of official consequences. Grêmio were immediately disqualified from the competition, while Moreira da Silva was summoned by the police and may face prosecution under racial hatred laws (though it is unlikely she will go to prison). She was banned from entering any football stadium for 720 days and she also lost her job. All of which, arguably, is fair enough. Less so, were the numerous death and rape threats she received online, her house being pelted with stones and set on fire, and the fact that she had to go into hiding outside Porto Alegre.

Without for one second wishing to defend Hermida or Moreira da Silva, or diminish their crimes, there is something about the way both of them have been treated which makes me deeply uncomfortable. Both cases seem symptomatic of a very recent trend, which nonetheless has its roots in an ancient (perhaps timeless) human behaviour. This is mob justice for the digital age. Offenders are no longer just punished: they are put in the stocks, ritually humiliated, made an example of. This is especially true of Moreira da Silva: several other Grêmio fans participated in the racist chanting and were summoned by the police, but not one of them was subject to the same treatment as her. The only difference is that she got caught on camera.

It is true that the justice system in Brazil is notoriously flawed. There are a lot of people rotting in prison who shouldn’t be there at all, while there are many people who have committed extremely serious crimes and got off scot-free. Some might argue therefore, that in the absence of an effective criminal justice system, it is fair and correct that some people who commit these sorts of crimes are made an example of online and in the media. Not only does this ensure that they face consequences for their actions, it also serves as a warning to others. However, while not only is it unfair to single people out in this manner (as in the Moreira da Silva case), this kind of trial by Facebook seems to lead inevitably to reprisals and vigilantism.

Last May, for example, an angry mob composed of around 100 people in Guarajá, on the São Paulo coast, lynched a young mother-of-two named Fabiane Maria de Jesus. Her crime? Some local residents thought she resembled a photofit circulated online of a woman who was supposedly kidnapping children to use in black magic rituals. But there was no such woman. The whole story was nothing more than a rumour that had snowballed on social networks, encouraged by the website Guarujá Alerta, which published the photofit. It later emerged that the photofit had been produced by the Rio de Janeiro police in an entirely unrelated case two years beforehand.

One might argue that this case is different, given that Maria de Jesus was innocent of any crime (unlike Hermida and Moreira da Silva). But I think that’s irrelevant, given that the problem was one of mistaken identity. Appointing internet social networks our judge, jury (and in this case) executioner, creates an extremely dangerous precedent. Maria de Jesus’ fate could befall any of us. We need only to have the misfortune of resembling some internet bogeyman, or, worse still (this is where it gets really scary), have the misfortune of having some total stranger think we do.

And do we really want to bestow any moral legitimacy on the social networks? Perhaps it has always been this way, but I have the strong impression that internet discourse is becoming increasingly shrill and demented and aggressive. It’s like the chorus in a Greek tragedy, or the yokels in some Hardy novel – only far more vicious and histrionic. In Hermida’s case, as well as the threats and the abuse, one man posted a video in which he weeps (weeps!) with pity for Mandin’s dogs. People seem to lose all perspective online, tending to alight on emotive individual cases, while completely failing to see the bigger picture. Is Moreira da Silva’s treatment by the media and social networks likely to help resolve the problem of racism in Brazilian football stadiums? Perhaps, in the short term, but in the long term, I doubt it. But why limit the discussion to football stadiums? Why not try and approach the much more pressing problem of racism in Brazilian society as a whole? Might it be because such a problem requires thought and analysis and research, rather than just weeping and wailing and the gnashing of teeth?

Some might argue that this kind of thing will gradually lead to a higher standard of behaviour. The treatment of Hermida and Moreira da Silva will serve as a warning to others; after all, you never know when someone might be filming you. But aside from the obvious Orwellian implications of this argument, I just don’t think it works in practice. Most human beings are not that rational. No doubt there are people who commit awful crimes with cold analysis and foresight, but for most of us, I think the worst things we do are precisely when we are not thinking, and therefore, not concerned about what is happening around us and if someone might happen to have a smartphone handy.

Perhaps what I find most disturbing about these sorts of incidents is the way people seem so quick to judge and punish and condemn. We are all human, and therefore imperfect. We are all prone to lapses of behaviour. What was it that bloke with the beard and sandals used to say? Something about sin and casting stones. Apparently he’s a major player in Brazil. Isn’t there a statue of him around here somewhere?

Football, Opium of the Povo Mineiro

The two Belo Horizonte teams in the Série A are currently bossing Brazilian domestic competition. Last Sunday, Cruzeiro won the league with two games to spare, their second title in a row, while last Wednesday night, Atlético Mineiro won the Copa do Brasil, beating Cruzeiro comfortably in the final to deny them the double.

I have lived in several major footballing cities, including Madrid, Buenos Aires and São Paulo, but in terms of passion none of them can touch Belo Horizonte. I went up to the roof on Wednesday night at fulltime and watched the fireworks going off over the city. It was like watching the news of some war-torn city in the Middle East, minus the houses exploding and buildings collapsing. The fireworks people launch – and almost everyone seems to use the same type – all make this quick sequence of explosions, like some sort of heavy machine gun, followed by a single, deeper pop. All across the horizon I could see fireworks going off, blue and green patterns blooming suddenly from a hilltop, so far away that the sound didn’t reach me. There was this big grey cloud of smoke, wafting across the neighbourhood, a vague smell of gunpowder. And of course, the screaming, “Galo! Galo!”[1] coming from all directions, in male, female and children’s voices. The local dogs hate it. Often when a firework goes off nearby you can hear some poor mutt yelping in distress. The noise must have stopped at some point, because I woke up in the night and everything was quiet. But all day on Thursday fireworks were going off around the neighbourhood (in the day! Surely there’s nothing to see?), and going up to the roof in the morning I could hear all the cars bashing away at their horns down on Avenida dos Andradas. There were atleticanos doing rounds of the neighbourhood, honking their horns and shouting out of the window, while one guy with an Atlético flag tied to his roof had saved himself the trouble of yelling by blasting a recording of Atlético crowd noise at full volume out of his car stereo.

It’s hard to know what to make of all this. On the one hand, I think fantastic, this is what I travel for: to live in places where people behave and express themselves in ways that are radically different from the culture in which I grew up. For anyone with even a vague interest in football, Brazil in general and Minas Gerais in particular are clearly interesting places to be. This is somewhere where for most people football is far more than just a game: it’s a political issue, a way of life, almost a religion. Children here have their football teams assigned to them before they have names, before they are born, before they are even a glint in their father’s eye. It can divide families: I have an acquaintance who supports Atlético in secret, because her whole family supports América Mineiro (the “other” Belo Horizonte team, who play in the Série B), and she says it would upset her grandfather too much were he to find out she is atleticana. That’s another thing: here, women seem almost as obsessed as the men. Of course, the stadiums still tend to be male dominated, and women generally aren’t the ones doing the rounds of the neighbourhood flying their club’s colours out of the car window, but still, they almost all follow, watch and talk about football. In contrast, amongst my female friends and acquaintances in the UK, I can’t think of anyone who cares much at all.

On the other hand, the obsession is so visible, so extreme and so universal, that if one does not participate, it can feel quite alienating. It is hard not to be reminded that I am an outsider when I am surrounded by people literally screaming for their local side at least two or three times a week. Moreover, the football culture in Belo Horizonte seems so natural and uncomplicated, at a time when, on the global level, the sport has long been becoming increasingly absurd and offensive. Modern top-flight football appears to operate in this kind of parallel universe, in which normal rules – such as national laws or economic principles – just don’t seem to apply. Football must be one of the only industries to escape virtually unscathed from the financial crisis, while its increasing domination by global capital is leading to ever more bizarre outcomes. There is surely no better example of this than FIFA’s awarding of the 2022 World Cup to Qatar, an act so shamelessly and nakedly corrupt it gives new meaning to the term “beyond satire”. Of course, Brazilians have plenty of first-hand experience of this kind of thing, thanks to this year’s World Cup (regarding which there is surely still much dirt to come out), and equally, Brazilian domestic football is hardly replete with examples of honesty and virtue (look no further than former CBF presidents João Havelange and Ricardo Teixeira).

But this all seems really distant when you look at the way people love their football here. Perhaps that makes the corruption of the sport all the more cynical, but in a sense all the less surprising. The masters of the modern game know that it virtually doesn’t matter what they do: people’s love for their football team is something irrational, unconditional, and they will continue to follow football and pay money to do so, regardless of how rotten the sport becomes. Again, the comparison between football and religion seems apt: just like religious faith, the Brazilian obsession with football cannot be explained away rationally. Support for club and country is akin to faith in God: no matter how bad things get, you stick with it. In this sense, it’s hard not to think of Marx’s old dictum about religion being the opium of the people: in Brazil, to religion (because there’s plenty of that around here as well, but that’s another blog piece) you can add football and television. Following Marx’s thought, I can’t help but wonder sometimes what this country might be like if people invested all the passion and energy they invest in football in something else, something better.

Perhaps we all need our opium though. And of all the ways humans choose to get their kicks, football is hardly the worst.

[1] Note for English readers: Atlético Mineiro’s nickname is “Galo” (“Cock”); Cruzeiro are “Raposa” (“Fox”).

A Chamada “Esquerda Caviar” e as Eleições

Dois membros da intelligentsia brasileira manifestaram apoio à reeleição de Dilma Rousseff a semana passada, da antiga geração e a nova. Chico Buarque gravou um vídeo de apenas seis segundos, em que disse “Vamos votar na Dilma, dia 26 estamos lá, até o dia 26, Dilma.” E o comediante Gregorio Duvivier publicou um artigo na Folha de S. Paulo, criticando a polarização extrema dessas eleições, e dizendo que ele se sentia em terra estrangeira no Leblon por causa do apoio uniforme e as vezes agressivo dos outros moradores do bairro ao candidato Aécio Neves. No fim do artigo, ele expressa um apoio bem restrito e relutante à Dilma.

Essa relutância não impediu, porém, que Duvivier fosse criticado por Rodrigo Constantino da Veja, que publicou dois artigos em dias seguidos atacando primeiro o Duvivier, e depois, o Chico Buarque. Uma análise séria desses artigos não vale a pena; qualquer pessoa que leu o Constantino mais de uma vez com certeza pode adivinhar o conteúdo. Basta dizer que para Constantino, Chico e Duvivier são hipócritas, representantes do que ele chama da “esquerda caviar”; ou seja, celebridades, intelectuais, pessoas da classe média/alta que apoiam causas progressistas.

Essa expressão “esquerda caviar” é uma das prediletas do Constantino, tanto que ele a escolheu como o título de um dos seus livros: Esquerda caviar: a hipocrisia dos artistas e intelectuais progressistas no Brasil e no mundo. Mas não foi ele que cunhou o termo. Provavelmente sua origem vem da França, onde o termo “gauche caviar” se usa desde pelo menos os anos 80. Igualmente, na Inglaterra, temos a expressão “champagne socialist”, que se usa faz tempo já. É um termo utilizado exatamente da mesma maneira, e pelo mesmo tipo de jornalista que Constantino. É uma expressão muito cara ao jornal The Daily Mail (de certa forma, a nossa Veja) que a tem usado para denegrir diversas pessoas, como o sindicalista Bob Crow, o cantor e ativista Billy Bragg, e até o atual presidente francês François Hollande.

A coisa mais engraçada sobre Constantino é que ele se acha um liberal: no blog dele diz ‘Análises de um liberal sem medo da polêmica’. Coitado! Além da visão distorcida que ele tem do mundo, ele também não é capaz de se enxergar de uma forma muito clara. Porque essa noção de “esquerda caviar”, na realidade, não tem nada de liberal. A implicação é que nossa visão política tem que ser determinada, necessariamente, pela nossa classe social e/ou nossa situação financeira. Portanto, é hipocrisia que uma pessoa rica e bem sucedida seja da esquerda.

Mesmo a nível prático, o conceito é problemático: se existe uma “esquerda caviar”, será que ele acha que também existe uma esquerda legitima? Quais são os requisitos se eu quero fazer parte desse grupo? Eu tenho o direito de ter ideias progressistas até ganhar quantos salários mínimos por mês? Uma pessoa esquerdista que era pobre mas se torna rica também se torna “esquerda caviar” se não mudar de posição política? E o contrário: um rico que perde todo o seu dinheiro se torna esquerdista no processo? O Eike Batista deve aos acionistas $1 bilhão, será então que ele é o maior socialista do Brasil?

É verdade, no Brasil agora a corrida eleitoral mostra uma forte relação entre posição política e classe social. Mas isso não é uma regra inviolável: como vimos, têm pessoas da classe média/alta que votam na Dilma, como também tem gente mais humilde que vota no Aécio. Na Inglaterra é igual: têm pessoas da classe trabalhadora que votam no partido conservador e admiram profundamente a Margaret Thatcher. Igualmente, têm pessoas da classe alta e até da aristocracia (Tony Benn, falecido esse ano, seria um exemplo ótimo) que são socialistas ativos e comprometidos. Sim, muitas vezes votamos segundo um conceito estreito do nosso próprio interesse, mas não é sempre assim.

Mas além dos óbvios problemas práticos que essa ideia de “esquerda caviar” traz consigo, eu tenho uma crítica mais grave. Para Constantino, é hipocrisia ter dinheiro e uma boa qualidade de vida e desejar o mesmo para os outros. Seguindo a mesma linha de raciocínio, fica claro que na visão dele, a política é simplesmente a maneira de defender o próprio interesse. E isso é a essência do conservadorismo, não do liberalismo como Constantino gosta de pensar. Bom, se você aceita essa visão tristíssima da política, então sim entendo que pessoas como Chico ou Duvivier poderiam parecer hipócritas, ou pelo menos inconsistentes de alguma forma. Mas o que Constantino não entende, o que ele nunca entendeu, é que essas pessoas veem a política como uma maneira de fazer um ambiente melhor para todo mundo. Não tem hipocrisia nenhuma nisso porque elas identificam o próprio interesse, até certo ponto, com o interesse coletivo.

Isso é o conceito chave aqui: interesse coletivo. Por exemplo, se tivesse o direito de votar no Brasil, eu também votaria na Dilma, porque continuo acreditando que os dois problemas maiores do Brasil são a pobreza e a desigualdade, e acho que ela se preocupa em combater eles mais do que o Aécio faria. Isso não faz com que eu seja hipócrita, porque acho que a redução desses indicadores é tanto do meu interesse quanto do interesse de todo mundo (ou pelo menos uma maioria). Cabe ressaltar também que não acho que todo mundo que vota no Aécio necessariamente compartilhe a visão política pobre do Constantino. Acredito que a maioria das pessoas que pretende votar no Aécio vai fazer isso não porque estejam apenas olhando para o próprio umbigo, mas porque elas sinceramente acham que ele vai fazer um Brasil melhor. A diferença, como sempre, é a política.

Além disso, todos nós fazemos pequenas coisas no dia a dia (que normalmente nunca associamos com a política) que são determinadas por uma noção de interesse coletivo. Por exemplo, se você pega transporte público as vezes, em vez de sair sempre de carro. Ou se você leva seu lixo até uma lixeira, em vez de jogar na rua. Ou outro exemplo bem recorrente: se você consume o mínimo de água possível, já que se trata de um recurso bem escasso na região sudeste agora. Muitas pessoas fazem essas coisas, as vezes sem pensar – independentemente da posição política de cada uma. Mas são ações pequenas que mostram a consciência que ação individual as vezes tem que se conformar com o interesse coletivo.

Voltando ao tema original, além de ser cínico e desagradável, o termo “Esquerda caviar” implica justamente uma negação da ideia de interesse coletivo e portanto, é um conceito que nega a possibilidade de algumas das melhores características humanas: altruísmo, solidariedade e empatia. Em vez disso, insiste na primazia do interesse individual e enfatiza atributos como a cobiça, o egoísmo, e o desprezo para o semelhante. E no Brasil e o mundo, acho que já vimos o suficiente disso.

Uma última reflexão na Copa

Apesar da Copa do Mundo ter sido – por consenso nacional e internacional – um grande sucesso, não todo mundo está satisfeito. Não, não estou falando do pobre torcedor brasileiro (poderia ser pior, vocês poderiam ser ingleses), mas da grande mídia e particularmente, de alguns pequenos comerciantes. Não faturaram tanto quanto queriam, os turistas não gastaram o desejado, e em dias de jogo (especialmente os da seleção brasileira), os negócios ficaram às moscas. Por que será? Instintivamente, muitos têm culpado os movimentos sociais e, especialmente, o movimento ‘Não vai ter Copa’.

Agora vale a pena reiterar que não existe um consenso sobre os benefícios de grandes eventos desse tipo para economias nacionais. Se diz que as Olimpíadas de 1992 foram um bom negócio para Barcelona, mas os jogos de 2004 tiveram consequências graves para Grécia, África do Sul não lucrou com a Copa de 2010, e até Alemanha – país que já tinha uma boa rede de estádios e uma infraestrutura sofisticada – também não lucrou com a Copa de 2006. Portanto, não era muito realista esperar que o Brasil fizesse grande lucro com essa Copa, ainda mais quando se considera o dinheiro que foi gasto para que a Copa pudesse acontecer aqui.

Aliás, nem todos os comerciantes reclamaram. Alguns, como os donos de bares, fizeram uma boa grana (segundo eles, o faturamento subiu 80% nos dias que a seleção brasileira jogou).

Agora chegamos aos ‘Não vai ter Copa’. Segundo a Folha de S. Paulo, o movimento ‘contaminou’ o país, criando um clima negativo que levou muita gente a desistir de fazer as preparações e investimentos necessários. Eu acho que é simplesmente o caso que alguns comércios (os bares, os taxis, os albergues, os vendedores ambulantes) naturalmente foram beneficiados pela Copa, enquanto infelizmente muitos outros tiveram um mês mais devagar. Mas talvez a Folha tenha razão sobre um ponto: muitas pessoas me falaram que o clima antes dessa Copa não se comparava ao das Copas anteriores. Será então que a culpa realmente é dos movimentos sociais? Dos ‘Não vai ter Copa’, ou talvez dos black blocs dos quais nós lemos tanto nos jornais e revistas?

Ou será que o clima negativo tinha a ver com o fato que o Brasil corria perigo de não entregar vários estádios antes da abertura? Ou que apenas 41% das obras totais planejadas para a Copa ficaram prontas a tempo? Ou que oito operários morreram durante a construção e reforma dos estádios (sem falar de mais duas pessoas após a queda de um viaduto em Belo Horizonte no dia 3)? Ou a superfaturamento de obras, ou as brigas mais ou menos públicas entre FIFA e o governo federal? Essas não seriam razões muito mais fortes do que umas manifestações de relativamente baixa adesão?

Parece que algumas pessoas levaram muito literalmente o movimento ‘Não vai ter Copa’. Ninguém – nem os ativistas mais militantes – acreditava que não ia ter Copa. Com tanto investimento, o Estado brasileiro não podia nem contemplar a possibilidade de não ter Copa. O lema ‘Não vai ter Copa’ sempre foi um exagero calculado, uma declaração simbólica, um jeito de chamar atenção ao movimento e às críticas dessa Copa do Mundo e a maneira que ela foi organizada. Ou seja, os protestos e greves que vimos nas semanas antes da Copa não são causas do mal-estar, mas sintomas dele. As causas são justamente essas identificadas e criticadas pelos manifestantes, com toda razão.

Estou falando das remoções forçadas de moradores das favelas e periferias das grandes cidades. Da ‘Lei Geral da Copa’ e as zonas de exclusão da FIFA perto dos estádios. Do Budweiser Bill, e o fato de que a FIFA não vai pagar nem um centavo de impostos no dinheiro que fez durante o evento. Me refiro à crescente criminalização de protesto, e ao uso de detenções arbitrárias, cercas humanas e até armas de fogo para conter manifestantes. E claro, sobretudo, aos bilhões gastos em um evento esportivo, em um país em que tantas pessoas carecem de saúde, educação, moradia, mobilidade urbana.

Nesse novo ataque aos movimentos sociais, eu vejo mais uma vez os instintos autoritários da grande mídia brasileira, e uma tentativa de legitimar a violência utilizada pelo Estado no tratamento das manifestações (vejam, por exemplo, a sugestão brilhante do Ronaldo de ‘baixar o cacete’ nos ‘vândalos’). Era lógico supor que a Copa seria geralmente um sucesso, considerando não apenas o dinheiro investido, mas também a grande paixão dos brasileiros pelo futebol. Por isso não me surpreende que as pessoas que protestavam contra o evento nas semanas antes da abertura agora são atacadas. Porém, podemos gostar do espetáculo, ao mesmo tempo que engajamos com ele de uma maneira crítica. Nosso amor pelo futebol não deveria nos cegar à corrupção, injustiça e violência que acompanharam essa Copa do Mundo desde o começo.

Shameless piece of self publicity

I am on Red Pepper!

http://www.redpepper.org.uk/copa-de-cash-saying-this-is-a-world-cup-for-everyone-is-a-cruel-joke/

http://www.redpepper.org.uk/belo-horizonte-culture-brews-from-below/

Spirit of the Dictatorship Alive and Well in Brazil

Recent demonstrations show that Brazilian far right is growing in strength and confidence

They accuse the governing Workers’ Party (PT) of installing a communist regime in Brazil, with a view to establishing a continental socialist bloc stretching from Cuba to Chile and Argentina. They advocate the imprisonment of President Dilma Rousseff and her predecessor, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva. They demand the abolition of ‘corrupt’ political parties, and urge the army to intervene, in order to ‘clean up’ Brazil’s political system. They oppose any demilitarization of the police, and defend the use of torture. Likewise, they oppose the opening of military archives relating to Brazil’s long dictatorship (1964–1985), and are against the prosecution of any agents of the state for crimes committed during this period. They are the Brazilian far right, and after an extended period of relative silence, they are growing in confidence and making their voices heard with increasing force.

This year marks the 50^th anniversary of the coup which ousted the legitimate president João Goulart in 1964, and an attempt to defend the military intervention is already underway. On the 22^nd of March, people marched in cities across Brazil in a restaging of the ‘March of the Family with God’, a series of demonstrations in 1964 in response to Goulart’s proposed social reforms, and the supposed communist threat to the nation. The original marches drew over a million people in total and lent a veneer of popular support to the coup. This time around the demonstrations were far smaller: the largest, in São Paulo, drew less than a thousand people, fewer than expected. Around 150 people turned out in Rio, while just a handful of demonstrators attended events held in Belo Horizonte, Brasília, Recife, Fortaleza and Belém. However, despite the low turnouts, the reappearance of the March of the Family movement has wider significance.

The March of the Family with God, 22nd of March, São Paulo

In recent years, several Latin American nations have been prosecuting members of state security forces responsible for human rights abuses committed during the Cold War dictatorships. Brazil has also been moving in this direction, albeit belatedly. While there is an amnesty law still firmly in place preventing the prosecution of state agents, a National Truth Commission has been established, though it is non-punitive and cannot oblige anyone to testify. In addition, the military, which has never admitted any responsibility for tortures and disappearances during the dictatorship, and which had up until now refused to cooperate with any investigation, on the 1^st of April agreed to investigate the torture and execution of prisoners at seven military installations. The announcement was met with scepticism by some, but the official acknowledgement that there is even a case to answer shows a marked shift in attitude.

Brazil’s recent political history would also suggest a widespread repudiation of the dictatorship period. Since re-democratization, three of the four presidents elected by direct vote opposed the dictatorship in one way or another: Fernando Henrique Cardoso, a prominent academic forced into exile; Lula, an ex-union leader jailed for organizing strikes, and Dilma, an ex-militant with an armed Marxist-Leninist group, who was jailed and tortured by the military. Furthermore, however severe discontent with politics may be, Brazil’s young democracy has arguably never been stronger or more stable. Both FHC and Lula were elected for a second term, and despite falling poll ratings, Dilma is the firm favourite to win the presidential elections later this year. In such a climate, the emergence of a pro-dictatorship movement seems improbable.

However, thanks to a very carefully managed transition to democracy, the Brazilian military has never been completely brought to heel, and recent events suggest that there are still those within the armed forces who not only defend the coup of 1964, but who advocate doing the same today. On the 1^st of April, a pro-dictatorship group held an event in Congress to commemorate the military coup, led by the ex-soldier, now Congressman, Jair Bolsonaro. Bolsonaro unfurled a banner that read ‘Congratulations to the military 31^st / March / 1964: Thanks to you Brazil is not Cuba.’ As well as members of the military that attended the event on Bolsonaro’s invitation, there were also militants and members of Congress present who fought against the dictatorship, all of whom turned their backs to Bolsonaro in protest when he tried to speak to the chamber. Unsurprisingly, the event was characterised by shouting and scuffles between the two sides.

Jair Bolsonaro’s banner in Congress

Of more concern may be the proposal, by a General Paulo Chagas, of ‘an eventual military intervention,’ published on a blog entitled Sociedade Militar. In the same post Chagas complains that civil society does not offer the military sufficient support, but he concludes by praising the March of the Family movement: ‘The marches are a good start for this gathering of forces, and to re-affirm something, which, fifty years ago, made Brazil admired as “the nation which saved itself!”’ Chagas also spoke at a commemorative mass held in Brasília on the 31^st of March, at which he characterized the military period as being defined by ‘progress, growth, social welfare, security, full employment and the Brazilian Miracle.’

And it’s not just the military who have been engaged in this process of historical revisionism. Eduardo Gualazzi, a law professor at the University of São Paulo (USP) – Brazil’s largest and most prestigious public university – attempted to give a speech commemorating the dictatorship during a lecture on the 31^st of March, arguing that the coup occurred at a time when ‘leftist totalitarian socialism was seeking to take total control of Brazil.’ In February, meanwhile, Itaú, Brazil’s largest private bank, was forced to apologise after it issued a year planner to its clients with the 31^st of March marked as ‘the anniversary of the 1964 revolution’ – ‘revolution’ being the preferred term of members of the military and those sympathetic to the dictatorship. Even the library in the presidential palace in Brasília still refers to the coup as ‘the victory of the revolutionary movement.’

While those who advocate the return of the military to power are a minority, popular attitudes towards democracy are often ambivalent. According to Latinobarómetro, an annual public opinion survey conducted in 18 Latin American countries, the proportion of Brazilians who agreed with the statement ‘Democracy is preferable to any other form of government’ averaged just 44% between 1995 and 2013. In neighbouring Uruguay the figure was 78%, and the only country with a lower rating for the period surveyed was Guatemala (38%). Arguably, this is a reflection of frustration with how democracy works in Brazil, rather than a rejection of democracy as such. Indeed, last June, during what were Brazil’s largest popular protests in a generation, most of those on the streets were there to demand improvements to Brazilian democracy, rather than its cessation or replacement.

However, frustration with the democratic system can sometimes blur into a kind of authoritarianism. For Francisco Carlos Teixeira, a history professor at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, ‘Part of the population […] is convinced that all politicians are corrupt and that voting is useless.’ Indeed, a recent Datafolha survey suggested that 68% of Brazilians believe that corruption is actually worse now than under the military. This point is debateable: the military was also involved in a string of corruption scandals, but the statistic is telling, reflecting a latent belief that Brazil is not sufficiently prepared for democracy. As Teixeira puts it, ‘Many people complain, and seek, outside the electoral process […] ambitious solutions to purify Brazilian democracy. Deep down, there is a belief that affirms the necessity of guiding the popular vote, since the people can’t be trusted by themselves.’

While the notion that the military could seize power again today is farfetched, the resurgence of debate around the coup has highlighted how much Brazilian democracy is still compromised by the dictatorship. Figures with links to the regime have remained close to power, such as Jorge Bornhausen, Paulo Maluf and the Sarney family, while much of Brazil’s legal and institutional framework is inherited from the dictatorship period. But beyond that, the 50^th anniversary of the coup has shown how many of the same beliefs and attitudes behind it persist today. As General Chagas said at the commemorative mass, ‘the ideas that led the families with God to the streets, and the armed forces to put an end to the rioting and disorder, live on in the hearts and minds of the men and women of this land.’ He may have a point.

A Far Cry from ‘A Copa de Todo Mundo’

Deciphering the official discourse ahead of this year’s football World Cup

In January, Brazil’s President Dilma Rousseff stood alongside FIFA boss Sepp Blatter in Zurich, where he declared that he wants this year’s World Cup to be ‘a special movement for peace.’ At the opening ceremony, a dove will be released into the air, and the Nobel Foundation has been invited to support the initiative. This is not a particularly new idea: major international sporting events have long been promoted as a means of creating dialogue between countries, overcoming differences and soothing tensions. The Olympics is the best example of this, with the five Olympic rings symbolizing the unity of the five continents. However, for every feel-good story these events may provide, there are as many examples of countries using sports events to score political points over their rivals, and there are even cases of violence occurring at the events or erupting as a partial consequence of them, such as the 1969 ‘Football War’ between El Salvador and Honduras. But why this ‘special’ emphasis on peace now, in Brazil?

Last September, Dilma had an emergency meeting in Brasília with representatives from the bank Itaú (the largest private bank in the southern hemisphere), and the drinks giant Ambev (the largest company in Latin America), both of which are sponsors of the World Cup and the Brazilian Football Confederation. Both were targeted by protestors during the Confederations Cup last June, and in the meeting, they expressed their concern about the possibility of further protests at the World Cup, asking the government for guarantees that it would contain any unrest during the tournament. As a result, a plan of action is being developed in monthly meetings with the other sponsors, and significantly, Itaú and Ambev also managed to exact a promise that the government would begin a publicity campaign for ‘a World Cup of peace.’

Still, the protests continue, in spite of police tactics which are becoming increasingly repressive. Kettling, a favourite method of London’s Metropolitan Police, has been enthusiastically adopted by the Military Police of São Paulo, and is being used to control protests alongside a strategy of blanket arrests, in which hundreds of protestors are arrested at once and then later released without charge. The use of rubber bullets has also been reauthorized, having been banned for a period last year following outcry over police excesses. Moreover, the police have shown they have no scruples over using live ammunition, having shot and seriously injured a demonstrator at an anti-World Cup protest back in January. Government discourse, meanwhile, has been increasingly authoritarian, with Dilma recently declaring that security for the World Cup will be ‘heavy’, and promising to mobilize the army in order to keep the peace.

At the same meeting in January, Blatter also insisted that he wants the World Cup to help end racism and discrimination. ‘Such a multi-cultured country, where all of the world’s races may be found, provides the possibility for interventions against racism and discrimination,’ he said. Just two weeks beforehand, shock troops occupied the Favela do Metrô, in the north of Rio, to clear the ground for demolitions. It is estimated that at least 170,000 people across Brazil will lose their homes due to infrastructure projects relating to the World Cup and the Olympics of 2016. These evictions are clearly discriminatory, principally affecting people in informal housing in poor neighbourhoods and favelas, many of whom have no means of proving that they are the legitimate owners of their property. While there may be no explicitly racist agenda, given the demographics of Brazil’s poor communities, it’s fairly safe to assume that most of those being kicked off their property are black.

Sadly, it is perhaps no surprise: these projects are worth a lot of money. The construction firm Odebrecht, for example, is responsible for four of the twelve World Cup stadiums, at a total cost of R$2.8 billion (£744 million). Two of these stadiums, in Salvador and Recife, are the result of Public-Private Partnerships, giving Odebrecht the right to participate in the management of the stadiums once they are complete. In Rio, the state government paid a consortium to renovate the Maracanã, in which Odebrecht participated. The only stadium of the four that was supposed to be paid for entirely by private investment was the Itaquerão, in São Paulo, the result of a deal between Odebrecht and the football club Corinthians. However, with the tournament fast approaching and the stadium still not ready, both city and state governments have been forced to contribute. Moreover, Odebrecht’s investment has been covered by the Brazilian Development Bank – a public institution – in the form of low-interest loans. In short, these projects would never have happened without state intervention.

The government has also approved new laws for the World Cup, including the Lei Geral da Copa, which, among other things, gives FIFA the right to operate exclusion zones around the stadiums of up to 2km. The aim is to guarantee FIFA’s corporate partners exclusive rights to trade and publicity within these areas. Any unofficial street vendor caught operating near the stadiums may face severe penalties, ranging from fines to custodial sentences of up to a year. For the sociologist Orlando Santos Jr., ‘To give FIFA the right to manage urban space is very serious […] It creates a precedent for subordinating the management of public space to private interests.’ Meanwhile, Coca-Cola (a tournament sponsor, naturally) are running an ad campaign ahead of the tournament which cheerfully welcomes us to ‘A Copa de Todo Mundo’ (‘The World Cup of Everyone’).

Despite the government’s repeated assurances that the World Cup will generate employment and create wealth for Brazil, there is little evidence to suggest that these sporting mega events bring any lasting benefits to the host countries. In Brazil’s case, the benefits are especially hard to envisage. The cost of the event has ballooned to an estimated R$30 billion (£7.6 billion), more than double the 2010 World Cup in South Africa. Given that over 90% of this has been taken from the public purse, there are real concerns that Brazil may be creating some serious problems for the not-too-distant future. However, while Brazil’s taxpayers may indeed end up losing out, there will of course be a number of winners.

In an interview with the online publication Carta Maior last October, Dilma’s mentor, ex-president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, said that ‘politics is the only thing that can rival the power of the market.’ This has been a recurring theme in Workers’ Party (PT) discourse: only good government can protect the citizenry when the interests of capital may be harmful to it. Unfortunately, the preparations for the World Cup provide countless examples of how government in Brazil has spent vast amounts of public money in order to create conditions favourable to private interests. As the economists Simon Cooper and Stefan Symanski write, ‘The Brazilian World Cup is best understood as a series of financial transfers.’ Money is being transferred from the Brazilian taxpayer to FIFA, the tournament’s corporate sponsors, construction companies and Brazilian football clubs. This makes the appropriation of a discourse of peace, justice and universalism to promote the tournament all the more offensive. This World Cup is about just the opposite.

A Fate Worse Than Death

The death of a little girl has highlighted the hellish conditions of Brazil’s penitentiary system

The ongoing horror story in Maranhão, in the northeast of Brazil, makes for some of the most disturbing reading you are likely to encounter from outside an official warzone. On the 3^rd of January, criminals acting on an order given from the Pedrinhas prison complex in São Luis attacked four city buses, killing Ana Clara Santos Souza, a six-year old girl, who died after suffering burns over 95% of her body. Her younger sister, of just a year and five months, and her mother, were both hospitalized. The sister has now been released but her mother remains in a critical condition in the burns unit of a Brasília hospital. If that were not enough, the great-grandfather of the girls suffered a heart attack and died upon hearing the news.

Just days later, a video was published on the website of the newspaper Folha de S. Paulo, taken by prisoners in Pedrinhas. The video shows the mutilated corpses of three prisoners following a riot at the complex. Severed heads rest on two of the bodies. Reports have also emerged that the visits of wives and sisters were occurring in communal cells, with the women being forced into sex with gang members in order to keep their relatives alive. The National Justice Council quickly published a report criticizing the state government of Roseana Sarney, alleging that the situation was completely out of control, and Maranhão found itself obliged to accept help from the federal government, transferring some of Pedrinhas’ most dangerous inmates to federal prisons outside the state. Meanwhile, the military police and the national security force were sent into Pedrinhas to try to re-establish order.

Since the attacks on the city buses, the crisis in Maranhão has been in the news on a daily basis. However, the disgraceful conditions at Pedrinhas and other prisons in the state are, in a sense, not news at all. ‘It was the state government that allowed things to get to this point,’ says Edivaldo Holanda Junior, the mayor of São Luis. ‘It’s been coming for years. It’s not something which only exploded now – Pedrinhas has been showing signs of this for years.’

Such signs include the violent deaths of at least 62 prisoners since last year – a national record – with many of the bodies being decapitated and showing signs of torture. The prison is also badly overcrowded, with 2,500 men occupying a space originally intended for just 1,700. Prisoners sleep in groups of 250-300 together as bars on individual cells have been removed. There are damaged walls and pipes, and the complex is barely capable of providing inmates with food and water. There are also reports of prisoners with contagious diseases mixing with other prisoners. All of these problems and more have been successively denounced over the last ten years or so by the Public Prosecutor’s Office – and the state government did nothing.

The current governor of the state is Roseana Sarney, daughter of ex-president José Sarney, one of the old-style Brazilian ‘colonels’, corrupt and powerful oligarchs who carved up large slices of Brazil’s rural northeast, amassing vast amounts of personal wealth in the process. Roseana, herself implicated in a number of corruption scandals, is very much a chip off the old block. Documents leaked by WikiLeaks in 2009 revealed that she had, in 1999, R$150 million hidden in an account in the Cayman Islands (that money would be worth more than double that today). And last Tuesday (the 14^th), a request for criminal action against her was filed with the Prosecutor General, relating to her involvement in a hospital building scheme in Maranhão, in which construction contracts were awarded to companies who contributed millions of reais to her re-election campaign in 2010.

Needless to say, the decades-long influence of the Sarney family over the state of Maranhão has done little to benefit the citizens of the state. At 12.9%, Maranhão’s rate of extreme poverty is the highest of all Brazil’s 26 states, and is nearly four times the national average. The state represents just 1.3% of Brazilian GDP, despite the fact that with nearly 6.8 million inhabitants, it accounts for 3.4% of the total population. 20.8% of Maranhão’s population aged 15 and above is illiterate, compared to a national average of 8.7%, a figure which has actually grown under Sarney’s governorship. Life expectancy in the state is also Brazil’s lowest and a baby born in Maranhão today can expect to live over eight years less than a child born in Santa Catarina in the south of the country. Furthermore, homicide rates have more than quintupled over the last decade.

If by now it is clear that Sarney could not care less about the people she is charged with representing – even those who work, vote and pay taxes – then this is doubly true of her attitude towards Maranhão’s prison population. Her government did not even bother to rebut the accusations of the public prosecutors and health inspectors who visited Pedrinhas. Instead, she merely complained that federal courts should not poke their nose into state business. Of course, the scale of the current crisis has forced the government’s hand, and the problem is now a federal one. Meanwhile, the story has gone international, receiving coverage in The Daily Telegraph, The Economist and The New York Times, and the situation has drawn criticism from the United Nations’ High Commission for Human Rights and from Amnesty International.

The UN statement had an air of resignation about it: ‘We lament having to once again express concern with the terrible state of prisons in Brazil, and we appeal to the authorities to restore order in Pedrinhas and in other prisons in the country.’ Meanwhile, Amnesty published a statement urging ‘initiatives to reduce current overcrowding, guarantee the security of those in state custody, and investigate and find those responsible for the deaths both inside the prison and out.’

Given the level of public outrage following the death of Ana Clara, there are those who are perplexed – even infuriated – with the concern for the human rights of Maranhão’s prison population. One such voice is the senator Edison Lobão Filho, who said that the concern for prisoners’ human rights was ‘mistaken’, and ‘the absolute priority of the [human rights] commission has to be with the victims.’

Not everyone in Pedrinhas was responsible for the attacks on the buses. Alongside hardened criminals and gang members there are people who should not even be there: men who have been awaiting trial for months or years, sometimes for relatively minor crimes, as well as those who have served their sentences but have yet to be released. Yet aside from this, Lobão Filho’s complaints betray a total lack of understanding of the concept of human rights. Human rights are supposed to be universal. One cannot, in Lobão Filho’s words, ‘prioritize’ the human rights of certain individuals over others. Human rights activists are often accused of defending the indefensible, of legitimizing the crimes of people who may have done terrible things. But not one person has attempted to defend those involved in the attacks on the city buses in São Luis. Read the Amnesty statement again: they condemn and urge the investigation of the attacks both inside Pedrinhas and out.

Might this not be a case of you reap what you sow? Might not the appalling violence long practiced by the state in Maranhão have something to do with the violence on the streets of São Luis? This is not to defend criminal actions, but to recognize and denounce violence in all its forms, understanding that violent actions usually produce violent reactions. The choice of targets by criminal organizations – police stations, public transport – is no coincidence. They consider themselves to be engaged in a legitimate war against the Brazilian state and particularly against repressive state apparatus such as the police. In short, in maintaining one of the world’s largest prison populations in such atrocious conditions, Brazil does not make itself any safer. To the contrary, it only creates further problems, some of which not only endanger the public but also threaten the very integrity of state institutions and democratic processes.

In his book CV PCC – A Irmandade do Crime, the journalist Carlos Amorim details at great length how the principal criminal organizations of Rio and São Paulo, the Comando Vermelho (CV), and the Primeiro Comando da Capital (PCC), grew and developed in the nation’s prisons, principally as a reaction against the appalling conditions in which prisoners found themselves. Borrowing strategies from political prisoners during the military dictatorship, the early bosses of the CV realized that it was only through solidarity and organization that they could hope to defend themselves against violence, both on the part of the police and prison staff, and on the part of other prisoners. Today, the CV and the PCC are two of the largest and most powerful criminal organizations in Latin America, making hundreds of millions of reais a year from drugs and arms trafficking, and in Amorim’s view, represent a quasi-existential threat to the Brazilian state.

For a system of criminal justice to work, it is essential that it have at least a semblance of moral legitimacy. To achieve this it has to appear humane, fair and transparent. Unfortunately, Brazil’s seems to be brutal, arbitrary and corrupt, and most of those in prison know this from first-hand experience. Something is badly amiss when even Brazil’s own Minister of Justice admits ‘I would rather die than spend a long time in one of our prisons.’ Like Kurtz in Heart of Darkness, brutalized by his experience of the Belgian Congo, those in prison in Brazil exist in a world in which our everyday moral precepts have simply ceased to exist. In other words, they are people who have nothing to lose, and when you have nothing to lose, you are capable of anything.

Em Defesa do Mais Medicos

Médico cubano hostilizado em Fortaleza

 

Segundo o Banco Mundial, o Brasil tem apenas 1,8 médicos por cada 1.000 habitantes. Na Argentina a cifra é 3,2, e em países como Espanha, Suíça e Noruega é 4,0 para mais. Nas grandes áreas metropolitanas do país a média e superior, mas em muitas zonas rurais é bem pior, caindo a zero em uns 700 municipalidades. A profunda desigualdade social do Brasil também complica o assunto, e o acesso aos médicos que existem depende muito da capacidade financeira do paciente. Ao contrário da Europa, os serviços públicos no Brasil nunca foram criados para ser realmente universais. Na realidade funcionam como uma especie de depósito para aqueles que não têm condições de pagar. Mesmo nas cidades mais ricas do sul e sudeste, o SUS fica superlotado, sofrendo de uma grande falta de recursos e pessoal. Não pode competir com o setor privado, que goza de imensa riqueza e poder.

Não é de estranhar que o assunto de saúde era uma das queixas principais dos manifestantes que saíram às ruas durante junho. E ainda, quando o governo federal anunciou um plano de importar médicos do exterior para trabalhar em algumas das regiões mais pobres do país, a reação de muitas pessoas, inclusive a maioria da imprensa e várias associações de medicina no Brasil, foi indignação. A proposta faz parte do programa Mais Médicos, que também contem promessas de construir mais hospitais, investir em drogas e equipamentos, e criar 4000 vagas para médicos residentes (brasileiros). Mas pela repercussão negativa, até parece que a proposta de importar médicos estrangeiros é a unica medida sugerida pelo governo. Por que tanta oposição, num país tão carente de profissionais de saúde?

Inicialmente, muitas pessoas pareciam ofendidas pela ideia que estrangeiros podiam atuar em hospitais brasileiros. Mas importar profissionais é muito comum nos sistemas de saúde de outros países. O NHS (National Health Service) britânico depende muito de pessoal de fora, não apenas médicos, mas também enfermeiras, farmacêuticos, porteiros e faxineiros. Também profissionais estrangeiros são muito comuns nos hospitais da França, Noruega, Canadá, e cada vez mais nos Estados Unidos. Se países desenvolvidos assim não conseguem educar o número suficiente de profissionais para trabalhar nos seus hospitais, por que o Brasil seria uma exceção? Também, não é claro porque o assunto dos médicos tenha se tornado tão polêmico, ao mesmo tempo que o governo está tentando trazer profissionais em outras áreas para trabalhar no país, facilitando processos de imigração e proporcionando empregos e salários para técnicos, engenheiros, cientistas etc. Por que uma reação tão diferente quando se trata dos médicos?

A chegada dos médicos cubanos provocou uma reação particularmente feroz, e foram hostilizados por médicos brasileiros quando desembarcaram no país. A imprensa, que inicialmente acusou-lhes de ser espiões comunistas, mudou de ideia. Segundo o acordo entre Brasil e Cuba, o governo cubano deverá receber uma proporção dos salários dos médicos. A acusação agora portanto, é que os cubanos são escravos, e isso foi a palavra que os brasileiros berravam no aeroporto de Fortaleza.[1] A narrativa atual é que os cubanos estão sendo mandados, contra a própria vontade, para regiões carentes do Brasil onde eles nem poderão ajudar seus pacientes devido à pobreza dos hospitais locais. E como se isso não bastasse, o Fidel levará a sua parte!

Mas os cubanos já estão acostumados a trabalhar em situações e contextos muitas vezes mais precários dos que vão encontrar aqui no Brasil. Atualmente, Cuba oferece mais assistência médica para países subdesenvolvidos que todos os países do G8 combinados. A primeira equipe médica cubana foi mandado para o Chile em 1960 depois de um terremoto, e desde aquela época outras equipes cubanas têm trabalhado extensivamente em zonas de guerra e depois de desastres, tanto naturais quanto artificiais. Trataram as vítimas do desastre nuclear de Chernobyl; trabalharam na Indonésia e Sri Lanka depois do tsunami em 2004; foram mandados para Paquistão depois de terremoto de Kashmir em 2005, e também ajudaram a controlar o surto de cólera em Haiti depois do terremoto em 2010.

Também os críticos não conseguem reconhecer a natureza da medicina cubana e a sua aplicabilidade ao contexto brasileiro. Cuba não tem acesso a drogas e equipamentos igual aos países ricos, mas as taxas cubanas de mortalidade infantil e expectativa de vida são superiores às taxas dos Estados Unidos, segundo dados do Banco Mundial e da Organização Mundial de Saúde. Medicina cubana consegue fazer igual ou melhor com muito menos, usando abordagem preventiva que pretende manter a saúde em vez de só curar a doença. Esse método enfatiza, por exemplo, higiene e alimentação corretas. Isso já teve muito sucesso em países em desenvolvimento, em que muitas pessoas continuam sofrendo doenças que já não são problemas comuns no mundo desenvolvido, como mortalidade infantil, subnutrição, malaria etc. Não existe razões para que esse método não obtenha bons resultados em áreas carentes do interior do Brasil.

Quanto ao pagamento, os cubanos fazem parte de um acordo entre Brasil e Cuba que foi mediado pela Organização Pan-Americana de Saúde. Segundo as condições do acordo, o governo cubano vai receber uma proporção dos salários dos próprios médicos. As somas exatas ainda não foram divulgadas. Escravidão não é, embora haja obviamente uma preocupação legítima sobre a igualdade dos salários dos cubanos com outros médicos participando do programa, e o governo brasileiro deveria esclarecer esse ponto. Mesmo assim, talvez isso seja um assunto que não deveríamos ver apenas em termos econômicos. Todos os médicos cubanos que trabalham no próprio país e para Cuba no exterior são bem conscientes que poderiam ganhar muito mais trabalhando num país capitalista – e não todos desertam. A realidade é que as pessoas não são motivadas exclusivamente por razões econômicas – ainda mais quando se trata de questões como saúde e bem-estar. As vezes os motivos mais fortes são nada monetários por natureza.

Outra queixa é que o programa é uma solução a curto-prazo, que na realidade não passa de uma tentativa cínica de garantir a reeleição da Dilma o ano que vem. Dizem que em vez de importar médicos, o dinheiro deveria ser investido em drogas e equipamentos, renovação de hospitais, e o treinamento de novos médicos brasileiros. Porém, a Dilma prometeu todas essas coisas também quando anunciou o programa! Eu entendo que o povo brasileiro está bem acostumado a promessas não cumpridas, e não é surpresa nenhuma que muitas pessoas estejam céticas. Mesmo assim, é difícil pensar em outra coisa que ela podia ter feito. Segundo disse o sociólogo espanhol Manuel Castells, a Dilma respondeu aos protestos como democrata: escutou as pessoas nas ruas e criou um pacote de medidas que pretende satisfazer as demandas delas. Parece que, com os opositores, Dilma fica condenada de qualquer forma: se ela tivesse ignorado os protestos, teria sido acusada de crueldade e indiferença. Responde, e portanto fica acusada de hipocrisia e propaganda eleitoral.

Você não acreditaria se desse uma olhada nos jornais o na televisão, mas a maioria da população brasileira apoia a proposta de importar médicos estrangeiros. Segundo uma pesquisa da Datafolha, 54% está a favor, a maioria dos quais (60%) são de cidades menores do nordeste. E mais provável que as pessoas em contra sejam mais ricas, que tenham um nível de escolaridade melhor, e que morem em cidades maiores onde não há tanta carência de médicos. Ou seja, são exatamente essas pessoas que não vão tirar benefício nenhum do programa. O que essas estatísticas mostram é um país profundamente dividido por região, classe social, e política.

Porém, ao fundo do assunto há uma questão humanitária que é grave, urgente, e não é nada difícil de entender. Isso é que há aproximadamente 11 milhões de brasileiros sem nenhuma cobertura de saúde. Essas pessoas não se importam se seu médico não fale português fluente. Também não se importam muito se o diploma dele não fosse revalidado por associações de medicina no Brasil. Mas sim, se importam com a própria saúde, e a saúde das suas famílias, e reconhecem que ter acesso a um médico – mesmo com recursos limitados – é melhor que não ter acesso nenhum. As pessoas que opõem Mais Médicos – a maioria das quais já tem cobertura de saúde – deveriam parar, respirar, e imaginar por um momento como elas se sentiriam nessa situação. O que você escolheria?

 

---

[1] A foto encima desse artigo vem desses protestos, e alguns comentaristas têm acusado os brasileiros de racismo. Eu não estou convencido de que raça seja um motivo – afinal das contas, não todos os cubanos são negros – mas a imagem de médicos brancos berrando a palavra ‘escravo’ na cara de um negro tem algumas conotações graves, ainda mais num país em que a escravidão representa 80% da história nacional.

In Defence of Mais Medicos

Cuban doctor heckled upon arrival in Brazil

According to the World Bank, Brazil has just 1.8 doctors for every 1000 people. The figure for neighbouring Argentina is 3.2, whereas in countries such as Spain, Switzerland and Norway the figure reaches 4.0 and above. In Brazil’s larger metropolitan areas the figure is higher than the national average, but in many rural areas the figure is much lower, effectively falling to zero in some 700 municipalities. Matters are complicated further by the country’s profound social inequality, and access to medical care is highly conditional upon one’s ability to pay. Unlike in Europe, public services in Brazil were never seriously intended to be universal; rather, they serve as a kind of deposit for those unable to pay their way through the private sector. Even in the richer cities of the south and southeast, the public health system is severely underfunded, understaffed and overcrowded, unable to compete with a private sector of immense wealth and power.

It’s not for nothing that the healthcare issue was one of the principal complaints of the protestors who took to the streets in June. And yet, when the government unveiled a scheme to import doctors from abroad to work in some of Brazil’s poorest regions, the response by many, including most of the press, and, significantly, local medical associations, was open hostility. The proposal was made as part of Mais Medicos (More Doctors), a programme which also contained plans to build new hospitals, to invest in drugs and equipment, and to create 4000 vacancies for new junior doctors. However, one could be forgiven for thinking that the government’s only proposal was to bring doctors from abroad, such is the level of attention it has received, most of which has been negative. So why, in a country seriously lacking in health professionals, has this proposal aroused such fierce opposition?

Many seemed almost offended by the idea that foreigners might come to work in Brazilian hospitals. But importing health professionals has long been standard practice in many developed nations. The NHS is heavily dependent on foreign workers, not just doctors but also nurses, porters, cleaners and pharmacists. Foreign health professionals are also common in countries such as France, Norway, Canada, and increasingly in the United States. If highly developed nations such as these cannot educate enough professionals to staff their hospitals, why should Brazil be an exception to the rule? Moreover, it is not clear why importing doctors should be such a bone of contention, any more than importing engineers, technicians, scientists and so on. Brazil has been taking steps in recent years to attract these kinds of professionals, providing jobs and salaries and trying to do away with bureaucracy and red tape. Nobody complains about the arrival of these individuals, so why the different attitude when it comes to doctors?

Particular hostility has been reserved for the Cubans, who were heckled on their arrival in the country by their Brazilian counterparts. While the press initially – in rhetoric taken straight from the Cold War – labelled the doctors as communist spies, they have recently changed tack. Under the deal struck between Brazil and Cuba, the Cuban government is due to receive a proportion of the doctors’ salaries. The accusation is thus that the Cubans are slave workers, and escravo (slave), was the chant directed at them when they arrived in Fortaleza.[1] The present narrative is that these Cuban doctors are being sent against their will to remote areas of the country, where the facilities are so primitive they will be able to do little for their patients – and to top it all, Fidel takes a cut of their salary!

However, Cuban doctors are accustomed to working in contexts and situations often a good deal more precarious than those they will encounter in rural Brazil. Cuba currently provides more medical assistance to the developing world than all of the G8 countries combined, and has a long history of doing so. The first Cuban international health brigade was sent to Chile in 1960 following a major earthquake, and since then they have worked extensively in war zones and in the aftermath of disasters, both natural and man-made. Cuban doctors treated victims of the Chernobyl disaster; they worked in Indonesia and Sri Lanka in the aftermath of the tsunami in 2004; they were sent to Pakistan following the Kashmir earthquake in 2005; and they were instrumental in controlling the cholera outbreak following the earthquake in Haiti in 2010.

The critics not only overlook the positive impact that Cuban medical teams have had all over the developing world, but also the particular nature of Cuban medicine and its applicability to the Brazilian context. Cuba does not have the same access to drugs and medical technology as the developed nations, and yet, Cuban rates for child mortality and life expectancy are superior to those for the United States, according to the World Bank and the World Health Organization. Cuban medicine manages to do the same or better with a lot less, taking a prevention-based approach which aims to keep people healthy rather than treating them once they are sick, emphasizing, for example, correct nutrition and hygiene. This has had enormous success in developing countries in which many people continue to suffer from conditions which either do not exist in the developed world, or which have been successfully contained for decades, such as infant mortality, malnutrition, malaria and so on. There is no reason why this approach would not achieve results in poor areas of rural Brazil.

As for the issue of their pay, they have come to Brazil as part of a deal brokered by the Pan American Health Organization, under which the Cuban government will receive a proportion of their salaries. The exact amounts remain unknown. Slavery it is not, though there is a legitimate concern over parity of wages between the Cubans and their colleagues from other countries, and the government should be clearer on this point. Still, we should not view the issue in purely economic terms. Cuban doctors working both within their country and abroad are well aware they could be paid many times more for their work in other countries – and they do not all defect. The reason being that people are not motivated exclusively by economics, especially when it comes to questions of health and wellbeing. Sometimes the strongest motives are not monetary in nature at all.

One final objection raised by many is that the foreign doctors amount to no more than a sticking plaster: they are a short-term solution aimed at securing Dilma’s re-election. These critics argue that the money would be better spent on new medicines and equipment, on renovating hospitals and educating more Brazilian doctors. However, Dilma promised all these things as well. True, Brazilians are used to politicians breaking their promises, and it is no surprise that many are sceptical. Still, it is hard to see what else she could have done. As the Spanish sociologist Manuel Castells said, Dilma’s response to the protests was that of a democrat: she listened to protestors’ demands and came up with a series of proposals aimed at addressing them. It appears that with her opponents she is damned either way. If she had ignored the protests, she would have been portrayed as cold and out-of-touch; instead she responded, and is accused of hypocrisy and electioneering.

Although you might not think it from a casual glance at the newspapers or the television, the majority of the Brazilian population is in favour of these measures. According to a recent Datafolha survey, 54% of the population approve of the government’s plan to import foreign doctors. Those in favour are more likely to be from smaller cities in the northeast (60%), while most of those against are likely to be wealthier, better-educated, and live in larger cities where there is not such a shortage of doctors – in other words, the very same people who do not stand to benefit from the government proposals. What these statistics show is a country profoundly divided by region, class and of course, politics.

However, at the root of all this there is a humanitarian question which is serious, urgent and not at all difficult to grasp, and that is that there are an estimated 11 million Brazilians who do not have access to medical care. These people do not care where their doctor comes from. They do not care, necessarily, if their doctor does not speak fluent Portuguese, or if their credentials have been ratified by local medical associations. But they do care about their health, and the health of their families, and they recognise that having access to a doctor – even one with limited resources – is better than having no doctor at all. Those who oppose Mais Medicos – the majority of whom have healthcare coverage – would do well to stop, take a deep breath, and imagine for a moment how they might feel in that position. What would you choose?

---

[1] The photo with which I lead this article is taken from these protests, and has led some commentators to accuse the Brazilian doctors of racism. While I feel they have been a little too quick to play the race card – after all, not all of the Cuban doctors are black – the sight of white doctors yelling the word ‘slave’ in the face of a black man has some deeply unpleasant echoes in a country in which slavery was practiced for 80% of national history.