Brazil is overflowing with churches. In every neighborhood, every street, every favela, you find them: from impressive cathedrals to simple rooms with plastic chairs and a loudspeaker. Brazilians are generally deeply religious, and they have no shortage of options to practice their faith. There is nothing wrong with that — on the contrary, anyone who spends time in Brazil quickly notices how strongly faith is woven into daily life. Even those who consider themselves atheists cannot escape the language of belief. Expressions like “Meu Deus do céu!”, “Deus sabe todas as coisas”, “Se Deus quiser” and “Meu Deus!” are heard everywhere, naturally embedded in everyday conversation.

But behind this warm, human religious culture lies a rapid and profound shift. The traditional Catholic majority is shrinking, while evangelical-Protestant churches are growing explosively. According to official data from the Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics (IBGE), the share of Catholics fell from 65.1% in 2010 to 56.7% in 2022. In the same period, the number of evangelical believers rose from 21.6% to 26.9% — more than 47 million people. Recent independent polls estimate that this share is now approaching 31% to 33%.

The rise of these churches, especially Pentecostal and neo-Pentecostal movements, is most visible in large cities and in the slums. There they offer not only religious services but also social support, practical help and a sense of community. They also manage to attract many young people, while the Catholic Church has an aging membership. Regionally, Catholicism remains strongest in the Northeast and South, while evangelical growth is concentrated in the North and Central-West.

Sociologists expect this shift to continue in the coming years. By around 2030, the number of evangelical Christians may even equal the number of Catholics. This growth also has political consequences. The evangelical caucus in parliament has become a powerful force that votes as a single bloc on moral and social issues. Politicians need their support to get laws passed. Moreover, many large churches own their own media — radio, television, internet — allowing them to influence millions directly. For any politician, the evangelical electorate is therefore a strategic key group.

But this growth also has a darker side. It cannot be denied that many self-appointed bishops, pastors and apostles abuse the trust of their followers. They present themselves as intermediaries between people and God, but in practice often function as a kind of toll gate on the “Stairway to Heaven.” Anyone who wants God to bless their life must pay — and not a little.

The dízimo: a sacred duty or a system of pressure?

The dízimo, the required payment of ten percent of one’s monthly income, plays a central role in many evangelical churches, especially in the neo-Pentecostal movement. Preachers base this on Old Testament texts, such as the book of Malachi, which calls on believers to bring a tenth of their harvest to the temple. In their theology, the dízimo is not a voluntary donation but a divine command and a sign of loyalty.

In practice, this creates a system of social and psychological pressure. The dízimo is tied to the so-called prosperity gospel: those who give will be rewarded by God with money, health and success. Those who do not give block God’s blessing — or even risk misfortune. During services, this is often presented theatrically, with testimonies from people who supposedly experienced “miracles” after giving money. For people with very limited income, this creates a painful situation: they feel guilty if they cannot contribute, afraid of being excluded from the community or losing God’s favor.

Although the dízimo is officially voluntary, the intense preaching and social control make it function in practice as a moral obligation. And it is precisely through this mechanism that figures like Valdemiro Santiago, R.R. Soares, the couple Estevam and Sônia Hernandes, Silas Malafaia and Edir Macedo have amassed enormous fortunes. They live in homes that resemble castles, own private jets, ranches and millions in bank accounts — not only in Brazil but also abroad. Meanwhile, their churches rise as monumental buildings in major cities, while many of their followers live in slums.

Edir Macedo is today one of the most powerful religious figures in Brazil, but his story began very simply. He was born in 1945 in a small town in the state of Rio de Janeiro and grew up in a Catholic family. As a young man, he made a sharp turn: he left the Catholic Church and joined evangelical Protestantism. He worked for years as an ordinary civil servant, behind desks in state institutions, until he decided that his future lay in religion.

In 1977, together with his brother-in-law, he founded a small church in a rented space that had once been a funeral home. The church was named Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus, or IURD. What began with a few plastic chairs and a handful of people quickly grew into a religious enterprise that spread across Brazil. The services were loud, emotional and aimed at people who were struggling: the poor, the sick, the unemployed, those seeking hope. The message was simple and powerful: those who believe, obey and give money will be blessed.

Giving money — the dízimo, ten percent of one’s income — was presented as a sacred obligation. For many people, this meant giving up part of their already meager wages. While the believers remained in poverty, the church grew into an enormous and wealthy organization. And at its head stood Edir Macedo.

His power increased even further in 1989 when he bought a nearly bankrupt television station: Record TV. Under his leadership, the station became one of the largest media companies in the country. From that moment on, Macedo not only had a church but also a voice that reached millions of Brazilians every day. He used that power to promote his church, spread his ideas and strengthen his political influence.

But behind that success, controversy was always present. Over the years, Macedo was accused of fraud, abuse of trust, illegal healing practices and manipulating believers to give more money. He was arrested, although some cases were later dismissed. Still, he continued to grow, becoming richer and more powerful.

In 2014, he opened the Templo de Salomão, a gigantic religious complex in São Paulo designed as a modern replica of the Biblical Temple of Solomon. The building radiates wealth and power — a stark contrast to the poverty of many of his followers.

The step into the financial world

In 2020, Macedo took a new step: he bought a bank. It was the old Banco Renner, which he renamed Banco Digimais. The bank moved from southern Brazil to São Paulo and received a new mission. According to people close to him, Macedo wanted to use the bank to centralize the financial flows of his church and businesses.

But things went wrong from the start. The bank struggled financially, constantly needed cash injections and tried to stay afloat through risky investments and high interest rates on savings products. As problems mounted, Macedo tried to sell the bank. First to a businessman who later became embroiled in scandals himself, then to BTG Pactual, a major investment bank. But the sale stalled because Digimais failed to meet the conditions and because more and more questions arose about the bank’s true financial state.

Yesterday’s news: Operation Miragem

On June 23, 2026, the Brazilian federal police raided Digimais. Nine search warrants were executed, and a judge authorized the freezing of 670 million reais in assets. According to the police, those involved had manipulated the bank’s financial reports to hide its real situation. They allegedly altered figures to create the impression that the bank was healthy, when it was not.

The investigation shows that Digimais invested billions in funds whose financial documents could not even be audited. Some of these funds increased on paper by 178% in just a few months, without anyone being able to explain how. As a result, the bank recorded artificial profits while in reality sinking deeper into trouble.

The situation became so serious that credit rating agency Fitch refused to continue rating the bank — simply because there was too little reliable information. The future of Digimais now lies entirely in the hands of the Brazilian Central Bank. A sale seems increasingly unlikely, and a forced closure is not out of the question.

A recurring pattern

The story of Digimais fits into a broader pattern in Edir Macedo’s life: a constant combination of religious power, financial ambition and legal problems. While millions of Brazilians give money to his church in the hope of a better life, he builds an empire that repeatedly ends up in scandal.

For his followers, he remains a spiritual leader. For critics, he is the symbol of how religion can be exploited to accumulate power and wealth. But one thing is clear: the story of Edir Macedo is far from over, and the consequences of the Digimais crisis will be felt for years to come.

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There are countries where elections revolve around ideas, debates, and substance. And then there is Brazil, where elections revolve mainly around money. A lot of money. So much money that you start wondering whether democracy still runs on votes, or rather on bank transfers. For the 2026 elections, the TSE has once again opened the taxpayer’s wallet: nearly R$ 5 billion (˜ US$ 1 billion) in public money will be distributed among the parties. A dizzying amount by any standard.

But to understand how we got here, you have to go back to 2015, when Brazil’s Supreme Court banned corporate donations. That happened after a series of scandals in which companies financed political campaigns in exchange for contracts, favors, and other “kindnesses.” The logic was simple: if you want to limit the influence of major economic groups, you have to remove their money from politics. A noble idea that unfortunately made the same mistake as so many noble ideas: it assumed that politics would reform itself. In reality, the opposite happened. The state took over the role of super-donor, but in a way that mainly reinforced existing power structures. Big parties received more money because they were big. They stayed big because they received more money. Small parties stayed small because they received little. And so a system emerged that feeds itself — a kind of democratic perpetuum mobile, but one that runs on public money.

That becomes painfully clear when you look at the distribution of the election fund.

PL receives R$ 882 million (˜ US$ 176 million)
PT receives R$ 615 million (˜ US$ 123 million)
União Brasil receives R$ 526 million (˜ US$ 105 million)

Three parties that together receive more money than some ministries do in an entire year.

And what becomes even more painfully clear in that distribution is how the system not only reflects existing polarization but actively sustains it. PT, inseparably linked to Lula and the left-wing camp, receives a gigantic amount that secures its position as the largest force on the left. On the other side stand PL and União, parties within the right-wing bloc, where the shadow of Bolsonaro — nowadays mostly represented by his son — still weighs heavily, along with rising figures such as Caiado and Zema. The money these parties receive is not just a budget: it is fuel for a political trench war that has dominated public debate for years.

The distribution of the election fund is therefore not a neutral administrative act, but a mechanism that gives the two major camps enough resources to keep shouting at each other endlessly. And that is exactly what they do, especially on social media, where algorithms love conflict and where every nuance is ground down into hashtags and insults. It is an arena in which the two lions keep fighting, roaring loudly, while the rest of the political fauna tries to survive somewhere in the shadows. Small parties — no matter how competent or innovative some of their candidates may be — barely get the chance to make their voices heard. They scratch their way through, but have little chance of truly breaking through. Public attention goes mainly to the two big predators constantly pouncing on each other.

Successive polls show this painfully. Support for the major blocs remains relatively stable, not because the population is so satisfied, but because alternatives simply remain invisible. It is a political landscape in which voters are repeatedly forced to choose between the same two camps, as if no other options exist. And that is exactly what happens when money becomes the gateway to visibility: democracy becomes narrower, louder, and poorer in ideas.

And then comes the irony. Because while the billions keep flowing, trust in the three branches of government continues to fall. The latest PoderData poll shows that the Câmara, the Senado, and the STF together barely reach 15% approval. That means 85% of the population believes these institutions function poorly, or at best mediocrely. It is a figure you would normally expect in countries where democracy is collapsing, not in a country that likes to present itself as a mature, stable republic. But the numbers don’t lie. They show a population that feels increasingly distant from its institutions, that does not feel represented, that feels politics is a game played without them.

It is a system that exists in few other democracies. In the United States, for example, campaigns are largely financed by private donations — which brings its own problems, but does mean that small candidates can sometimes grow unexpectedly. In Germany and the Netherlands, public financing exists, but it is much more limited and mainly intended as a supplement, not as the main source. In France, there is a mixed system, but with strict caps that prevent one party from draining the entire pot. Brazil, on the other hand, has chosen a model in which the state is almost entirely responsible for campaign financing, but without the mechanisms that ensure balance, transparency, and equal opportunity in other countries. The result is a system that is officially called “fair,” but in practice mainly protects the powerful.

The whole story deserves to be questioned again. Not out of cynicism, but out of common sense. Because a democracy in which money is the gateway to power is a democracy that undermines its own foundations. And maybe — just maybe — it is time to acknowledge that “more money” does not automatically mean “more quality.” Especially not when the institutions managing that money enjoy barely 15% trust. But well. In Brazil, logic is sometimes a rare animal. Everyone knows it exists, but no one has ever seen it in the wild. And as long as the billions keep flowing, democracy keeps running — though perhaps more on autopilot than on real conviction.

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There are stories you read and immediately think: this could only happen in Brazil. Not because other countries lack bizarre situations, but because Brazil has a unique blend of empathy, improvisation, bureaucratic blind spots and a touch of telenovela drama that together form a national cocktail. And the story of Amanda — or Gabriele, or Maria Eduarda, or Beatriz, depending on the day — fits that cocktail perfectly.

In Joinville, in the south of the country, a 37-year-old woman lived for fourteen months as… a 12-year-old girl. That’s a sentence you read twice just to make sure you understood it correctly. But it wasn’t a costume joke, a prank or performance art. It was her daily reality. She drank from a mamadeira (baby bottle), walked around with a chupeta (pacifier), played with dolls and made children’s drawings. The family who took her in even decorated a full child’s bedroom for her, complete with toys and pastel colors. Not because they were naïve, but because they believed they were rescuing a vulnerable teenager who had fled abuse in northern Brazil.

They called her Gabriele, because that’s how she introduced herself. They even celebrated her twelfth birthday — cake, candles, the whole thing — the kind of party you only throw for children who still believe adults always tell the truth. The family had a big heart and a comfortable income, and that turned out to be a dangerous combination when faced with someone with an exceptional talent for manipulation.

According to the police, Amanda had a “high capacity for persuasion and empathy.” That sounds almost flattering, but it’s really a polite way of saying she delivered an acting performance that would make many soap stars jealous. Whenever someone questioned her adult features, she explained them away with autism and hormones she had supposedly been forced to take “as a child.” Everything was just believable enough, and just tragic enough, to stop people from asking too many questions.

But as in every Brazilian plot twist, the moment she arrived at the police station, the entire set collapsed. The “Gabriele” from Pará turned out to be Amanda from Ceará. And this wasn’t her first performance. Since 2018, she has played the same role in at least five states. In Rio de Janeiro she lived for a month as “Maria Eduarda,” cared for by two women who rented her a house and spent around R$ 2,000 on clothes, food and personal items for the “menina vulnerável” (vulnerable girl). In Minas Gerais she was taken in by a man who believed he was rescuing a thirteen-year-old. In São Paulo, Goiás, Florianópolis and Chapecó she repeated the same act, each time with a new name, as if she were a one-woman traveling theatre troupe performing a single script.

A very Brazilian crime: falsidade ideológica

In Brazil, this kind of deception falls under falsidade ideológica, literally “ideological falsehood.” The term sounds philosophical, but it’s simply criminal law: pretending to be someone you’re not, using false information, fabricated identities or misleading declarations. It can be as small as a forged signature or as elaborate as an entirely invented life. It’s a crime that appears frequently in Brazil, partly because the country’s vast bureaucracy doesn’t always communicate internally. Someone clever enough can slip through the cracks for surprisingly long.

A country wary of scams… yet still vulnerable

What makes this story even more striking is that Brazilians have been wary of scams for decades. In our earlier piece on fraud and digital deception, we described how deeply rooted that caution is. Everyone knows someone who has fallen victim to a golpe (scam), and the average Brazilian is often more alert than a bank’s fraud detection system. The country has developed an almost instinctive radar for suspicious calls, strange messages and too-good-to-be-true offers.

But that’s exactly why Amanda’s story worked so well. She didn’t prey on greed, but on empathy. Not on fear, but on compassion. She used no technology, no sophisticated scheme, no digital trickery. She used something far more powerful: human kindness. And even the most seasoned Brazilians fall for that, because no one wants to believe someone would go this far to exploit trust. It’s the perfect paradox: a country that sees through scammers, yet remains vulnerable to the most human form of deception.

The end of the performance

In Joinville, things eventually took a different turn. The family wanted to adopt her officially — and as Brazilians say: aí complica (that’s when things get complicated). The moment paperwork entered the picture, Amanda invented a new tragedy to avoid it. A violent father who might find her. A dangerous former guardian. A threat always just dramatic enough to freeze the conversation.

Until the police walked in.

There, in her child’s bedroom, surrounded by dolls and pacifiers, the mask fell. She confessed, gave her real name, her real age and her real origin. The family was left in shock — not only because they had been deceived, but because they had lived for fourteen months with someone who maintained a fully fictional identity down to the smallest detail.

Amanda is now in custody, awaiting a psychiatric evaluation. Her lawyers say they will not comment “out of respect for the legal process.” The police say she has a “strong emotional capacity.” The family is still trying to understand how this could happen.

And the rest of Brazil?

They shrug and say: Só no Brasil mesmo — truly only in Brazil.

How to recognize falsidade ideológica in Brazil

Although it often sounds like something out of a movie, falsidade ideológica is surprisingly common in Brazil. It doesn’t always involve spectacular identity fraud; sometimes it’s more subtle: a false name used to obtain help, a fabricated age to gain benefits and manipulated documents to make a story more believable

The common thread is always the same: a constructed identity used strategically to gain trust. And as this case shows, even the most vigilant people can be misled.

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There are innovations you expect from countries with shiny subways, futuristic airports, and ministers who don’t trip over their own policies. Brazil is rarely on that list. And yet it is precisely there that one of the most modern payment systems in the world was invented: Pix.

Pix is not a gadget, not a fintech toy, not an experiment. It is a revolution that unfolded quietly. In 2020, the Central Bank launched a system so simple and efficient that it conquered the entire country within months. Today, Pix is so natural that you’re more likely to forget your shoes than your Pix key.

A QR code printed on a piece of cardboard is enough to receive a payment. Street vendors use it, dentists use it, universities use it, the guy selling coconuts on the beach in Salvador uses it. Pix is faster than any bank card, cheaper than any credit card, and more accessible than any fintech platform. It works anytime, anywhere, with no fees and no waiting.

The success was so overwhelming that other countries are now trying to copy it. Colombia is eager. Mexico is watching closely. Europe follows with mild jealousy. And in the United States, someone is raising an eyebrow: Donald Trump.

Why Pix suddenly appears in a U.S. report

BBC Brasil described how the Office of the United States Trade Representative (USTR) included Pix in an official report on “unfair trade practices.” That sounds serious, but the reasoning is surprisingly simple: Pix is so efficient and so cheap that it threatens the market position of American payment companies.

Visa, Mastercard, PayPal, Big Tech payment platforms — they watched millions of transactions shift toward a system that costs nothing and has no profit margin. For companies that live off transaction fees, that’s not a detail — it’s an existential threat.

The report goes even further: it accuses the Central Bank of forcing banks to offer Pix. In Washington, that sounds like “market distortion.” In Brazil, it sounds like “financial access for everyone.”

Pix achieved something almost unthinkable in the United States: it broke the power of the financial sector. In the U.S., the payment system is fragmented, expensive, and slow. A simple bank transfer can take days. Credit cards are king, but they survive on high fees ultimately paid by consumers.

Pix wiped that model out in Brazil.

And now there’s something new: Pix parcelado, an installment version of Pix. That is a direct attack on the credit card market — a market in Brazil long dominated by American companies. In other words: Pix is not just a payment method. It is a threat to a multibillion-dollar industry.

The human dimension of Pix

Pix didn’t just change the financial sector. It changed the lives of millions of Brazilians who never had a bank account, who depended on cash, who worked in the informal economy. For them, money was always physical: bills in a pocket, coins in a plastic bag — risks included. Cash meant vulnerability. A robbery could wipe out an entire month’s income.

Pix broke that pattern.

Suddenly, people who never stepped inside a bank could receive money through their phones. Street vendors who once depended on change could now accept payments without carrying a single real. Small entrepreneurs could compete with big chains because they finally had a modern, fast, free payment method. Even homeless people use Pix through social programs that help them create a digital identity. It is one of the few innovations that is both hyper-modern and socially transformative. Pix democratized money. And that may be the greatest revolution of all.

The political irony

Pix was created by a small team of technocrats inside the Central Bank, under a government not exactly known for technological vision. While the country was politically on fire, a group of economists, programmers, and policymakers quietly built a system that would turn the financial world upside down. The contrast is almost comical: a country that struggles to renovate an airport built a payment system that works better than what the U.S., Europe, and China offer. Pix is proof that bureaucracy can sometimes — very rarely — produce something brilliant, usually when no one is watching.

And then there’s China — the unexpected contrast

Here the story gets even more interesting. If there is one country that has amazed the world with technological leaps over the past twenty years, it’s China. There was a time when “Chinês Xing Ling” in Brazil was synonymous with cheap knockoffs — plastic toys that broke after two days, electronics that never worked as promised. A kind of folkloric disdain for everything from the East. But that changed. Fast.

China built high-speed trains, satellites, electric cars, drones, AI platforms, supercomputers. It became a technological empire that surpassed the U.S. in some areas. And yet — China doesn’t have Pix.

China has WeChat Pay and Alipay, yes. But those are private systems, run by giant companies, not by the state. They are powerful, but not universal. Not free. Not mandatory for every bank, every citizen, every merchant.

Pix is something else. Something unique — a system designed by the state, required to be offered by all banks, free for users, operating 24/7, moving money in seconds. Not even China has that, nor the U.S., nor Europe.

Pix is a rare example of a country in the Global South building a technological solution that works better than what major economic powers offer. And that deserves to be highlighted.

The geopolitical layer: BRICS and digital sovereignty

Pix fits into a broader global movement: countries want their own digital infrastructure, independent of American companies and Chinese platforms. BRICS nations are experimenting with alternative payment networks, digital currencies, and systems not dependent on Visa, Mastercard, or Silicon Valley. In that context, Pix is a strategic instrument. It shows that a country doesn’t need to wait for foreign technology to modernize. It can build something better itself.

For the U.S., that is an uncomfortable thought. Because whoever controls the payment infrastructure controls part of the economy. And whoever loses that, loses influence.

Pix is therefore not just a payment method. It is a symbol of digital sovereignty.

Is Trump truly concerned — or is this political theater?

The timing is no coincidence. The American payment industry is under pressure, and Trump has an interest in presenting himself as the man who protects American companies from foreign competition. Pix is an easy target: it is successful, it is Brazilian, and it costs American companies money.

But experts are clear: the U.S. cannot legally do anything against Pix. It is a domestic Brazilian system, managed by the Central Bank, entirely outside U.S. jurisdiction. What remains is political noise — a way to appear “vigilant” without any real consequence.

The future of Pix

Pix is only at the beginning. The Central Bank is working on:

Pix Internacional – cross-border payments without banks or credit card companies.
Pix Automático – automatic debits for subscriptions and recurring bills.
Pix Garantido – credit through Pix, an alternative to credit cards.
Pix for government services – taxes, fines, social programs.

If all this becomes reality, Pix could become an export product — a Brazilian technology adopted by other countries not because they want to imitate Latin America, but because it simply works better.

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Anyone who has followed my work for a while knows that Gov.br regularly appears in everything related to the CPF, tax returns, residency procedures, and the digital bureaucracy that every foreigner in Brazil eventually encounters. Yet for many, it remains a source of frustration, confusion, and sometimes even despair. That is why it is time to bring everything together: what Gov.br actually is, how to use it, why a digital certificate makes life so much easier, and how recent improvements — such as two-step verification and better account recovery options — aim to make the system more accessible for everyone. This is the guide I wish I had when I first arrived here.

The Complete Guide

Anyone living in Brazil as a foreigner quickly discovers that the Brazilian government has made a significant digital leap in recent years. Where paper forms, queues, and physical offices were once the norm, today almost everything can be handled online. The centerpiece of this digital ecosystem is Gov.br (link to the English version) , the official gateway to virtually all government services. It is not just a website, but a digital identity platform that confirms you are who you say you are. Once you understand how it works, it becomes one of the most valuable tools in your daily life in Brazil.

Gov.br operates with three security levels: bronze, silver, and gold. Bronze is the basic level you receive when registering with simple information such as email or phone number. Silver is granted when your identity is verified through trusted databases, for example by linking your bank or using biometrics. Gold is the highest level and is achieved when your identity is confirmed through biometrics from the Electoral Court or through a digital certificate. For foreigners, this gold level is especially important, as many fiscal and administrative services are only accessible when your identity is verified at the highest level.

A digital certificate is a gamechanger in this regard. It is an electronic identity card installed on your computer or smartphone, carrying the same legal weight as a handwritten signature. Entrepreneurs, freelancers, and accountants use it daily. Your accountant cannot even submit all legally required declarations without your certificate. But even as a private individual, it simplifies your life enormously, giving you access to all government services without the hassle of passwords, SMS codes, or biometric verification. The certificate acts as a digital key that always works, is always accepted, and always opens the fastest route.

Requesting such a certificate is done through authorized companies recognized by the government. There are many of them across Brazil, all operating under the same principle. You schedule an appointment online, choose a date and time, and then someone comes to your home or office to verify your identity in person. This visit is mandatory because the certificate carries legal value equivalent to a physical signature. During the visit, your fingerprints, facial biometrics, address, and identification documents are checked. The entire process usually takes no more than ten minutes. Once everything is confirmed, your certificate is created and sent to you by email, often the same day.

The companies offering this service include Serasa Experian, Certisign, Soluti, Valid, Boa Vista, Safeweb, and BRy. They differ mainly in price, customer service, and speed, but all issue certificates recognized by the government. Many also offer mobile certificates that can be used on your smartphone instead of a computer.

Once you receive the certificate, you only need to install it. On Windows, this is done by opening the installation file sent to you by email. Windows automatically recognizes the certificate and places it in the system’s secure certificate storage. During installation, you will be asked for the password you created during the application process. After confirming, the certificate is ready to use and requires no further configuration. On Mac, the process is similar. You open the certificate file, after which macOS adds it to the Keychain. Again, you will be asked for the password you set during the application. Once the certificate is in the Keychain, it becomes immediately available to all websites and applications that support it.

From that moment on, your experience with Gov.br changes completely. When you attempt to log in, you simply choose the “digital certificate” option. A small window appears showing your certificate automatically. You click confirm, and Gov.br opens instantly. No passwords, no SMS codes, no biometrics. The first time you use it, you will need to create a password, but after that, you will hardly ever need it again. The certificate becomes your digital identity — always ready, always valid.

Gov.br itself is used by an increasing number of services. You can check your CPF status, view your INSS contributions, file your income tax return, access eCAC, open your Digital Work Card, check your CadÚnico status, review health records, view traffic fines, and much more. The beauty is that you do not need to create separate accounts for each service. Once logged in through Gov.br, almost all other government websites let you in immediately.

For those without a computer or with an unstable internet connection, the Gov.br app exists. It works surprisingly well, even on older smartphones. The app offers the same functionalities as the website, including biometric login via facial recognition. All you need is a phone with a reasonable connection. And if you live in an area with unreliable internet, a solution like Starlink can ensure your phone stays connected.

Recent Changes in Gov.br

In recent months, the Brazilian government has introduced several important updates to make Gov.br more accessible. One of the biggest improvements is mandatory two-step verification, requiring you to register an email address used as a recovery channel if you forget your password. This may seem obvious, but for millions of Brazilians without gold-level access, this was a major issue for years. Anyone who lost their password was often completely locked out, because alternative verification methods — such as facial recognition — did not always work reliably.

Facial recognition remains a problematic area. In theory, the system should confirm your identity using the photo already stored in government databases, such as your driver’s license. In practice, it often fails, especially for people without a CNH or without a voter registration card. Even those who do have a driver’s license frequently experience failed recognition attempts. It is ironic that the same government capable of identifying faces through street cameras with ease still struggles to recognize a citizen on their own smartphone. The criticism is justified, and it is good that alternatives are now available that rely less on biometrics.

The new requirement to link a recovery email, combined with two-step verification, finally makes the system more accessible for people who do not have the highest verification levels. It is a much-needed modernization, as too many users were stuck for years behind a forgotten password and a biometric system that did not always function as intended. For foreigners, this does not change the importance of having a digital certificate, but it does make Gov.br more reliable and less frustrating for those dependent on lower access levels.

Gov.br has become the digital heart of the Brazilian government, and anyone living here — Brazilian or foreigner — cannot avoid it. By understanding how the system works, where the pitfalls lie, how to strengthen your access, and why a digital certificate opens so many doors, you make your life in Brazil not only easier but also safer and more predictable. The recent improvements show that the government finally recognizes that accessibility is not a luxury but a necessity. And as long as facial recognition continues to falter and passwords continue to disappear, the digital certificate remains the most reliable key to everything you need. With this guide, you now have all the knowledge you need to stop enduring Gov.br and start mastering it.

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There comes a moment when Brazil stops being just a destination and quietly becomes a place where your life begins to take root. For many, it starts with a holiday — a few weeks of sun, music, and new impressions. In that phase, you’re here as a tourist: welcome, but temporary. You can travel, enjoy yourself, even imagine what life here might look like, but legally you’re only passing through. Your stay has an expiration date, you’re not allowed to work, and you don’t form any formal bond with the country. It’s a light, non-committal status that does exactly what it promises: it lets you taste, but not stay.

As your life increasingly unfolds in Brazil, things shift. Maybe you’ve built a relationship, a family, a job, a business, or simply a deep sense of belonging. That’s when the step toward a residence permit comes in. It may be temporary, renewed every few years, or permanent — through marriage, children, work, investment, or, for older migrants, based on age and income. With such a permit, you can live here, often work, and use healthcare and other services. You’re still a foreigner, but a foreigner with a solid seat at the Brazilian table. Sometimes that status needs renewal; sometimes it’s final. But your nationality remains unchanged, and with it your legal roots in your country of origin.

Naturalization is something else entirely. It doesn’t just say you live here — it says you belong here. You apply for Brazilian citizenship and become, in legal terms, a Brazilian. There are different routes to get there, but the essentials are the same: you must be an adult, hold valid residency, have lived in Brazil for a certain period, have no serious criminal record, and be able to communicate in Portuguese. Marriage or children with a Brazilian aren’t required, though they can shorten the residency period. You can naturalize without a Brazilian partner or family, as long as you meet the general criteria.

The difference between residency and naturalization is subtle and enormous at the same time. With permanent residency, you often live almost like a Brazilian in practice: you work, pay taxes, wait in line at the SUS, carry a CRNM in your wallet. But legally, you remain an estrangeiro. That means no voting rights in national elections, no access to certain public positions, and continued dependence on immigration law. In extreme cases — such as serious criminal offenses — your right to stay can be revoked. Naturalization removes you from that category. You become a citizen, with voting rights, a Brazilian passport, and access to roles and rights reserved for nationals. You also gain obligations, like compulsory voting and, for some, military registration.

Then comes the question that weighs far more heavily than most people expect: what happens to your original nationality? Brazil itself has no issue with dual citizenship; the country often accepts that you are both Brazilian and something else. The real tension usually lies in the laws of your home country. Some countries allow dual nationality, others only in narrow circumstances, and some automatically revoke your original citizenship if you voluntarily acquire another. That can mean losing not only your passport, but also your rights as a citizen — free movement within a region, access to social benefits, or the right to resettle there. Whether this applies to you depends entirely on your country’s laws and your personal history. It’s not something you can “just look up”; it’s something to discuss with a specialist or consulate.

Another important question is what happens to your pension and other income from your home country. In most places, a built-up pension doesn’t disappear because you emigrate or naturalize. But there may be restrictions on exporting certain benefits, or changes in how they’re taxed. Many countries have tax treaties with Brazil to avoid double taxation, but the details vary widely. Sometimes your pension is taxed in your home country, sometimes in Brazil, sometimes partially in both with adjustments. Naturalization itself rarely causes you to lose your pension; it’s more about where you live, how long you’ve been away, and what agreements exist between the countries. That’s why it’s essential to understand the consequences for your specific rights — both social-security and tax-related — before you naturalize.

Family adds another layer of complexity. You rarely naturalize alone in your mind; people are attached to you. Parents growing older back home, children from a previous relationship, siblings, sometimes even grandchildren. What this means for them is just as important as what it means for you. Legally, naturalization changes something fundamental: you become Brazilian, and that often allows you to sponsor family members who want to come to Brazil through family reunification. Brazilian rules allow certain relatives — partners, children, sometimes parents or other dependents — to obtain residency based on your status as a Brazilian or permanent resident. It’s similar to the family reunification processes you may know from your own country: there must be a genuine family bond, documents are required, dependency is assessed, and sometimes income is considered. Naturalization doesn’t guarantee you can “bring everyone over”, but it can strengthen your position as a sponsor.

At the same time, there’s the emotional reality: by naturalizing, you implicitly say your future lies here. For some family members, that feels like a loss, as if you’re choosing another side. For you, it may feel like letting go of a part of your past. That’s not a legal issue, but a relational one. You can still fly back, call, video call, visit — but the threshold becomes higher. If naturalization means losing the right to simply resettle in your old country, the familiar comfort of “if things go wrong, I can always go back” changes. That safety net becomes thinner. And that’s felt not only by you, but also by the people who love you.

The practical side of the process is less philosophical but just as important. In Brazil, everything starts with your residency status. You can only naturalize if you have valid, usually permanent residency and have lived in the country for a certain period. The application begins at the Ministry of Justice, now largely digital. You gather documents such as your birth certificate, proof of legal residence, proof of income, Brazilian and foreign criminal records, and sometimes proof of Portuguese proficiency. Documents from your home country must be apostilled and translated by a sworn translator. Many delays happen because people submit documents that aren’t properly legalized. A lawyer isn’t required. Many people handle the process themselves, especially those familiar with Brazilian bureaucracy. Still, a lawyer or despachante can be helpful if your situation is complex — for example, if you need documents from multiple countries, have criminal record questions, or have an irregular residency history. But legally, it’s not mandatory.

What you must do in your home country depends entirely on its laws. Some countries require you to report that you’re applying for another nationality. Others want you to report it only once you’ve obtained it. Still others have no reporting requirement but attach consequences to voluntarily acquiring another nationality. Tax authorities in your home country are usually not interested in the fact that you naturalize, but in the fact that you live abroad. Many countries have systems where, once you’re officially an emigrant, your tax status changes. That’s separate from naturalization, but it’s wise to check whether you must report your emigration, whether you remain taxable for certain income, and whether your pension or benefits are affected by living abroad.

That’s why it’s helpful to see the entire process as two parallel tracks: one in Brazil, one in your home country. If both tracks are clear, naturalization becomes an administrative step. If one is unclear, it becomes a source of uncertainty. The practical advice is simple: begin in Brazil by gathering your documents and checking your residency status, but begin in your home country by checking your rights, obligations, and possible consequences. If those two lines run parallel, the process becomes manageable and predictable.

In the end, the core question isn’t legal but existential: where does your life truly unfold — now, and ten or twenty years from now? If you feel your roots, relationships, work, and future lie here in Brazil, then naturalization can be a logical, almost organic next step. If you feel you still stand with one foot in your old country, that you want to keep the option of returning open, that your citizenship or international rights are an important part of your identity and future plans, then it may be wiser to stick with a solid residence permit for now. What matters is making the choice with open eyes: knowing what it means for your rights, your pension, your family, your freedom of movement, and your sense of home.

Those who, after all this reflection, still feel this is the right path will find that naturalization isn’t a break, but a confirmation of something that has been growing for a long time. And those who decide not to do it make an equally courageous choice. Because in the end, it isn’t about papers — it’s about the life you want to live, and where you want to live it.

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In my previous article — “Foreigner in Brazil? The Receita is watching — even if you think it’s not” — I explained how the Brazilian tax authority works, what it sees, and why you should never underestimate it. That article struck a nerve. The reactions were remarkably consistent: most foreigners living here had no idea how the system really works. And that’s understandable. The rules are not intuitive, the terminology is unfamiliar, and no one explains it to you. Until you have to figure it out yourself — usually too late.

But anyone who thinks they now understand everything is mistaken. The basic rules are one thing. The mechanisms behind them are something else entirely. There are four concepts every foreigner in Brazil should know, but almost no one understands: Carnê-Leão, the Declaração de Saída Definitiva, the CBE (foreign accounts), and the international data exchange systems the Receita has access to. This article covers those four pillars — not technically, not legally, but clearly. As it should be.

Carnê-Leão: the monthly obligation almost no one knows about

Carnê-Leão is probably the most misunderstood part of the Brazilian tax system. Many foreigners have never heard of it, and those who have often think it’s some kind of extra tax. But it isn’t. Carnê-Leão is a monthly obligation for anyone living in Brazil who receives income that is not automatically taxed at the source.

This means that anyone living here who receives a foreign pension, a salary paid by a foreign employer, rental income from a property in Europe, or freelance income from abroad is required to calculate and pay tax every month. Not once a year — twelve times a year.

Although many foreigners think Carnê-Leão exists specifically for them, that’s not true. It applies to anyone living in Brazil who receives income that is not automatically reported by a payer. Brazilians fall under it as well. A self-employed person who provides services without issuing a Nota Fiscal, someone paid directly by an individual, or someone receiving income from abroad must use Carnê-Leão. The system fills the gap that exists when no automatic withholding occurs — a gap that exists for Brazilians just as much as for foreigners.

Rental income follows a separate regime: it must be reported in the annual tax return, and tenants are required to report their payments as well, ensuring the Receita always knows what is happening, even if the owner does not report it voluntarily. For small entrepreneurs, there is the MEI status — a simplified regime to reduce informal work — but it is limited in scope and income. Outside those limits, one falls back under the normal rules, including Carnê-Leão.

The system works through e-CAC, the Receita’s digital portal. You access your file through the official gateway, log in with your Gov.br account, and once inside, click on Meu Imposto de Renda. There you will find everything related to your tax life: all past returns, all documents, all notifications, and on the right, all available actions. That’s also where you access Carnê-Leão.

When you open Carnê-Leão, a new window appears showing your full monthly history. The Demonstrativo section shows what you’ve already reported, which amounts were taxable, and whether you’ve paid the tax due. Reporting is done through Rendimentos, where you enter the amount received that month. As soon as you do, it appears automatically under Demonstrativo. At the bottom, you can generate a DARF — the official payment slip — which you download and use to pay the tax. A day later, you return to the same screen and confirm the payment under Pagamentos. The Demonstrativo shows all months of the current year and later forms the basis for your annual tax return.

Carnê-Leão is strict, precise, and unforgiving. It is the way the Receita ensures that income generated outside the Brazilian system is still taxed on time. Anyone who ignores it builds up a problem month after month — a problem that will eventually become visible.

Declaração de Saída Definitiva: the door many forget to close

There is a second major misunderstanding: the belief that anyone who leaves Brazil automatically stops being a tax resident. But that is not true. Anyone leaving Brazil must deregister with the Receita Federal through the Declaração de Saída Definitiva. Not with the municipality. Not with the police. With the tax authority.

Without this declaration, a person remains a tax resident, even if they have lived abroad for years. That means the Receita continues to expect you to report your worldwide income, even if you no longer have any ties to Brazil. It’s like leaving a house without locking the door: for you the chapter is closed, but for the tax authority it isn’t.

The Saída Definitiva is not a formality. It is a legal divorce between you and the Brazilian tax system. Anyone who forgets it remains stuck in a system they thought they had left behind. And anyone who files it late often has to correct years of overdue obligations. It is one of the most underestimated documents in the Brazilian tax system.

CBE: foreign accounts are not private

Many foreigners in Brazil have one or more bank accounts abroad. That’s normal. But what almost no one knows is that anyone living in Brazil who has foreign accounts is required to report them annually to the Banco Central through the CBE declaration — Declaração de Capitais Brasileiros no Exterior.

This has nothing to do with taxation. It is a capital-control instrument. Brazil wants to know how much money its residents hold abroad, where that money is, and how it evolves. Not to tax it, but to register it.

Thresholds exist, but they are often misunderstood. Many people fall under the obligation without realizing it. And anyone who thinks the Banco Central and the Receita don’t talk to each other is mistaken. Information flows between institutions — quietly and efficiently. A foreign account is not a secret. It is a data point. And the Receita likes data points.

How the Receita receives international data

This may be the most surprising part. Many foreigners think the Receita only sees what happens inside Brazil. But that is not true. Brazil participates in international agreements such as the Common Reporting Standard (CRS), a global system for automatic data exchange between tax authorities.

This means that banks worldwide are required to share information about accounts held by residents of other countries. Not upon request. Not after an investigation. Automatically. Annually.

The Receita therefore receives information about the existence of your foreign account, its balance, its movements, and the income deposited into it. And this happens without you doing anything. Without the bank asking you anything. Without you noticing.

It’s not espionage. It’s international law. And almost no one knows it exists. This is why the myth of “invisible income” is so dangerous. It is not invisible. It is visible in a system you do not see.

Why all of this matters

Foreigners in Brazil often live between two worlds. They have ties to their home country but live here. They receive money from there but live here. They think their financial life exists in two separate universes. But for the tax authority, there is only one universe: the universe of residence.

If you live here, you follow the rules here. If you leave, you must formally declare it. If you have foreign accounts, you must register them. If you receive income that is not taxed at the source, you must pay Carnê-Leão. And anyone who thinks the Receita sees nothing is mistaken.

This article is not a warning born of fear, but an invitation to clarity. Those who know the rules live freely. Those who ignore them live with risks they do not understand.

Conclusion

Carnê-Leão, Saída Definitiva, CBE, and international data exchange are not technical details. They are the foundations of the tax system every foreigner in Brazil must deal with — whether they know it or not. They determine how you live here, how you pay here, and how you leave here.

The message is simple:

Prevention is better than cure. And underestimating the Receita is never a good idea.

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Foreigners living in Brazil often operate with assumptions about taxes that simply aren’t true. Some out of ignorance, others out of habit, and many because no one ever clearly explained how the system really works. This piece exists to fill exactly that gap. It’s not a technical manual, but a clear narrative that explains what the Receita sees, what it expects, and why you should never underestimate it. Anyone living in Brazil — temporarily or permanently — should read this.

Some stories begin with a smile, others with a warning. This one begins somewhere in between. Because anyone who lives in Brazil as a foreigner eventually discovers a peculiar paradox. On one side, there is the warmth of the people, the relaxed atmosphere, the improvisation that colors daily life. On the other side, there is a bureaucracy that sometimes feels slow and cumbersome, yet at crucial moments proves surprisingly efficient. And one of the institutions that embodies that efficiency most clearly is the Receita Federal.

Many foreigners only realize this when they receive a letter. An invitation. A friendly request to stop by for a “cafezinho.” Anyone familiar with Brazilian humor knows this is not a cozy coffee moment. It’s a conversation in which the Receita wants to know exactly what’s going on with that income from abroad. And at that moment, things suddenly get very quiet.

This article aims to prevent exactly that moment. Not by spreading fear, but by offering clarity. Because anyone living in Brazil must understand how the system works — not because it is harsh, but because it is applied consistently.

When Are You a Tax Resident in Brazil?

Most misunderstandings begin with the question of where someone is considered a tax resident. Many foreigners think this depends on where their money comes from, or on the nationality in their passport. But that is not how Brazilian law works. In Brazil, a person becomes a tax resident as soon as they live here, have a family here, work here, or spend more than 183 days in the country within a twelve-month period. From that moment on, the Receita Federal considers that person a resident — and therefore subject to Brazilian tax rules.

This means Brazil does not only look at what you earn here, but at everything you receive worldwide. The concept of “worldwide income” is not a detail — it is the core of the entire system. Once you are a tax resident, it no longer matters where the money comes from, where it is deposited, or which account holds it. What matters is the income itself, not the place where it is kept.

What does “Worldwide Income” mean in Practice?

For many foreigners, this is the hardest point to accept. Worldwide income means that Brazil may tax everything you receive, regardless of its origin. A pension from your home country, a salary still paid by a foreign employer, rental income from an apartment in Europe, interest on a foreign savings account, dividends from shares you’ve owned for years, or money arriving through modern services like Wise or PayPal — it makes no difference to the Receita. Once you live here, it all falls under Brazilian tax obligations.

The idea that a foreign account is “private” or that modern payment platforms are invisible is a misconception that gets many foreigners into trouble. The world today is not the world of twenty years ago. Banks, fintechs, and international payment services are required to share information with tax authorities. Brazil receives that information automatically through international agreements. It makes no difference whether you leave your money in Europe or transfer it through an app. For the Receita, only one question matters: where do you live? If you live here, you must declare your worldwide income. That is not a nuance — it is the law.

The Myth of Invisible Income

One of the most persistent beliefs among foreigners in Brazil is that foreign income is not taxable as long as it never reaches a Brazilian bank account. It sounds logical: if the money stays abroad and you only withdraw small amounts here and there, no one will know. But that is not how the law works — and certainly not how the Receita works.

The Receita Federal operates differently from what many foreigners expect. It works quietly, methodically, and with a precision you don’t notice until you feel it. It is never in a hurry, because time works in its favor. It doesn’t need spectacle, because its systems automatically detect signals. And it doesn’t need warnings, because it has access to information you would never suspect. Anyone who thinks the Receita isn’t watching is mistaken. Anyone who thinks it is slow is even more mistaken.

Double Taxation: What Is Allowed and What Isn’t?

Another common misunderstanding is that double taxation “doesn’t exist.” That is only half true. Double taxation must be avoided, but that does not mean you pay nothing anywhere. It means you file in both countries, and one of them applies an exemption or credit.

Treaties do not exist to exempt people from taxes, but to determine where they are taxed. They protect the interests of both countries — never the taxpayer. If you live in Brazil, you are taxed here on your worldwide income. Your home country then applies whatever the treaty allows. That is not a punishment — it is the international norm.

If you have two incomes — for example, a pension from your home country and employment income in Brazil — you must declare both. Brazil taxes everything because you live here. The home country taxes only what the treaty permits. You never pay twice, but you always pay where you are resident. The system is complex, but not illogical. The problem is that many people simply don’t know how it works.

Why Even Specialized Lawyers Need Time

Tax rules between countries are complicated. Even Brazilian lawyers specializing in international tax law must analyze cases carefully before giving advice. That is not incompetence — it is the nature of the system. If professionals need time to assess a situation correctly, how can an ordinary foreigner believe they “know how it works” because a friend said something, or because they’ve been withdrawing money for years without issues?

It is exactly that nonchalance that gets people into trouble. Not because they intend to do wrong, but because they don’t know the rules. And what you don’t know can hurt you — especially when the Receita gets involved.

Why Tax Authorities Everywhere Work So Well

There is a persistent myth that tax authorities in some countries are “less strict,” or that they pay less attention to foreigners. That is a dangerous idea. In reality, tax authorities and finance ministries are among the highest-priority institutions in every government, regardless of political climate. Governments may disagree on healthcare, education, infrastructure, or social programs, but on one thing they always agree: without a functioning tax authority, nothing can be funded.

That is why institutions like the Receita Federal in Brazil, the IRS in the United States, HMRC in the United Kingdom, and the Belgian Ministry of Finance operate with remarkable efficiency. They have resources, technology, international cooperation, and legal powers that other institutions often lack. They are protected, funded, and constantly modernized because they are the lifeline of the state budget.

Anyone who thinks Brazil is an exception is mistaken. The Receita is one of the best-organized institutions in the country. It works quietly, methodically, and with a precision many foreigners underestimate. And that is no accident. It is a deliberate choice by every government, regardless of ideology. Because money must come in — always.

Countries Always Protect Their Own Interests

International tax treaties exist to prevent double taxation, but not to exempt anyone from taxes. Every country that signs a treaty does so with one goal: to protect its own interests. No country will ever sign an agreement that jeopardizes its own revenue. That is why treaties are complex, nuanced, and strictly interpreted.

The idea that a treaty “solves everything” is a misconception. A treaty only determines where you are taxed — not whether you are taxed. And it never means you don’t have to declare your income. Every country retains the right to know what its residents earn, wherever that income originates. That applies to Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, the United States — and certainly to Brazil.

Anyone who believes a treaty is a free pass to declare nothing will eventually hit a wall.

The Pitfalls Foreigners in Brazil Often Fall Into

Many foreigners live here on income paid abroad and assume no one sees it as long as the money never lands in a Brazilian account. Some withdraw cash at ATMs, others use apps as if they were invisible to the tax authorities, and others assume a pension already taxed abroad doesn’t count here. But the Receita does not look at habits or beliefs. It looks at facts. And the facts are simple: if you live here, you must declare what you earn worldwide.

Why This Story Matters

This article is not a fear-based warning, but an invitation to clarity. Brazil is a wonderful country to live in, but anyone who lives here must know the rules. Not because they are harsh, but because they are applied consistently. Those who declare their income correctly sleep better. Those who don’t will eventually hit a wall. And that is exactly what this story aims to prevent.

Final Word

Foreigners in Brazil often have a complex financial reality: pensions from their home country, income earned here, international transfers, double filings. That is normal. That is manageable. But only if you know how the system works. The message is simple: prevention is better than cure. And underestimating the Receita is never a good idea.

If this story helped you understand the rules better, share it with others who live in Brazil or plan to. Too many foreigners take risks without realizing it. Clarity is not a luxury — it is protection. And sometimes one good article can save someone years of trouble.

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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.

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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.)

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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