In the interior of Ceará, where the earth cracks open like a broken clay pot and the air shimmers under a sun that never seems to relent, water is not a given but a daily struggle. The Sertão lives at the mercy of increasingly unpredictable rains, as if nature itself no longer keeps its promises. For Sidrônio Moreira, a farmer whose entire life depended on the whims of the climate, the lack of water eventually became unbearable. His crops failed more often than they succeeded, his animals suffered from thirst, and his family lived in constant fear that the next drought would break them for good.

It is a paradox that remains difficult to grasp: Brazil holds one of the largest freshwater reserves in the world. The Amazon alone sustains a water cycle that renews itself endlessly, fed by rainforests that function like a giant pump. Beneath the ground lie aquifers such as Alter do Chão, among the largest and most sustainable on the planet. And yet a farmer in Ceará must take out a loan just to search for water. The contrast is so sharp it almost hurts: a country overflowing with water, where millions still live with thirst.

A Leap into the Unknown

Because the government offered no solution, Sidrônio decided to act on his own. He borrowed fifteen thousand reais — for him, the equivalent of years of work — to drill a well. It was an act of desperation, but also of stubborn hope. If he found water, his land could become fertile again. His children would no longer have to carry jerrycans. His future might finally feel a little less fragile.

The drill went into the ground. Ten meters. Twenty. Thirty. Eventually forty meters deep. Each additional meter meant more tension, more cost, more hope. And then, on a day he would never forget, liquid rose to the surface. Dark, thick, but in the first seconds Sidrônio thought it was simply mud mixed with water. He called his family. They cheered. They danced. After years of drought, it seemed water had finally been found. It felt as if the earth itself had taken pity on them.

The Discovery That Changed Everything

But the joy did not last. The smell was wrong. The texture too. The liquid did not evaporate; it clung to everything. The technician frowned. Neighbors came to look. And slowly it became clear: this was not water. It was oil.

The shock was immense. Oil, in the imagination of many Brazilians, is a symbol of wealth, of Petrobras, of national pride. But for Sidrônio it was above all a disappointment. He did not need oil. He needed water. Oil could not save his crops. Oil could not quench his children’s thirst. The irony was almost cruel: a man searching for water finds oil — and remains thirsty.

The Bureaucratic Maze

Sidrônio reported the discovery to the authorities. First to the local government, then to the ANP — the Agência Nacional do Petróleo, Gás Natural e Biocombustíveis — the federal agency overseeing oil and gas activities. The CPRM, Brazil’s geological service, was also notified. And then the silence began. Weeks turned into months. Months into more than a year. In total, it took nearly two years before the ANP officially confirmed that the substance was indeed oil. Not because the analysis was complex, but because bureaucracy is slow, fragmented, and understaffed. In reality, the process could have been completed in a matter of weeks.

Meanwhile, Sidrônio remained without water. His well was sealed pending investigation. His loan continued. His land stayed dry. The oil beneath his feet changed nothing about his daily struggle. It was as if the state had left him in a waiting room with no doors.

Brazil’s Great Water Paradox

Sidrônio’s story exposes a painful paradox. Brazil holds twelve percent of the world’s freshwater, yet this abundance lies thousands of kilometers away from the regions that need it most. The Northeast, historically dependent on rain and small reservoirs, remains vulnerable because it was never structurally connected to the water masses that define the country’s hydrological wealth. This geographic inequality is not a natural phenomenon but the result of political decisions layered over generations.

In the 2000s, President Lula launched an ambitious project to divert water from the São Francisco River — the “river of national integration” — to the drought-stricken Northeast. It was a megaproject meant to supply millions with water, an attempt to bridge a historical divide. But as so often in Brazil, the project was delayed by bureaucracy, corruption scandals, technical setbacks, and political turnover. When Bolsonaro later inaugurated parts of the project, he presented it as his own achievement, claiming he delivered what Lula had failed to finish. Yet even today, the water reaches only a fraction of the communities that need it. For many, like Sidrônio, nothing changed.

The contrast with other countries is striking. In the Middle East, where water is even scarcer, nations like Israel and the United Arab Emirates invested in large-scale desalination plants, drip irrigation, and water recycling. They built systems that do not depend on rain or political volatility. Brazil, despite its natural abundance, has never felt the same urgency — and that lack of urgency leaves deep scars.

The Rules of Oil and the Price of Patience

Even now that the oil has been officially confirmed, the question remains: what does it bring Sidrônio? Under Brazilian law, oil belongs to the federal government. The landowner has no right to the oil itself, only to a royalty of at most one percent of the revenue — and only if the field is commercially developed. And that is far from guaranteed. Developing a small onshore field is a long, expensive, and complex process. It may take years before any company shows interest. It is entirely possible that Sidrônio’s one percent — if it ever materializes — will go not to him, but to his heirs.

The Human Toll

For Sidrônio, the mix of emotions remains difficult to grasp. He found something that could be worth millions, yet it brings him nothing today. He experienced a moment of joy that turned into disappointment. He became the subject of news stories, but his daily reality remained unchanged. He did not want oil. He wanted water. He wanted to make his small piece of land fertile. He wanted security for his family.

His story is not an exception. It is a mirror. It shows how poverty and wealth coexist, how natural abundance does not automatically translate into well-being, how bureaucracy slows lives down, and how the future of energy does not always align with the reality of people who need water today.

Subscribe now

The news about Deolane Bezerra hit Brazil like a shockwave. It was the top story on television, shared endlessly across social media, and even people who had never followed her suddenly knew she had been detained. Folha de S.Paulo explained the situation: a police operation, allegations of money laundering, investigations into financial flows possibly linked to criminal activity. No one needs to declare her guilty — that is for the courts. But the fact that an influencer dominates national headlines says a great deal about the country we live in.

Who is Deolane, really? She is 38, began her career as a lawyer, and skillfully used her image to build an enormous following. She appeared in reality shows, cultivated a massive online presence, and became one of the most recognizable faces of Brazil’s influencer culture. Glamorous photos, luxury trips, expensive cars — a life that looked as if it had stepped straight out of a telenovela. And millions of João’s and Maria’s followed her as if she were part of their family. That is the power of social media: it creates an illusion of closeness, even when the real distance is enormous.

The numbers behind her success are staggering. Her engagement rate is estimated between 3.5% and 6%. With more than 21 million followers, that means hundreds of thousands of interactions per post. And that translates directly into money. She charges around $20,000* for three short Instagram Stories. Larger campaigns can reach $80,000. Her monthly income from advertising is estimated between $200,000 and $400,000. Her reach is literally worth millions.

And then there is Virginia Fonseca, 27 — perhaps the biggest of them all. A young woman who turned her life into an open book. Every pregnancy, every argument, every laugh, every tear was shared. She became famous because she understood that people were not looking for content, but for a feeling of connection. She didn’t need to say anything meaningful. She only needed to exist, day after day, and the audience followed. Even in the most remote corners of Brazil, people know her name. Ask them who Jorge Messias is, or what his rejection by the Senate meant for Lula, and you will get a blank stare. But ask about Virginia, and everyone knows exactly who you mean.

Her numbers are even more extreme. More than 55 million Instagram followers. An engagement rate between 3% and 5%, which means 1.5 to 2 million likes per post. For a commercial package she charges at least $60,000, often with a percentage of sales added. Major campaigns easily reach $100,000. During one livestream she sold $4.4 million in just 13 hours. Her digital empire generated around $260 million last year. Her likes are worth hundreds of millions.

This is the country we live in: a nation with more registered smartphones than inhabitants. A place where people often have two phones — one for banking at home, one for everything else. A country where the digital world has penetrated so deeply that real life sometimes gets pushed aside. I see it every day. People who suddenly stop in the middle of the supermarket aisle, leaning on their cart, blocking the way, completely absorbed by their screen. Employees disappearing into a corner as if the world has paused. A housemaid interrupting her work again and again because another message or audio has arrived. It is an addiction no one finds strange anymore.

But there is another category of influencers, perhaps even more dangerous: the political influencers. Felipe Neto is the most famous example. He began as an entertainer, making videos for young audiences, gathering millions of followers through humor and games. But at some point he decided to enter politics. He chose a side, became one of the loudest voices in Brazil’s polarization, and transformed from entertainer into political actor. That is his right, of course. Everyone may have an opinion. But when someone with millions of followers enters the political arena, the dynamic changes completely. An opinion becomes a weapon. An influencer becomes an instrument. And it is not unthinkable that political interests try to benefit from that enormous visibility. Who will ever know?

Thiago Reis and André Janones went even further. They turned politics into their entire digital identity. Their videos were no longer opinions but battle cries. Thiago Reis began his posts with “Atomic Bomb!” or “Urgent,” hoping his followers would click instantly. Janones used his platform to organize political mobilization as if the election campaign never ended. And on the other side of the political spectrum, the same thing happened. The line is blurry: when is someone just an influencer earning money from likes, and when do they become a political agitator stirring up the population? And what if both happen at the same time? What if polarization itself becomes a business model?

Perhaps the most disturbing part is this: social media algorithms reward conflict. The more anger, the more views. The more drama, the more engagement. The more engagement, the more money. And so influencers — whether they want to or not — are pulled into a system that enriches them as long as they keep feeding the flames of division.

Influencers exist everywhere, of course. In the United States you have the Paul brothers, in Europe the lifestyle gurus, in Asia the livestream queens who sell millions per hour. But nowhere has digital culture penetrated as deeply as in Brazil. Nowhere is the smartphone such an extension of the body. Nowhere is the line between entertainment, commerce and politics so thin. Nowhere do influencers become national icons so quickly. And nowhere are people so vulnerable to the illusion that someone else’s life matters more than their own.

That is why I no longer call them influencers, but something else entirely — not a label, but a reality: people who sell illusions. They offer glitter, filters, drama, outrage, and curated fantasies. But when you strip all that away, what remains? Nothing. Only emptiness.

And yet they shape the behavior of millions. They influence what people buy, what they think, who they admire, who they hate, and even how they vote. That is not a small detail. It is a shift in the power structure of a country.

The worst part is that this is only the beginning. With AI, these illusion-sellers can produce content faster, create even more fantasies, and spread misinformation at unprecedented speed. They don’t even need to be present anymore. A digital version of themselves can do the work — and their followers won’t notice the difference.

Meanwhile, real life slips by. People lose time, attention, concentration, money, and sometimes even their safety. They are swept away by a world that gives nothing back except distraction. And perhaps that is the greatest deception of all: not that influencers lie, but that they make us forget what truly matters.

Those who let themselves be guided by these illusions lose not only time, but also sight of what truly counts — their own life, slipping by faster than any video.

*(Amounts originally in Brazilian reais, converted to USD for clarity.)

Subscribe now

There is, in Brazil, a wall no one sees — but sooner or later, you feel it. Not because it’s hard, but because it’s soft. It’s made of sounds, habits, rhythm, accent. A wall that wasn’t built to keep anyone out, yet forces you to stop and listen. It’s the wall where English simply doesn’t work, even among people who studied it for years, even among those who know the grammar, even among those who understand almost everything. Speaking is still difficult. Not out of shame or lack of interest, but because Brazilian Portuguese is a language that lives in the body — in the muscles, in the mouth, in the melody.

I never laughed at that. And no one laughed at me when I made mistakes — sometimes very silly ones. Portuguese is beautiful, but it isn’t easy. You have to live inside it, breathe inside it, trip over it. And even then, it remains a challenge. In my professional life, I’ve noticed that even highly educated Brazilians sometimes don’t write perfect Portuguese in their emails. Not because they don’t know the rules, but because the Portuguese they speak isn’t always the Portuguese they write. That’s not a flaw — it’s proof that the language here is alive, moving, adapting to the speaker.

And then come the sounds. The sounds that rule everything. Fiat becomes “Fee-aht-shee.” WWW becomes “dáblio-dáblio-dáblio.” FM becomes “Effie-Emmie.” And my last name, Smeets, inevitably turns into “eSchmiets,” as if the initial S needed a running start. Curiously, no one struggles with Shopee or Shein — words that many Europeans find almost tongue-twisting.

What fascinates me most is how Brazilians use English words constantly in everyday life — not as a language, but as decoration, style, marketing. Delivery, feedback, check-up, outdoor, fitness, post, like, selfie, snack — the last one not meaning the food, but the place where you buy snacks. And then there are the local inventions, like a clinic in my neighborhood called Labchecap, a blend of “laboratory” and “check-up,” a name that makes anyone frown the first time they see it, yet fits perfectly into the Brazilian habit of mixing words until something new emerges.

This creativity shows up everywhere. In Bahia, Oh Meu Rei (“Oh My King”) is a classic expression of affection or surprise, and Bahea is a shout of pride. You greet someone with Axé — a word full of energy and blessing — and you say goodbye with um cheiro, literally “a smell,” but actually meaning a warm, affectionate hug. In Rio, you hear mermão (“my brother”), in Minas Gerais it’s uai, in the South you become tchê, in São Paulo it’s meu, and across the country sentences end with cara (“man,” “dude”).

One of the most memorable moments for me was seeing a sign above a shop: Rei dos Bancos — “King of Banks.” I didn’t have a bank account yet, and for a second I wondered if that was where I should open one. Of course not. The man was the king of car seats. Later I found variations like King of Seat Covers, Queen of Leather Seats, and King of Feijoada, a restaurant where people waited on the sidewalk for a table on weekends. I went once. It was truly excellent.

For a foreigner, all this might seem merely curious, but for me — someone who lives here — these are windows into a people who don’t just use language, but play with it, bend it, mix it, reinvent it. A people unafraid to experiment, who prefer creativity over perfection. And to be fair, we foreigners are no better. We stumble over pão, não and pau — three words so natural to Brazilians that they can’t understand how we manage to confuse them. But we do. For years. Sometimes forever.

But this isn’t a text about differences. It’s a text about closeness. About how Brazilians and non-Brazilians can meet each other even when language seems to get in the way. I learned Portuguese in the era of cassette tapes, a few books, newspapers I forced myself to read from day one, TV programs I understood half of but watched anyway. Today everything is different. Modern translation tools make language learning far more accessible. Artificial intelligence accelerates the process even more — practical, powerful, enriching. It would be a waste not to use these tools, and unfair if part of the population couldn’t access them.

That’s why I insist: digital inclusion is not a luxury — it’s a necessity. Everyone deserves access to the tools that bring people closer. No one should be excluded from the possibility of learning, communicating, connecting. We all live on the same planet, we need each other, we are even obliged to collaborate and to be patient. Language is not a wall that separates us, but an invitation to meet.

That is the invisible wall. It isn’t hostile, it isn’t hard, it wasn’t built to keep anyone out. It’s a wall that says: if you want to live here, you need to pass through me. And those who do discover something beautiful: behind that wall there is no barrier at all, but a world that opens only to those willing to listen, practice, make mistakes, and try again. A world where language isn’t an obstacle, but a bridge. A world where creativity matters more than perfection. A world where Brazilians and non-Brazilians don’t just understand each other — they enrich each other.

Subscribe now

It began with a report from Metrópoles: yet another illegal occupation in the Federal District, this time on the shores of Lake Paranoá — the artificial lake that gives Brasília its air of luxury. An improvised balneário (a kind of informal waterside recreation area), complete with dirt roads, makeshift huts, wooden piers and even luxury cars parked on plots that legally do not exist. The kind of news that leaves Europeans speechless, but barely raises an eyebrow in Brazil.

Because in Brazil, land is never just land. It is history, conflict, bureaucracy, power, hope, distrust and sometimes pure chaos — all at once. And to understand how a group of grileiros can still occupy a piece of land today, build a neighborhood on it and sell it as if it were theirs, you must first understand how property works here. Or rather: how property does not work.

Grilagem — land grabbing through occupation, fraud or simply being faster than the authorities — is not an exotic relic of the past. It is alive and well. The classic grileiro of old forged documents by placing them in a box with crickets (grilos) so the paper would look aged. The modern grileiro uses drones, WhatsApp groups and connections in local government. But the logic remains the same: occupy, build, sell, and hope the government eventually legalizes it. And often, it does.

For Europeans, this is unthinkable. In Belgium or the Netherlands, there is no such thing as no man’s land. Every plot has been registered for centuries. Police arrive within the hour. Illegal construction is halted immediately. But Brazil is different. The country is too large, the state too slow, the history too complex. And that brings us to another typically Brazilian concept: posse.

Posse is not ownership, but it is not nothing either. It means that someone uses, inhabits or works a piece of land without necessarily being the legal owner. In Europe, this would have no legal value whatsoever. In Brazil, it can be stronger than ownership. The law recognizes that those who live, work or produce on a piece of land deserve protection. It is a way of imposing order in a country where paperwork often says less than the reality on the ground. And this leads to situations Europeans find absurd: someone can buy a house, sign all the documents, and still discover that a posseiro lives there who cannot be removed.

And then there is usucapião, the most mysterious concept of all. The idea that you can become the owner of land through time — by using it continuously, peacefully and openly for years. It is a legal instrument designed to regularize reality in a country where ownership is often a historical accident. Usucapião exists in several forms — urban, rural, individual, collective — and it is one of the reasons why Europeans who fall in love with a sítio sometimes end up in a nightmare. Because anyone who thinks that a beautiful piece of land with a pond and a few fruit trees is a simple purchase has not yet understood Brazil.

Real estate agents like to say that a sítio brings happiness twice: the first time when you buy it, the second time when you finally manage to sell it. Because a sítio is romantic only as long as you don’t live there. Once you become the owner, the real work begins: roads that wash away, water pumps that break, neighbors who claim part of your land is actually theirs, papers that don’t match, boundaries no one has ever properly measured, and sometimes a posseiro who has lived there for twenty years and refuses to leave. And that is when the adventure truly begins.

But to understand Brazil, you must also understand the words Brazilians use when they talk about land and housing. A European hears fazenda and imagines a colonial estate with verandas, horse stables and coffee plantations. In reality, a modern fazenda is an agricultural enterprise, often thousands of hectares in size, producing soy, cotton or corn with GPS-guided tractors and drones. It is not a romantic farm, but an agro-industrial operation feeding the global market. Yet the word remains charged, because some fazendas are targeted by the MST, who argue they are “unproductive” and therefore fail to fulfill their social function. This idea has led to violent conflicts, sometimes deadly ones, such as in Eldorado dos Carajás. It also explains why many fazendeiros keep weapons within reach — a mindset openly encouraged by politicians like Bolsonaro and Ronaldo Caiado.

Very different is the sítio, a term Europeans often confuse with a farm, but which in Brazil is primarily a dream object: a small rural retreat, big enough for a pond, a few fruit trees, a chicken coop and a hammock. It is where city dwellers escape to breathe. But buying a sítio also means taking on responsibility: washed-out roads, broken pumps, unclear boundaries and sometimes a posseiro who has been there longer than you. Hence the saying that a sítio brings happiness twice: at the purchase and at the sale.

Smaller still, and closer to the city, is the chácara, a kind of recreational mini-estate, often with a swimming pool, barbecue and garden. It is not farmland, but a weekend refuge. And then there is the puxadinha, a quintessentially Brazilian invention: an illegal extension, an extra room or floor added “quickly,” usually without a permit. In Europe, this would be stopped immediately; in Brazil, it is almost a national sport.

But the puxadinha is only part of a broader building culture that often surprises foreigners: the countless unfinished houses, concrete skeletons, unplastered walls, pillars sticking out as if another floor might be added someday — maybe tomorrow, maybe in ten years, maybe never. People start building as soon as they have a little money, stop when the money runs out, and simply move in, finished or not. Poverty plays a role, of course, but it does not explain everything. There is also a mentality of “building in phases,” of “we’ll finish it later,” of “inside first, outside later.” And the most surprising part is that the interior is often perfectly finished: tiles, ceilings, air-conditioning, a neat kitchen, a modern bathroom. The exterior seems to matter little, as long as the inside is comfortable. The house does not need to look good for the street; it needs to work for the family. It is a different priority, a different logic, a different way of living — and once again something you must understand to understand Brazil.

But anyone who thinks these parallel systems exist only in rural areas is mistaken. In the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro, another story unfolds — just as Brazilian and just as incomprehensible to Europeans. There, it is not the grileiros who control the territory, but the milícias: paramilitary groups formed by former police officers, firefighters and soldiers, who now dominate entire neighborhoods. They build illegal apartment blocks — sometimes ten or twelve stories high — without permits, without engineers, without oversight. They sell the units to poor families who have no other option, and then charge monthly fees for everything: gas, electricity, water, internet, security, even the right to open a shop. Those who refuse to pay are in danger. And when such a building collapses — as happened recently, with fatal consequences — the government eventually intervenes, but by then the damage is done.

The milícias are the urban counterpart of the grileiros: where the state is absent, a parallel authority emerges. And just as in rural areas the boundaries between property, power and violence blur, the same happens in the city — on a scale Europeans can hardly imagine. Buying an apartment in such a neighborhood is not only a financial gamble, but an existential one. You are not just buying a home; you are buying into a system that controls you, protects you and exploits you at the same time.

And so we return to that news report from Brasília. An illegal occupation, an improvised balneário, a government that intervenes but not quickly enough, an investigation underway with no clear end in sight. It is not an exception, but a symptom of a country where property, law, history and power constantly collide. A country where words like grilagem, posse, usucapião, fazenda, sítio, chácara, puxadinha and even milícia are not exotic terms, but mechanisms that determine who may live somewhere, who may build somewhere, who may stay somewhere.

For Europeans, all this is strange, sometimes absurd, sometimes fascinating. But for those who live in Brazil, it is daily reality. And anyone who wants to buy a house here, own a sítio, rent an apartment or pursue a dream must understand this reality. Because in Brazil, land is never just land. It is a story — often a long, complicated and surprising one — that you must learn to read before you begin.

Subscribe now

There are moments when Brazilian politics behaves like a novel writing itself. Events do not merely follow one another; they seem to arrange themselves into a pattern almost too coherent to be accidental. As the cesspool surrounding Banco Master continues to open, as Flávio Bolsonaro once again finds himself embroiled in scandal, as the Lula administration increasingly evokes the image of a government struggling to connect with a country eager to move forward, a figure long absent suddenly reappears. Joaquim Barbosa, the man who once shook the Supremo Tribunal Federal, steps back onto the stage. Not as a commentator, not as a distant moral beacon, but as a member of a political party.

That is no minor detail. It is a break with his own history.

Barbosa, now 71, is one of those rare figures who possess not only a career but a story. Born into poverty in Minas Gerais, self-taught, a polyglot, a man who carved his way to the highest judicial office in the country through discipline and intellect. During his eleven years on the Supreme Court, he became the face of the Mensalão case, a moment when Brazil briefly believed that justice was possible even when powerful figures were at stake. His conduct was strict, at times severe, but always marked by a sense of institutional seriousness that in Brazil is more exception than rule.

Anyone who lived through that period also remembers his physical struggle. Barbosa suffered from severe back pain, so intense that he often stood behind his chair during sessions because sitting had become unbearable. He cited that pain as the official reason for his departure in 2014, and no one doubted it played a role. But behind the scenes, other stories circulated. Rumors of threats, of pressure, of enemies he had inevitably made through his uncompromising stance in the Mensalão scandal. It was a time when the Supreme Court had not yet reached the state of permanent siege it faces today, but the risks were real. And anyone who now sees how justices can barely appear in public without bodyguards, how they are insulted in the streets, how their safety is constantly at risk, understands that those rumors were not born out of thin air.

After leaving the Court, Barbosa withdrew. He did not disappear, but he chose a life at a distance: consulting work, lectures, study, a certain peace he had earned. In 2018, his name resurfaced when the PSB considered him a potential presidential candidate. Speculation was intense, expectations high, but in the end he declined. He said it was not the right moment, and perhaps it wasn’t. The country was then in the grip of a different dynamic, a different hysteria, a different polarization. His refusal was read as caution, as wisdom, as self-knowledge.

That makes his current move all the more remarkable. Anyone who joins a political party — in this case the Democracia Cristã* — knows it will not go unnoticed. Barbosa is not a man who stumbles into a political structure by accident. He knows his name will immediately be seen as a potential candidacy. He knows a small party with no resources does not invite him for a casual chat. He knows his affiliation will be interpreted as a signal, even if he himself remains silent.

And yet he did it.

It is tempting to see in this convergence of circumstances a kind of historical logic. While the Bolsonaro clan is once again dragged into a scandal exposing its moral emptiness, while the Lula administration increasingly evokes the image of a government struggling to meet the needs of a country that wants to move forward, while voters grow weary of the endless repetition of the same conflicts and the same names, Barbosa reappears — a figure untainted by political mud, carrying a reputation for integrity, and embodying a life story recognizable to millions of Brazilians.

That he is Black adds a dimension no one can ignore. Brazil, a country that likes to present itself as a racial democracy but where reality often tells another story, has never had a Black president in the modern democratic era. The symbolism of such a possibility is enormous, even if for now it remains no more than a thought experiment.

But that is precisely why it is important to remain sober. In 2018, there was hope, speculation, fantasy. Barbosa chose not to run. The same could happen now. The DC may dream, others may as well, but dreams are not facts. The political landscape is unpredictable, and Barbosa is someone who sets his own pace, not that of the parties eager to use him as a lifeline.

What is happening today is nothing more and nothing less than a signal. A signal that the old structures are trembling. A signal that space is opening for something different, something not trapped between the fatigue surrounding Lula and the scandals surrounding Bolsonaro. A signal that Joaquim Barbosa, after years of silence, senses that the country once again stands at a crossroads.

Whether he chooses to cross it is another matter. But that his name is being spoken again, at this moment, in this context, says enough about the state of Brazil.

*The party

Although the Democracia Cristã is a small party, nearly invisible amid the noise of Brazil’s major political machines, it carries an ideological heritage far clearer than its electoral weight suggests. It is rooted in the Christian-democratic tradition, a current that has always moved between moral conservatism and social responsibility, rejecting extremes, rejecting ideological hysteria, and emphasizing human dignity, family, solidarity, and a state that protects without suffocating. It is not a radical party, not a populist movement, not a neoliberal enterprise, but a moderately center-right home grounded in principles older than today’s political polarization. And that is precisely why it is so striking that Joaquim Barbosa has chosen to join this party. He knows it is small, that it has almost no resources, that it has no television time, and that without him it stands no chance of being heard nationally. But he also knows that its ideological tone — institutional seriousness, moral clarity, rejection of extremes — lies close enough to his own reputation to be credible. A man like Barbosa does not join a party that compromises him; he chooses one that does not get in his way. That makes his move no less enigmatic, but far more understandable: if he is willing to open even a crack in the political door, he will do so with a party that will not swallow him, but allow him to remain himself.

Pictures: José Cruz / Agência Brasil

Subscribe now

It’s no exaggeration to say that bolsonarismo is a phenomenon with peculiar characteristics. The story of the man who gave his name to the movement — a story that today even leads some of his followers to drink a dishwashing liquid withdrawn from the market by an institute of the current left-wing government — is one I’ve told here before. So it’s hardly surprising that a film is now being made that tells that same story, even though its main character is under house arrest after being sentenced to 27 years in prison for his alleged role in the attempted coup of January 8, 2023. The title of the film: Dark Horse.

Films about Brazilian politicians

A few years ago, two films about Lula were released, and they form a useful backdrop for understanding why a project like Dark Horse immediately raises questions. In 2009, Lula, o Filho do Brasil appeared, a narrative feature film that romanticized Lula’s childhood and his rise as a union leader. The film came out while Lula was still president, which led many Brazilians to feel that the project was meant to burnish his image at a politically strategic moment. The timing and the financing were viewed with suspicion, precisely because it’s unusual for a sitting leader to be portrayed on such a grand scale.

Later came Lula, Oliver Stone’s documentary. That film was made while Lula was still in the middle of legal and political battles, and even during his return to power. Stone had exceptional access and followed him from his arrest to his re-election. That too raised questions: how independent can a documentary be when its subject is still an active politician, and when the filmmaker is so close to him? For many viewers, it felt less like a documentary and more like an attempt to shape an image.

Together, these two projects show that films about living, active politicians in Brazil are always sensitive. They quickly give the impression of self-glorification, political influence, or strategic image-building, and they almost automatically raise questions about who is financing them and why. With that history in mind, it’s easy to understand why Dark Horse entered a charged atmosphere from the very beginning.

The film in the making

Dark Horse is a film that tries to show how Jair Bolsonaro, once a fringe figure in Brazilian politics, managed to become a president who made headlines around the world. For many non-Brazilians, Bolsonaro is mainly a name that appeared in stories about Amazon fires, clashes with journalists, fights with judges, and his striking approach to the pandemic. But the film wants to show that his rise didn’t come out of nowhere. It tries to reconstruct how a man who was barely taken seriously in Brasília suddenly became the symbol of an angry, divided, and deeply disillusioned society.

A large part of the film focuses on the years before his presidency, when Bolsonaro was known mainly as a military man nostalgic for the dictatorship and as a politician who stood out for provocative statements. In Brazil, he was long seen as a political outsider who would never gain real power. But that outsider image later became his greatest asset. The film shows how he managed to present himself as someone “fighting the system” at a time when millions of Brazilians had completely lost faith in that system due to corruption scandals, economic crisis, and an increasingly toxic political climate.

What Dark Horse tries to make clear is that Bolsonaro’s rise is not just about him, but about a country shaken to its core in a short period of time. His style — direct, aggressive, anti-establishment — fit perfectly with an audience that felt betrayed by traditional parties. The film shows how social media played a crucial role: Bolsonaro had no major party machine, no classic campaign, but he did have an army of online supporters who spread his message at lightning speed. For viewers outside Brazil, this helps explain why he developed such a strong bond with his base, despite all the controversies surrounding him.

Another important element in the film is the way Bolsonaro wove his family into his political project. His sons became not only campaigners but strategists, spokesmen, and sometimes even ideological guides. For those unfamiliar with the Brazilian context, that may seem strange, but Dark Horse shows how the “Bolsonaro clan” functioned as a kind of mini-movement within the movement, with each family member playing a role in strengthening the Bolsonaro brand.

The film is therefore not a neutral documentary, but an attempt to tell a story: how a man who spent years on the sidelines suddenly became the center of power. And how that could happen in a country that has struggled for decades with inequality, corruption, and political instability. For non-Brazilians, that may be the most important insight: Bolsonaro was not just an incident, but the product of a much larger crisis that Brazil still hasn’t fully processed.

The explosion

And then came the real explosion — not on screen, but in Brazilian politics itself. While Dark Horse was still unfinished, news broke that Flávio Bolsonaro, senator and presidential candidate, had helped finance the film through a businessman now at the center of a financial scandal: Daniel Vorcaro, the man linked to the troubles at Banco Master. To outsiders, this may sound like “yet another Brazilian scandal,” but in Brazil the news hit like a bomb. Not only because it involves money and politics, but because it touches on something extremely sensitive for Brazilians: the question of who pays behind the scenes to shape the image of a politician.

Until that moment, Dark Horse had been seen mainly as an ambitious film project telling Bolsonaro’s story. But once it became clear that Flávio Bolsonaro was involved in the financing, the tone changed completely. The film itself seemed to catch fire — hence the image of the burning film reel and the raging horse — because everyone began to wonder what the real purpose was. Was it art, history, or an attempt to polish the Bolsonaro family’s image at a crucial political moment? And above all: what does this say about the broader Bolsonaro brand, which likes to present itself as a victim of the system, yet once again finds itself entangled in questions about money and power?

Polls

Polls from recent months already showed that Brazil is in an exceptionally tense phase. Lula remained the best-known and most experienced figure in the field, but his popularity was under pressure due to economic dissatisfaction, rising prices, and a growing sense of fatigue among parts of the population. Flávio Bolsonaro, who positioned himself as the heir to the Bolsonaro project, gained little from this. His numbers remained flat, sometimes even declining, and he failed to turn the enthusiasm of the hardcore Bolsonaro base into broader support.

Just before the news about the financing of Dark Horse broke, Flávio was already in a vulnerable position: visible, loud in the media, but without any real breakthrough in the polls. Analysts described it as a kind of political standstill. Lula wasn’t winning, Flávio wasn’t winning, and voters seemed to be waiting for something that would shake up the landscape.

That “something” came sooner than expected. The revelation that Flávio Bolsonaro was involved in financing the film — through Daniel Vorcaro, a businessman linked to the Banco Master scandal — instantly changed the dynamic. In a country where memories of corruption scandals are still fresh, and where the question “who pays for what?” always carries political weight, the news resonated immediately. Not because it’s about a film, but because it touches on trust, transparency, and the integrity of a candidate presenting himself as an alternative to the current government.

What this means for upcoming polls remains to be seen — that depends on how voters react, how the media continues to cover the story, and how Flávio defends himself. But it’s clear that this scandal changes the atmosphere around his campaign. Polls in Brazil often react quickly to new information, especially when it involves money, power, and potential influence. The next measurements will show how much damage has been done, whether shifts occur, and whether this story continues to reverberate.

What is certain is that Dark Horse is now far more than a film project. It has become a political flashpoint, one that affects not only the Bolsonaro family but also the broader sense of distrust that has haunted Brazilian politics for years. And that is why everyone is now watching the upcoming polls — not to predict a winner, but to see how deep this blow really goes.

Subscribe now

In an earlier piece on the voting intentions of Brazilians, I referred to the four generations that, according to recent analyses, shape the country’s political landscape: Bossa Nova, Ordem e Progresso, Redemocratização and Geração.com. The latter, representing roughly twelve percent of the population, deserves particular attention. These are young people born between 2000 and 2009, just old enough to vote and simultaneously the first generation to have grown up entirely in a digital world. Yet it is striking that this group, although demographically small, becomes much larger when we look at the number of people who can truly be considered digital natives. Several terms are used for this category: early adopters, digitally skilled users, and sometimes even the “digital elite” — a group that not only has access to the latest technology but also possesses the intellectual tools to understand and navigate complex digital systems.

When we examine the most recent data from 2025 and early 2026, the level of internet penetration in Brazil is remarkable. Around 88% of the population — between 163 and 185 million people — uses the internet. Mobile phone ownership is nearly universal at 97%. But these numbers conceal an important nuance: access to technology does not mean understanding it, let alone using it safely and efficiently. The digital elite is concentrated mainly in the upper class, where almost everyone has access to multiple devices — both computers and smartphones — and can therefore perform complex digital tasks, from banking to tax filings to professional software use. In the lower social classes D and E, the situation is different. There, 87% of people access the internet exclusively through their mobile phones, which severely limits the possibilities for more advanced digital use.

Regionally, the Southeast and Center-West continue to lead in connectivity, but the fastest growth in recent years has occurred in the North and Northeast. The digital divide is narrowing, but it remains tangible. Only part of the population has what researchers call “meaningful connectivity”: a combination of speed, stability and adequate equipment that allows full use of digital resources. For millions of Brazilians, that threshold remains high.

This divide has far-reaching consequences, especially for the Bossa Nova generation. According to IBGE, Brazil has more than fifteen million people over the age of seventy. A significant portion of them lacks meaningful connectivity, and the consequences are dramatic. Among older adults who do not use the internet, 66% say they simply do not know how. It is not unwillingness but inability — a generation that did not live through the digital revolution and now faces a society that is digitizing faster than they can keep up with.

On top of this comes the issue of illiteracy. In 2024, around 14.9% of Brazilians over sixty were illiterate — more than five million people. In the Northeast, these percentages are even higher. For those who can read but do not understand “digital codes,” the barriers are just as high. Computer use among older adults has dropped sharply in recent years, from 63% to just 33%, replaced by the smartphone. But a smartphone is not a suitable instrument for complex tasks. The screen is small, the interface is unstable, and security is difficult to manage. As a result, many older adults own a device but use it only for basic functions: calling, receiving messages, viewing photos and — above all — endlessly scrolling through social media.

There is another aspect that is often overlooked: the persistent habit of many older adults to withdraw their entire monthly income in cash at a Casa Lotérica or bank branch. It is not uncommon to see them standing in long lines, sometimes under the scorching sun, to withdraw money they will later store at home. Some are even afraid to use ATMs, worried about making mistakes, being scammed, or simply because they do not understand how the machine works. The time lost is enormous, but for them it is the only way to feel in control of their own money. Meanwhile, banks are closing branches at a rapid pace, especially in rural areas. Towns that once had a branch now depend on neighboring cities, often far away, where internet connectivity is unreliable. People are being forced to digitize, but not everyone succeeds. For older adults with limited mobility, a simple banking task becomes half a day’s journey. Society is changing faster than they can follow, and the consequences are sometimes harsh.

I see this regularly among friends and acquaintances. People who are well educated, who have had respectable careers, and yet are completely dependent on others when it comes to digital security. That alone is worrying, but it becomes dangerous when we realize that this vulnerability is fertile ground for crime. More than 80% of older adults in urban areas such as São Paulo report having been targeted by digital scam attempts. The most common successful frauds involve unauthorized loans and identity theft through banking apps. Around 68% of Brazilian seniors believe it is nearly impossible to fully protect themselves from online fraud. That sense of helplessness may be even more alarming than the fraud itself.

A simple everyday example illustrates this clearly. A man in his seventies hires a handyman who charges R$ 150, a relatively low amount. The arrangement is that the service provider will come to his home to collect the payment, at the older client’s request. On the agreed day, the handyman is delayed and only arrives hours later. The client, a punctual man, spends the entire day at home waiting to hand over the money in person. He does own a smartphone, but he does not know how to make a Pix transfer. Moreover, he does not trust the system. When the man finally arrives, the client hands him a R$ 200 bill. “Sorry, I don’t have change,” is the reply. And there you are. Two full days wasted on something that could have been resolved in seconds.

Another acquaintance contacted me after receiving a WhatsApp message supposedly from the Receita Federal. According to the message, his CPF was about to be suspended because he was behind on a payment. The man was literally trembling with fear. Having your CPF invalidated is a serious matter in Brazil. I immediately sensed something was wrong, asked a few questions, and it quickly became clear that it was a scam. I managed to reassure him, but it could easily have ended differently. And such messages are countless: fake investment pages promising easy wealth, fabricated news claiming pensions will be blocked, warnings about imaginary government measures. Because many older adults forward everything they receive to their entire contact list, this nonsense spreads like wildfire. Fear triumphs over caution, emotion over reason, reflex over reflection.

The elections are approaching. In October, Brazil will choose a new president and new state governors. Officially, campaigns begin in August, but in reality the digital battle has long been underway. Social media is flooded with comments, videos, cartoons and “news” that is often entirely fabricated. Artificial intelligence does the rest. It is no exaggeration to say that many people are misled — especially the young and the elderly. The speed at which such messages spread is astonishing, and I am repeatedly struck by the credibility they are given. It is no wonder that political polarization in Brazil is so persistent.

All of this forms a massive problem in Brazilian society, one that can only be addressed through better education and digital literacy. For the Bossa Nova generation, time will eventually soften the gap. But no one knows what the future holds for the .com generation. They are digitally skilled, yet they live in a world where the line between real and fake grows ever thinner. The question is not whether they will master technology, but whether they will be able to see through it.

This is why I believe there is a clear responsibility for the government, both toward the Bossa Nova generation and many who came after them. Not as a luxury, but as a social duty. Digital education is no longer optional — it has become a basic need in a society that changes at high speed. Just as health posts and emergency units exist for medical care, there should be physical spaces where people can seek digital guidance. Many would welcome such help with open arms, without shame, if only they were told that ignorance is not a personal failure but a consequence of unequal opportunities. Digitalization cannot be reversed, but excluding people because they cannot keep up is unjust. Campaigns, pamphlets, television programs, local initiatives — anything that helps narrow the gap — should already exist. Banks will not solve this; they are closing branches and abandoning precisely the customers who need the most support. Those who can solve it must not only say so, but act. For me, this is not a political preference but a simple call for responsibility: a society that protects its elderly protects itself.

The images accompanying this article were generated by artificial intelligence. They do not depict real people and serve only to visually support the content of this text. Keep in mind that many images circulating on social media are also not real — with the difference that you are rarely warned about it there. Always look with a critical eye.

Subscribe now

There are crimes that make the news and then slowly fade. And there are crimes that linger, not because they were never solved, but because every attempt at solving them only raises new questions. The murder of Celso Daniel, mayor of Santo André, belongs to that latter category. More than twenty years later, it remains a story that refuses to end, a shadow stretching across Brazilian politics, across the history of the Workers’ Party, and across a country that has never been able to decide which version of the truth it should believe.

Celso Daniel was not just any politician. He was one of the intellectual architects of the Workers’ Party, a confidant of Lula, a respected administrator, a man who commanded admiration both inside and outside the party. He was a technocrat with a social conscience, someone who believed that governance was a form of science. And that is precisely why his death was so shocking: it felt as if one of the very foundations of the party had been ripped away.

The last evening

On January 18, 2002, Celso Daniel had dinner with his friend and adviser Sérgio Gomes da Silva, better known as Sombra, at a restaurant in the Jardins district of São Paulo. It was an ordinary evening, with no political agenda, no public appearances. The two men got into Sombra’s armored Pajero, a vehicle meant to guarantee safety in a city where kidnappings and robberies were far from rare.

But less than half an hour later, the car was surrounded by three vehicles. Shots rang out, glass shattered, and within seconds the mayor was dragged out of the car. Sombra remained behind, unharmed, in a vehicle that he claimed had suddenly stopped responding. Two days later, Celso Daniel’s body was found in a ditch along a dirt road in Juquitiba. Eight bullets had ended his life.

The official story

The police worked quickly. On April 1, 2002, the investigative team presented its conclusion: it had been a botched kidnapping carried out by a gang from the Pantanal favela. The criminals had supposedly intended to kidnap someone else, but after losing sight of their original target, they randomly chose Sombra’s Pajero. When they discovered that their victim was a mayor, they allegedly panicked. The gang leader reportedly said the victim should be released, but one of the members misunderstood the instruction and killed the mayor.

It was a story that fit neatly into a report. But not into the reality as many people knew it.

Cracks in the official version

From the beginning, there were elements that did not align with an ordinary kidnapping. No ransom was ever demanded — not from the family, not from the municipality, not from anyone. The Pajero showed no mechanical defects, even though Sombra claimed the car had suddenly stopped responding. The clothes in which Celso Daniel was found were not the clothes he had worn at dinner. And some forensic experts saw signs of mistreatment on the body, while other reports contradicted that.

The forensic doctor who examined the body, Carlos Delmonte Printes, stated that there were indications that could point to mistreatment, possibly even violence prior to death. Other experts disputed this. The result was a conflict between forensic reports that was never fully resolved. This contradiction was one of the reasons the family never accepted the first investigation.

The corruption that changed everything

But there was another element that made the story more complex — and that remains one of the most sensitive aspects of the case to this day. In the months before his death, Celso Daniel had reportedly gathered information about a corruption scheme within the Santo André municipal government. It involved bribes paid by transportation companies, money that according to some accounts was partly used to finance the Workers’ Party. That alone was explosive, but what made it even more dangerous was the claim that Celso Daniel had discovered that part of that money was no longer reaching the party, but was instead ending up in the pockets of individuals.

If that was true — and several witnesses later confirmed that an extortion system did exist — then Celso Daniel stood at a crossroads. He was a loyal party member, but he was also an administrator who believed in transparency and efficiency. According to his brother João Francisco, Celso had decided he could no longer remain silent. He had allegedly threatened to go public with his findings. He was even said to be working on a dossier mapping out the money flows. That dossier has never been found.

The political context — A party on the threshold of power

To understand why the death of Celso Daniel caused such a shock, one must return to the political climate of early 2002. Brazil was in a period of tension and transformation. The Workers’ Party, long an opposition movement that presented itself as the moral counterweight to traditional politics, was on the verge of its greatest victory. Lula was the clear favorite in that year’s presidential election. For the first time, power seemed within reach.

The party had always portrayed itself as the movement of ethics, transparency, and social justice. But by the late 1990s, it had matured — and with maturity came compromises. Municipalities had to be governed, elections had to be financed, campaigns had to be paid for. In that reality, tensions arose between ideals and practice. In several cities, including Santo André, rumors began circulating about opaque money flows, deals with companies, and a parallel financing system that did not always align with the party’s official rhetoric.

It was in this context that Celso Daniel operated. He was not just a mayor; he was one of the party’s strategists, someone who bridged the academic world, technocratic governance, and the political machine the Workers’ Party was becoming. He knew the internal dynamics, he knew the money flows, he knew the tensions between idealists and pragmatists. And according to several witnesses, he knew more than was safe for him.

A revelation of what he knew — if he truly intended to go public — could have plunged the party into an unprecedented crisis. It could have influenced the election. It could have derailed the Workers’ Party’s rise to national power at the very moment it was within reach. Whether that would actually have happened, we will never know. But the political stakes were enormous. And Celso Daniel knew exactly how sensitive that information was.

The family that refused to stay silent

The Daniel family did not believe the official version. His brother João Francisco stated that Celso had been working on a dossier about corruption in the Santo André government, involving party members. He later retracted part of his statements, but the doubt had already been planted. Another brother, Bruno Daniel, continued to push for a thorough investigation for years. He accused no one, but he did not believe his brother had been the victim of a random gang.

The result was that the story split into two parallel narratives: the official story of a botched kidnapping, and the alternative story of a murder with political or financial motives. Neither was ever definitively proven.

The second investigation

In 2005, a second investigation was opened. The gang members were questioned again. Some confirmed their earlier statements, others nuanced them. The police once again concluded that there was no political motive. The Public Prosecutor’s Office disagreed and continued to point to inconsistencies, unexplained details, and contradictory statements. But despite all efforts, no conclusive evidence emerged for either hypothesis.

The chain of deaths

Between 2002 and 2005, seven people connected to the case died. Some were witnesses, others suspects, others only tangentially involved. The waiter who served Celso Daniel on the night of the dinner died in a motorcycle accident while being chased. The only witness to that accident was shot dead twenty days later. A funeral worker who collected and identified the body was murdered. A police officer who had contact with one of the kidnappers was shot dead. And the forensic doctor who had reported signs of mistreatment was found dead in his office, officially by suicide.

The police treated each case separately. But for the public, for the family, for journalists, they formed a sequence that was hard to ignore.

A mystery without end

To this day, no one has been convicted of the murder of Celso Daniel. The case remains an open wound in Brazilian history. Not because it must be a political story, not because it must be a criminal story, but because it is a story that never received an ending.

What truly happened between January 18 and 20, 2002 remains unknown. Perhaps it was a botched kidnapping. Perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps some of the deaths were coincidences. Perhaps not. What is certain is that the official story never fully convinced, the alternative story was never fully proven, and the truth seems to hover somewhere in between.

And as long as that ending is missing, the mystery lives on.

personal note

When all of this happened, I had been living in Brazil for only two years. I was still adjusting to a country that, welcoming as it was, bore little resemblance to the quieter Europe I had left behind. If you were to chart the learning curve of an immigrant, I was barely at the end of primary school. I understood the language, I understood the people, but the political and social complexity of Brazil was still a world I could only observe from a distance.

On top of that, I was facing a personal tragedy at the time, something that consumed all my attention. It is not something I wish to discuss — not because it must remain secret, but because my private life does not belong in a public story. As a result, I only realized much later what had truly happened during those days. Even if I had followed the news — newspapers, television, conversations — I doubt I would have been able to grasp the proper context. I simply lacked the insight into the political reality of the country I had just arrived in.

But later, with the distance of years and the succession of scandals that would shape Brazil — the Mensalão, Lava Jato, and other affairs in which figures from the Workers’ Party repeatedly appeared — I began to see the puzzle pieces differently. You do not point a condemning finger, but you develop doubts. You see patterns. You see how power works, how systems protect themselves, how stories sometimes disappear into the folds of history.

And that is precisely why it became time to revisit this story, to dissect it and describe it. Not to condemn anyone, not to suggest a conspiracy, but to acknowledge that the protagonists of that time may deserve the benefit of the doubt, yet also bear the burden of later events that cannot be denied. It is in that tension — between doubt and caution, between facts and context — that the mystery of Celso Daniel continues to exist.

Subscribe now

I didn’t get to know Brazil through beaches or samba, but through a crying woman in my circle of acquaintances. She was 38, beautiful, proud, religious, and poor. A woman who worked as an empregada doméstica for a minimum wage that was barely enough to survive. I had no idea she was being exploited. I only saw it later, and that insight brought an uncomfortable truth: I had meanwhile ended up in a world that I would only much later recognize as the Brazilian bourgeoisie.

One day she told me her story. She had been approached on the street by a woman who promised her a future as a model. Photos, a book, contacts with agencies, high wages. Hope, in short — the most precious possession of those who have little. She signed a contract she could hardly read. Only later did she discover that for a year she had to give up almost half of her wages for poor quality photos, without any guarantee of work. A pure scam.

When I took her to the “studio” and had the agreement torn up, I thought that was the end of it. But it wasn’t. The reactions from those around me were telling. Not directly to me — I was a foreigner, “someone who doesn’t yet understand how things work here” — but to her. Warnings, veiled threats, remarks like “those who climb high can have a long fall.” It was my first real confrontation with a social reality I hadn’t seen until then: a country where inequality is not just economic, but cultural, almost feudal. Where the powerful look down on those who have little, and where abuse is often seen as something normal, something that “just happens.”

I was indignant, but also powerless. At the same time, I began to understand how deep those structures ran. When Lula later rose to power, I wasn’t a fan, but I did see that he broke through something: the idea that power was only reserved for the same families, the same elites. But that hope, too, was later overshadowed by corruption scandals. Not because one party was bad, but because corruption in Brazil knows no ideology. It follows power, wherever it is found.

Perhaps that is why the recent story surrounding Banco Master, Daniel Vorcaro, and Ciro Nogueira affects me so much. Not because it is new, but because it reminds me of that small studio twenty years ago. The scale is different, the amounts astronomical, the buildings luxurious, but the logic is the same: those who have power, abuse it. Those who have little, pay the price.

For those who don’t know Ciro Nogueira: he is one of the most powerful politicians in Brazil. He leads the Progressistas (PP) party, a key party within the Centrão. That Centrão is not an ideological movement, but a power block that always aligns itself with whoever offers the best advantages at that moment. Under Lula, they were in the government. Under Dilma as well. Under Bolsonaro again — and Ciro Nogueira even became his chief of staff. Today they are negotiating again with the current government. Ideology plays no role. Only power, positions, and especially money.

And that is exactly where Banco Master comes in. The case involving banker Daniel Vorcaro is only at the beginning, but what is already coming to light is shocking. According to the investigation, Vorcaro paid enormous monthly amounts to Ciro Nogueira, through credit cards, companies, and luxury hotels. In exchange, the senator is said to have submitted bills that were literally written by the bank — proposals that would directly benefit the bank. It is a classic interaction between financial power and political power, but on a scale that is excessive even by Brazilian standards.

And this is only the tip of the iceberg. The more people stir the mud, the stronger the stench becomes. Vorcaro’s plea bargain is still under negotiation. No one knows which names will still fall, which structures will still collapse, which deals will still come to light. But one thing is certain: this is not an isolated incident. It is a system.

And once again I see the same dynamics as back then: those who criticize are warned. Those who ask questions are dismissed as someone who “doesn’t understand the system.” Those who are dependent are kept small. Only now the victims are less visible. Not a woman crying at a kitchen table, but millions of Brazilians who will never know why their lives are not moving forward, why their opportunities remain limited, why inequality is so persistent.

Twenty years ago, I helped one woman out of a trap. Today I see a country still trying to escape much larger traps, built by people who know better but still abuse their position. And yet, hope remains. Not the naive hope of promises, but the hope that justice — however slow — eventually gains the upper hand. That Brazil will one day become a country where no one has to fear those who “climb high,” because no one is being kept small anymore.

Hope keeps us alive. But justice makes countries move forward.

Subscribe now

Sometimes you read something that forces you to look at a country differently. That’s what happened when I came across the analyses of Drew Crawford, an American living and working in Brazil, moving between U.S. investors and Brazilian industry. He doesn’t write like an academic. He writes like someone who sees, every day, what most people overlook. And although not every detail in his work can be verified down to the decimal, the broader picture he draws touches on a reality many are unaware of.

His message is surprisingly simple: the world is changing — and Brazil occupies a position we have underestimated for years.

He begins with something we all sense but rarely articulate: the old world order — the one built on stable shipping routes, predictable commodity prices and unlimited access to energy — is breaking down. Maritime routes are disrupted more often. Oil prices spike with every conflict. Countries restrict exports of critical minerals. And food prices no longer fall the way they used to.

In this world, Crawford says, you must ask one question:

Where do the things the world cannot live without actually come from?

And who controls them?

In his view, Brazil is one of the few countries that holds almost all the pieces of that puzzle.

He points to the enormous amount of fertile land still unused. While other countries lose farmland, Brazil can expand production without touching the Amazon. He highlights water: 12% of the world’s freshwater flows through Brazil. That alone is remarkable, but there is something even more surprising — something almost no one knows. Beneath the Amazon lies a massive underground water reserve, the Alter do Chão aquifer, one of the largest in the world. Researchers estimate it contains around 86,000 cubic kilometers of water, more than twice the volume of the well-known Guarani aquifer in southern Brazil.

The Alter do Chão aquifer is extraordinary for a simple reason: it is constantly replenished by Amazon rainfall. While many countries are draining their aquifers with no natural recovery, Brazil has a system that renews itself. In a century where water is increasingly a source of conflict, this is a quiet — but enormous — strategic advantage.

He also points to energy: one of the cleanest electricity mixes in the world, combined with high-quality oil exported through safe Atlantic routes.

And then there are the minerals. In his words: if you look at a world map of the metals essential for the energy transition — lithium, nickel, graphite, manganese, rare earth elements — Brazil appears everywhere. Sometimes at the top, sometimes in the top three, but always present. Not every number he cites can be confirmed with precision, but the direction is clear: Brazil is rich in the resources that will define the coming decades.

Crawford also sees something else: a country of 215 million people that, in just a few years, built one of the largest digital banking sectors in the world. An economy that is formalizing and digitizing despite political noise and bureaucratic obstacles.

His point is not that Brazil is perfect. Far from it: he mentions bureaucracy, volatility, infrastructure gaps. But he also argues that these are precisely the reasons the country remains undervalued. If Brazil functioned like Switzerland, prices would have adjusted long ago.

What he is really trying to show is this:

In a more unstable world, the value of countries with food, water, energy, minerals and safe export routes rises. And Brazil has all of them.

You don’t have to agree with all his conclusions. You don’t have to take his numbers literally. But his work does reveal how little attention we pay to the physical reality of nations — and how quickly that reality is becoming more important than the financial models we’re used to.

Anyone who understands this also understands why more people are taking a fresh look at Brazil. Not as an exotic emerging market, but as a country that may play a larger role in a world being reshaped.

And perhaps it’s worth remembering — especially for Brazilians themselves — that few nations on Earth possess such a rare combination of natural strengths. There is real reason for pride here, even if the country doesn’t always recognize the power it holds.

Sources / inspiration

This essay is based on the analyses of Drew Crawford (American in Brazil. Connecting U.S. capital with Brazilian industry. Austral Continental), especially:

– The global order that kept energy flowing…

– his analysis of Vale and Brazil’s natural-resource sector.

His full pieces are highly recommended for anyone who wants to explore his arguments in depth.

Subscribe now

The Brazilian institute IBGE (Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística) has once again published a world map that literally turns the planet upside down. Brazil is in the middle, the orientation is reversed, and biodiversity is the starting point. The result is a map that rubs people the wrong way, not just geographically, but also politically and symbolically. And that seems to be exactly the point.

Under the leadership of Marcio Pochmann, an economist with a clear vision of Brazil’s role in the world, the IBGE chooses a projection that breaks the traditional north-south hierarchy. The map is titled Species Richness 2025 and aims to map the earth’s biodiversity. But anyone who thinks this is merely a scientific exercise underestimates the power of cartography.

A map that says more than it shows

The new map projects potential species richness per 100 km² cell: amphibians, birds, mammals, reptiles, crustaceans, and freshwater fish. The Amazon region, in particular, lights up in intense green — a visual cry that makes it clear where the planet’s biodiversity is truly concentrated.

That Brazil stands in the center is no accident but a conscious choice, according to the IBGE. The institute stated that the country “appears central because of its importance in the current social and political context.” A sentence that sounds as neutral as it is loaded. Because who decides what is “central”? And who has decided for centuries what was not?

The IBGE links the launch to the International Day for Biological Diversity on May 22. The message is clear: biodiversity is essential for climate, food security, and health. But the underlying message is at least as powerful: the world can also be viewed differently — and perhaps it even should be.

The recurring controversy around Pochmann

It is not the first time an IBGE map has caused a stir. In 2024 and 2025, maps already appeared with Brazil at the center, though not always in a reversed orientation. Even then, Pochmann was accused of politicizing the institute. He defended himself by stating that the maps should reflect Brazil’s leading role in international forums such as BRICS, Mercosur, and COP30.

Supporters praised the initiative: after all, world maps are not laws of nature but cultural constructions. The Mercator projection — which enlarges Europe and shrinks Africa — is the best-known example. Why shouldn’t a country from the global south be allowed to make a map that shows the world from its own perspective?

Critics, on the other hand, found it inappropriate for a government agency to dive into symbolism. The IBGE is there to produce data, not to make geopolitical statements, they said. The institute replied that it provides “technical and objective information,” not political material. But anyone who knows the history of cartography knows that objectivity in maps has always been an illusion.

Pochmann, appointed by President Lula in 2023, has a tense relationship with unions and researchers within the institute. His style is assertive, sometimes polarizing. But that also makes him someone who is not afraid to challenge long-held beliefs — including the way we look at the world.

A map as a mirror of power

During the launch in Brasília, Pochmann said:

“We are talking about a planet that is not flat and therefore allows for variations in viewpoint.”

That sounds almost trivial, but it touches on a fundamental truth: north, south, east, and west are human agreements. They do not exist in the universe. They do not even exist on the earth itself — only on paper, in our heads, and in our history.

Maps have never been neutral. They are instruments of power, of colonization, of world-building. They determine who stands at the center and who is at the edge. They determine who looks big and who looks small. They determine who is visible and who disappears into the margins.

In that sense, the new IBGE map is not a provocation, but a correction. An attempt to show a “decolonized” world view, as Pochmann calls it. A world where the south no longer hangs at the bottom, but takes a full place in the center of attention.

The discomfort of a different gaze

When you see the map for the first time, you have to blink. It feels strange, almost unnatural. But that says mostly something about how deeply our mental maps are anchored. We are so used to a Eurocentric projection that every deviation feels like an error.

And yet: if you look at the map longer, one thing stands out. Not the position of Brazil, but the color green. The biodiversity that is scarce elsewhere on the planet splashes off the map in South America. The Amazon region is not a detail, but a dominant player in the story of the earth.

If that doesn’t ring a bell, then I don’t know what will.

A map you can buy — and that makes you think

The map is for sale in the IBGE web shop, in Portuguese and English versions. The cheapest costs R$ 25, the most expensive R$ 90 — although reports say the latter sold out quickly. That perhaps says enough: people don’t just want to see this map, they want to own it. Maybe because it is beautiful. Maybe because it is different. Maybe because it says something about the world we live in — and about the world we want.

The map as an invitation

You don’t have to agree with Pochmann. You don’t even have to like the map. But it is hard to ignore that it does something important: it forces us to think about perspective. About power. About biodiversity. About the role of Brazil. About the way we draw the world — and therefore also how we understand it.

Maybe Brazil stands in the middle here by chance. Maybe by strategy. Maybe by pride. But what stands out most is that the rest of the world in this projection is less green, less rich, less full of life. And that is not a cartographic choice, but a reality.

A map cannot change the world. But it can change how we look at the world. And sometimes that is revolutionary enough.

Stay updated. Click below to subscribe — free of charge.

Abonneer nu

I’ve lived in Brazil for more than twenty-five years. Long enough to understand the country from the inside, but still with the distance of someone who arrived from elsewhere. That combination — rooted in daily life yet shaped by an outsider’s perspective — is what guides everything I write here.

Brazil is often described in extremes. It is romanticized or dismissed, praised or condemned, simplified or misunderstood. What rarely appears in public debate is the middle ground: the Brazil that exists beyond stereotypes, beyond headlines, beyond the clichés that travel easily but explain very little.

Link2Brazil was created to explore that middle ground.

What you’ll find here are essays and reflections based on lived experience: how institutions function in practice, how politics and economics shape daily life, how culture expresses itself in gestures, expectations and unwritten rules. Not academic theory, not travel-brochure optimism, but the reality of a country that is complex, contradictory, demanding and endlessly fascinating.

This publication now exists in three languages.

English-language texts can be found under Insights, Portuguese-language texts appear under Conexão. Dutch remains the language of origin, where this project first took shape.

Everything here is free to read.

Subscribing simply means you receive new posts by email.

If you reply to any message, your words will be read personally.

Welcome to Link2Brazil — and welcome to a more nuanced Brazil.

André Smeets

It was twenty years ago today...

No, this isn’t about The Beatles and Sgt. Pepper. But it has been twenty years since I ended up in a nasty situation that I remember to this day as if it happened yesterday.

It was an ordinary weekday. I left Duque de Caxias on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro and was driving home via the busy and rather dangerous Avenida Brasil right during rush hour. The sky was overcast and it started to rain. Not just a drizzle: it became a downpour. Just as I thought it was starting to let up, the opposite happened. Within minutes, the familiar main road turned into a river with dirty dark water rising rapidly. Traffic, which was already struggling, came to a complete standstill. With a pounding heart, I watched the water level rise dangerously close to the vehicle’s windows. Fortunately, I noticed I was stuck in front of a car dealership, and the driveway was slightly higher. I managed to squeeze my way onto it. Another fear was the proximity of the notorious slum Vigário Geral. After all, it is not uncommon for criminals to quickly take advantage of such situations to relieve stranded motorists of their belongings.

I made it through unharmed, though dirty water did seep in, which meant I had to let the carpets dry for several days afterward, not to mention the unpleasant smell.

I had a similar experience a few years earlier during the climb to the mountain city of Petrópolis. The road in question is known as the BR-040. The specific section of the highway that climbs through the mountains is called the Rodovia Washington Luís. The route starts in the lowlands of Rio de Janeiro state and winds through the Serra da Estrela to an altitude of about 800 meters. The climb is famous for its steep walls and the lush vegetation of the Atlantic rainforest surrounding the road. It is one of the oldest paved mountain roads in the country and forms the main link between the city of Rio de Janeiro and the Serrana region. It is exceptionally beautiful; both the ascent and the descent offer stunning views. That day I was unlucky. The particularly heavy rain made driving very dangerous and I had no choice but to find a safe spot and wait until the worst was over.

On December 23 and 24, 2001, Petrópolis was hit by an unprecedented cloudburst. In just a few hours, more rain fell than usually comes down in an entire month. This led to massive mudslides and floods that affected entire neighborhoods on the hills. Ultimately, more than fifty people died in Petrópolis alone, and some sources even speak of 66 deaths in the entire region. Many people went missing under the debris and mud. The 2001 disaster is etched into the collective memory because it took place during Christmas. President Fernando Henrique Cardoso visited the city at the time to oversee the damage. It was one of those moments when the vulnerability of the historic mountain city became painfully clear, especially in the poorer neighborhoods built against the slopes.

This week, the states of Pernambuco and Paraíba were in the news again for the same reasons. And throughout all these years, Brazilians in almost every region have been startled by such natural disasters.

In recent years, Brazil seems to increasingly begin with water. Not the soft, warm ocean water that tourists dream of, but the brutal, merciless water that falls from the sky as if someone above our heads has opened a massive set of floodgates. In Pernambuco and Paraíba, I saw the same images again that have become so familiar: houses sinking into mud, people wading through brown rivers with plastic bags over their heads, children on mattresses serving as rafts. It is a kind of national déjà vu. You know it is coming, you know things will go wrong, and yet you are amazed every time by the force with which the rain strikes.

And while the northeast drowns, the south reminds us that Brazil is not one country but a collection of climates that sometimes contradict each other. In Rio Grande do Sul, Santa Catarina, and Paraná, it was not tropical showers but subtropical storms, cold fronts, and floods that paralyzed entire cities. Bridges disappeared, villages became islands, and people watched helplessly as their lives were rewritten in a few hours. The contrast is almost ironic: in a country still seen by foreigners as an eternal summer, it is precisely the winter that hits the hardest.

That misunderstanding continues to surprise me. For many Europeans, Brazil is a kind of postcard that never changes: palm trees, sun, beach, samba. They do not know that it can freeze in Curitiba, that Gramado is sometimes covered in a layer of snow, or that the highlands of Minas have cold nights that chill you to the bone. They do not know that the days here are shorter, that the seasons do not fit neatly into boxes, that the rain does not come when you think it will, and that drought sometimes strikes in places that look green on the map. Brazil is not a tropical country. It is a country that refuses to be summarized.

And then there is the way things are built. In Europe, building is almost a science. You cannot just put up a house wherever you feel like it. You have to take into account risk zones, stability, and regulations that sometimes seem excessive but ultimately save lives. Here, it is different. Here, a neighborhood grows like a plant grows: where there is space, where someone can put up a wall, where a slope seems just flat enough to place a house. The morros (hills) of Rio are the best-known example, but it happens everywhere. Houses leaning on earth that starts to slide at the first heavy rain. Streets that have no drainage. Rivers that have forgotten they were once wider and are now reclaiming that space.

In São Paulo, the largest city in Latinaria, it is no different. There, floods are almost a season in themselves. You learn there that rain is not just rain, but an event that can define your day.

The question of where it is truly safe is difficult to answer. There are places that run less risk, certainly. High-lying neighborhoods with good infrastructure, coastal areas where the water can drain away, cities that have plans and sometimes even carry them out. But the country is changing. The rain becomes more intense, the drought becomes drier, the storms become stronger. What seems safe today can become vulnerable tomorrow. And anyone investing in agriculture or real estate needs to know that. You can lose a fortune by believing the climate here is predictable. It is not. It is fickle, changeable, and increasingly unforgiving. If you imagine Brazil as a tropical country with palm trees, golden beaches, and a bright sun that gives you a nice tan in no time, that is only partly true. Such an image is actually a misunderstanding, a misconception like the many others you can find on the page of the same name. It is a misleading cliché. Due to its large size, the climate can vary greatly, both by season and by region. There is no certainty. That becomes clear quickly if you suddenly end up in a situation like the incident on Avenida Brasil on a sunny day. Anyone staying in a nice hotel in Copacabana at that moment will hardly be bothered by it. But they are a minority.

In a country where rain sometimes turns into a wall of water and where roads can disappear under a brown stream in a few minutes, you have to learn to think differently. In Europe, people often buy a tall car or a 4x4 for comfort or because it looks good in the driveway. Here, that is not a luxury. Here, it can be the difference between getting home or getting stuck in a place where you really should not be standing still. I have experienced it myself more than once. A vehicle that sits a bit higher and can take a hit is not a status symbol but a form of common sense.

And then there is the new question of our time: what do you do with electric cars in areas where water sometimes reaches the windows, where mudslides expose cables, and where the power supply does not always cooperate. These are questions people in Europe hardly ask, but here they suddenly become very practical. It shows how few certainties exist in a country so large that it follows its own rules.

That is why I cannot possibly list all the advice. That is what my other contributions are for, the many stories I wrote before, the pages full of explanations in two languages. But if there is one thing I have learned in all these years, it is this: anyone who wants to live, travel, or invest in Brazil must be prepared for the unexpected. The climate is not a background setting. It is a player in the story. And if Link2Brazil can help make that story a little clearer, then my mission is a success.

Pictures: Prefeitura Rio de Janeiro - Valter Campanato - Tânia Rêgo/Agência Brasil - RS/Fotos Públicas - André Smeets

Stay updated. Click below to subscribe — free of charge.

Abonneer nu

The Brazilian party system as we know it today is the product of a strange paradox: a democracy born in the eighties with the promise of freedom, but which has since become so fragmented that it has become almost ungovernable. While the country emerged from the military dictatorship with a handful of political movements, Brazil now counts about thirty parties — of which more than twenty hold seats in Congress. To an outsider, it sometimes seems as if every politician has their own logo.

How we got here

The 1988 Constitution triggered an explosion of political freedom. For years, it was relatively easy for politicians to start their own party, mainly because the system generously rewarded small parties with airtime and public funds. The result: a forest of micro-movements, mergers, splits, and opportunistic alliances.

Nowadays, founding a new party is less simple. The Superior Electoral Court (TSE) requires hundreds of thousands of signatures, spread across at least nine states, to prove that a party is national and not a local hobby project. On top of that, there is now an electoral threshold that determines which parties maintain the right to funding and speaking time. But despite these stricter rules, the landscape remains one of the most fragmented in the world.

Left, right, and the flexible middle

In this mosaic of parties, the traditional division into left, right, and center is often fluid. The PL (Partido Liberal) currently dominates the right wing, while the PT (Partido dos Trabalhadores) remains the largest force on the left. At the far edges stand mini-parties like Rede or PCB, sometimes with one representative, sometimes with none at all.

Most parties, however, fall into the broad, pragmatic middle block that Brazilians call the Centrão: a collection of parties that vote less ideologically than strategically and often provide the deciding vote in important decisions. Here, ideology is less a compass than an exchange rate.

Who pays for all of this?

Since companies have been banned from making political donations in 2015, the Brazilian taxpayer fully foots the bill for the system. Two large public funds keep politics running:

The Party Fund: approximately 1.2 billion Real annually (about 205 million euros).

The Election Fund: once every four years, nearly 5 billion Real (about 855 million euros).

For a European, these are substantial amounts; for a Brazilian, with a minimum wage of around 1,500 Real, they are simply astronomical. The largest parties receive the most money, further strengthening their power position. The citizen thus finances not only the state, but also the marketing of thirty political movements — whether they want to or not.

In short: Brazilian democracy is (very) expensive, and everyone pays for it.

From ideological struggle to raw polarization

The current polarization seems new, but it has deep roots. For years, politics was dominated by the struggle between the PT and the PSDB. Two parties that emerged from the resistance against the dictatorship, but fundamentally differed on the path to development.

The PSDB, led by Fernando Henrique Cardoso, focused in the nineties on economic stabilization, privatization, and the Plano Real — the currency that stopped hyperinflation. Modernization was their mantra.

The PT, with Lula as its figurehead, fiercely resisted almost every major reform of the PSDB. They voted against the 1988 Constitution, against the Plano Real, and against privatizations. They presented themselves as the moral alternative to what they saw as a neoliberal project.

It was only when Lula wrote his famous “Letter to the Brazilian People” in 2002 — in which he promised not to overturn the economic foundations — that he was able to win the elections. Ironically, once in power, the PT adopted many of the PSDB frameworks, supplemented by large social programs.

It was a period of sharp but institutional polarization: two sides of the same coin.

The breaking point

That balance collapsed due to corruption scandals (such as Lava Jato) and the recession under Dilma Rousseff. The PSDB imploded and lost its role as the moderate counterpart to the PT. The vacuum was not filled by a new central force, but by the radical right wing around Jair Bolsonaro.

Since then, polarization has been rawer, more personal, and less institutional. The middle has largely disappeared.

The crisis of the PT: a party stuck to one man

The PT has another problem: it is so strongly connected to Lula that it is difficult to imagine a future without him. For a new generation of voters — pragmatic, digital, less ideological — Lula is an icon from another era.

Meanwhile, figures are appearing on the right and in the center who respond exactly to this new spirit of the times. Influencer-politicians like Pablo Marçal use social media and AI as an ideology: success through one’s own strength, not through social programs. This clashes head-on with traditional PT rhetoric.

Possible successors within the PT

Fernando Haddad: intellectual and competent, but lacks Lula’s grassroots appeal.

Camilo Santana: successful in Ceará, but does not yet have a national presence.

Guilherme Boulos: young and charismatic, but his past with the MTST scares off the middle class.

Research by Quaest (2025–2026) shows that more than half of Brazilians no longer identify with left or right. They want a government that works like a modern app: efficient, transparent, and without the noise of Brasília.

As a result, the PT is in a paradox: it holds power, but seems to be losing its connection to the future.

2026: a choice between two eras

The 2026 elections are not just about who governs the country, but about which political era Brazil leaves behind. Will the voter choose once again for the familiar figure of Lula, or for a new, digital leader who promises to tear down the old structures — including those of the PT?

What is certain: the country faces an enormous challenge. Politically, economically, and institutionally. And whoever wins in October will inherit a system that is expensive, fragmented, and exhausted.

There is a lot of work to be done.

Photos: Lula Marques - Marcelo Camargo - Fabio Rodrigues Pozzebom / Agência Brasil

Stay updated. Click below to subscribe — free of charge.

Abonneer nu

Brazil has gradually become a frontrunner in scam practices, forcing consumers and ordinary citizens to be exceptionally vigilant in their daily lives. Anything that might normally be considered part of a routine is now suspect. An email, a phone call, or even a knock at your front door should set off a red light. Many have not adapted to this reality and fall into traps that almost always result in financial loss. This is especially true for the elderly, who often struggle to keep up with rapid digital progress. These are people from an era when having a simple home phone was a luxury and when you personally visited the bank to fulfill financial obligations after waiting patiently in line. Back then, the worst that could happen was a confrontation with a “saidinha de banco.” This can still happen, but rapid evolution has changed behavior. Today, everyone uses their smartphone, encouraged by banks that are closing more and more physical branches. Those who need cash go to an ATM.

The rules for banking via a mobile phone are rightfully strict, but that does not stop thieves and scammers from making frantic attempts to rob innocent citizens. This time, it no longer happens with a weapon, but in a “soft” way by leading the victim to believe they are acting correctly. Realizing you have been robbed is no less painful. The Federal Police recently released a report that supports this changing reality with hard figures. Their research shows that the fight against crime has largely moved to the digital world. The numbers are staggering: artificial intelligence is now used in 42.5% of all cases of financial fraud. In 2024, this fraud caused total losses of R$ 52 billion, with credit card cloning and the use of fake call centers among the most common crimes.

It is a bitter paradox that digital progress in Brazil is both a blessing and a source of concern. The Brazilian population is one of the most digitized in the world. Brazilians are not just users of technology; they embrace it massively and with impressive talent. Platforms like WhatsApp, Instagram, and TikTok are central to social and economic life in Brazil. This strong online presence is accompanied by a great skill in building digital networks and creating content. It is therefore particularly regrettable that a portion of this enormous creativity and technical knowledge is used for the wrong purposes. The same talent used for innovative apps and digital marketing is, unfortunately, used by some to develop the most sophisticated computer virus codes and deceptive systems in the world.

Scammers are increasingly using deepfakes, a technique where text, images, or sound are modified or created entirely from scratch by clever software. The word is a combination of “deep learning” and “fake.” This makes it appear as if someone is saying or doing something that never actually happened. The software is trained by studying thousands of photos or video clips of a specific person. Through this, the computer learns exactly how that person’s face moves and how their voice sounds. The computer can then overlay this face as a digital mask onto someone else’s face. This is often so convincing that it is almost indistinguishable from reality to the human eye. The rise of this technique is explosive; between 2024 and 2025, the use of deepfakes increased by a massive 830%. With just a short sound recording, the computer can have a new text spoken that sounds exactly like the original person. It is precisely because of this personal approach that people fall into the trap, simply because we naturally trust what we see and hear.

The core of the problem is that technology is developing faster than our collective understanding of it. Many people do not realize how sophisticated these tools are used to deceive them. Scammers cleverly use the fear spread through shady news channels on the internet. Messages constantly circulate claiming that benefits will be stopped or that a person’s fiscal number, the CPF, is at risk. When someone who is already worried receives an official-looking email or a phone call, panic is a short step away. In that state of confusion, it is logical that people are inclined to follow instructions that would normally raise suspicion. I saw this recently with a good friend. He received an email so convincing that he was about to take action. He was genuinely scared, feeling the threat of a financial problem hanging over him. Fortunately, I was able to review the text with him and point out that it was a fake message. The relief was great, but the underlying fear lingered for a while. it shows how vulnerable we are when we don’t know exactly what is going on.

The Federal Police is now working with organizations like Abecs and Febraban to tackle this fraud, but the first line of defense lies with the citizen. It is important to be able to separate the wheat from the chaff. One of the most common methods is the fake call center or the unsolicited phone call. Often, the number appears to come from an official agency or bank. A simple rule is: a bank or government agency will never ask via phone or WhatsApp for passwords, PIN codes, or to transfer money to a “safe account.” As soon as a call takes on an urgent tone regarding your CPF or an alleged debt, hang up immediately and call your bank’s official number yourself. For emails, you can check the sender’s address; it often looks like the real address but contains small spelling errors or ends in a strange domain name.

While this reality is serious, it is certainly not insurmountable and should not stop anyone from enjoying Brazil. Simple prevention is often enough to avoid falling into the trap. There are technical tools to protect your phone, such as apps that automatically block known spam numbers without affecting your actual contacts. Using two-factor authentication on all your accounts and verifying information through a second, independent channel are strong weapons against digital theft. Those who are well-informed and maintain a healthy dose of suspicion regarding unexpected digital messages can stay and work in Brazil with peace of mind. The country has become more modern, and that simply requires a modern way of staying alert.

Tips

In addition to the necessary caution with messages and phone calls, there are two very effective tools in Brazil to actively protect your CPF (tax number) against misuse.

First, there is the option to have your CPF monitored by an institution like Serasa (a private agency that analyzes creditworthiness and tracks records of payment arrears). For a small fee, they offer a service where you receive an immediate notification on your smartphone if someone tries to apply for credit in your name or if your details appear on the ‘dark web.’ It provides a sense of security that you won’t discover only after the fact that a loan was taken out without your knowledge.

A second, free tool is Registrato, a system provided by the Central Bank of Brazil. By registering here, you get a complete overview of all bank accounts, loans, and credit cards registered to your CPF. It is a powerful way to separate the wheat from the chaff: you can see at a glance if accounts have been opened at banks you have never even stepped into. Regularly checking this overview is one of the most effective ways to stop fraud in its early stages.

With this combination of personal alertness and digital monitoring, you ensure that you stay in control, so you can focus on the positive aspects of staying in this dynamic country.

Stay updated. Click below to subscribe — free of charge.

Abonneer nu

Former Finance Minister Fernando Haddad — who stepped down in March to run for Governor of São Paulo — repeatedly criticized the “financial burden” the Lula government allegedly inherited in 2023 from his predecessor, Jair Bolsonaro, until his last day in office. According to him and the Workers’ Party (PT), this past explains the difficulty of reorganizing public finances throughout the term. It is true that there were excesses, compounded by emergency pandemic investments, repeated breaches of the spending cap, and a billion-dollar debt in precatórios (court-ordered government debts to citizens or companies) that were simply kicked down the road. However, these arguments do not absolve the current economic team of their responsibilities. Under the leadership of Haddad and his successor, Dario Durigan, the government has created a financial time bomb that is once again being passed on to the next generation.

The combination of rapidly growing spending, fiscal deficits, and high interest rates leads to a predictable outcome: exploding national debt. It is no coincidence that Brazil’s debt is growing at a pace comparable only to the most acute moments of crisis, such as the 2020 pandemic or the 2015-2016 recession. Projections from the Ministry of Finance itself confirm what was already known: debt will continue to rise through most of the next presidential term and will only begin to decrease slightly in 2030. This results in high interest rates, causing capital to flee toward safe government bonds instead of productive investments that could truly grow the country.

According to Central Bank data, Brazil’s national debt reached 79% of GDP last year. That percentage was only higher in 2020, at the peak of the pandemic, when it hit 87%. When Lula took the helm in January 2023, the indicator stood at 72%. We have to look far back, to the early 2000s, to see figures around 55%. The upward trend is far from over; debt is expected to grow further to 88% of GDP by 2029 — a figure that independent analysts, by the way, consider far too optimistic and hardly credible.

The International Monetary Fund (IMF) is even less optimistic in its latest forecasts, expecting Brazil’s debt to keep rising until at least 2031. Although the IMF uses a different methodology that yields higher figures — estimating debt at 93% for 2025 compared to the Central Bank’s 79% — the conclusion is painfully clear. Brazil is already among the most debt-ridden nations among emerging economies, and its position is likely to worsen. Currently, the country ranks 25th out of 183 economies tracked by the IMF, but by 2031, it is expected to climb to a debt equal to 103% of GDP. In comparison, Mexico and Colombia, countries somewhat similar to Brazil, see this indicator hovering around 60%.

The problem lies simply in government spending. If the current spending level is to be maintained without letting the debt explode, taxes — which are already substantial — must go up. But the country has reached the limit of its tax burden. Only a radical operation where the government “cuts into its own flesh” can restore balance. Lula, however, has no intention of doing so, should he be re-elected. For him, consumption is the sole engine for growth, supported by more credit for families to access higher-ticket products.

The President sees a clear role for the state in driving the economy through the purchasing power of the citizen. In his vision, the economy only truly functions when people have the means for basic needs like food and clothing, but also for computers and household appliances. Putting money into the hands of the people and small entrepreneurs, he believes, provides a direct boost to employment. To enable this, he advocates for expanded credit, seeing it not as a risk but as a necessary tool for families. He dreams of an internal market where Brazilians have the right to modern technology and decent cars, financed by loans deducted directly from their wages. It is a vision he has repeated since the early 2000s, but today it meets more skepticism than before. While iconic promises about the accessibility of consumer goods — such as his famous claim that every family should once again afford picanha and a beer — once offered hope, that rhetoric now clashes harshly with the reality of high inflation. For many Brazilians, the gap between the political promise and the price at the checkout has become so wide that these familiar stories are losing their luster; the memory of unfulfilled pledges means the population increasingly views his economic recipes as outdated.

The strategy of stimulating the economy through higher consumption means the focus remains on government investment and subsidies rather than austerity. For the President, social inclusion through consumption is more important than strict adherence to fiscal constraints. In doing so, he indicates that in a potential new term, he intends to stick to a model where the state actively drives consumption. This, however, clashes head-on with the sobering reality of the national debt. While he sells this as a social solution, economists point to structural risks. In this logic, an artificial stimulation of demand without fiscal reform inevitably leads to higher interest rates to curb inflation, which only makes servicing the debt more expensive.

The comparison with the past is far from reassuring. Critics warn that a next term threatens to be a repeat of the policies under Dilma Rousseff, but in an even more extreme form. While Lula once benefited from a favorable global wind and a commodity boom, that financial breathing room has virtually vanished. Holding onto this model of state intervention while debt creeps toward 100% of GDP is seen by many as ignoring a ticking time bomb. The government seems to be shifting toward an ideological hardening where state-owned companies must lead the way, which only pushes private investment toward the safety of government bonds.

All of this confirms that voters should pay more attention to what their candidate is going to do, and less to who they are. Decades of polarization will not reduce or settle the country’s debt — quite the contrary. The information in this argument is no fiction; it is drawn from recent analyses in Brazilian newspapers (Estadão, Folha) and magazines (Veja) that are available to (almost) everyone. However, the question remains whether the average citizen, who prefers their news in short snippets via Instagram or YouTube, still absorbs the gravity of these figures. A country cannot indefinitely spend what it does not have. If every Brazilian stood up today and demanded that the state behave like a responsible head of household — spending only after it has earned — policies would change tomorrow. As long as they settle for a short-term party on credit, the financial time bomb will continue to tick undisturbed.

Stay updated. Click below to subscribe — free of charge.

Abonneer nu

Time moves fast; use it well. If there is one presidential candidate who understands this, it is 62-year-old Romeu Zema Neto, the current governor of the state of Minas Gerais. Zema is not a product of the political machinery, but a descendant of a true entrepreneurial family. His great-grandfather, Italian immigrant Domingos Zema, laid the foundation for the Grupo Zema. What began as a simple garage grew under Romeu’s leadership into an empire with interests in household appliances, fuels, car dealerships, and financial services.

Zema served as CEO of the group for 25 years. He transformed the family business into a national player with hundreds of branches. In 2016, he decided to hand over the reins to enter politics, driven by the conviction that government needed to be more efficient. He joined the Novo party, which profiles itself as a party for entrepreneurs and technocrats.

The rise of the “Manager-Governor”

His entry in 2018 was spectacular. Without any political experience, and initially polling at just 3%, he campaigned on the promise to run Minas Gerais like a company. He refused public campaign funds and presented himself as the anti-politician. In a climate of deep distrust toward the establishment, this worked: he won the election by a massive margin.

As governor, he kept his word. He implemented a strict austerity policy, abolished numerous privileges for politicians, and drastically reduced the number of state secretariats. His greatest success was restructuring the state debt; he managed to pay the overdue salaries of civil servants—a legacy of his predecessor—on time again. That predecessor was Fernando Pimentel of the Workers’ Party (PT), whose term (2015-2018) is remembered by many in Minas Gerais as a disastrous period for the state. Pimentel faced heavy criticism, and the chaos he left behind was exactly the fuel for Romeu Zema’s lightning-fast career. Pimentel was also personally haunted by corruption investigations. He was accused by the federal police of money laundering and accepting bribes during his earlier time as a minister under Dilma Rousseff. Although some cases were later dismissed due to lack of evidence, the scent of corruption lingered.

All this earned Zema a brilliant re-election in 2022 in the first round, with more than 56% of the vote. For the people of Minas, he is the man who made a bankrupt state viable again.

The leap to the national arena

Local popularity is nice, but national ambitions require more. Zema faces the same hurdle as fellow governor Ronaldo Caiado from Goiás: a lack of name recognition in other regions of the enormous Brazil. In a country where the North often barely knows what is happening in the South, you have to make noise to be seen. And that is exactly what Zema did this past week.

His strategy is clear: he wants to conquer the right wing faster than his rivals. While Flávio Bolsonaro currently profiles himself as a moderate alternative to avoid scaring off the center voter, Zema chooses a frontal attack. He understands that to win over the hard core of Bolsonaro’s following, he must be more than just a good manager; he must be an ideological leader.

The attack on the “Untouchables”

The conflict with the Federal Supreme Court (STF) reached a boiling point this week. Zema published a video on social media in which he mocked the court’s justices using puppets, the so-called “Os Intocáveis.” In doing so, he voiced a sentiment shared by many Brazilians: the feeling that power in Brasília is completely disconnected from the law and the reality of the citizen.

The reaction from the capital was unprecedentedly fierce. Judge Gilmar Mendes, one of the most powerful figures within the court and himself a target of the satire, responded in an interview with Renata Lo Prete of O Globo. Mendes called the video “deepfake propaganda” and demanded that Zema be included in the long-running inquiry into fake news.

What made the matter truly explosive, however, was a personal jab by Mendes during that interview. He made insinuations about Zema’s sexual orientation in a way that raised eyebrows even among his supporters. The criticism was so broad that Mendes later had to apologize publicly. The incident showed how deep the hostility runs; professional distance at the high court has completely vanished in this battle.

The gap between the robe and the street

Mendes was not the only one to lash out. Another anonymous justice let it slip that Zema’s attacks crossed legal lines and could even land him in prison. Mendes also defended the continuation of the controversial “Inquérito das Fake News,” which he believes must remain active at least until after the 2026 elections to protect democracy.

For Zema, this legal pushback is “political gold.” He positions himself as the brave outsider who does not bow to the “robes.” Many Brazilians are fed up with the authoritarian behavior of the justices, who in their eyes judge according to political convictions. Zema channels that discontent.

A high-stakes game

Zema is playing all or nothing. He has the support of the business elite and a rock-solid base in Minas Gerais, an economically crucial state. His challenge now is to translate that popularity to the rest of the country without getting caught in the legal nets of Brasília. He is betting that the voter in 2026 is not looking for a ‘Bolsonaro-light,’ but for an experienced administrator who combines the combativeness of the right wing with tangible economic success. The gap between the judiciary and the street has thus become the central theme of his campaign.

Dialect

According to the latest reports, Zema doubled down on the row with Gilmar Mendes. The latter had criticized Zema’s use of language (calling it a “dialect close to Portuguese”). Zema responded:

“Do you know why you don’t understand what I say, Gilmar Mendes? Because the language of ordinary Brazilians like me is different from the snobbish Portuguese of the untouchables in Brasília.”

The verbal battle between the ‘snobbish Portuguese’ of the capital and the ‘dialect’ of the ordinary Brazilian has thus become the definitive measure of an election struggle where they are fighting not only for votes, but also for the soul of the rule of law.

Photos: Marcelo Camargo - Valter Campanato/Agência Brasil

Stay updated. Click below to subscribe — free of charge.

Abonneer nu

In a previous contribution about the Brazilian authorities’ mania for providing almost everything concerning them with abbreviations—which have since formed a labyrinth in which a cat could no longer find her own kittens—I wrote: “In Brazil, an acronym is not just an abbreviation; it is a way of life. It is the language of a bureaucracy so vast that it no longer fits its own words.” Now, another one has arrived: FNRH Digital. Even if it isn’t immediately clear what it’s about, you can quickly guess: they’ve found something new to keep an eye on João Average. Indeed, they have.

FNRH already existed and stands for “Ficha Nacional de Registro de Hóspedes” (roughly translated: National Guest Registration Form). The addition of “Digital” replaces the ballpoint pen at the reception of a hotel or pousada with—yet again—a smartphone. In the corridors and communications of the Ministry of Tourism (MTur), however, the system is often simply touted as “Check-in Digital.” The FNRH Digital is not just a form; it is part of a larger digital ecosystem developed by Serpro (the federal government’s giant IT service). And is that it? No, Brazil wouldn’t be Brazil if there weren’t side effects involved. Let’s clarify:

Cadastur is the database in which all hotels and pousadas must be registered. The FNRH Digital is directly linked to this. If a hotel is not in Cadastur, it is officially operating illegally.

Módulo Hóspede is the specific portal where the guest must enter their data. For “companions” (spouse, children...), the system uses the term Dependentes. You must literally link them as ‘dependents’ to your profile to complete the process.

Pre-check-in is the marketing term the government uses. It sounds like a favor (save time at the reception!), but in reality, it is the way the citizen takes over the civil servant’s work by pumping their own data into the state database in advance.

The new regulation officially came into force on April 20, 2026, but initial reports state that, so far, less than 25% of smaller pousadas actually have the system operational.

Big Brother’s Newest Weapon

The Brazilian government presents the new, mandatory digital check-in procedure in hotels and pousadas as a great step forward. The old-fashioned paper forms from the Ministry of Tourism are making way for a digital system that should, in theory, be handled within two minutes. But anyone who looks slightly beyond the shiny interface of this modernization sees a very different reality. It is the next step in a process of total control that we previously saw with the central role of the CPF. Where the government speaks of convenience for the tourist, the last space for anonymity and informal freedom is, in fact, being boarded up.

The Practice

The practical implementation immediately shows that the term “simplification” is out of place here. For a family with two children, this means that it is no longer just the head of the family who identifies themselves, but every individual, including minors, must be fully included in the system. Anyone who has ever tried this on a small smartphone with a flickering internet connection somewhere in a remote pousada knows that this is anything but smooth. It is a cumbersome process that increases rather than decreases frustration at the counter. Furthermore, the hotelier can no longer fudge the numbers or “forget” to register a guest to evade taxes. The digital line to the government’s central servers is direct and merciless.

Salacious Details

However, we find the most salacious aspect of this new regulation in the world of motels. Brazil has an extensive culture of motels where discretion is the ultimate good. With the arrival of digital registration, which can often be linked to the central Gov.br account, that discretion is seriously threatened. The man who claims to be traveling for business while staying elsewhere will think twice from now on. Although hotel employees could occasionally turn a blind eye in the past, the system now records everything irrevocably. The government knows exactly who is spending the night, where, and with whom.

What we are seeing here is Big Brother at one of his peaks. The Brazilian state is crawling under the guest’s sheets and holding the pen used to register the children. Privacy is sacrificed on the altar of digital efficiency and the fight against tax evasion. It is a development that fundamentally changes Brazilian society. The days when you, as a traveler, could still stay somewhat under the radar are definitively over. Every step, every overnight stay, and every traveling companion now leaves a digital trail in the government archives.

How It Works

If you book in advance, the hotel (or pousada) sends a link or shows a QR code. Those who have a CPF can log in via Gov.br, after which all fields (name, address, documents) are filled in automatically. If it concerns an entire family, the hassle begins because the law demands individual registration for every guest. A father who arrives with his wife and two children after a long journey, and has not registered the check-in beforehand, must now fill in or check four digital forms on a small screen. In a country where 4G outside the big cities is often more “G” than “4,” this leads to faltering connections and queues that are longer than in the paper era. And what about non-Brazilians?

Temporary visitors, business people, and tourists without a CPF must enter their passport details manually into the hotel’s web app. The hotel is then obliged to sign this digitally, giving the Federal Police an immediate digital “flag” as to where every foreigner is located.

Tchau Jeitinho

The hotel sector used to be able to “fudge” things easily. Renting out a room off the books was simple: you tore up the paper form and the income officially didn’t exist. With the digital FNRH, the government sees the occupancy rate in real-time. If a hotel registers fifty digital check-ins but only declares twenty rooms to the tax authorities, a red flag appears immediately. Moreover, fines for not using the new system run up to R$ 10,000, and for repeat offenses, the permit (Cadastur) can be revoked.

AIRBNB

For now, this remains the largest gray area. Many Airbnb hosts are currently escaping the FNRH obligation because they are not legally seen as a “hotel business.” However, the government is working on regulations to force short-term rentals via platforms into data sharing. Airbnb in Brazil already increasingly asks for guests’ CPF during booking to comply with local tax rules. The step toward a full digital form for every Airbnb guest is only a matter of time.

It is a sophisticated system. The government sells it as “speed and convenience,” but it is a data machine. It links your CPF to your location, your travel party, and your spending patterns. The hotel clerk can indeed close their eyes, but the algorithms of the Receita Federal and the Federal Police do not. In the Brazilian context, where the line between privacy and government interference was always thin, this system is the ultimate tool for total surveillance under the guise of tourist modernization.

The Privacy Law (LGPD)

The “Lei Geral de Proteção de Dados Pessoais” is the Brazilian legislation that regulates the processing of personal data by companies and government agencies and protects the privacy and freedom rights of individuals. The law guarantees transparency, security, and control over the information collected (physical or digital), allowing users to see how their data is being used and to demand it be deleted or corrected. It is a modern law (2018), but in practice, it seems to apply primarily to companies and less to the state itself. The government demands that hotels protect guests’ data, while that same government centrally stores every movement of those same guests via Serpro. It is a paradox: your privacy is “protected” by giving your data directly to the country’s largest data collector.

Stay updated. Click below to subscribe — free of charge.

Abonneer nu

Not all polls are simple surveys that merely take the pulse of a situation, much like a doctor would. Some polls evolve into a small study—an X-ray of society. These are far more useful than the countless polls that often look exactly like the ones that preceded them. This is the case with the latest Quaest survey, as the results are telling and provide a solid orientation for any candidate, but above all, for the voters themselves.

The classic struggle between Lula and Bolsonaro masks a new reality that is being ignored by both camps. Anyone who wants to emerge as a winner must stop talking about the past and start listening to the “hybrid” voter.

The Quaest study analyzed the voters. They no longer form groups based on terms like Baby Boomers or Millennials. In Brazil, a new division has emerged, as previously described in the book Brasil no Espelho by Felipe Nunes. In this new model, Brazilians can be divided into:

Bossa Nova: The older generation, often conservative in their values, but with a soft spot for social rhetoric.

Ordem e Progresso: The largest group, which places immense value on authority and discipline; the bloc where Bolsonaro achieved his success.

Redemocratização: The backbone of the progressive vote, seeing the state as a protector against inequality.

Geração.com: The core point. The independent digital group that stands above the trench warfare.

This is a subdivision of the electorate based on the era in which they were politically formed: those born between 1945 and 1964 (Bossa Nova), 1965 and 1984 (Ordem e Progresso), 1985 and 1999 (Redemocratização), and between 2000 and 2009 (Geração.com).

There are currently approximately 156.2 million eligible voters in Brazil. The largest portion belongs to the Ordem e Progresso generation at 36%, followed by Redemocratização (29%), Bossa Nova (23%), and the youngest group, Geração.com, at 12%.

The Differences

Ordem e Progresso: Just over 56 million voters, children of the military dictatorship and the so-called “economic miracle.” They were the first Brazilians to grow up with mothers working outside the home and witnessed the explosion of Brazilian rock music. They were the first to see the left (the PT) as a serious competitor and voted for them as well.

Redemocratização: Approximately 45.3 million voters. Born during the period of redemocratization, they grew up in a time of greater hope in the political and economic spheres. They witnessed the expansion of social rights under the governments of Fernando Henrique Cardoso and Lula. Some were born into a world with the internet and mobile phones.

Bossa Nova: 36 million voters who spent their youth or part of their adult lives under the military dictatorship. They were the first generation to enter the labor market under the CLT (Consolidation of Labor Laws), which was introduced during the reign of Getúlio Vargas. They witnessed the rise of Bossa Nova and were the first generation influenced by the entry of women into the workforce.

Geração.com: The first digital generation, estimated at nearly 19 million voters. Their youth was marked by the impeachment of Dilma Rousseff (PT), low economic growth, and the pandemic. They are the children of Bolsa Família and equality policies. They witnessed the resurgence of the right and were the first to live in a context with less formal employment.

This last and smallest group favors entrepreneurship and self-reliance (economically conservative) but wants a modern, tolerant society (socially progressive). For them, polarization is “noise” that hinders their daily progress. They want a manager, not a preacher.

The division between “left” and “right” is primarily related to the zeitgeist in which these people were formed. The strongest base for the left is found in the Redemocratização group. They associate the left with the struggle for civil rights, democracy, and social progress. For them, the state is the protector against inequality; they form the backbone of the progressive vote. The Bossa Nova generation, who grew up in the fifties and sixties, is more often conservative in their values (family, tradition), but they have a soft spot for Lula’s social rhetoric, which reminds them of the “old” Brazil. They can go either way but tend to favor the candidate who guarantees peace and a decent pension. In the current polarization, they often feel displaced.

The largest group, Ordem e Progresso, attaches enormous value to authority, discipline, and patriotism. It is the group where Bolsonaro achieved his success. They often view the left as a source of “disorder” or corruption. Economically, they are often proponents of the free market, but socially, they are very conservative. They form the largest bloc opposing the current leftist government.

Last but not least is the youngest generation, described in Nunes’ book as Geração.com. They grew up with the internet and have no emotional connection to the dictatorship or the PT’s early struggles. They are the least likely to vote based on ideology. They are “right-wing” when it comes to entrepreneurship (wanting to earn their own money via apps and social media) but “left-wing” or liberal regarding personal freedom and the climate. This is the group that Lula does not understand at all. They do not want an ideological narrative; they want a government that makes the Wi-Fi work and opens up the economy. Here lies the opportunity for a Nikolas Ferreira (in the future) or a genuine “third way.” The problem for Lula is that his core (Redemocratização) is smaller than the bloc that naturally leans more toward the right (Ordem e Progresso). The battle for 2026 will therefore revolve entirely around seducing the Geração.com and the undecided voters within Bossa Nova. Together, these two groups constitute a majority of Brazil’s total electorate.

You’re getting older, Dad

The core of the problem for the current government lies in the growing gap between the worldview of the aging president and the daily reality of a new generation of voters. While Lula clings to a political discourse rooted in the 1980s, even the president of the student union UNE admits that the connection with the youth is completely lost. These young people, who form the backbone of the Geração.com, are tired of polarization and the old ideological battle between left and right. They are not looking for a father figure who doesn’t know how a mobile phone works, but for a leader who understands how they earn their living in the digital economy and who recognizes their desire for both economic independence and social stability.

The danger for the left is that this disconnection creates a political vacuum that figures like Nikolas Ferreira effortlessly fill. He masters the language of the screen and social media, allowing him to communicate directly with a group that feels ignored by traditional politics. For these voters, politics is not about long speeches or union strikes, but about fast interaction and relatable values. Ignoring the hybrid preferences of this group—where conservative views on family go hand in hand with a modern, pragmatic outlook on entrepreneurship—is an imprudent strategy that could very well determine the outcome of the upcoming elections in a decisive way.

The Quaest study seems much more important to me than yet another poll where candidate A loses a point to candidate B, or where a new (old) “mustachioed” candidate like Aldo Rebelo* suddenly emerges, causing yet another tiny shift, while candidates C, D, E, etc., complicate matters even further.

Nikolas Ferreira is too young and cannot yet run for the presidency. Among all the others, the best chances go to the candidate who understands their voters and can convince the majority that he or she can meet their aspirations.

Lula might do well to buy a “celular” and ensure he masters this powerful communication tool as quickly as possible. Otherwise, he will never truly understand the messages from the Geração.com, and might find himself facing a text like this: “Pqp presida, mó papo cringe 2.0 kkkkkkkkkk sdds conexão real, o sr tá mt delulu se acha q o hype é o msm de 2002... flp dms! F no chat kkkkkkkkkkkk”. Even the first lady would have a hard time with that one.

Illustration AI generated - Photo: Facebook

*Former minister Aldo Rebelo (70) confirmed his provisional candidacy for the presidency of the Republic on behalf of the Christian Democratic Party (DC), established in São Paulo in early 2026. Following a leftist background, he is now reaching out to the right, defending nationalist development and legalized mining while criticizing the current government and the activism of the Federal Supreme Court. His average in the latest polls: between 0% and 1%. Should he reach a second round, that average rises to approximately 25% to 29%. As soon as the voter is forced to choose between the “old guard” and an alternative, someone like Aldo Rebelo serves as a rallying point for votes that do not want to go to Lula (or the Bolsonaro family). The fact that he stands at 0% in the first round underscores how difficult it is for a “third way” to step out of the shadow of the major blocs, despite the potential in a direct runoff.

Stay updated. Click below to subscribe — free of charge.

Abonneer nu

Which father or husband hasn’t experienced it? Women generally love shopping and can spend hours in a shopping mall. In Brazil, this is invariably described as a “Shopping”—a typical example of an anglicism. The English word was borrowed but is used in its own way as a noun, whereas an Englishman would always say “Shopping Centre.” Elsewhere, people speak of a Mall, Outlet, Plaza, Centro Comercial, Arcade, or Podium (in Asia). A fun linguistic fact: the word “Mall” originally comes from The Mall in London, a street where a game similar to croquet, called “pall-mall,” was once played. Because that street was a favorite place for walking, the word later became synonymous with a wide promenade, and eventually with the indoor shopping centers we know today.

In Brazil, too, it is mainly the ladies who go shopping, with or without a sometimes bored-looking husband. I am not going to analyze that; I’ll leave that to the psychologists. It is, however, a fact that the preference for the “Shopping” is also linked to safety and climate—factors that play a smaller role in Western Europe. In cities like Salvador, the shopping mall is the place where women can walk around without a care, meet up with friends, or go to the hairdresser without the risks or the heat of the street. As a result, the emotional bond with the shopping mall in Brazil is often stronger than in countries where the regular high street is safe and cool. There is also a specific class difference visible. Women from the wealthier class often visit in the morning, nowadays not seldom after a visit to the “academia” (gym). The working class uses the “Shopping” primarily as a real outing during the weekend.

However, it cannot be denied: Brazilian shopping centers, which for years held an untouchable position as safe and social meeting places, are currently in a difficult transition. The figures show a clear decline: since 2019, the number of monthly visitors has dropped by over 6%. The financial blow is even greater; although general figures might sometimes suggest otherwise due to inflation, real turnover has shrunk by a staggering 25% in that same period.

This development shows strong similarities to the situation in the United States and Western Europe, where the traditional mall has long been losing ground to the digital market. In Brazil, the shift to online shopping has moved into high gear. In 2020, a quarter of mobile phones were bought online; that figure has now risen to nearly half. For the average consumer, the internet simply offers more convenience and lower costs, as extra expenses for fuel, parking, and eating out are eliminated. Recently, total online sales in Brazil even surpassed the entire turnover of physical shopping centers.

Another major bottleneck is the efficiency of opening hours. Many shopkeepers are questioning the standard twelve-hour opening day. There are increasingly “lost hours” during which the public stays away almost entirely. While the evening hours after five o’clock used to be the busiest time of day, that peak has now shifted to the lunch break. The late hours between eight and ten in the evening yield almost nothing for many retailers, while labor costs and the costs of the enormous buildings continue in full.

Even the so-called “anchor attractions” of the shopping centers have lost their luster. Cinemas, which in Brazil are found almost exclusively in these centers, saw their audience decrease by 36% due to the massive popularity of streaming services. In addition, the rise of hybrid work presents a new challenge. On days when employees stay home, especially on Fridays, the decline in visitors is immediately noticeable.

The sector is trying to reinvent itself by focusing more on hospitality, events, and services, but so far without the hoped-for great success. Although new shopping centers are still being completed, the question remains whether this growth is sustainable. The structural change in consumer behavior seems irreversible: the shopping center is no longer the automatic destination for daily purchases.

According to the most recent data from the industry association Abrasce, Brazil currently has 658 shopping centers. Although the sector as a whole reported record turnover last year, this figure hides a great inequality. Nevertheless, another 11 new projects are planned for this year. Meanwhile, older or less favorably located centers must fight to survive.

It is truly a matter of adapting. Buying online has its advantages, such as convenience and often a lower price. But there are also disadvantages: when that new dress from Shopee or Shein arrives, it sometimes fails to meet expectations, or the size is wrong. In the “Shopping,” you can at least choose, look, touch, and fit. A Brazilian summarized it on social media as follows:

“Shopping centers need to understand that we want an experience. It’s not just about buying stuff. We want to stroll around and have fun. They build useless buildings that have absolutely no appeal. They all look the same; it’s as if the architects are lazy—just look at the Iguatemi chain, they are all identical. Moreover, because of the enormous size, we get lost when looking for a specific shop. Where are the signs? With all this modern technology, it makes no sense to get lost in a mall while trying to find a store.”

You just can’t win, can you?

Stay updated. Click below to subscribe — free of charge.

Abonneer nu