Introduction: An Insurrection,a Resurrection,and the Right Wing’s Self-Deception

The attack of January 8, 2023, on government buildings in Brasília contained all the details that a bewildered observer (or enthusiastic spectator) might want in a copycat insurgency, a sequel of sorts to an over-the-top Cecil B. DeMille movie. It reproduced all the elements of the original almost exactly a year before in Washington—self-righteous indignation, uncontrolled passions, epic confrontations, even idiotic pseudo-nationalistic cosplay—but contained unexpected characteristics that made it different. For one, it was more physically destructive of government buildings than the first, as proud defenders of the fatherland climbed the easily accessible ramps and smashed through the glass walls of Oscar Niemeyer’s distinctive edifices, destroying irreplaceable historical artifacts and iconic artwork and desecrating the symbols of Brazilian democracy in the name of its absentee leader, who had conveniently relocated north to Florida, at least temporarily sheltered by his Trumpist MAGA allies and the Breitbart crowd. Maybe we should not judge the chaos inflicted by this unruly mob on the Brazilian capital—abetted, as it surprisingly turns out, by certain members of the military—too harshly. After all, mid-century modern architecture pretty much all looks the same, and possibly these admiring pilgrims traveling to Bolsonaro’s own holy land became disoriented by the obsolete, repetitive, and passé décor. It needed renovation. In contrast to what happened during its dress rehearsal, no one died, so it can be claimed, legitimately, that it was more peaceful than the first. In fact, there were hundreds of selfies taken during this event and posted by relatives online (most notably on the Instagram site Contragolpebrasil) that document the proud dedication to order and democracy that was demonstrated by these patriots and will from now on be preserved eternally for posterity as an example of their fervent love of country (though Instagram, unfortunately, quickly closed it down).

Significantly, unlike the Washington attack, the versão brasileira of the insurrection took place after the inauguration of the new president. Many had predicted that Luis Inácio Lula da Silva would be easily elected after Bolsonaro’s disastrous four years of misrule, but the reality was more complicated. Lula won by an extremely narrow margin, less than 2 percent of the vote, demonstrating just how divided the Brazilian population (like that in the United States) has become. The fervor demonstrated by Bolsonaro’s faithful was akin to that directed at a prophetic figure, one repeatedly identified as the “predestined” one, the protector of our values, and the greatest president in Brazil’s history, the “Greatest of All Time”—the GOAT, if you will.

That Bolsonaro’s devotees can sincerely claim that he was the “best president in Brazil’s history” is an indication of this generalized lack of historical knowledge and perspective. I suspect that most people who shout this from the mountaintops of the Internet would be hard-pressed to name who was president just five administrations ago. In today’s media landscape anyone can be anointed the “new” GOAT, especially when fewer and fewer people know who came before. This has had a noticeable impact even on how we define our identities. Attention spans are being reduced to whatever the media wants us to focus on. Social media have made everything about the immediate and the individual consumer, ironically, not expanding autonomy, but transforming us ever more into narcissistic imitators of social trends seeking instant gratification. No sooner had the soccer legend Pelé been laid to rest than a new, living player was determined to be the GOAT, despite Pelé’s still unmatched 1,200-plus lifetime goals and three World Cup victories. But then, as logicians point out, there’s “no true Scotsman” after all. We adjust our standards and measurements to support our own biases and agendas. We simply move the goalposts to ensure desired outcomes. Newer generations are forgetting the stories of older generations; in many cases they are not even aware of them. As a historian I think this is getting worse. The danger with not knowing the past is not only that we might be condemned to repeat it but that we create new false gods and mythologies that invariably exploit our ignorance. The continued deification of Bolsonaro (and certain other individual world leaders) continues in part because we are losing our collective memories and national narratives. One young soldier I spoke to in Rio de Janeiro was not aware that the words “Order and Progress” were nowhere to be found on the Brazilian flag during the reign of Dom Pedro II. It is this ignorance of the past that blinds us to present demagoguery.

I may be being a bit facetious, but I am in fact dismayed. A few years ago I spent several months in Rio de Janeiro doing documentary research. While I was there a general strike closed all public libraries, museums, and archives for several weeks. By necessity I relied on filling the gaps by visiting the various sebos and used bookstores in Rio’s downtown district near the Praça da República. On one of my visits I found to my amazement an old paperback book from the 1940s inscribed by its author, Catulo Paixão Cearense, to his friend the composer Heitor Villa-Lobos. It is still one of my greatest regrets that I did not buy it immediately. Yet when I mentioned this to Brazilian colleagues, friends, relatives, most of them college-educated, I was met with blank stares. Not one of them knew who either of these two men was. Nor were they very impressed by the utter rarity of this artifact. Catulo was the lyricist of perhaps one of the most iconic Brazilian folk (sertanejo) songs of the early twentieth century, “Luar do Sertão.” Villa-Lobos should need no introduction, being considered one of the greatest Brazilian composers, at least of modern times. In the United States this would be the equivalent perhaps of Woody Guthrie’s inscribing a book of his songs to Aaron Copland. (Sadly, I suspect that many Americans today would also get this Jeopardy question wrong.)

This is especially ironic given the common complaint by many Brazilian cultural purists as to the current state of artistic expression in the country. Despite Brazil’s being a nation widely respected for the exceptional quality of its music and musicians, much of what occupies the Brazilian airwaves today is simply derivative of commercial international “pop” styles. Widely popular is sertanejo (and universitário, no less), by which urbanite elite and middle-class fans have transformed what was once called música caipira into música country brasileira, donning Stetsons and cowboy boots, strumming their 12-strings, and waxing nostalgic about sertões they have never visited and using the same chord progressions, melodies, and nasal twang found in Texas and Tennessee. (We have not witnessed such Brazilian cultural authenticity since the days when Carmen Miranda donned her tutti-frutti hat.) And this style has, like its progenitor, taken on conservative political undertones the opposite of what they were at the time of Catulo and his contemporaries, much to the chagrin of cultural historians, while on the actual sertão the realities of land concentration, violence, and the invasion of Native territories continue.

And so we find ourselves in a situation in which much of the past is simply what we want to remember—or, as many teachers are aware, what ideologically inspired school boards impose. As a social historian, I know that in reality this has always been the case. This process can be observed even now as history is being rewritten by websites such as Brasil Alternativo, which “reevaluate” the Brazilian military dictatorship favorably. I can already almost predict how future generations might celebrate Bolsonaro as they erect his sacred shrine at Brasília—may I suggest the name “Santuário de São Desaparecido pro Norte”?: Just as the period of orderly benevolent military rule united Brazilians and launched the Brazilian Economic Miracle, Bolsonaro’s administration eradicated corruption (“there is no corruption in the government”), ended poverty, and abolished violence in Brazil. During his paternal care, Brazilians, and the world, finally came to realize that “Indians are human.” Likewise, there were no burnings in the Amazon forest. (We must suppose that the smoke that blanketed the city of São Paulo for days must have been coming from Canada or Australia.) Crime, except that perpetrated by leftists, completely disappeared because of the generalized availability of firearms. Health care became accessible to anyone who needed it, especially during the COVID-19 pandemic. Bolsonaro was even able to provide full education and dignified housing for all citizens. There are no more favelas in Brazil. Our homegrown Messiah ushered in the promised Millennial Age. My point is that, beyond the dangers of “fake news,” “fake histories” have come to inform so many of our decisions and opinions and helped to elevate fake leaders, incompetents who benefit from the manipulation of “relative” truth, many who imitate each other and follow the same apprentice playbook.

Lula, despite his political resurrection, will not have an easy job in front of him. If anything, the problems of poverty, hunger, violence, homelessness, and educational and health inequality have gotten worse in Brazil since the last time he occupied the Palácio da Alvorada. His attempt since regaining his mandate to reestablish Brazil’s prestige and influence in the world, which suffered enormously under Bolsonaro, has begun to bear some fruit, if not a measure of relief in the international community. But the international community has also changed, and organizations that once looked so promising for cooperative economic development, such as the G20 and BRICS, have proven to provide little real direction for progress. Within BRICS, Brazil may now even be considered a junior player, given that three of its members are not only nuclear powers but now also competitors in space exploration. And Brazil’s continued reliance on China and Russia for technology, fertilizers, and as a market for its commodities does not bode well for its national autonomy. It may be notable that the leaders of both Russia and China did not even show up at either conference (or even at the United Nations conference this September). One of these leaders, at least, fears arrest for war crimes in Ukraine. Lula’s continued attempts to remain neutral, negotiate with, and even maintain favor with him may possibly backfire. Neville Chamberlain himself learned that you cannot appease the devil without getting burned.

Lula will also have to contend with the present and growing authoritarian narratives propagated not only by fringe but also by mainstream media channels in Brazil, some of which exist simply to spread misinformation or dogmatic opposition. As in the United States, many have decidedly antagonistic religious agendas disguised as pious instruction and spiritual edification. With few exceptions authoritarianism has historically relied on the appropriation and transformation of religious mythologies and nationalistic symbolism by sycophantic followers to legitimize its rule. One famous Iberian dictator stated that what the Portuguese people needed was “Fado, Futebol, and Fátima.” Unfortunately, overcautious observers are sometimes reluctant to pronounce another F-word that is becoming increasingly acceptable in conservative circles—Fascism—for fear that the equation of current conservative trends today doesn’t quite compare to the extremist versions the world has experienced before. But one need not go too far to document the routine appropriation of national and cultural symbols, mythologies and traditions, and even popular artistic expressions to redefine and justify radical political and tribalistic loyalties. In both the United States and Brazil, we must remember, half the Congress is awaiting and actively working diligently to herald the Second Coming of the Savior. In Brazil, at least, we now know that this will not happen until 2030—but only if the goalposts of justice aren’t moved again.

In this Latin American Perspectives issue we bring together several articles with an eye to understanding the development of Brazil’s current political and social situation and to insights that may possibly point a new way forward.

Gustavo Moura de Oliveira and Marilia Veríssimo Veronese explore Bolsonaro’s rise, tracing his long if undistinguished career as a conservative congressman, culminating in his ascent to the presidency with the use of divisive, even violent rhetoric to stoke the anger and disillusionment of Brazilians with the social and economic crises of the past decade. They provide a detailed collection of Bolsonaro’s own statements illustrating his dictatorial, authoritarian, and ultraindividualistic ideology and his incitement of supporters to intimidate critics. Consciously following Trump’s example, he combined ultranationalist rhetoric with neoliberal economic policies to shape a Trump-like authoritarian populism, even while his economic minister Paulo Guedes cut social security and pensions, promoted the privatization of government services and the devaluation of Brazil’s currency, and lowered the real minimum wage. All of these policies, coupled with his incompetent handling of the COVID-19 pandemic, hurt average Brazilians while strengthening the economic elite. Oliveira and Veronese seek to understand how, despite these shortcomings, Bolsonaro was able to portray himself as capable of resolving complex problems with easy solutions by assuming the role of the people’s protector against the corruption of the political elite, which he invariably identified as the Partido dos Trabalhadores (Workers’ Party—PT) and the left.

Brian Mier, Bryan Pitts, Kathy Swart, Rafael Ioris, and Sean Mitchell provide an added dimension to Bolsonaro’s story by documenting the aid the former president received through American involvement in the removal of the Brazilian left from power, in what may be perceived as a “long coup.” They discuss the degree to which Judge Sérgio Moro was abetted by both the United States FBI and the Department of Justice in conducting the Lava Jato trials, an involvement at first openly covered by the U.S. media that then suddenly went silent. This involvement was explained as necessary to curtail corruption in Brazil, as in other Latin countries, but quite transparently shows the imperialistic assumption of U.S. government officials that ending corruption necessitated American guidance. But what might have been the actual motivations for U.S. involvement? President Dilma Rousseff’s financial reforms threatened to reduce the profits of U.S investors. Before that, Lula’s diplomatic relations with countries considered inimical to the United States, even Venezuela, were seen as a serious concern, the more so when Lula restricted U.S. control of Brazil’s Alcântara satellite launch base. These measures, among others, convinced U.S. officials that to maintain supremacy in the region they would have to promote the destabilization of and erode confidence in what had once been (truly) one of Brazil’s most popular administrations. The Lava Jato hearings, which targeted mainly the PT and its policies and eventually indicted and convicted Lula on trumped-up charges (what a felicitously fitting word!), were quite effective, at least temporarily, in achieving these objectives.

Pedro Bação, Diogo Mazeron, and Marta Simões discuss Brazilian governmental policies since the early 2000s that have promoted the financialization or market capitalization of health care and education in Brazil, seeking primarily the expansion of shareholder profits to the detriment of services to patients and students. They provide a detailed analysis of how the privatization of these basic social services has contributed to the dire and worsening situation faced by a great number of Brazilians. They show that, contrary to the optimistic predictions of free-market enthusiasts, privatization, coupled with the austerity measures passed by the Temer administration, have had an entirely negative impact on Brazilian indices of inequality, which despite some improvement under Lula’s and Dilma’s first mandate only worsened under Bolsonaro’s regime, especially with the COVID-19 crisis. The implications are clear. Social services for private profit benefit only the financial class.

Lara Lisboa Farias furthers this discussion by analyzing the rhetoric and policies of the Bolsonaro regime and the so-called new right, which implemented neoliberal economic models to deregulate previously efficient systems and dismantle the safety net by moralizing, even criminalizing social inequality. She explains that this “new right” is actually a hybrid union of neoconservative ideologies and neoliberal economic philosophies that, while at times contradictory, works to strengthen long-existing power structures. Also religiously oriented, the new right attempts to eliminate what it sees as dangerous to traditional “moral values.” Social programs, for example, being collective by nature, are often seen as a threat to “meritocracy” and individualistic freedom. It is much easier to blame the victims for their misfortunes. As a tactic, it is not uncommon to employ racist, xenophobic, and homophobic prejudice to emphasize the undesirable nature of the undeserving. Farias traces the origins of neoliberalism to the reaction against the welfare state. Under neoliberalism it is the state’s function only to guarantee order and a “free” market, even while it tips the scales to favor some over others. With its procedures it reveals marked Social Darwinist assumptions about society. Neoconservatism, paradoxically, blames the individual (and a “crisis of morals”) and uses the state to impose control over individuals’ lives. Neoconservatives support state intervention to establish a moralistic agenda, even while rejecting state interference in a market economy. Emphasizing “order,” the need for security is prioritized, thus explaining the sympathy with militarized rule. Social media also are used to disrupt and distort honest discussion of issues. Those seeking answers are often manipulated into opposing the very policies that would benefit them.

Luiz Fernando de Paula, Pedro Lange Machado, and Helio Cannone explore in more detail the apparent contradictions between Bolsonaro’s own nationalistic “populist” rhetoric and the “neoliberal” policies implemented by Guedes. Economic nationalism, they explain, is usually developmentalist and geared toward protecting a nation’s interests against outside competition. Neoliberalism, in contrast, seeks to deregulate and dismantle the welfare state, promote privatization, monetary stability, and free-market competition, and favor the interests of capitalists and the financial sector (the so-called job creators). Populism, as a reaction against the “corrupt” establishment, facilitates the rise of leaders who provide easy answers to difficult problems, inevitably invalidating democratic channels in favor of one that it redefines as the “people”—usually in an “us”-vs.-“them” configuration. The tendency is to dismantle traditional modes of representation and replace them with permanent agitation, campaigning, divisive rhetoric, anger, and fear, today all made even easier by the electronic media, which elevate a “leader” (sometimes a savior) to carry out the collective “will” of the “people.” Paula and colleagues discuss how Bolsonaro obsequiously aligned himself with Donald Trump and surrendered Brazilian resources and competitive companies to American and other foreign interests. This is similar to the policies of the 21-year military dictatorship, which justified this same subordination with the logic of anticommunism. In this sense, despite his ultrapatriotic persona, Bolsonaro could be distinguished as markedly antinationalist.

Mariana Peixoto provides a Foucauldian analysis of how the intersectionality of these discourses (class, gender, race, and religion) has shaped a specific “regime of truth,” in which we find ourselves today. The coarsening, fanaticization, and polarization of political discourse has had a serious impact on issues of gender equality and has divided Brazilian women just as it has Brazilian men. Peixoto focuses on three discursive moments in Bolsonaro’s election campaign–the first televised debate, the #EleNão/EleSim (Not Him/Yes Him) demonstrations, and a song that became important as the election neared. These represent how the discourse was ably appropriated by Bolsonaro. The #EleNão Movement, organized to campaign against the candidate, demonstrated that many politically undecided women were positively against Bolsonaro’s election. This movement, however, was countered by an equally large pro-Bolsonaro movement of women voters who Peixoto explains were heavily influenced by religious discourse, purposely aided by Edir Macedo and his religious television network Rede Record, which became a primary source of right-wing propaganda and misinformation. Part of Bolsonaro’s success may be attributed to his and his supporters’ ability to evoke and manipulate stereotyped gendered representations to reinforce traditional male and female roles. Bolsonaro portrayed himself as the “protector” of women and the family, appealing to socially and religiously conservative women. The #EleNão movement and feminism in general were portrayed as consisting of elitist activists who were out of touch and did not address the concerns of most Brazilian women. Bolsonaro’s campaign was able to convince many undecided female voters by emphasizing (ironically) traditional masculine responsibility, “family values,” and religiosity. In addition, the parodical “funk” song “Proibidão do Bolsonaro” emphasized the strength of the right wing and the weakness and corruption of the left. The right’s evocation of women’s roles and imagery, ultimately, was effective in distracting many voters from other related issues of race and class. In this situation, the left was caught off guard and unable to address the needs of black, evangelical, working-class women specifically, partly because of its focus on the concerns of urban, educated, and mainly white women.

The issue of the divisions among women’s rights activists is also taken up by Sônia Fátima Schwendler, who redirects our focus from national election campaigns to the struggles women all over the world face in the countryside. She discusses women’s crucial efforts in the formation and structure of transnational projects such as the La Via Campesina and its affiliate, the Coordinadora Latinoamericana de Organizaciones del Campo (CLOC). The LVC is a worldwide movement, founded in 1993, with 182 organizations from 81 countries, and CLOC (its Latin American branch) grew out of the 500 Years of Indigenous, Black, Peasant and Popular Resistance campaign in Latin America from 1989 to 1992. Both organizations strive for agrarian reform and democratization and reject the neoliberal globalized industrial, corporate model of agriculture that has imposed genetically modified organisms, restricted access to land, impoverished people, and destroyed the environment. At first, women were not even included in the organizational leadership of either of these organizations. Gradually gender parity was sought through active participation as women joined unions and organized, guided by the principle that women’s rights, independence, and freedom from exploitation, discrimination, and violence are inseparable from wider issues of social justice and directly tied to race and class, even while they were asserting their own peasant agricultural and popular aspects. In a very real manner, they joined feminism to the class struggle. And yet there are real concerns that still exist, among these the need to control sexual violence against women, even from among male activists. Schwendler interviewed members of the Brazilian Movimento Sem Terra (Movement of the Landless—MST) and the Chilean Asociación Nacional de Mujeres Rurales y Indígenas (National Association of Rural and Indigenous Women—ANAMURI). In the process she documents the controversies and divisions among indigenous women and the concept of “feminism,” which is something usually perceived as white, urban, and middle-class. What is sought is a “popular feminism,” a feminism for rural women that is more class- and race-diverse and also autonomous of outside, guided direction.

Turning from the struggles of workers on the land, we now address the continued need for workers in general to be included in shaping national economic directions. The final article in this issue compares the successes and setbacks in the two largest South American countries to bring both capital and labor to the planning table. Juan von-Zeschau and Marcial Sánchez-Mosquera discuss the formation of the Consejo Económico y Social Argentino, a government-sponsored agency created to address and mediate the concerns of capital and labor modeled closely on Brazil’s own council, started in Lula da Silva’s first presidential administration. These councils, unlike their earlier counterparts in Europe and elsewhere, have received little attention in the literature, though they are particularly interesting for having been initiated by populist neo-developmentalist governments in nations defined as integrating hierarchical market economies. In both cases these councils have depended on government oversight and have reflected the ever-changing power dynamics and relationships between business and labor leaders. In Brazil they have recently been dominated by business interests, especially with the rightward trend in Brazilian politics, but in Argentina the situation has favored labor unions. Von-Deschau and Sánchez-Mosquera interview several members of the Argentine council, presenting and discussing what they believe to be a unique and optimistic opportunity for future Argentine laborers.

It will be crucial, in the immediate and coming years, that lovers of democratic and participatory government remain aware of the fragility of freedom. History has shown us that tolerance for extremism threatens the very liberties that we have come to take for granted. Sadly, we see today the gradual but steady erosion of serious dialogue, compromise, and empathy that has crept into our daily experiences and actions. By definition, this is the opposite of nationalism and patriotism. We must not let this continue without real contemplation of the direction and the future we want to leave for succeeding generations. Brazil may serve as a microcosm of wider global trends, and I believe that this Latin American Perspectives issue devoted to Brazil’s recent history can provide important, broader lessons that will offer promising, fruitful lines of inquiry and analysis for researchers and other scholars in general.