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Activism under Fire
The Politics of Non-​Violence in Rio de
Janeiro’s Gang Territories

A N J U L I FA H L B E R G
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Fahlberg, Anjuli, author.
Title: Activism under fire : the politics of non-violence in Rio de
Janeiro’s gang territories / Anjuli Fahlberg.
Description: New York, NY : Oxford University Press, [2023] |
Series: Global and comparative ethnography | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022062187 (print) | LCCN 2022062188 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780197519332 (paperback) | ISBN 9780197519325 (hardback) |
ISBN 9780197519356 (epub) | ISBN 9780197519363
Subjects: LCSH: Slums—Brazil—Rio de Janeiro. | Gangs—Brazil—Rio de Janeiro. |
Violence—Brazil—Rio de Janeiro. | Nonviolence—Brazil—Rio de Janeiro. |
Urban poor—Brazil—Rio de Janeiro. | Marginality, Social—Brazil—Rio de Janeiro.
Classification: LCC HV4075 .R53 F345 2023 (print) | LCC HV4075 .R53 (ebook) |
DDC 307.3/364098153—dc23/eng/20230303
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022062187
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022062188

DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197519325.001.0001

Paperback printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America

Hardback printed by Bridgeport National Bindery, Inc., United States of America
 Contents

Acknowledgments  vii
Survivors  xiii

Introduction—Conflict Activism in Rio de Janeiro’s Gang Territories  1

1. Cidade de Deus: A Contested Territory  33
2. Milking the Resource Matrix: Democracy, Development, and
Digital Devices  76
3. Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance  113
4. Political Upcycling: Anti-​Violence Protest through Education,
Culture, and Racial Solidarity  149
5. Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind: Favela Activists in Urban
Politics and Transnational Movements  196
Conclusion—Seek and Ye Shall Find: Looking for Non-​Violence in
Conflict Zones  234

Appendix—Ethnographic Reflections: Participatory Action Research in

Areas of Violence  247
Notes  259
Bibliography  265
Index  283
 Acknowledgments

“Daughter, when are you coming back?” Esther asked me one day over
WhatsApp, a question she asked me at least once a month since I had last
visited Cidade de Deus. I had returned to the United States just before the
COVID-​19 pandemic hit, and shortly after travel to Brazil became too
risky. But I remained involved in the neighborhood through a series of re-
search projects we conducted online, and I am still in regular contact with
Esther and her family, who so generously hosted me and welcomed me into
their family throughout my time researching Cidade de Deus. However, it
has been a while since I last sat on Esther’s couch sipping coffee, laughing
along as her sister Maria Rita joked about the latest home remedy Esther had
concocted for her swollen legs, flinching at Maria Rita’s near-​death escape
from a shootout, and debating with Esther’s son Leonardo about the dif-
ferent forms of politics in Cidade de Deus. Theirs was a home filled with love,
laughter, and incredible hearts and minds. Esther, Maria Rita, Leonardo,
Esther’s younger son André, and all in Esther’s large kinship network went
out of their way to make me feel at home, help me understand their neigh-
borhood, and ensure that I was well cared for, safe, and productive while
I was in the field.
Living with Esther’s family in Cidade de Deus, hearing about the trials and
battles of the neighborhood’s residents, learning from dozens of incredible
activists, and writing about their stories and strategies has been an amazing
journey. What began as a sociological investigation into how people organize
in contexts of violence and repression became an opportunity to spend time
with some of the people I most respect and care for, whose lives are filled with
more challenges and more victories than could possibly fit in this book. The
challenges they face are enormous, and the victories they achieve may some-
times seem small, but they serve as a reminder of the humanity, the inter-
personal networks of support, and the deep commitments to making change
in areas that the state and society have relegated to its most vulnerable and
dangerous margins.
Words cannot express how grateful I am to the many people I met in
Cidade de Deus who allowed me to hear their stories, visit them in their
viii Acknowledgments

homes, participate in their meetings, and eventually join them in the fight
for improvements to their community. I would not have been able to conduct
this research without their willingness to let me into their organizations and
events, their invitations to accompany them to new sites of action, and their
openness about their ideas, struggles, inspirations, and fears.
In order to protect their identities, I thank them by their pseudonyms.
Thank you to Esther, Maria Rita, Leonardo, André, Solange, Rosangela,
Sonia, Natalia, Isabella, Carmen, Geovana, Luz, Clara, Camilla, Jefferson,
João Paulo, and dozens of other Cidade de Deus residents and activists
whose stories are part of this book. Thank you for the work you do to make
this world a better place, for shining light in dark spaces, and for giving us
another reason to hope that, even in the harshest environments, life and love
can continue to thrive. Your insights, enthusiasm, suggestions, critiques,
support, care, guidance, and the many close bonds we established in my years
of learning, researching, and writing are ultimately what have kept me going
and have made this project so worthwhile.
In addition to the activist community in Cidade de Deus, I received in-
credible guidance and support from many people at Northeastern University
as I completed my PhD in Sociology. Liza Weinstein, the chair of my disserta-
tion committee, has been an endless source of support, while also motivating
me to improve my work. She constantly challenged me to ask, “Where is
the puzzle here?” and to push the limits of sociological theory. Gordana
Rabrenovic was my rock in some of the hardest years of my academic career,
reassuring me that things would work out, even if not in the ways I had origi-
nally planned. In addition to being a very good friend, Thomas Vicino fought
for me relentlessly, helping me find funding for my research, teaching me how
to write academic articles and present at conferences, and otherwise training
me on the “hidden curriculum” of the academy. Valentine Moghadam was
the first to expose me to studies of social movements and help me appreciate
the many ways that activists, and women in particular, have become fear-
less leaders of social change. Diane Davis, at Harvard University’s Graduate
School of Design, challenged me to think broadly and deeply about Cidade
de Deus, to place it in conversation with larger questions about urban vio-
lence and politics, and to reflect critically on my findings.
Many others in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at
Northeastern University have been critical to my success. Sarah Faude,
Edgar Benitez, Sam Maron, Yingchan Zhang, Anna Revette, Elicia Cousins,
Marhabo Sarapova, Mollie Pepper, Camilla Gaiaschi, Steve Vallas, Kathrin
 Acknowledgments ix

Zippel, Linda Blum, Doreen Lee, Ineke Marshall, Jack Greene, Chris
Chambers, Phil Brown, and many more have offered me guidance, support,
reflections on drafts, new ideas, or simply the space to vent or brainstorm
aloud. Thank you also to Sara Wylie for teaching me about Community
Based Participatory Research and encouraging me to apply these principles
in my own research. Many other Northeastern faculty and students were also
very helpful, including Dietmar Offenhuber, Carlos Cuevas, Lori Lefkowitz,
and Erika Boeckler.
I thank the Department of Sociology and Anthropology, the Dean’s Office,
the Office of the President, and the Office of the Provost at Northeastern
University for their generous support of my scholarship through multiple
grants and fellowships. These included the Outstanding Graduate Student
Research Award, the Graduate Thesis/​Dissertation Research Grant, the
Tier-​1 Initiative, the University Excellence Fellowship, the Departmental
Fellowship for Graduate Study, the Teaching Assistantship, the Dean’s
Fellowship, and the Public and Applied Sociology Award. Without this
funding, my research would not have been possible.
I am grateful to the National Science Foundation’s Law and Social Science
Division for the Doctoral Dissertation Research Improvement Grant (NSF
15-​514), which helped to cover many travel expenses and the transcrip-
tion of dozens of interviews. Tufts University also provided generous sup-
port for my travels through various Faculty Research Awards, as well as
funding from the Center for Humanities at Tufts to work on my book; the
Tisch Faculty Fellowship helped fund additional research in Cidade de Deus.
The American Association for University Women’s American Short-​Term
Research Publication Grant provided invaluable financial assistance at a time
when I most needed it.
Thank you to Kryssia Ettel, who transcribed hundreds of pages of interviews
with great accuracy and efficiency. I also want to thank the Urban Affairs
Association for selecting me for the 2017 Alma J. Young Emerging Scholar
award. I am grateful to the Latin American Studies Association’s Defense
and Public Security Section and the Society for the Study of Social Problems’
Conflict, Social Action and Change Division for selecting drafts of my research
for best paper awards. I am extremely grateful to the American Sociological
Association (ASA) for selecting my dissertation, on which this book is based,
for the 2019 Best Dissertation Award, and the ASA’s Section on Collective
Behavior and Social Movement for the 2019 Distinguished Contribution
to Scholarship Dissertation Award. Thank you also to the ASA’s Section on
x Acknowledgments

Peace, War and Social Conflict for awarding an Honorable Mention for the
Best Article Award to my article, “Rethinking Favela Governance: Nonviolent
Politics in Rio de Janeiro’s Gang Territories,” published in Politics in Society.
I was incredibly fortunate to be welcomed into the Sociology Department
at Tufts University as I started working on this manuscript. Every faculty and
staff member in our department has been supportive and offered helpful
guidance on various stages of the process. Thank you to Helen Marrow and
Freeden Blume Ouer, who have been as generous with their time as with their
mentorship on transitioning into an academic role. Jill Weinberg generously
read and offered suggestions on my introductory chapter. Rosemary Taylor,
Natasha Warikoo, Adrian Cruz, Jon Dzitko, Sarah Sobieraj, Paul Joseph,
Victoria Dorward, Katherine Blake, and Amy Pendleton have offered inval-
uable suggestions and enthusiasm for my scholarship. Caleb Scoville, Felipe
Dias, and Daanika Gordon have helped me process questions and ideas and
make decisions on how to handle difficult situations. Finally, I don’t know
how I would have finished my research without John LiBassi, who has spent
dozens of hours helping me figure out how to send grant money to an in-
formal neighborhood. Finally, a huge thank you to Carolyn Talmadge at the
Tufts Data Lab for making such beautiful maps.
The Latin American Studies Program at Tufts has also been a welcoming
and intellectually enriching space. Thank you to Nina Gerassi-​Navarro and
Christiane Soares, who were early supporters of my research in Brazil, along
with Eulogio Guzman, Katrina Burgess, and Consuelo Cruz. Thank you to
Katrina for continuing to mentor me throughout these years. My deans—​
Jim Glaser, Bárbara Brizuela, and Heather Nathans—​have supported my
scholarship and academic success in innumerable ways. Thank you also to
Peter Levine, whose enthusiasm for my research and work in Participatory
Action Research not only inspired more confidence in me about my work
but also opened many doors for new research and teaching opportunities.
Cedric De Leon, now at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, gave
me incredible encouragement as I transitioned from student to pro-
fessor. I am similarly indebted to many of my students who are as brilliant
as they are kind and fiercely committed to social justice: Sophia Costa,
Maya Velasquez, Harper Wise, Tori Simon, Athena Nair, Rachel Totz,
Mark Beckwith, Gabe Reyes, Selomi Dayaprema, Gabriella Cantor, Olivia
Roskill, and many, many more.
Many people across academia in the United States and Brazil have been
instrumental in getting this book written and published. Pablo Lapegna,
 Acknowledgments xi

at the University of Georgia, and Javier Auyero, at the University of Texas,

Austin, were early supporters of my research in Cidade de Deus and helped
open doors that led to a contract with Oxford University Press. They have
also become wonderful colleagues and offered me guidance throughout my
career. I am very grateful to my brilliant and supportive reviewers, who read
and helped me revise an early draft of my book: Sonia Alvarez, Marie Berry,
Eduardo Moncada, Sonia Fleury, and Keisha Khan-​Perry. Their comments
were incredibly insightful and helpful. Marie, in particular, has become a
friend and mentor, offering me advice and encouragement at many turns.
The anonymous reviewers of my book and related journal articles have also
played an important role in helping me think through my arguments and re-
vise the text. Jenny Pearce, Brinton Lykes, Michelle Fine, Julian Go, Raewyn
Connell, Enrique Desmond Arias, Thiago Rodrigues, Alba Zaluar, Daniel
Esser, and many others have given me their time and feedback as I devel-
oped my ideas and this manuscript. A huge thank you goes out to Shannon
Oltmann, who helped me get this book over the finish line, providing excel-
lent comments, edits and reassurance as I finalized each chapter.
It is an honor to have this book included in the Global and Comparative
Ethnography Series at Oxford University Press. Thank you to James Cook,
my acquisitions editor at Oxford, for helping me get through the long review
and contract process. I am grateful to Alexcee Bechthold, my productions
editors at Oxford and Kavitha Yuvaraj and her team at Newgen Knowledge
Works for bearing with me as I asked endless questions about the production
process and made last-​minute revisions to my manuscript.
Finally, none of this would have been possible without my wonderful,
loving, and supportive family back home. My son, Jordan, now 11 years
old, put up with my constant trips to and from Brazil. While back home, he
gave me endless snuggles and laughter that helped me get through the sec-
ondary trauma that came with working in a neighborhood with so much loss
and violence. I am grateful to his father and stepmother for caring for him
whenever I was away. My mother instilled in me both a commitment to so-
cial justice and the belief that I could succeed at anything I put my mind to.
Thank you, mom, for reading drafts of my book and spending hours talking
me through the stress and anxiety that comes with this process. My father,
sister, brother, and stepmother have been encouraging and engaged in this
long journey, cheering me on as I got closer to the finish line. Thank you to
my partner, Henrique, and my stepson, Heitor, who have been bright lights
on this journey, showering me with love and affection and helping relieve the
xii Acknowledgments

angst that has come along the way. I am also indebted to many friends who
have become like family to me, in particular Elicia Cousins and JoAnn Rojas,
whose constant love and support have become essential to my well-​being.
And thank you to anyone who takes time to read this book. I have written
it for you.
 Survivors

“Survivors”
By Valéria Barbosa (translation by author)

Living in chaos, in crossfire

is to live threatened, at all times threatened.
Not having a voice to be heard is to deepen the wound of the lack of
public policies.
Government enters, power leaves
and the scourge of social differences
floods the being of the favelas.

What to do?
How to live?
Threats on all sides.
Gunshots, hunger, disease, unemployment and silence . . .
Changing this imposed destiny of colonial servitude is the duty of
liberation science. Education!
Schools closed, mouth shut, body shot, eyes in tears

It remains to survive and scream to change this rotten power.

“Sobreviventes”

Viver no caos, em fogo cruzado

é viver ameaçado, em todos os momentos calado.
Não ter voz pra ser ouvido é aprofundar a ferida da falta de políticas
públicas.
Entra governo, sai o poder
e a mazela das diferenças sociais
inunda o ser das favelas.

O que fazer?
Como viver?
xiv Survivors

Ameaças por todos os lados.

Tiros, fome, doença, desemprego e o silêncio . . .
Modificar este imposto destino de servidão colonial é dever da
ciência da libertação. A educação!
Escolas fechadas, boca calada, corpo alvejado, olhos em pranto
Resta sobreviver e gritar pra mudar este podre poder.
 Introduction
Conflict Activism in Rio de Janeiro’s
Gang Territories

Politics in the Park

Latin America’s gang territories, spaces governed in part or in full by organ-

ized drug gangs, are some of the last places one might expect to find non-​
violent activism. The rapid expansion of drug trafficking organizations in the
1970s and 1980s into poor urban neighborhoods across the region, coupled
with routine invasions of increasingly militarized police forces, transformed
these spaces into potent sites for the expanding drug trade and ensuing turf
wars between rival gangs. Residents in these neighborhoods face the constant
threat of being struck by a stray bullet while walking their children to school
or making dinner in their kitchens. They must also contend with the risk of
being intentionally killed by a gang member or police officer for disobeying
their orders, snitching, speaking out against them, becoming embroiled
in corrupt political schemes, or otherwise posing a threat to their power.
Armed conflict and political repression have made collective organizing
for social and political rights so challenging in gang territories that it might
seem impossible. This is compounded by decades of racialized segregation,
poverty, and urban exclusion, which further challenge residents’ capacity to
mobilize. Despite these seemingly insurmountable obstacles, non-​violent
activism plays a prominent role in the socio-​political landscape of Cidade de
Deus—​or CDD as most locals call it—​one of Rio de Janeiro’s most notorious
gang territories.
***
“Come closer, everyone!” Natalia gestured enthusiastically, inviting passersby
to join the circle. She leaned into the microphone in her hand: “Testing, one
two three . . . one two three.” A few feet from our circle, homeless folks set-
tling down on cardboard cots for the night raised their heads in interest. Cars
zoomed by on their way from the city’s downtown to wealthy neighborhoods
nearby. CDD residents descending the bus from a long day of work looked

Activism under Fire. Anjuli Fahlberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197519325.003.0001
2 Activism under Fire

over with curiosity. A sole police officer sat in the park’s bullet-​ridden police
booth behind us, a presence both disconcerting and calming. At any mo-
ment, he could summon other officers to disrupt our group. Yet his relaxed
demeanor also suggested that tonight the police were not preparing to invade
the neighborhood and set off yet another gun fight with drug traffickers sel-
ling drugs just a few blocks away.
“Folks,” Natalia said in her low voice, pushing her glasses up with her index
finger, “we are here to share our opinions about the recent impeachment
vote. If you have an opinion about it, come share it. The favela is never heard,
but our voice matters. Mic, anyone? Who wants to go first?” She smiled at the
other members of Art Talk, a collective of poets, hip hop singers, painters,
sculptors, actors from Cidade de Deus. While their regular event was a
monthly poetry open mic, today was a special occasion. Brazil’s House of
Representatives had voted two days earlier to impeach progressive presi-
dent Dilma Rousseff, a move widely seen by left-​leaning groups as a coup
against the Worker’s Party. It had triggered rage and fear among many CDD
residents, who feared the loss of vital welfare programs under a new regime.
Art Talk members shifted uncomfortably, equivocating about who would
take the mic next. A group of older men playing cards on a table farther back
turned in our direction as more passersby joined in. In an effort to be helpful,
I grabbed the poster I had made a few minutes earlier that read “What is de-
mocracy? Come share your opinion!” With Natalia’s blessing, I began wan-
dering the park inviting people to join our circle.
Natalia handed the microphone to Osmar, a man in his 40s who offered to
read a poem off his phone. His voice echoed through a small speaker, which
he had connected via a long extension cord to the police booth. I marveled at
Osmar’s sleight of hand, having convinced the officer to let us use his outlet
to feed energy to the group’s protest. Osmar paused awkwardly as he scrolled
through his phone looking for his poem. He found it and began to read it
passionately, decrying the injustice of a corrupt political system, pausing oc-
casionally to allow his phone screen to reload. He finished and smiled, em-
barrassed, as the people standing around clapped and nodded in solidarity.
Gradually, other Art Talk members gained confidence and stepped up to
share their views about the latest political scandal, the corruption of their
political system, their distrust of national leaders, and the effects this had
on Rio’s favelas, or poor informal settlements, which had been taken over
by drug traffickers many decades earlier.1 As crowd members gained confi-
dence, their voices raised and they pumped their hands in fists as they raged
 Introduction 3

against the system. Favela residents remained poor, they claimed, even as rich
politicians stole public money. They decried the racism and brutality of the
police, the destructiveness of the unequal distribution of urban resources,
the state’s investments in tourists and the rich at the expense of its own citi-
zens, and the hypocrisy of the war on drugs, which criminalized poor Black
people,2 even as politicians engaged in their own criminal activities.
I looked anxiously behind us at the officer, searching for clues about
whether he was planning to expel or arrest us. He barely glanced at us, seem-
ingly uninterested in the anti-​state, anti-​policing discourses of the group.
Why is he letting us get away with this? I wondered. And why isn’t Natalia
worried about the drug gangs, stationed only a few blocks away? Drug sale
points, located on most street corners in CDD, allowed drug lords to keep
their eyes on the street and oversee the comings, goings, and doings of the
community. Surely they would hear about our protest on their turf. Yet
Natalia appeared unconcerned.
Feeling emboldened by the speeches of other residents, Maria Rita
stepped up to the microphone to add to the collective diatribe against the
state. Though she usually preferred to be an observer in these overtly polit-
ical events, Maria Rita had been infuriated by the impeachment vote. Her
family and I had watched the grueling spectacle on television from her living
room couch as the mostly white male House of Representatives had cast
their vote one at a time in favor or against the impeachment. It had felt like
an extremely long soccer game, with the running vote tally displayed on a
scoreboard behind Chamber of Deputies president Eduardo Cunha. As the
six-​hour vote went on, anti-​Dilma sentiment became increasingly enthusi-
astic. In exaggerated displays of masculine solidarity, the reps applauded and
screamed so loudly their faces contorted and turned red. They high-​fived and
body-​slammed each other with each anti-​Dilma vote, finally hoisting the
representative who cast the deciding impeachment vote aloft, crowd surfing
him across the assembly floor. Maria Rita and her family had found the pro-
ceedings as entertaining as they did disturbing. But animated laughter at the
absurdity of the scene gradually gave way to solemn silence as Dilma’s—​and
the country’s—​fate was sealed. It was not a soccer match, after all.
The morning after the vote, I awoke to a message from Natalia on the Art
Talk WhatsApp text message group suggesting that they organize a public
Open Mic night to discuss the impeachment. Natalia had founded Art Talk
five years earlier to bring together CDD artists. For her and many other local
artists, Art Talk had become a space of not just culture but also politics. Or
4 Activism under Fire

better, politics through culture. They were not able to engage in the types of
mass protests we often see on the news, but in Cidade de Deus, these local
artists were among the most vocal advocates for economic equality, democ-
racy, civil rights, and racial justice. They called the event “Open Microphone
is Politics: Respect the Popular Vote” and scheduled it for Tuesday night.
The Open Mic proceeded as planned. In total, around 10 people from Art
Talk had been able to attend, and they were joined by a handful of passersby.
For two hours the attendees took turns railing against the state and social
injustice into the microphone as others clapped, nodded, or hooted in sol-
idarity. While the event was smaller than Natalia had hoped, it seemed to
fulfill two of her goals: to give CDD residents the opportunity to have a voice
in the political process and to occupy public space with political claims-​
making. Holding the Open Mic next to the police booth, which had so fre-
quently been at the center of gunfire, was a statement that the park did not
belong only to its armed actors, but also to its unarmed residents.
As the Open Mic wrapped up, Osmar asked the police officer in the cabin
to take a picture of our group. He agreed, dragging himself slowly from the
cabin and taking the phone from Osmar. We huddled together as Natalia
made a peace sign with her fingers, and we smiled into the phone—​and at
the military police officer behind it. Standing in the crosshairs between the
police and the drug trade, Art Talk had transformed the park into a political
space, a site for contesting corruption, racism, and violence. It was neither
the first nor the last time residents organized around these issues. The open
mic was one of hundreds of events organized by residents within and beyond
the borders of their neighborhood to demand better conditions for the favela.
But it left me with questions that the rest of this book tries to answer: What
made this activism possible? How did activists manage to organize so pub-
licly without incurring the wrath of the police or drug traffickers? And what,
if anything, did this activism accomplish?

Repression, Violence, and the Spaces of Activism

In its effort to explain how Art Talk and dozens of other groups in Cidade de
Deus have managed to protest violence and social injustice without getting
killed, this book contributes to a much broader conversation about how so-
cial mobilization operates in contexts of extreme violence and political re-
pression. Activism, which I define here as non-​violent collective action aimed
 Introduction 5

at social and political change,3 is never an easy undertaking. Organizing

for social change is a struggle even in countries with strong constitutional
protections for citizens’ rights to free speech, assembly, and protest, as well
as more formal channels for changing laws. Activists face challenges to as-
semble resources, create a unified front, persuade people to act, stand up to
power-​holding elites, and achieve long-​lasting political and social change.
Furthermore, activists are never free from the threat of violence by state
forces, as regular news images of police brutality against protestors in demo-
cratic countries have demonstrated.
Most of the world’s population, however, does not live in countries with
relatively functional democracies that provide political protections and civil
liberties. The 2022 Freedom House report found that 80% of the world’s pop-
ulation lives in a country categorized as “Not Free” or “Partly Free” (Freedom
House 2022). These regimes are often characterized by one-​party systems,
limited (or non-​existent) systems of checks and balances, severe corruption,
restrictions on free speech and protest, and persecution against minoritized
ethnic, racial, or social groups.
Political repression does not operate only at the national level. As the
world rapidly urbanizes, political conflicts and restrictions are rescaled to
cities. Urban centers have increasingly become the sites of ethnic, racial, and
economic diversity, mass migration, national and international economies,
and cultural and ethnic diversity. Consequently, cities are also core areas for
conflict, militarization, and violent repression (Graham 2011; King 2021;
Konaev 2019). Even in “free” countries, like Brazil and Mexico, violence and
corruption at the urban or neighborhood levels limit citizens’ ability to speak
out against oppressive actors and policies. The rescaling of politics to the
urban level also means that many of the images of repression of protest and
activism are taking place in major cities, where both national and municipal
leaders—​and their security forces—​are based.
Restrictions on political rights are sometimes formalized, declared by gov-
ernment officials, or written into state laws and enforced by state-​sanctioned
policing. Just as frequently, however, repression is enforced in more ambig-
uous or informal practices, such as when activists are imprisoned for crimes
they did not commit or when states “hire out” repression to paramilitary
or vigilante groups (Hunt 2009; Sheridan and Zuñiga 2019). Non-​state ac-
tors, such as organized criminal groups, guerrilla fighters, and vigilantes
also play a heavy role in restricting political and social organizing, such as
when they assassinate journalists, human rights’ defenders, members of
6 Activism under Fire

oppositional political parties, and anyone else who poses a threat to their
power (Dueñas 2019). It is not uncommon for officials in the state to en-
gage in corrupt ties with violent non-​state actors, making it difficult—​and
perhaps even irrelevant—​to distinguish between “state” and “non-​state” re-
pression. This constellation of repressive tactics and actors can create an es-
pecially constrained and dangerous landscape in which to mobilize for rights
(Córdova 2019; Krause 2018; Krook and Sanín 2016; Zulver 2022).
Paradoxically, while violent repression constrains activism, it also creates
an even greater urgency for it: the fewer rights people have, the more they
need them. The consequence of punishing activism, therefore, is not the dis-
appearance of organized political and social action, but its reconfiguration
(Almeida 2003; McAdam et al. 2001; Moss 2014). It transforms into what
I think of as conflict activism, or collective action aimed at securing the rights
and needs of a group of people in a context of political repression and the
threat of physical violence. These threats may come from state or non-​state
actors, or, more frequently, from both. While groups may use a variety of tac-
tics to achieve their goals, including deploying their own forms of violence,
this book is interested in non-​violent collective action, which rejects the use
of violence, the threat of violence, or the direct engagement with armed ac-
tors to achieve the group’s goals.
There are many documented strategies employed by conflict activism.
One tactic we often hear about in the news is when dissenting groups engage
in high-​risk oppositional politics, which entails direct confrontation with
the state or other governing actors in order to change policies or practices,
or even demand regime change (Loveman 1998; Staudt 2009; Zulver 2022).
Confrontational tactics can include public speeches against those in power,
the circulation of petitions, sit-​ins, and street protests, as well as more rad-
ical measures like hunger strikes among imprisoned activists and self-​
immolation in public spaces. However, direct activism in contexts of violent
repression is often severely punished through imprisonment and death,
leading movements to lose leaders quickly and forcing remaining members
to change strategies in order to keep themselves, their families, and the move-
ment alive (Ayoub 2010; McAdam 1982).
An alternative approach is to “hide” from the oppressive regime and
instead mobilize underground until the political climate is more open to
change (Lawrence 2017). In some cases, activists may go into exile and
organize the movement from abroad (Gideon 2018; Henry and Plantan
2022; Moss 2022; Ong 2006), or ask transnational allies for help (Keck and
 Introduction 7

Sikkink 1998; Moss 2014; Roth and Dubois 2020). It is also common for
activists to utilize symbolic and more “disguised” forms of protest. For
instance, An Xiao Mina (2019) argues that in China, images of ordinary
things, such as the sunflower and the Gobi desert’s grass mud horse have
become associated with protest against the regime. In other cases, songs,
paintings, books, and other forms of cultural production may convey a
group’s protests. Due to their hidden or double meanings, these images or
works can be difficult for a regime to interpret or to censor (Dunn 2016;
Groves 2012; Johnston 2011). However, symbolic protest can be lim-
ited in its ability to achieve tangible political change if disconnected from
more direct actions, and may also incur the wrath of a repressive regime if
it becomes too blatant or visible. Many movements engage in what Oleg
Yanitsky (2010) refers to as “differentiation,” or a fragmentation between
those engaged in more defiant activities and those focused on more norma-
tive (and safer) efforts.
While these are some of the strategies we have come to associate with con-
flict activism, the activism I observed in Cidade de Deus did not fit neatly into
these configurations. CDD activists did not speak out against drug traffickers
and rarely confronted the police. Nor did they organize underground or
through hidden symbols. Their activities were public, and known to violent
actors. As I describe in greater detail later in the chapter, CDD’s activism
hinged on occupying the political, social, and cultural spaces available for
direct claims-​making, while avoiding more dangerous people and demands.
This included taking advantage of resources on multiple levels, capitalizing
on gendered political spaces, and politicizing normative cultural and racial
frames, while taking their demands to a variety of state and non-​state actors
outside their neighborhood. In many respects, they practiced what Lynette
Chua (2012:714) terms “pragmatic resistance,” or the maneuvering within
openings to the formal legal structures and cultural norms while refraining
from more oppositional mobilization tactics.
In order to do this successfully, CDD’s activism did not conform to the
typical forms and tactics we have come to associate with social movements.
Instead, it employed patchwork politics, collective actions fragmented into
many small-​scale groups or clusters, rather than one cohesive movement.
Each cluster provided a distinct set of resources, organizing strategies, and
political voice to the neighborhood and connected to a diversity of urban
and transnational social movements. Within CDD, this fragmentation
afforded activists a kind of “political invisibility” (Gallo-​Cruz 2020), whereby
8 Activism under Fire

they were known to violent actors but not viewed as politically threatening
to them.
Selina Gallo-​Cruz (2020), in her study of women’s mobilizations in
Argentina, Yugoslavia, and Liberia, found that female activists were often
perceived by regimes as non-​threatening, which in turn afforded them “free
spaces” in which to organize against violence. Similarly, the feminization of
conflict activism in Cidade de Deus, which includes placing women in lead-
ership positions and engaging in “women’s work” of caretaking and social
development, enables CDD’s activists—​whether female or male—​to operate
without being perceived as a direct threat to the masculinized network of
drug gangs, police, and corrupt politicians.
Conflict activism is also racialized. Most activists I got to know identified
as Black and centered demands for racial justice and against racist policing
in their efforts to fight for their neighborhood and broader citizenship rights.
By highlighting favela residents’ shared experiences of racial discrimina-
tion and segregation, activists articulated a public discourse that positioned
them in solidarity with, rather than in opposition to, drug traffickers, who
have also been victims of racist violence. Outside of the neighborhood, their
connections to myriad political actors helped them bring essential resources
and rights to the neighborhood while connecting them to multiple allies and
ideas. The outcome was a segmented but interconnected, feminized, and
racialized sphere of non-​violence that was grounded in Cidade de Deus, but
extended into social movements across the city and the world.

The Activist Underbelly of Latin America’s

Gang Territories

In the last 40 years, Latin America has witnessed significant political

openings and closures. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, the fall of repres-
sive dictatorships across Central and South America gave way to multi-​party
elections, progressive constitutions, expanded rights to free speech, assembly
and protest, and institutionalized systems of checks and balances. Within
these newly established political democracies, populations who had experi-
enced decades, if not centuries, of state repression and social exclusion began
to mobilize publicly, claiming membership and rights within a burgeoning
new civil society (Gohn 2014; Inclán 2018; Paschel 2016; Staudt and Méndez
2015; Stephen 2010; Tarlau 2021). Traditional social movements focused
 Introduction 9

on labor and land rights grew alongside new social movements concerned
with the rights of women, queer communities, people of African descent,
and indigenous groups. Over the last four decades, Latin America witnessed
an era of expanded democratic engagement as members of historically
disenfranchised groups pushed the boundaries of traditional democracy to
broaden modern conceptions of citizenship and political participation.
At the same time that social mobilization was spreading like wildfire
across the region, another phenomenon took hold in Latin America’s poor
urban neighborhoods, which challenged the very foundations of democratic
engagement: the rise of “social violence” between drug gangs and the police
(Duran-​Martinez 2018; Rodgers 2009). In Brazil and many other countries,
drug traffickers took advantage of growing urban inequality by installing
their drug processing operations in the poorest neighborhoods where a
lack of state institutions, coupled with easy access to unemployed young
men, provided the ideal setting for clandestine operations. Drug lords have
gone to great lengths to maintain control over these neighborhoods, killing
those who speak out against them and co-​opting neighborhood associations,
elected officials, and community leaders who might pose a threat to their
sovereignty (Arias 2017; Auyero and Berti 2015; Córdova 2019; Gay 2012;
Molenaar 2017). At the same time, state police forces—​with pressure and fi-
nancing from the War on Drugs spearheaded by the United States—​began
launching brutal raids into these same neighborhoods, sending bullets
flying and homicide rates soaring (Amnesty International 2015; Auyero
and Berti 2015; Diamint 2015; Ramos 2015; Savell 2016). In many of these
neighborhoods, darker-​skinned men have been the most common targets
of police violence, further racializing inequality and the denial of civil rights
(Alves 2019; Vargas 2010).
As urban violence exploded across Latin America, so has the study of
urban violence. In what Eduardo Moncada (2013) terms the “politics of
urban violence,” a vast body of scholarship examines the violent and corrupt
relationships between non-​state armed actors and the state’s security forces
and politicians (Barnes 2017; Davis 2010; Duran-​Martinez 2018; Lessing
2017; Willis 2015). This literature documents the many barriers that impede
residents of gang-​controlled neighborhoods from accessing their political,
civil, and social rights. In these areas, drug lords impose their own rules,
prohibiting residents from speaking out against the drug trade or sharing
any information about illicit activities to state authorities (Córdova 2019;
Molenaar 2017; Perlman 2010; Silva 2008; Zaluar 1994). In turn, drug lords
10 Activism under Fire

provide “security” against petty crime and interpersonal violence—​which

has often meant torturing or executing those accused of such crimes—​as
well as social assistance to needy residents in an attempt to gain legitimacy
and support (Albarracín and Barnes 2020; Arias 2017; Barnes 2017; Penglase
2014). Community leaders and others suspected of subverting gang power
are assaulted, expelled, or murdered, often in horrific, public displays of
“performative violence” intended to reaffirm gang leaders’ control over the
neighborhood (Larkins 2015:13).
In many neighborhoods, drug lords placed their own men in charge of
neighborhood associations and co-​opted locally elected and administra-
tive government officials through a combination of bribes and threats (Arias
2006a, 2017). Even today, local civic leaders remain afraid to speak out
against drug traffickers (Savell 2015; Sonoda 2012). Constant invasions by the
police, along with executions by drug gangs and militias, have transformed
favelas and other poor urban neighborhoods into sites of “chronic violence,”
where high rates of homicides and other forms of physical violence sustained
over many years provoke great social and psychological harm to residents
(Pearce 2006).
The state’s inability—​or unwillingness—​to assert its full control over these
spaces has resulted in a kind of “fragmented sovereignty,” wherein non-​state
actors constantly compete with state security forces to assert physical, legal,
and social control over the neighborhood (Davis 2010). The result is “in-
termittent, selective, and contradictory” violence that is difficult to predict
and challenging to navigate (Auyero, Burbano de Lara, and Berti 2014:94).
Furthermore, although clientelism, or the exchange of favors for votes, has
been common practice in poor neighborhoods for decades (Auyero 2001;
Murillo, Oliveros, and Zarazaga 2021; Nichter 2018), the nature of clien-
telism has changed as politicians became increasingly dependent on the
support of drug traffickers to win votes. A perverse kind of symbiosis be-
tween the favela and the state, based on both violence and illicit ties, sustains
a cycle of brutality that benefits a few while destroying the lives of many more
(Larkins 2015). A “new urban duality” has emerged between gang territories
and the cities in which they are embedded (Koonings and Kruijt 2007:4).
Organizing against drug lords and corrupt state actors has created a mine-
field for community activists. The co-​optation of neighborhood associations
has rendered these political spaces, once central to favela organizing, either
obsolete or outright dangerous for making demands (Gay 2012). While
the nuances of these obstacles vary across Latin American cities, the rise
 Introduction 11

of gangs has decreased electoral participation (Ley 2018), limited commu-

nity engagement (Molenaar 2017), and stymied relationships with political
elites (Córdova 2019). These barriers are compounded by segregated poverty
and social exclusion, which further limits access to political, civil, and social
rights in gang territories.
Not surprisingly, scholars of gang neighborhoods have been quite pes-
simistic about social mobilization under these constraints. According to
Luiz Antonio Machado da Silva (2008:15), distrust between residents has
made it challenging to “collectively articulate an organic and proactive un-
derstanding of shared living conditions,” thereby limiting participation in
grassroots movements and the influence of favela residents in public arenas.
Favela historians have decried the “unraveling of civil society” (McCann
2014) and the corrosion of “law and possibility” (Fischer 2008:314) with the
rise of the drug trade. Favela scholar Janice Perlman (2010), reflecting on the
radical changes in Rio’s favelas between the 1960s and early 2000s, found that
the arrival of the drug trade severely eroded social capital, trust, and activist
networks. Writing about the political shift in Rio’s favelas with the rise of the
drug trade in the 1980s, anthropologist Robert Gay (2012:81) notes:

In Rio de Janeiro, the transformation of the situation from one of polit-

ical solidarity, engagement, and hope to one of retrenchment, isolation,
and fear has been as sudden as it has been dramatic, and has resulted
not only in the virtual collapse of civil society, but also the reemergence
of hierarchical forms of domination associated with the pre-​democratic
era. Poor neighborhoods and favelas in which clientelism and democ-
racy intermingled to create a paradoxical kind of accountability . . . are
now locations in which clientelism not only erodes democracy, but where
the constant presence of violence makes change seem unlikely, if not
impossible.

There is little doubt that life in favelas and other gang territories has be-
come significantly more challenging since their takeover by gangs in com-
parison to previous eras. This shift has required residents in gang territories
to respond to these challenges in creative ways. The most common is by en-
gaging in what I have come to think of as the politics of survival, whereby
people engage in social and economic strategies of adaptation to localized
violence (Deckard and Auyero 2022; Jovchelovitch and Priego-​Hernandez
2013; Silva 2008; Zubillaga, Llorens, and Souto 2019). The politics of survival
12 Activism under Fire

may at times be collective, but, as I understand it, is not explicitly organized

around political and social demands for change. These collectives might
be better conceived as what Asef Bayat (2013) has termed “social non-​
movements,” or lifestyle practices that assert one’s everyday needs in urban
space without making direct claims on political actors.
People in gang territories also deploy what James Scott (1987) defines as
“infrapolitics,” invisible tactics that resist direct confrontation, such as by
using humor (Goldstein 2003) or re-​appropriating discourses of mother-
hood (Veillette and Avoine 2019) to reject physical, social, and symbolic vio-
lence. While there can be great power in re-​writing social norms and scripts,
some of these changes may be at the individual level and may not necessarily
result in collective political action. Finally, some have argued that participa-
tion in gangs is itself a form of resistance to oppression and state violence, as
gang members’ resistance to the police, performances of oppositional cul-
tural practices, and even perpetration of violence can serve as strategies to
reject the roles and scripts imposed on them by an unequal and racist society
(Bourgois 2003; Rios 2011). In Brazil, James Holston (2008) found that the
drug trade used a discourse of rights to demand better prison conditions and
treatment by the legal system, further demonstrating the resistance strategies
employed by armed actors.
Survival, infrapolitics, and organized violence are all important ways of
understanding resistance in gang territories. This book, however, is con-
cerned with another form of resistance: collective action that aims ex-
plicitly to produce social and political change without the use or threat of
violence. Given how many obstacles have arisen to democratic engagement
in these spaces, it is not surprising that those looking back on how things
used to be have emphasized the many closures to activism in gang terri-
tories. My objective, in contrast, is to examine the opportunities that re-
main, or have emerged, for non-​violent collective action with the rise of
gang-​police violence, and how activists in these spaces are reconfiguring
their efforts to keep social mobilization alive in a context of violence and
repression. What I hope to contribute are some foundational concepts and
ideas that enable us to theorize what I think of as the politics of urban non-​
violence in Latin America’s gang territories. I do this by focusing on Cidade
de Deus, one of Latin America’s most dangerous gang territories, where
activism remains a vital, if underreported, part of the neighborhood’s life,
vitality, and ability to both persist and remain connected to the city and
broader social movements.
 Introduction 13

Re-​writing Narratives of Urban Violence

Cidade de Deus is one of Rio de Janeiro’s more than 700 favelas, or “sub-
normal agglomerations,” the formal classification by the Brazilian Institute
of Geography and Statistics (IBGE).4 Located in Rio de Janeiro’s West Zone
(see Maps I.1 and I.2), it is a medium-​sized favela, with approximately 3
kilometers of distance between its two farthest points that someone in
good physical health could cross on foot in about 40 minutes. At the time
of the study, one-​third of households subsisted on less than the minimum
monthly wage and another third subsisted on less than two minimum
wages (Fahlberg, Potiguara, and Fernandes 2020). Although, as Figure I.1
shows, CDD is an urbanized community, over 10% of residents live in auto-​
constructed shacks. It is primarily, though not exclusively, a Black and brown
neighborhood, with only 19% of residents identifying as white (Fahlberg,
Potiguara, and Fernandes 2020). With a population of between 37,000 and
60,000 residents, depending on which study you read, it accounts for less
than 1% of the city’s population (Portela 2017). And yet, thanks to the in-
ternationally acclaimed movie City of God released in 2002 and nominated
for four Academy Awards, Cidade de Deus has become globally known. The
movie vividly depicts the brutal tactics employed by local men involved in
the drug trade against each other and against non-​armed residents to gain

Figure I.1 Cidade de Deus

Photo by the author.
14 Activism under Fire

Map I.1 Map showing the location of Cidade de Deus in the State of Rio de
Janeiro
Source: Tufts Data Lab

control over the local distribution and sale of drugs in the neighborhood.
Corrupt police officers are also prominently featured, as they invade the
neighborhood either to shoot (often arbitrarily) at young Black men they as-
sume are drug dealers or collect bribes from actual drug dealers in exchange
for allowing them to sell drugs. Although the movie is set in the 1970s and
1980s, much of the violence by drug gangs continues today. The movie, how-
ever, has transformed Cidade de Deus from a physical place into an interna-
tional symbol.
For many, Cidade de Deus has become a symbol of criminality and vio-
lence, a place where poor people, lacking a work ethic and moral standards,
resort to laziness, promiscuity, and crime to game the system. I heard
some version of this narrative reiterated frequently by lighter-​ skinned
Brazilian middle-​class friends and acquaintances, often during heated po-
litical debates at barbecues, birthday parties, or gatherings to watch soccer
games. Cidade de Deus, like other favelas, represents the feared and despised
“Other,” the space to which those who challenge the social order of the city
must be removed, relegated, and contained (Amaral 2019; Burgos 2005;
Penglase 2014). This view helps to justify the common belief in Brazil that
 Introduction 15

Map I.2 Map of the City of Rio de Janeiro

Source: Tufts Data Lab

“a good criminal is a dead criminal,” and has been reflected in the speeches
of policymakers. For instance, Rio’s former governor Sérgio Cabral once
defended abortion rights by claiming that abortion would decrease the “fac-
tory of production of delinquents” in favelas (Paiva 2007), and Rio’s more
recent governor Wilson Witzel threatened to send a missile into Cidade de
Deus to solve the problem of its “lazy criminals.”
An alternative narrative posits that Cidade de Deus and Rio’s other favelas
represent intersecting experiences of victimization: the historical legacy of
slavery, political and social exclusion, mass displacement, labor exploitation,
racism, government neglect, and police violence (Alves and Evanson 2011;
Carril 2006; Larkins 2015; Perlman 2010; de Sousa 2003; Valladares 2005).
This perspective is found in scholarly books and journals, documentaries,
the speeches of activists, some investigative journalism, and (occasionally)
the speeches of progressive politicians. The two narratives compete for hearts
and minds, not only in Rio de Janeiro, but across the globe, as spectators
with a fascination often reserved for the most horrific of stories wait to see
what the fate of this little neighborhood will tell us about the state of Latin
American cities more generally. While these narratives are diametrically
opposed in terms of their sympathy for the plight of favela residents, they
16 Activism under Fire

both tend to center violence and poverty as the central themes in the favela
experience.
In this battle for narratives about CDD, however, a voice—​or rather, 60,000
voices—​have been missing: those of the residents. How do they think about
their own neighborhood? What does this community represent to them?
And most importantly, what narrative(s) do they wish to contribute to the
global conversation that has unfolded about them without their consent or
participation? What are the stories they wish to tell?
I found the answer to this last question quite simply: I asked them. More
specifically, I asked my first set of interview participants what stories they
would like to see told about CDD. Consistently, my participants told me
they wished someone would write about the “good things” in Cidade de
Deus: “98% percent of residents are good!” several exclaimed, referencing
a popular (unconfirmed, though plausible) statistic that only 2% of favela
residents were involved in the drug trade. They were frustrated at how often
journalists and scholars focused on violence and believed that this narra-
tive, however well-​intentioned, led to stigma associated with living in favelas
simply by emphasizing some stories at the expense of others. To combat this
view, participants showered me with evidence that there was much more
to Cidade de Deus: the neighbor who ran a soccer league for children, the
group that did art with children in the park, the organization that helped eld-
erly people with physical therapy. These were the stories they wanted told, in
the hopes of combatting the favelas-​as-​violence perspective that has become
so popular. These were the stories residents felt proud to tell, the ones that
made so many declare with conviction, “I am CDD!”
Cidade de Deus, like many other areas of conflict and poverty, has suffered
from what I call epistemic disequilibrium, or a drastic imbalance in the types
of narratives produced about a community or population which, in their to-
tality, create an inaccurate or incomplete image of a place or a people. By
focusing our stories and studies about conflict zones on violence, whether by
gangs or the police, or even the violence of systemic inequality, not only do
we overlook stories of non-​violence, but we inadvertently reinforce the belief
that these spaces are uniquely characterized by violence. This reproduces a
“pornography of violence” (Bourgois 2001) and can also result in a denial
of the heterogeneity, personal agency, and transformative capacity of these
communities. This imbalance is particularly strong in literature on gang ter-
ritories, where the wealth of studies on urban violence in Latin America have
left readers with a sense that in gang-​governed neighborhoods, violence is all
 Introduction 17

there is. It is important to take stock of our field and ask ourselves, or better
yet, our participants, what perspectives seem to be missing.
It is also crucial to acknowledge that many favela residents are themselves
scholars. Renata Souza, Celso Athayde, Marielle Franco, Fernanda Amaral,
among many others are (or, regrettably, were, in Marielle’s case) well-​
established Brazilian researchers who combine their first-​hand experiences
of favela living with scholarly analysis. There are many people from CDD
who have published books, articles, and poems. Their positionality affords
them an insider view of not only the violences levied against favela residents,
but also the survival strategies and forms of resistance borne in response to
violence. Their writings have helped to balance the epistemic disequilibrium
by emphasizing the creative responses of favela residents to injustice.
Once it became clear that CDD residents wanted outsiders to know more
about the good things in their community, I set off to honor their wishes. In
many respects, however, I was not qualified to do so. For one, I was not raised
in a favela and possessed many privileges my participants did not. I was a
white, American academic conducting research in a Black neighborhood
where most residents live near or below the poverty line and have not had
the opportunity to go to college. These differences alone created a significant
imbalance of power between me and my participants. Furthermore, having
received my training in a US institution of higher education, my views were
grounded in epistemologies of the Global North, and I was operating under
the pressures and expectations of the US academic system. The “white gaze”
I carry with me was not only an inescapable aspect of my personal identity
but also a professional hazard (Pailey 2020). I was, and still am, part of an aca-
demic system that perpetuates intellectual imperialism, whereby the theories
produced in the Global North are viewed as superior to the epistemologies
of the “subaltern” from the Global South (Alatas 2000; Connell 2007; Go
2016). I thus arrived in CDD with a great deal of social, racial, and epistemic
privileges that limited my ability to fully understand the local context and
radically increased the chances I would misunderstand and misrepresent
residents’ lived realities. As an outsider, I also wondered (and still wonder)
whether I even had the right to tell residents’ stories.
At the same time, my background and positionality did contribute some
useful resources to this endeavor. I am fluent in Portuguese and have adopted
much of the Brazilian culture after spending nearly a decade of my child-
hood years in Rio de Janeiro and many more years embedded in the Brazilian
diaspora in Massachusetts. This has allowed me to traverse between Rio de
18 Activism under Fire

Janeiro and the US academic system with some ease. My fluency in English
allows me to bring stories from the favela to an international audience, and
my training as a sociologist has afforded me skills in research methods and
data analysis, as well as knowledge of social theories that have helped me
see the workings of activism in Cidade de Deus from a sociological van-
tage point. As one of my participants reflected after reading the first draft
of this book, I became a “conduit of stories,” using my lived experience as
an American academic to render legible what I saw in Cidade de Deus to
an international community. In order to address my limitations and take
advantage of my contributions, I have engaged in a long and fruitful dia-
logue with myriad CDD residents who supported, advised, and critiqued me
throughout the years-​long journey of collecting data and writing this book.
In this process, I have learned as much from and with them as I have about
them. In the following sections, I describe the data I collected and how I drew
on the principles of Participatory Action Research to address inequities and
promote participation and mutual learning throughout my research and
writing process.

Collecting Data in a Gang Territory

Cidade de Deus is not a neighborhood one can just visit on a whim. Heavily
armed drug traffickers are stationed at many street corners and roam the
streets regularly, surveilling residents and paying close attention to those
they do not recognize. Outsiders must enter with a local resident or risk
being questioned—​or killed—​by a gang member. I first visited Cidade de
Deus nearly two decades before my fieldwork began, when I was a young girl
living with my family in a small housing complex that abutted the favela. My
parents had moved from the United States to Rio de Janeiro when I was three
years old, and my mother, a psychologist, had started a program for children
and women confronting sexual and domestic violence in Cidade de Deus.
I grew up hearing about her work and experiences there and visiting family
friends who lived in various favelas. My mother had only brought me to visit
Cidade de Deus once, the day after a severe flood had destroyed much of the
neighborhood and temporarily subdued violence between drug traffickers
and the police. Although we moved back to the United States when I turned
twelve, those early experiences instilled in me an appreciation for the
complexities of poverty and violence. This led me to work as an advocate for
 Introduction 19

domestic and sexual assault survivors, primarily with Latina and Brazilian
women living in the United States and, later, into a more academic explora-
tion of the lived experiences of violence.
When I started fieldwork many years later, I gained entry to Cidade de Deus
thanks to Rosangela, a family friend who was raised there and maintained
an active participation in several community-​based organizations even after
moving to a working-​class area nearby. In 2013, the year before I began field-
work, I contacted Rosangela and we began speaking regularly on the phone.
She offered many insights into what was happening in CDD and what is-
sues residents were discussing. She then put me in contact with Solange,
the director of an afterschool organization I refer to here as Youth Promise.
Solange and I corresponded for several months by phone and email, and
I started volunteering remotely by creating an evaluation for a domestic vio-
lence group she was offering.
When I arrived in 2014, Rosangela and I hopped on the bus from her
house to CDD and she walked with me through the neighborhood to Youth
Promise. At the time, the neighborhood was under a brief period of control
by the military police, who had forced drug traffickers to either flee or hide
their weapons and drugs. This allowed me to walk the streets without risk of
being shot, though many warned me that drug lords still maintained a close
watch on those coming and going. My visible affiliation with Rosangela and
Youth Promise offered me an acceptable reason to be there—​to volunteer
with a youth organization. I continued to volunteer at Youth Promise off and
on for two years, helping with a variety of projects as needed. It was there that
I met Maria Rita, one of the teachers, and we quickly hit it off. During my first
two trips, I lived near Cidade de Deus with childhood friends, but after my
second visit in 2015, Maria Rita invited me to stay with her family in Cidade
de Deus. The following trip, I stayed with her, her older sister Esther, and
Esther’s two sons. We became extremely close, and I continued to live with
them for every visit thereafter. Not only did Maria Rita and Esther teach me
how to safely navigate an increasingly dangerous space and help connect me
with new participants, they also offered invaluable opinions and suggestions
on my project that have played an important role in my own analysis and
writing. They have become like a second family to me, and we remain in reg-
ular contact even as I finish writing this book.
The research for this book is based on many types of data I collected over
the seven years I spent deeply immersed in studying Cidade de Deus and
informed by several studies I conducted after fieldwork was completed.
20 Activism under Fire

Between 2014 and 2020, I conducted fieldwork over the course of nine trips
to CDD. While there, I spent my time volunteering with or visiting local or-
ganizations and collectives, meeting people in their homes and places of wor-
ship, chatting with people on the streets and in local businesses, attending
meetings, presentations, parties, and other events, and traveling to other
favelas and around the city. This segmented approach allowed me to docu-
ment changes and continuities in CDD over time and helped me cultivate
long-​term relationships with dozens of CDD residents with whom I remain
in close contact still today. During my time in CDD, I also conducted over 120
in-​depth, semi-​structured interviews with CDD activists and other residents,
activists from other favelas, staff in urban-​based non-​governmental organi-
zations (NGOs), elected officials, public servants, funders, researchers, and
other relevant actors. I also conducted virtual ethnography over Facebook
and WhatsApp throughout those years, remaining attuned to events and
discussions, and interviewing my participants informally about these over
social media. As urban ethnographer Forest Stuart (2020) has noted, social
media platforms have become important sites of socialization, news sharing,
and political action, and are just as important to our understanding of a com-
munity as physical observations.
I stopped collecting field notes on specific examples of activism in
2018 when Brazil’s far-​right president Jair Bolsonaro was elected to office.
Following his election, activism across the country witnessed a new wave of
threats from its national government and an emboldened conservative base.
However, I continued to conduct interviews on questions related to race
and knowledge in an effort to fill in some pieces I felt were missing from my
original fieldwork. In any event, my core research had reached saturation by
then, as new observations confirmed the findings and theories I had already
developed. I also had the opportunity to present my findings and arguments
to dozens of CDD residents, whose input and ideas lent credibility to my
theoretical conclusions. I further triangulated my data by hosting two book
workshops with the key participants of the book to ensure that my findings
were both safe to share and reflected how activists themselves have experi-
enced their fight for rights and resources.
In addition to this qualitative data, I reference statistics about Cidade
de Deus throughout the book, data that comes from a project I co-​led in
2017 with CDD resident Ricardo Fernandes. This was a neighborhood-​
wide survey of social development, insecurity, and social resilience with 83
questions on health, education, employment, infrastructure, mobility, social
 Introduction 21

networks, and resilience, and the effects of insecurity on these. Ricardo and
I designed the questions based on the input shared in five focus groups we
led with one hundred CDD residents, in which we asked participants to
discuss what issues were most urgent to them and how they handled them.
For instance, the survey not only asked how many children were enrolled in
school but how many days of school they had missed the previous year due to
shootouts, maintenance issues, and teacher absences. We also documented
how many years a participant had been awaiting a vital medical procedure,
as well as whether they had “made a ruckus” (fazer um barraco) to get seen
at the local health clinic. We hired and trained a team of residents from
across CDD to administer the survey by randomly selecting 1–​3 households
or storefronts on each street of the neighborhood. Our team interviewed
989 respondents in total, a sample representative of the racial, gender, and
age breakdown of CDD. The results were published in a full report in 2020
(see Fahlberg, Potiguara, and Fernandes 2020). Since the last census was
conducted in 2010, our survey provides the most up-​to-​date information on
social conditions in Cidade de Deus.

Participatory Action Research

The research for this book was collected using a Participatory Action
Research, or PAR, approach. The roots of PAR trace back to 1970s Latin
America, when mobilization against authoritarianism and economic ine-
quality bolstered demands for progressive politics and participatory forms of
decision-​making among leftist groups in academia and in poor communities.
PAR advocates for a leveling of the playing field between researchers and
participants (Fals-​Borda and Rahman 1991). It recognizes that each indi-
vidual has a unique “standpoint,” or way of perceiving the world based on
their multiple identities (Fraser 1990). In particular, those most “distant”
from centers of power are often best able to see what those at its center cannot
(Collins 1986; Narayan 1998), thereby contributing questions and analyses
to which someone like me may be less attuned. PAR thus argues for the in-
clusion of the research community in drafting questions, determining the
most appropriate methods, analyzing the data, and disseminating findings
(Fine et al. 2021). PAR also advocates for the acquisition of “serious and re-
liable knowledge upon which to construct power, or countervailing power,
for the poor, oppressed and exploited groups and social classes—​ the
22 Activism under Fire

grassroots—​and for their authentic organizations and movements” (Fals

Borda 1991:3). Research, rather than being conducted simply for the sake of
enriching academic knowledge, should serve a political purpose: to improve
the lives of historically marginalized populations.
I have sought to apply these principles in several ways, which I describe
at length in the Appendix of the book and briefly here. For one, I sought
to make my presence in the neighborhood beneficial in some way, how-
ever small. Throughout my time in the field, I volunteered with both Youth
Promise and SpeakCDD!, a community-​based newspaper that Rosangela co-​
founded with Sonia, another Cidade de Deus resident and long-​time activist.
I continued to lend a hand to other organizations and individual residents
whenever possible.
I have also involved my participants in decision-​making about the re-
search questions, methods, and analysis throughout the project. In addi-
tion to asking participants what they wanted me to study, I involved them
in my analytical process, regularly presenting my findings and theoretical
arguments and asking for their opinions and suggestions. Sometimes these
conversations happened formally, with groups of 20 or more people, and
many other times they took place informally as we lounged in someone’s
living room or as I sat with a participant on a long bus ride. Each partici-
pant I spoke with offered a unique and valuable perspective. After I wrote
the first draft, I invited 10 of the main protagonists featured in this book to
read a translated draft of the manuscript and discuss it with each other and
with me. We held two workshops where they shared their comments and
critiques, and I have incorporated many of their suggestions into the final
draft.5 I signal some of these revisions throughout in an effort to acknowl-
edge my participants’ intellectual contributions.
In 2019, several CDD residents and I co-​founded the Coletivo de Pesquisa
Construindo Juntos, or the Building Together Research Collective, in an effort
to create the institutional capacity for more collaborative research projects.
The objective of our collective is to “give voice to the periphery” by collecting
data with, by, and for favela residents. We have since led two additional
projects. Through participation and action, our team has created data that not
only reflects the interests and concerns of residents but contributes to social
action. As one of my participants noted in our book workshop: “Our actions
only make sense when done [in collaboration] with other people’s hands, if it
is done with other perspectives, if it is done with other experiences . . . it only
makes sense when it is complemented by the doing of other people, by the
 Introduction 23

experiences of other people.” I would add that these “other people” must in-
clude those who represent the communities we seek to examine.
While a PAR approach is critical to addressing socio-​political inequalities,
it also contributes to the more academic goal of advancing social theory
about society because, simply put, dozens of minds are better than one.
Through “dialogical reflexivity,” my participants and I, each with different
social locations and lived experiences, come together to explore ideas, de-
bate perspectives, and learn together (Yuval-​Davis 2012). Through these
conversations, we have all arrived at a fuller understanding of what life is like
in a conflict zone and how activism operates in these areas. While no amount
of participation and action will override the multiple historically entrenched
and globally reproduced inequities between me and many of the residents in
Cidade de Deus, I believe PAR moves us a small step in the right direction.
Ultimately, I, like many of my participants, hope this book offers a new nar-
rative about favelas and other areas experiencing armed conflict and repres-
sion so we might begin to think more systematically about the “good things”
happening in the places we often associate only with violence.

Conflict Activism

Conflict activism in Cidade de Deus both does and does not operate in
the ways we typically associate with social movements. According to
Sydney Tarrow (1996:874), social movements are “sustained challenges to
powerholders in the name of a disadvantaged population living under the
jurisdiction or influence of those powerholders.” Donatella della Porta and
Mario Diani (2009:20) add that social movements are “linked by dense in-
formal networks and share a distinct collective identity.” Most of CDD’s
activists have been involved in challenges to power-​holders—​specifically
government actors—​by making explicit demands for resources, progres-
sive public policies, racial and gender justice, and citizenship rights. CDD’s
activists are closely connected to each other as well as to activists in other
favelas and urban and transnational social movements. They publicly es-
pouse a common identity as favela residents working to combat violence and
make demands for their neighborhoods. In both actions and identities, they
are a social movement.
Social movements often coalesce around a set of core demands and
strategies. They also tend to have leaders or spokespeople who are recognized
24 Activism under Fire

as the voice of the movement and who may play a central role in decision-​
making. CDD’s conflict activism, on the other hand, has no leader, no slogan,
and no single issue. In fact, most of the people I profile in this book do not
even call themselves activists, going instead by titles like “community edu-
cator” or “teacher.” Rather, conflict activism in Cidade de Deus is a field of
action, composed of diverse actors, collectives, and organizations with
differing approaches to social change but united by their commitment to
improving the neighborhood and advocating for the rights of favela residents
through the use of non-​violent strategies. They operate differently from drug
traffickers, the police, and local corrupt state officials, refusing to use phys-
ical violence, the threat of physical violence, or any affiliation with “violent
specialists” (Tilly 2003) to make their voices heard or their demands met.
Although clientelist networks have been and continue to be one of the pri-
mary mechanisms by which poor residents obtain basic resources, activists
do their best to circumvent local clientelist networks given how frequently
these intersect with drug traffickers and corrupt security forces.
Instead, they have constructed a sphere of non-​violent politics which
operates politically parallel to and symbolically in opposition to the sphere
of violent politics in the neighborhood. This sphere relies almost exclusively
on licit forms of financial support, such as government grants, funding from
private organizations, and donations from crowdsourcing and thoroughly
vetted individuals. While, like drug traffickers, they also have ties to the
state, these partnerships are based on official collaborations (funded by, say,
a grant from the Ministry of Culture), rather than back-​door deals with in-
dividual politicians. Activists adopt many of the tools of non-​violent resist-
ance. Based on my observations, Cidade de Deus activists engaged in at least
40 of Sharp’s list of “198 Methods of Nonviolent Action” (Sharp 2013). These
included writing letters to demand resources from municipal, state, or fed-
eral elected officials, creating alternative media, such as community-​based
newspapers and a radio station, using art and cultural productions to pro-
test favela mistreatment, holding vigils, performing plays and music, holding
assemblies, writing books and pamphlets demanding rights, refusing assis-
tance from government aides or appointed officials, and creating alternative
social patterns, vocabulary, and norms.
While hundreds of residents are involved in local forms of activism, they
are not organized into one solid neighborhood-​based organization or move-
ment. Nor are local agencies affiliated with an overarching favela-​focused so-
cial movement.6 Instead, favela activists provide an array of direct services,
 Introduction 25

grassroots organizing, cultural protest, and more explicit political work that
are not held together by shared visions or tactics, but by their shared geo-
graphic space and informal ties across collectives. Across Cidade de Deus,
I documented not one but three clusters of collective action, each with a core
set of members, activities, networks, and visions about how to promote so-
cial change. I describe each of these in-​depth in Chapter 2. The collectives in
these clusters align themselves with, and participate in, external urban and
transnational social movements and progressive political parties focused
on a range of issues. Importantly, just as they must navigate local closures,
they have also become adept at taking advantage of resources and political
openings at the municipal, national, and international levels.
Despite several differences in how each cluster works to achieve so-
cial change, they also share important similarities, which are the focus of
Chapters 3, 4, and 5. For one, all favela activists mobilize against violence,
though they do not protest directly against drug gangs or corrupt state
officials in the neighborhood, which would result in immediate threats, ex-
pulsion, or death (Perlman 2010; Silva 2008). While most of us think of vio-
lence as physical aggression, measured by homicide rates and armed conflict,
activists are more concerned with the root causes of these issues. As I de-
scribe in Chapter 1, the physical violence perpetrated by gangs is a symptom
of structural violence, such as economic inequality, residential segregation,
punitive drug policies, neocolonial exploitation by the United States and
other western countries, and the state’s overall neglect of favelas and their
residents (Briceño-​León 2005; Galtung 1969; Winton 2004). Conflict ac-
tivism in Cidade de Deus has focused primarily on addressing these broader
forms of structural inequality, rather than the more immediate physical vi-
olence perpetrated by gangs, which would be too dangerous. They also mo-
bilize against symbolic forms of violence, such as racism, gender inequality,
and discrimination against favela residents. Finally, activists sometimes fight
against more explicit forms of state violence, in particular police brutality
(Alves and Evanson 2011; Dantas, Dantas, and Cabral 2020).
Taken together, favela activists have a multitude of demands relating to
this broader view of violence, not only in Cidade de Deus but across Rio de
Janeiro. According to Rachel Coutinho and Thaisa Comeli (2018:10), “In
Rio’s favelas . . . it is increasingly common for collectives and organizations to
seek to rescue the history of residents and neighborhoods, to report abusive
acts by the State, to fight evictions and white expulsion, to debate internal
minorities within minorities, among other urban collective actions.” They
26 Activism under Fire

also fight to be treated with dignity and equality, and to have their citizen-
ship rights respected. Ultimately, favela activists aspire to a “right to the city”
(Harvey 2015; Lefebvre and Enders 1976) and to be fully integrated members
of urban society: to get good jobs, receive a good education, access and be
welcomed into mainstream urban spaces, be treated by police as citizens and
not criminals, and to have a voice in the public policies that affect their lives.
Conflict activism has been allowed to operate under gang dominion
thanks to its ability to maneuver into the emergent spaces for social action.
In Chapter 3, I explain how the fragmentation and constant fighting between
drug traffickers and the police have created social, moral, and gendered
voids that activists have successfully learned to occupy. While the corrupt
and violent ties between drug traffickers, police, and political cronies govern
the physical territory and local systems of law and order, activists oversee
the capturing and distribution of resources, the social infrastructure of the
neighborhood, and the cultural and artistic development of the commu-
nity. Activist organizations, which are run primarily by women and engage
in what is largely considered “women’s work,” have taken ownership of the
caretaking, social development, and cultural needs of the community. This
distribution of local services reflects a gendered division of governing labor,
whereby the security and formal political spheres of the neighborhood
are governed through masculinized violence while the social and cultural
spheres are run by feminized non-​violence.
Although we have come to think of favela politics as a man’s world, es-
pecially since the rise of the drug trade, women play critical roles in areas
of armed conflict as caretakers of the community and mobilizers for peace,
as well as in more formal political roles (Berry 2018; Cockburn 2004).
Furthermore, women have been central in Latin American politics (Alvarez
1990; Stephen 2010; Zulver 2022), both through gender-​ based social
movements and engagement in political parties or other institutionalized
politics. In Brazil’s poor urban neighborhoods, where gender is interwoven
with race and class exclusion, many poor Black women have developed a po-
litical identity due to their multiple experiences of marginalization, exclu-
sion, and violence. According to Keisha-​Kahn Perry (2013:151), “blacks,
women, mothers, and workers . . . constitute the superexploited, producing
a kind of political militancy necessary to lead social movements.” The Black
women in Rio’s favelas routinely suffer a disproportionate amount of vio-
lence, not only from gangs and the police but also from abusive partners,
employers, business partners, and other predatory men. In many poor urban
 Introduction 27

neighborhoods like Cidade de Deus, these overlapping forms of suffering

have helped to produce a kind of collective identity built upon the shared ex-
perience of exclusion from political power (Baldez 2002; Zulver 2022).
Conflict activism also fills a psychological void. Neighborhoods depend
not only on material resources but also on emotional ones: people need hope
to function. There must be “good things” to balance out the “bad things.”
Activists occupy some of this symbolic space,7 “doing good” when so many
armed residents, police, and corrupt politicians are “doing bad.” In fact, while
drug lords and police maintain their power through coercion, activists govern
through the consent and support of local residents. This creates a tense and
fragile equilibrium. Violent actors remove residents’ rights to peacefully re-
side in and move around their neighborhoods while activists provide spaces
for safety, access to resources, and collaborative decision-​making. They do
what they can to make the neighborhood function as well as possible, while
providing hope that someday things might be better. To be clear, my argu-
ment is not that activists are necessarily more moral than members of the
drug gangs or the police—​there are complex and deeply human reasons
people join these violent institutions. Instead, I argue that non-​violent pol-
itics gains legitimacy in the eyes of local residents because it has been sym-
bolically constructed in opposition to its “immoral” opponents. Activists do
the best they can to live by these standards, but even more important to the
survival of their collective efforts is maintaining the appearance of morality.
Non-​violence, then, is as much a necessary social construction as it is an
internalized ideal and pragmatic response to armed conflict.
These social, gendered, and moral spaces for action reflect the emer-
gent opportunities for collective action in gang territories. However, favela
activists must be strategic in how they take advantage of these possibilities.
While drug traffickers have been willing to share control over social, cultural,
and moral activities, they have less tolerance for sharing political power.
Thus, activists must constantly toe a fine line between not obtaining too much
power or money to be a threat to gang leaders but having enough power to
achieve some success in fulfilling their objectives. It is not sufficient to simply
avoid direct challenges to drug traffickers: activists must never become their
competitors. In practice, this has meant having such a small budget that drug
traffickers would not covet their resources, keeping organizations small,
having many organizers but no single representative, and keeping as much
distance as possible from corrupt political networks.
28 Activism under Fire

While activists have few economic resources, they have something just
as critical: expert knowledge about how to navigate local codes of conduct.
Like other residents, most local activists were born and raised in Cidade de
Deus. They have learned and internalized the social norms of their commu-
nity and know how to avoid confrontations with gang members. The depth
of residents’ local knowledge became clear to me as soon as I arrived and
realized how little I had. Maria Rita and I often joked that we would write
a handbook on how to comport oneself in the favela—​and the book would
be long! In Chapter 4, I argue that conflict activism succeeds in part by
embedding itself within the dominant cultural practices and discourses of
the neighborhood, thereby conforming to expectations of appropriate be-
havior while also making more explicitly political claims for citizenship
rights. I refer to this practice as political upcycling. One particularly impor-
tant form of political upcycling has been emphasizing their commitment to
fighting against racism, which discursively positions Black activists in soli-
darity with Black drug traffickers, all of whom have suffered from racialized
state violence and structural racism. Rather than challenge local norms,
activists embrace the many connective threads that bind them to the favela
and deploy them strategically to mobilize against violence and for the needs
of their community.

Making Gains through Patchwork Politics

How big of a splash can one really make by proceeding so cautiously? For
decades, scholars have been trying to figure out how to measure social
movement “success,” a concept that is as foundational to collective action
as it is elusive to those who study it. Success could be defined as meeting
a movement’s desired outcomes (i.e. its demands), being recognized as le-
gitimate spokespeople for the movement by its antagonists (Gamson 2015),
or “winning major concessions from the holders of power” (Fishman and
Everson 2016:2). Others may define success by a movement’s capacity to ef-
fect long-​term significant social improvements on a given issue, such as by
achieving not only legal rights but also substantive funding for resources and
a shift in how society views the issue.
While these definitions may be helpful for measuring the efficacy of large-​
scale social movements with established leaders, a specific list of demands,
and a large following, it does not carry neatly into Rio’s gang territories,
 Introduction 29

where activism does not have a central leader, a consolidated list of demands,
or a large constituency. Instead, CDD has a few hundred activists and a gen-
eral vision: to make life better for their neighborhood by making the world
a safer, more equitable place. Their successes can be measured in small but
meaningful ways. Every time they help another favela resident gain a new
skill, access food or medical care, get into college, or get a decent job, they
have moved closer in their vision. Every time they contribute to bringing
more housing, more medical services, more jobs, and more schools to the
neighborhood, they have moved closer in their vision. Every time they have
convinced someone that Black is beautiful, that police violence is wrong, that
poverty is a result of inequality and not laziness, they have moved closer in
their vision. With each small step, they have had another small success.
The larger point here is that conflict activists “do” politics differently than
other movements. As Frances Fox Piven and Richard Cloward (2012:xi)
have argued, “popular insurgency does not proceed by someone else’s hopes;
it has its own logic and direction.” In a context of fragmented sovereignty,
spatialized forms of social and economic exclusion, and limited resources,
activism in Cidade de Deus has created a patchwork politics wherein dif-
ferent collectives focus on a range of issues, bring in diverse types of re-
sources, target a wide array of allies, and deploy differing discourses that
in their totality help to produce meaningful changes and improvements to
the neighborhood and beyond. Thanks to the diversity of activities on the
ground, local residents can in the same day enroll their child in a literacy
class run by one collective, register for public housing secured by a second
collective, and then meet a visiting Black American activist at an Open Mic
hosted by a third. These disparate efforts, when seen from a birds-​eye view,
do ultimately enable myriad possibilities for favela residents and for trans-
formational politics. Each activist group contributes a few pieces to a larger
landscape that, when woven together, help to increase resources, curb ine-
quality, address some of the root causes of violence, and ultimately promote
a broad movement toward non-​violence. Armed conflict and repression may
prevent mobilization through traditional mobilization forms, but through
patchwork politics, similar goals can be accomplished, or at least pushed in a
similar direction.
Favela activists have also achieved a challenging feat: they have
constructed democracy in the trenches. They do this by creating spaces of
participatory democracy. In Chapter 5, I examine how activists in CDD have
not only constructed spaces for open and peaceful dialogue but have also
30 Activism under Fire

created partnerships with representatives from the state, private industries,

large urban NGOs, university researchers, and a host of other actors. Lacking
in resources and openings within their neighborhood, activists have reached
outward. Through this process, they have constructed spaces for collabora-
tion, as well as contentious politics, with the state and other actors that push
forward the interests and needs of their neighborhood. In the absence of a
large, “vertical” social movement, activism in Cidade de Deus has developed
horizontally, enabling a plurality of political imaginaries and social practices.
At the same time, there are limits to what conflict activism has been able to
accomplish, thanks largely to the constraints that are embedded within their
organizational configurations. Horizontality may promote plurality and di-
versity, but it limits representation. In previous decades, when neighborhood
associations had elected presidents and community assemblies, these repre-
sentatives could speak for the community and could make demands on their
behalf. They organized large groups of people across favelas to protest, resist
evictions, and take landowners to court. Conflict activism in CDD does not
mobilize large groups that can combat or expel the drug trade. Furthermore,
too much success in mobilizing resources for the favela would disrupt drug
operations by increasing state presence (and control) in these regions, which
would surely incur violent repression. Thus, life in favelas can get better, but
not too much better: an entire branch of the global economy relies on the ex-
clusion of CDD and other gang territories to keep the drug trade alive.
Conflict activism has not changed the world or radically reconfigured
conditions of living in Cidade de Deus. But it has made life better for
thousands of favela residents, who would be in much worse shape if activists
did not organize to provide these services. Activists also play meaningful
roles in urban social movements, progressive politics, and humanitarian
NGOs. And they construct an alternative form of political action in the
shadows of the drug trade, enabling residents to engage in democratic dia-
logue and decision-​making, cultivate non-​violent and often productive ties
to state officials, and fight for citizenship rights even when so many avenues
for activism have been rendered impassable.

A Note on Racial Terminology

I think it’s important for you to put this question in the book . . . it
is important for us to announce to the world the complexity that is
 Introduction 31

racial understanding in Brazil and how much that sometimes stunts

some growth processes that the country can do.
Leonardo’s feedback during our book workshop

While anti-​Black racism is a widespread problem in Brazil, it manifests dif-

ferently than in the United States (Graham 2019). The United States has a
legacy of exclusionary and often legally institutionalized racial politics which
aimed to separate, isolate and subjugate Black communities (Massey and
Denton 1993; Gordon 2022). Brazil, in contrast, is characterized by a mass
process of miscegenation and limpeza de sangue, or “cleaning of the blood
line” through inter-​marriage. Portuguese settlers forcibly impregnated slave
women in an effort to “purify” the African “race” and encouraged inter-​racial
relationships (Wade 2009). Most Brazilians carry some mix of European and
African, as well as indigenous, ancestry, with varying combinations of phe-
notypical features, hair types, and skin colors. Consequently, racism in Brazil
operates along a continuum often referred to as “colorism,” whereby those
with darker skin tones suffer greater amounts and forms of discrimination
than those with lighter skin (Filho and da Silva 2020). This continuum also
makes it challenging for many Brazilians to clearly identify with a specific ra-
cial category. Many people I met in CDD found the question of “What is your
race?” a complicated one.
Given these complexities, I have chosen to deploy racial terminology in
different ways throughout the book. I frequently refer to racism, an “ide-
ology of racial domination” (Wilson 1999:4) in which “the presumed biolog-
ical or cultural superiority of one or more racial groups is used to justify or
prescribe the inferior treatment or social position(s) of other racial groups
(Clair and Dennis 2015:857). Racism can operate against individuals but
also against neighborhoods, such as when the police invade favelas because
of the widespread perception of these areas as Black—​and therefore “crim-
inal”—​communities (Nascimento 2019). Racism is also structural because it
is a constitutive element of the political and economic organization of society
(Almeida 2019). It is therefore embedded within institutions and widespread
practices that result in unequal opportunities for darker-​skinned people and
favela residents.
Whenever I label particular activists or other actors as Black, white, or
pardo (mixed-​race), it is because they have told me this is the racial category
with which they most identify. In the absence of this first-​hand knowledge,
I describe the skin tones and features of relevant actors in order to document
32 Activism under Fire

the racial heterogeneity of, and power imbalances between, the people I am
writing about, but without imposing my own categories onto them. For in-
stance, I frequently observed tensions between private or state actors—​who
were mostly lighter-​skinned and had more features often associated with
whiteness—​and favela activists, who generally (but not always) had darker
skin and more African features. Finally, I explore in several chapters, and in
Chapter 4 in greater depth, how racial categories have been politicized, how
activists have attempted to combat the erasure of indigenous and African cul-
tural practices by reclaiming Blackness and teaching other favela residents
about Black history. In a country where racial identity is both subjective but
also highly consequential in terms of (mis)treatment by police, employers,
and society at large, racial terms and presentations of self become a polit-
ical tool yielded not only by the state but by racial justice activists as well
(Paschel 2016).
 1
Cidade de Deus
A Contested Territory

Cidade de Deus is a great school with Masters who have made a uni-
versity of survival of the floods, of the fire that burned down shacks,
their own and of their friends, of the sacrifice of being relocated a
great distance between their jobs and their homes . . . If it had not
been for the Guardians of this place, “the friends and neighbors”
who took care of our children while parents were working in the
Zona Sul,1 today we would not have a history to tell.
—​Valéria Barbosa, The Great Guardian Masters of Cidade de Deus:
Makers of Destinies.

Survival and Resistance in the Favela

I looked through the window of my taxi as it pulled onto the street corner,
down Jeremiah Road, and into the heart of CDD. I searched for Esther past
the frenzy of pedestrians, cars, bicycles, produce stands, and storefront
awnings with dangling toys and sandals. I knew Esther’s calm gait, dark skin,
thin legs, and short black hair so well I would have easily spotted her in the
crowd. Instead, my eyes descended upon an obtrusive group of five or six
drug traffickers stationed at the boca de fumo, or drug sale point, just a block
down. This was the first of three bocas I would have to pass by on the walk to
Esther’s house. Having just arrived from the airport with two large conspic-
uous suitcases that I would need to wheel past the bocas, I wished I could
have waited in the cab until Esther arrived. I could tell from my driver’s anx-
ious glances and exaggerated swiping of my credit card that he was eager to
leave the area. I exited the car, grabbed my suitcases as the driver lifted them
out of the trunk, and began to make my way down the road and into the
neighborhood. It was a path I knew well, as I had been living with Esther

Activism under Fire. Anjuli Fahlberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197519325.003.0002
34 Activism under Fire

and her family off and on for the last 18 months. Yet the feeling of fear was
always bubbling below, fed by the knowledge that at any moment I could
be questioned by a suspecting drug trafficker or get caught in a shootout.
I maneuvered down a side street hoping to avoid at least one boca, sighing
with relief when I finally spotted André, Esther’s youngest son, heading my
way. He smiled broadly and made his way to me, greeting me with a bear
hug and grabbing the handle of the larger suitcase. Though he had not yet
turned 13, he towered over me. He informed me that Esther had gone to a
different corner to wait for me. “She’s terrible at reading her phone messages,”
André reminded me, rolling his eyes in jest. We chuckled and went looking
for Esther, whom we found a few blocks away. As we walked to their home to-
gether, I tried to shake off the feeling of fear that Cidade de Deus engendered
and focus on the people I was so eager to see again.
Once back at the house, Esther made us coffee with steamed milk and
began filling me in on recent events. Things had been bad lately. Near-​daily
shootouts between the police and drug traffickers had provoked multiple
challenges. Esther had had to close her storefront pizza business, which put
a strain on her finances. Her neighbor’s 82-​year-​old grandmother had been
struck by a stray bullet and was still in the hospital. Because it was so dan-
gerous to move about the streets, André had missed several days of school,
and Maria Rita was forced to stay at work for lunch rather than walk home to
eat with her family.
As if the constant threat of arme conflict wasn’t enough of a problem,
another of Esther’s neighbors had been recently diagnosed with terminal
cancer, and Esther’s injury to her foot was not healing properly. Ismael, a
lanky 18-​year-​old boy whom Esther had taken under her wing, had dropped
out of his high school equivalency course. On top of it all, a pipe had burst
directly into Esther and André’s bedroom a few weeks earlier, flooding it with
several inches of water that took them days to get rid of, created a terrible
stench, and destroyed most of the furniture. CEDAE, the public water com-
pany, refused to intervene, claiming they only fixed maintenance issues in
“public areas.” This infuriated Esther since it was the poor maintenance of
the neighborhood’s pipes that had caused the rupture. “I was crying all the
time,” Esther lamented. I squeezed her arm and gave her a sympathetic smile,
commenting on the injustice of it all. I knew, however, that somehow she
would make it through this, as she always did.
The lament in Esther’s voice belied the tenacity with which she led life.
Like most Cidade de Deus residents, Esther had faced what could easily be
 Cidade de Deus 35

considered an insurmountable number of tragedies to herself, her family

members, and the many people in her neighborhood she cared about. Esther,
like millions of other poor urban residents across the globe, was a victim
of multiple, intersecting forms of violence and social exclusion. However,
Esther was also constantly fighting back in her own creative and stealthy
ways, starting several businesses, becoming adept at a wide range of skills,
forming relationships with resourceful actors across the neighborhood, and
helping her friends and neighbors find jobs, housing, and food. She was a
devout evangelical Christian and often viewed the assistance she provided as
living out her religious beliefs.
While Esther’s response to the “chronic shocks” in her and her kin’s
everyday lives reflected her individual efforts to provide care and action
(Fahlberg et al. 2020), two of her other family members responded to the
injustices imposed on CDD through a variety of collective forms of action.
Her younger sister, Maria Rita, was a computer teacher and the coordi-
nator of an afterschool program for local children and adolescents, as well
as an active participant in several other local social and political initiatives.
Meanwhile, Esther’s 27-​year-​old son Leonardo had co-​founded an arts-​
focused community-​based organization (CBO) and led several racial jus-
tice initiatives in Cidade de Deus and across the city. Several of Esther’s
other family members, including another sister, several nieces, nephews,
and brothers-​in-​law were also active in local CBOs and their workplace
unions. The time I spent in Esther’s household and in dozens of other
spaces across the neighborhood revealed both the challenges that Cidade
de Deus faces due to multiple forms of violence and the range of responses
that residents deploy to face these problems. This dynamic relationship be-
tween externally imposed injustices and internal responses by its residents
has made CDD into a space that is constantly being made, unmade, and
remade.
This chapter provides a description of Cidade de Deus, including the
lived experiences and obstacles its residents must deal with, as well as
the historical processes of exclusion and survival strategies that have
transformed this neighborhood into a contested territory. I understand a
contested territory to be a geo-​political space whose meanings, boundaries,
and hierarchies are under constant negotiation by a host of state and non-​
state, armed and unarmed actors. The most obvious contestation is be-
tween the local drug traffickers and invading police troops perpetually
competing for territorial control. However, ordinary people also resist the
36 Activism under Fire

violence imposed on them through a number of individual and collective

strategies. Some of these tactics are focused on survival and economic mo-
bility, others at airing grievances, and still others at achieving immediate
and long-​lasting social change. When we understand CDD as a contested
territory, it becomes unsurpring that activism has emerged here. This col-
lective, non-​violent action is nested within and supported by the spirit of
resistance which has become an inherent component of the favela identity
and experience (Souza 2020).

Competing Borders

While the neighborhood of Cidade de Deus is well known across Rio de

Janeiro, there are competing understandings of exactly where its borders
begin and end. In Map 1.1, we can see that the Regional Administration—​
the sub-​municipal branch of the government that oversees the maintenance
and building of infrastructure—​has delineated one boundary for Cidade de
Deus. Meanwhile, the area designated as Cidade de Deus by the military po-
lice under the Unidade de Policia Pacificadora (UPP or Pacifying Policing

Map 1.1 The competing boundaries of CDD

Source: Tufts Data Lab
 Cidade de Deus 37

Units) encompasses a broader region. Google Maps, which is consulted by or-

dinary outsiders—​taxi drivers, international visitors, investors, and families
looking to buy real estate in nearby areas—​has yet a third set of boundaries.
To make matters more complicated, residents have their own ideas about
where Cidade de Deus begins and ends. Map 1.1 illustrates each of these
perimeters, showcasing not only divergences in the various boundaries but
also the chaotic experience of trying to follow them all.2
At least some of this confusion can be attributed to the fact that CDD
is constantly exapnding. As families outgrew their homes and new people
arrived, many built new homes in peripheral areas, particularly along the
southern and northern perimeters (see Map 1.2). Some of these areas, par-
ticularly those in the southern area known as Karatê, have grown into ro-
bust informal settlements and are widely considered to be part of Cidade de
Deus. The drug trade—​both their sales and their own homes—​has also ex-
panded into these areas. Given that these areas are extremely poor and have
become hubs of gang activity, they have attracted the attention of the police.
They have also been deemed worthy of demolition. Beginning in 2019, for
instance, dozens of shacks were torn down along the southern corridor to
make room for a new soccer stadium.

Map 1.2 Sub-​neighborhoods of Cidade de Deus

Source: Tufts Data Lab.
38 Activism under Fire

Some of CDD’s more financially stable residents have moved into the
northern area, known popularly as AP2 or AP da PM. This area is rela-
tively wealthier and Whiter than the rest of Cidade de Deus and is com-
posed primarily of brick-​and-​mortar homes. In the community-​wide
survey I co-​led with a team of CDD residents, our team debated about
whether this region should be included in the survey, as many of the
people who live there do not consider themselves CDD residents, and it
is considered by the postal office to be another neighborhood. To make
a more informed decision, we asked hundreds of residents on Facebook
whether they considered this area to be Cidade de Deus. Approximately
half of those who responded said it was CDD and half said it was not.
Some of the reasons given for why it was Cidade de Deus included the
fact that residents had migrated there from the central areas of CDD, that
residents in AP da PM needed social services, and that the drug trade was
selling drugs there. Other residents, eager to distance themselves from the
stigma of living in a favela, opted instead to label their neck of the woods
by its postal service address—​Pechincha—​a neighborhood widely viewed
as more middle-​class.3
The different meanings that travel with outward residential growth sug-
gest that the “favela,” like the “slum” or the “ghetto,” is a social construct based
on a set of shared understandings about what constitutes such spaces. When
the favela, and the social meanings attached to it, expand into new areas,
these areas become stigmatized and face similar treatments. When these
meanings—​including the income and skin colors attached to these stigmas—​
do not carry into new spaces, such as the case of AP da PM, residents could
opt for a non-​favela identity. Choosing between one’s community and one’s
upward mobility was not easy for some of the people we spoke with, but it re-
flected a space for maneuver, agency, and escape. Liza Weinstein has argued
that “the slum” is now “more a matter of politics than of science” (Weinstein
2014:9). It is a term given to the places we think of as underdeveloped, unciv-
ilized, illegal, and therefore deserving of being neglected, bulldozed, or shot
up (Arabindoo 2011). The same can be said for Cidade de Deus. There are is
no agreed-​upon set of coordinates that demarcate the borders of CDD. The
state and private companies are not the only arbiters of CDD’s boundaries,
however: its residents, including both unarmed residents moving into new
spaces or helping to construct meanings and drug traffickers traveling into
these zones of expansion, shift and stretch the physical and symbolic limits of
the neighborhood.
 Cidade de Deus 39

A Neighborhood and a Community

The term favela often evokes certain images: shirtless, dirty children
living with their emaciated mothers in dilapidated shacks built upon steep
hillsides. This is not what most of Cidade de Deus looks like. For one,
Cidade de Deus is flat, having been built several kilometers outside the
downtown area on former plantation land. CDD is also incredibly diverse.
Half of residents identify as Black, another 30% as pardo or mixed race,
and 19% as White. A handful identify as indigenous. CDD’s residents are
male, female, and a handful identify as transgender, and they are of many
ages, sexual orientations, and educational levels.4 Residents practice a va-
riety of religions. Most are Evangelical and Catholic, but some are Jehovah’s
Witnesses. Additionally, in private homes, away from the condemning eye of
local Christians, many residents practice religions with African roots, such
as Umbanda and Candomblé.
Residents also distinguish themselves based on which “part” of the neigh-
borhood they are from. Residents often think about CDD as broadly di-
vided into six different sub-​neighborhoods, each with its own history, parks,
businesses, and different blends of public housing, including apartment
complexes and houses, as well as privately built brick-​and-​mortar homes and
handmade shacks.
Most areas of Cidade de Deus look more urbanized than is often expected
of a favela or slum (see Figure 1.1). Slum upgrading projects in the 1980s
and 1990s helped to pave many streets and install electrical lines and water
pipes throughout much of the neighborhood. According to the 2010 census,
three-​quarters of CDD residents live in a home or apartment they own, and
only 13% are renters (see Figure 1.2). Many of the people I met had lived in
the same house their entire lives, next to neighbors who had also been there
for decades.5 However, approximately one-​tenth of households in Cidade
de Deus occupy informal, self-​made shacks (see Figure 1.3). These shacks
rarely have running water or electricity. The wood and cardboard of which
they are made cannot protect them from bullets. They tend to be clustered
near the least hospitable areas of CDD, such as near open sewage canals and
the swamp.
The southern part of CDD, Karatê, is one of the poorest parts of the neigh-
borhood, and the families living in shacks near the swamp were among the
most vulnerable. When my team and I were assembly the survey, we spent a
day talking to families in the area to capture their experiences. Many families
Figure 1.1 A street in CDD on a calm morning
Photo by the author.

Figure 1.2 “Os AP” or “The Apartments”

Photo by the author.
 Cidade de Deus 41

Figure 1.3 Auto-​constructed shacks (left) across from a public primary school
(right); the school sign is pockmarked with bullets
Photo by the author.

reported that they regularly dealt with rats, snakes, and other dangerous an-
imals, and one woman told me that only one week earlier she had rescued
her toddler from an encroaching alligator. However, residents also took great
pride in what they had achieved despite so many obstacles. One woman gave
me a tour of her shack, which she had built herself with plywood and other
materials from a nearby demolition site. She was pleased with what she had
accomplished. She had secured a bed for her and her 10-​year-​old son, had
managed to connect some electrical wires to a light bulb and a television, and
had decorated her home with colorful rugs and family photographs. Many
of CDD’s other shacks were adorned with small gardens and flags of soccer
teams, and one particularly memorable shack was covered by a house-​sized
sheet with a printed image of what appeared to be the couple’s engagement
photo. While building and living in a shack comes with many challenges
and dangers, the process of auto-​construction also allows for creativity, self-​
expression, and at times, the construction of new practices and subjectivities
(Holston 2008).
42 Activism under Fire

Figure 1.4 A side street

Photo by the author.

CDD has been largely left out of the formal economy, with only 16% of
residents reporting participation in formal employment in our survey in
2017. Nearly a quarter worked informally, and over 30% had no paid work.
Given the challenges of accessing Cidade de Deus, the neighborhood has been
overlooked by large companies. Instead, over 20% of residents have started
their own small businesses or worked for themselves. This has resulted in a
vibrant local economy, particularly in the central commercial areas, which
have shops that sell groceries, clothes, shoes, toys, and small appliances.
There is an abundance of small nail salons, pizza fronts, ice creams stores,
bars, barbershops, and gyms. While money and goods circulate, the informal
economy does not provide enough: one-​third of households lived below the
federal poverty line, and another 34% lived barely above it in 2017.6 In prac-
tice, this meant that while few people were dying of hunger, many could not
afford even basic items, like new clothes, wifi, meat, or a cell phone bill.
There are also many public agencies in CDD, including seven preschools,
nine primary schools that go up through age 14, a technical school for adults,
a local welfare office, a health clinic, an emergency room, and some publicly
funded social service organizations. As I briefly describe later in this chapter
 Cidade de Deus 43

and in greater detail in Chapter 2, CDD’s local activists have played a sig-
nificant role in getting these agencies established and staffed. However, it
was also common for agencies to shut down when the government stopped
paying employees or maintaining the buildings. Even when they did operate,
residents complained about over-​filled classrooms, absent staff, bureaucratic
red tape, and insufficient materials, all of which made it extremely chal-
lenging to actually receive the services presumably being offered.
CDD residents maintain close ties with neighbors, small business owners,
and extended social networks. They congregate in local parks, restaurants,
places of worship, and the streets. Longevity, communal ties, and shared
experiences of marginalization have helped to lay the foundation for social
resilience, or “the capacity for a group of people bound together . . . to sustain
and advance their well-​being in the face of challenges to it” (Hall and Lamont
2013:6). Residents are often quick to lend a hand when others need food,
shelter, transportation, or childcare: it is hard to say no to hungry neighbors
knocking on your front door. In our 2017 study, over 60% of respondents had
helped a neighbor or a friend in the previous two years. The most common

Figure 1.5 Restaurante Cidadão, a soup kitchen in CDD that closed after
two years
Photo by the author.
44 Activism under Fire

forms of help were giving donations of clothing, food, etc., cleaning a public
area, helping people get jobs, and taking care of friends’ children or elderly
relatives or people who were sick. I knew many families who had taken in
extended kin or informally adopted children whose parents were unable to
fully care for them. It was also common for people to help neighbors and
friends find work and for people with cars to provide their elderly neighbors
with rides to appointments. Residents also fixed public equipment, including
playgrounds, benches, and downed electrical wires, when public agencies
did not arrive.
Favelas are often presumed to be on the losing end of “splintering ur-
banism,” wherein the city’s poor are cut off from other urban areas due to
unevenly distributed transportation and communication technology (Addie
2022; Graham and Marvin 2001). In some respects, this is the case for Cidade
de Deus. It can take over two hours to get to Rio’s downtown area, often in hot,
standing-​room-​only public buses. It also suffers from precarious infrastruc-
ture, including electricity that cuts out several times a week, flooding, and
poor wifi access. However, Cidade de Deus is well connected to surrounding
towns, thanks to the development of Rio’s West Zone in the last 40 years. This
enables residents to access a host of commercial and entertainment needs,
while also exposing them to racial discrimination and mistreatment in
mainstream urban spaces, like shopping malls and beaches. Discrimination
is exacerbated by the fact that Cidade de Deus is one of the largest and most
notorious favelas in the West Zone. Residents of surrounding towns tend
to assume that any crime committed nearby—​a mugging on a bus, a home
invasion, a picked pocket—​was committed by “bandits” from Cidade de
Deus. However, residents resist these social barriers by inserting themselves
into the broader urban society and economy. Most residents either own a
phone with internet capabilities or have a family member whose phone they
can borrow (Souza 2010). This enables them to be connected to family and
friends across the city, as well as obtain news, music, videos, and ideas from
national and transnational media platforms.
People are physically connected to the city as well. They are constantly
coming and going from Cidade de Deus to nearby commercial and residen-
tial areas for work, school, shopping, leisure, and everyday tasks like mailing
a package or buying supplies for a party. CDD residents provide critical labor
to surrounding areas in the form of service work in storefronts and nail
salons, construction, domestic work, garbage collection, and bus driving.
Others attend university, and some have jobs in the knowledge economy as
 Cidade de Deus 45

teachers and nurses and in other professional fields. They are also consumers
patronising stores and restaurants in nearby commercial areas. Favela
residents are both pushed out of mainstream urban spaces and also integral
to the urban economy (Alves and Evanson 2011).
Cidade de Deus’s boundaries are permeable to its residents. Given that
most residents have lived in CDD most of their lives and are well known to
the drug traffickers stationed in their part of the neighborhood, residents
are usually able to move about the streets near their home without being
questioned. However, if residents travel into parts of the neighborhood they
don’t visit regularly, they run the risk of being questioned by gang members.
Furthermore, police forces enter on a regular basis and at unpredictable
times. They frequently question residents—​particularly dark-​skinned men—​
and are well known to physically assault residents, imprison them unjustly,
or shoot them. They also initiate gun battles with drug traffickers, sometimes
on a daily basis, putting residents at constant risk of being caught by a stray
bullet (see Figure 1.6). Finally, the ubiquity of guns in public spaces makes
these areas dangerous even on an uneventful day. I recall one occasion in
which I walked just a few feet in front of a young man distractedly swinging
the trigger guard of his gun around on his index finger. It could have gone
off at any minute, and in any direction. On another occasion, one of Esther’s
adopted sons came home and reported that he had witnessed a man shot in

Figure 1.6 A local bakery after a shootout

Photo by anonymous.
46 Activism under Fire

the street after presumably trying to steal drugs. He had said it so casually
I asked him to repeat the story to make sure I had not misunderstood. When
gun-​holding young men get in fights, catch someone they believe is stealing,
or are otherwise suspicious or angry, there is always the possibility that guns
will be used to address the issue and that bystanders will be caught in the
crossfire.
CDD is much less accessible to outsiders. While there are no official
checkpoints that people pass through when they enter, drug traffickers
stationed at main entryways keep a close watch on passersby and sometimes
question people they do not recognize or those who appear out of place, such
as someone who looks lost, stares at drug traffickers, or tries to take pictures
or video of the area on their phones. Taxis and Ubers rarely attempt to enter
the area, and when seeking an Uber one must walk to the main avenue for the
application to work. Favelas have become inscribed into urban technologies
as no-​go zones. Residents who own cars must turn on their emergency lights
and lower all windows when they enter so drug traffickers can see who is in-
side. The primary reason for this surveillance is to keep out undercover po-
lice officers, people who might share information with the police, or anyone
working for rival drug factions or the militia. In practice, this means that if
you do not have a good reason to be there, drug traffickers will likely force
you to leave.
One legitimate reason to enter CDD is to “do good.” Teachers, social
workers, and religious leaders affiliated with an established organization in
Cidade de Deus are perceived as helpful to the neighborhood and are usually
allowed to enter without interrogation. This was my ticket in: as a volunteer
for Youth Promise, I entered and exited their building multiple times a week
so drug traffickers would see me as a social worker and leave me be. Outsiders
may also enter if they are accompanied by a local resident. Finally, outsiders
may also enter to buy drugs or to attend rave parties on the weekends, thereby
sustaining the illicit drug economy without incurring its problems.
This boundary policing helps to retrench the experience of CDD as a com-
munity by reaffirming notions of who “belongs” in such a space. In this case,
belonging is based on neighborhood residency, fluency in obeying local
social norms, and ironically, on exclusion from mainstream urban society.
However, within the dynamic borders of Cidade de Deus, residents have built
social networks, systems of mutual support, and kinship ties that help people
deal with many of the obstacles they face. In the following section, I describe
 Cidade de Deus 47

some of the structural challenges that have made favela life so much more
challenging than other urban spaces.

The Daily Struggles Created by Structural Violence

One of the greatest challenges to residents in Cidade de Deus and other

favelas is the inaccessibility of the many rights and resources promised to
them. As Brodwyn Fischer (2008) argues, the “poverty of rights” among
Rio’s poor is not due to a lack of progressive legislation, but to a lack of re-
sources. Brazil has universal healthcare, through which the federal govern-
ment funded the installation of hundreds of emergency rooms (known as the
UPAs, Unidades de Pronto Atendimento). One was inaugurated in Cidade
de Deus in 2010 (Figure 1.7). However, residents are routinely denied service
because the UPA often lacks basic medical supplies, nursing staff, or doctors
with the necessary specialty. Camilla, one of the coordinators at Youth
Promise, had raised three children in Cidade de Deus. One afternoon at

Figure 1.7 The public health clinic in Cidade de Deus, Centro Municipal de
Saúde Hamilton Land
Photo by the author.
48 Activism under Fire

Youth Promise, Camilla told us about her experience the previous day. After
a visit to the UPA with her 12-​year-​old son Marcos who had broken his arm,
she discovered that “the orthopedist only works on Thursday.” Unfortunately,
it was Tuesday. “I told Marcos, next time, you have to break your arm on a
Thursday!” Camilla chortled, pleased with her joke. But the experience had
not been so funny: she had lost an entire day of work shuffling him from the
UPA to the public hospital in Barra, a 20-​minute bus ride away, where he
was finally seen several hours later. Additionally, as the conflict between the
police and the drug trade escalated, the director of the UPA reported in a
meeting organized by local activists that they had started operating as a “war
hospital,” given how many gun victims they were treating. This diverted re-
sources from ordinary residents to the victims of police violence.
The public services outside CDD also posed challenges to poor residents.
One afternoon, I was sitting on the couch when Esther arrived from the
emergency room of a public hospital in another neighborhood. She had
gone there after feeling her blood pressure drop. She sat on the couch and
told me about the hours of waiting she had endured. “Three died there
today,” she mentioned, almost as an afterthought. “Three died? In the emer-
gency room?!” I’d exclaimed, shocked by her nonchalant tone. One had
collapsed and died in front of her, having been forced to stand in line at the
pharmacy for hours after having had a heart attack earlier that morning.
She had also seen a family huddled outside crying and hugging, which
she assumed was from a second death, and rumors had been circulating
around the waiting room of a third death. While many wealthier Brazilian
residents pay for costly private health insurance to supplement public
healthcare, few favela residents can afford this luxury. The consequences
were severe: Esther had lost many close friends and family members to
cancer, diabetes, and other illnesses that would likely have been treated
successfully if they’d had access to better medical care. Fearing what might
happen if she became complacent, Esther was quick to jump to action when
she felt sick. I lost count of the number of times Esther would travel from
the UPA to the hospital to the health clinic to a specialist, back and forth, in
search of proper care. It was costly, time consuming, exhausting, and con-
fusing, since she frequently received incorrect or contradictory diagnoses.
The process often aggravated the very conditions for which she sought care
(Figure 1.8).
Constant shootouts and fear of drug gangs and the police significantly
exacerbated the already poor social infrastructure and residents’ overall
 Cidade de Deus 49

Figure 1.8 Esther resting on the couch recovering from a leg injury
Photo by the author.

quality of life. Our community survey found that over three-​quarters of

households had mental or physical problems related to the stress caused
from constantly facing insecurity, including fear, anxiety, difficulty sleeping,
sadness, or high blood pressure. I personally knew of four women who died
of heart attacks after they or a loved one was caught in a shootout. Insecurity
created other problems: 88% of children had missed school the previous year
because of shootouts, and 45% missed more than ten days. Three-​quarters
of children had also missed school because of teacher absences and main-
tenance issues, due in part to shootouts that made it difficult for teachers
50 Activism under Fire

and maintenance workers to enter the neighborhood. At least once a week,

I woke up to find André stuck at home because of shootouts. I knew these
unanticipated absences would severely affect his ability to learn, and later to
compete with students from safe neighborhoods in college entrance exams.
It was little surprise that Cidade de Deus’s college-​age residents were only
half as likely to attend university as other Rio residents.
The repercussions of the frequency of school closings, which has been an
endemic problem through most of CDD’s history, has also affected its adult
population: one-​third of our participants reported not completing primary
school,7 and only 34% had completed secondary (high) school. This has
major implications for poverty rates. Within our sample, 14% struggled to
secure employment due to lack of educational qualifications, while an ad-
ditional 8% had been denied employment because they lived in a favela.8
The favela also suffered from poorly maintained and irregular public serv-
ices. A third of residents did not receive their mail regularly. For some, this
meant that work checks or other important documents arrived months
late or not at all. Roads and sidewalks were covered in potholes, parks and
playgrounds were in disrepair, leading to many injuries among children.
Although electricity was costly, power went out regularly, sometimes mul-
tiple times a day, making it very difficult to operate businesses or do any work
that required technology. Almost three-​quarters of residents also had issues
with overflowing sewers, clogged water pipes, and roads that flooded or had
major potholes (Figure 1.9).
Although Cidade de Deus is often perceived as a site of physical vio-
lence, just as pervasive are its struggles with structural violence. According
to Johan Galtung (1969), people often die or are injured without a specific
aggressor. Instead, “the violence is built into the structure and shows up as
unequal power and consequently as unequal life chances.” In other words,
economic, political, and social systems operate in ways that prevent some
(or many) people from living a long, healthy life by denying them access to
existing goods, services, and care. Structural inequities are exacerbated by
symbolic violence, or taken-​for-​granted beliefs that legitimize a relation of
dominance and submission, often by affirming negative beliefs about the
oppressed group (Bourdieu and Wacquant 2004). In Rio, discriminatory
and racist beliefs about favela residents justifies the challenges they face to
survival and mobility (Vargas 2006). This is often manifest in a refusal by
employers to hire CDD residents perceived as irresponsible or lazy, the mis-
treatment of darker-​skinned customers who are suspected of being thieves,
 Cidade de Deus 51

Figure 1.9 A side street that routinely filled with sewage water after rain
Photo by the author.

and support for harsh policing practices in favelas deemed to be pockes

of criminality. In these, and many other ways, the broader urban commu-
nity creates additional barriers to economic and social mobility for favela
residents while reinforcing the idea that they are unworthy of the full rights
of urban citizenship.
CDD residents have developed a range of tactics to confront the everyday
manifestations of structural and symbolic violence. For instance, when our
team asked residents how they deal with poor service at health clinics and
other government offices, they reported they had learned to fazer um barraco,
52 Activism under Fire

a colloquial term for “making a ruckus,” to get assistance. It was among the
few non-​violent “weapons” that they had at their disposal (Scott 1987), an
individual tool of resistance that helped them obtain immediate service,
even if it did little to change embedded structures of inequality (Fahlberg
et al. 2020). If that didn’t work, many residents turned to informal resources,
such as self-​medicating, starting their own small businesses, or fixing public
utilities themselves. Camilla and her neighbors, for instance, had paved their
own road several times because of flooding issues.
These examples showcase some of the many barriers that keep Cidade de
Deus residents from enjoying a “right to the city,” or full participation in the
privileges and benefits of urban living (Harvey 2012). They represent not
only physical but also structural and symbolic forms of violence, and they are
frequently the issues that favela activists point to when making demands for
more resources and rights. However, these challenges are not simply contem-
porary issues; they are manifestations of historical processes of segregated
discrimination, racism, and neglect that characterize the relationship be-
tween Rio de Janeiro and its many favelas.
Cidade de Deus and other urban slums are frequently believed to be de-
fined by scarcity and neglect: they emerge because the state and society refuse
to provide the poor with sufficient resources and opportunities. This is a par-
tial explanation. Modern urban societies are also built on the backs of slums
like CDD and depend on them for both practical and symbolic purposes. For
one, capitalism relies on poverty to function: favela residents provide “surplus
labor,” filling in the gaps of the formal economy as informal and cheap labor
(Perlman 1979). Favelas also serve as the symbolic “other” against whom
ideas about who “deserves” the benefits of citizenship are formed. By looking
down on favela residents, wealthier groups reaffirm their status as “good” cit-
izens who have earned their success through hard work and modern cultural
values. As Engin Isin (2002) has argued, citizenship is founded on differenti-
ation, on distinguishing between who deserves the benefits of full inclusion
in the state and who should be left out. Some groups must be excluded to
make included groups feel worthy. In Rio, favelas have become those sites.
Its residents are viewed as morally and culturally depraved, mired in cultures
of violence and poverty and therefore needing to be excluded and policed.
It is upon this tension between exclusion and inclusion—​being allowed in
just enough to uphold urban hierarchies and their subordinate places within
it—​that Rio’s many favelas, and eventually Cidade de Deus in particular, were
constructed.
 Cidade de Deus 53

Colonial Legacies and the Making of Brazilian Sovereignty

To understand the creation of Cidade de Deus and its economic and sym-
bolic meanings within Rio de Janeiro, one must return to colonial history,
and in particular to the treatment of Black and poor citizens. Between 1501
and 1866, Brazil imported nearly 5 million slaves from Africa. Rio de Janeiro
became a “nerve center” of the Atlantic slave trade, receiving an approx-
imate 2 million slaves during the colonial era (Romero 2014). Portuguese
colonizers relied heavily on Africans, as well as some indigenous slaves, to
grow sugarcane, coffee, and a host of other lucrative crops. Runaway slaves
created autonomous communities, known as quilombos, in which they
set up their own internal economic and social systems, practiced African
religions, and created new cultural forms rooted in those of their ancestors.
In quilombos, writes Lélia Gonzalez (2018:264), there existed “a life parallel
to the life of dominant society, to the dominant culture, to the dominant
class.” For Gonzalez and many other scholars, favelas have become modern-​
day forms of quilombos: racially segregated communities where excluded
citizens resist their marginalization through autonomous counter-​cultural
movements (Leite 2000).
After Brazil gained independence from the Portuguese monarchy in 1822
and transitioned to a republic, the new Brazilian state relied on the policing
of poor Black communities to affirm its sovereignty. Brazil’s first national po-
lice force was formed for the explicit purpose of quashing “internal enemies,”
including poor peasants, nomadic indigenous communities, and runaway or
freed slaves. The Brazilian government frequently labeled these as “pacifi-
cation” interventions aimed at “civilizing” insurgent rebels, though targeted
communities were often slaughtered or taken as sexual slaves (Rodrigues
et al. 2018). National security and state-​building in Brazil thus relied largely
on the killing of its own subjects (Husain 2009). Peter Wade (2009) further
contends that participation in Brazil’s nascent military gave young, mostly
poor men opportunities to perform aggressive masculinity, gaining status
and respect through patriotic violence. Many decades later, the over-​policing
of favelas reflects this legacy of building the state—​and modern notions of
masculinity and citizenship—​through internal warfare against poor and ra-
cially marginalized populations.
While these raids, particularly against Black and indigenous groups, were
often justified by racial hierarchies, which posited non-​White groups as mor-
ally and culturally inferior to those of European descent (Quijano 2000),
54 Activism under Fire

the construction of racial differences was not always convenient to political

elites. As Brazil transitioned from an imperial monarchy to the new Brazilian
Republic in 1889, the appearance of unity and solidarity became critical to
forging a new national identity. In order to build the new nation, Brazilian
statesmen began to deploy a rhetoric of a “racial democracy,” suggesting that
all racial groups had equal access to democratic rights (Goldstein 2003).
While this was intended to strengthen patriotism and willingness to serve
the interests of the country, it was not accompanied by full rights to voting
or citizenship. Citizens were not denied the right to vote based on race.
Instead, exclusions based on literacy, income, and gender prevented the ma-
jority of the population from electoral participation, including women and
most Black and poor men. In practice, Black and brown Brazilians continued
to suffer from state violence and neglect, even as policymakers clung to the
myth of racial equality (Ana 2019; Vargas 2010).
In 1888, Brazil earned the unenviable title of being the last country in
the western hemisphere to abolish slavery. Freed slaves were provided with
few opportunities for upward mobility. Rural peasants were also thrown
into poverty when oligarchs in northeastern Brazil took over rural lands or
sold them off to foreign investors. Rural migrants flocked to Rio de Janeiro
in search of employment and a place to live. Meanwhile (lighter-​skinned)
European migrants, who descended in droves on Rio de Janeiro and other
Latin American cities during WWI and WWII, received a number of social
supports to get back on their feet and integrate into Brazilian society.
Rural migrants arriving in Rio de Janeiro found themselves in a similar
situation to recently freed slaves, having nowhere to live and little access to
well-​paid jobs. With few alternatives, they built shacks on Rio’s hillsides near
their jobs in wealthy residential and commercial areas. The first organized
informal settlement in Rio de Janeiro was built in the late 1800s by soldiers
released from the army after the destruction of one of the largest settlements
of poor people in northeastern Brazil, famously misnamed the Canudos War
(rather than the Canudos “genocide”).9 After the “war,” soldiers—​themselves
from poor families—​were discharged without employment. Many moved
to the growing Rio metropolis looking for work and better life prospects.
With nowhere to live, they built their homes on the Morro da Providência
(Providence Hill), alongside recently freed slaves from the area (Valladares
2005:29). By the turn of the century, many other informal settlements,
known then as cortiços, sprouted up along the hills lining Rio’s downtown
area and wealthy residential districts.
 Cidade de Deus 55

Rio’s population doubled, from 500,000 in 1890 to 1 million in 1920.

Governance over the growing Rio de Janeiro metropolis, the capital of Brazil
until 1960, set the tone for the nation’s urban planning agenda. Brodwyn
Fischer notes that the European influence over racial and social ideologies
and growing urban inequality “helped to convince many elite Cariocas (Rio
residents) that new forms of social regulation—​of criminality, of public
health, of entertainment, even of architecture and urban design—​were nec-
essary to make Rio a fully ‘civilized’ city” (Fischer 2008:23). Rio’s politicians
and bureaucrats took on the role of refereeing social differences, mostly by
ignoring the needs of its poorest residents. Their decisions, Fischer argues,
“laid the foundations for a strikingly bifurcated form of urban growth, both
deepening and broadening colonial inequities” (Fischer 2008:23). Urban
development focused on wealthy, whiter districts, while poor housing areas
were left to their own devices.
For the early part of the 20th century, cortiços remained on the geographic
and symbolic fringes of the city. They were mostly small and fragmented,
lacking infrastructure or a strong collective identity. Around this time,
advances in medicine and public health in the United States and Europe
spread to Brazil and provided urban professional elites the opportunity dem-
onstrate their modernity by applying these “scientific” practices in poor areas,
particularly through sanitation campaigns. However, their commitment to
“sanitizing” cortiços soon turned into a mandate to destroy them altogether.
As fear of disease-​infested settlements spread, anti-​cortiço campaigns took
full force between 1902 and 1906 under Rio de Janeiro Mayor Francisco
Pereira Passos, who razed shacks to make room for “wide avenues and sump-
tuous belle époque architecture” (Fischer 2008:35). Eradication of informal
settlements would, in theory, rid the city of its “primitive” and “uncivilized”
populations and create opportunities for industrialization and urban growth
modeled after European cities.
The city’s population doubled again between 1920 and 1940. Informal
settlements continued to grow as well. They became more organized,
building their own infrastructure, including wells, roads, and internal sys-
tems of governance. They were relabeled favelas, after the weeds that grew
on Rio’s hills. By 1950, approximately 7% of the city’s population lived in
favelas or, as the city formally termed them, “subnormal agglomerations.” It
is around this time that academic research in favelas began to take off as so-
cial scientists became fascinated by these “marginal” spaces (Perlman 1979).
As Licia Valladares (2005) argues, social scientists have played a critical role
56 Activism under Fire

in both reproducing and debunking popular beliefs about the “backward-

ness,” “laziness,” and cultural “marginality” of favela residents.
Rio also experienced major political transitions during this time. In
1930, Getúlio Vargas led an armed revolution against the newly elected
president and took over the presidency. Seven years into a turbulent reign,
Vargas outlawed all political parties and established a dictatorial civil re-
gime called the “New State.” Elections were allowed only at municipal and
state levels. Backed by the armed forces, the first Vargas regime outlawed po-
litical manifestations, censured the press, and imprisoned “enemies of the
state” (Carvalho 2001:113). Despite this, Vargas had widespread support
from the people, particularly those in urban areas, thanks to his promises of
electoral and social reforms and a fierce nationalist agenda that rejected the
traditional oligarchical structure and the control of agrarian elites. Vargas ex-
panded the franchise to women and lowered the voting age to 18. Civil rights
were expanded as well. New labor rights included an eight-​hour workday,
restrictions on child labor, the implementation of work authorization cards,
and a national minimum wage. Retirement and pensions also became legal
rights.
While these social rights were widely beneficial to the working class, they
were much less effective in strengthening citizenship among favela residents.
Access to workers’ rights required employment in the formal economy,
though most favela residents worked in informal employment. Pensions and
other entitlements required a birth certificate and other forms and the ability
to navigate complex bureaucratic structures. Low literacy rates coupled with
a lack of documentation among the poor meant that the obstacles were too
great for many favela residents to obtain the rights provided by the state.
Consequently, demands for infrastructure and social services—​rather than
race-​based civil rights—​became the core struggle among favela activists.
By the 1940s, the lack of political rights began to weigh on Vargas’s
power. In 1945, Vargas was deposed by his Minister of War, only to ascend
to power again after a democratic election in 1950. Vargas’s second regime
spearheaded a wave of political openings, including regular elections for the
president of the republic and national and regional legislative posts, freedom
of the press, and freedom of political organization. Political opportunities
grew in Rio’s favelas as well. By the mid-​20th century, rising literacy rates in
favelas enabled more poor people to vote, thus forcing politicians to give at
least the appearance of advocating for the causes of favela residents. Their
support was inconsistent, however, and usually relied on a clientelist system
 Cidade de Deus 57

of exchanging favors for votes (McCann 2014). Politicians operated in an

old-​fashioned populist fashion called “water-​spigot politics,” wherein local
bosses “registered voters and brought out supporters and politicians, usually
through intermediaries, by granting small concessions” (Fischer 2008:60–​
61), though these social services were usually inadequate and distributed
based on political loyalty rather than need or right.
Many favelas became sites of active social and political organizing, thanks
to both the internal needs of residents and the influence of external actors.
Residents demanded more consistent urban services. They sent letters to
politicians, organized street protests, and spoke out in the press. Among
the most urgent issues were housing rights, particularly in areas where
favelas were threatened with demolition or evictions, and access to urban
infrastructure, including electricity, water, sewage, and education (McMann
2014). Increased attention to the “favela problem” among progressive urban
elites had given birth to a new narrative of favelas as spaces of hard-​working
people with few resources and, for some more radical advocates, as a creative
solution to the drought of urban housing and infrastructure. The growing
Communist Party had come to see favelas as sites for popular mobilization.
Progressive members of the Catholic Church opposed to authoritarianism
and the violation of human rights had also begun to support activist efforts in
favelas. In the 1940s a joint venture between the Catholic Church and the fed-
eral and municipal governments resulted in the creation of Fundação Leão
XIII, which provided widespread social services, including healthcare and
educational services to favelas in an effort to prevent the spread of commu-
nism in some of the largest favelas. Many of these groups also believed that
urbanized infrastructure was a minimum requirement for human existence
and set out to help favela residents obtain greater access to electricity, water,
and public telephones. They also helped created neighborhood associations
and organize collective mobilization against evictions.
In contrast to the urban “ghettos” of the United States, Rio’s favelas had
greater racial diversity thanks to the heavy presence of lighter-​skinned
rural migrants. Nonetheless, favelas were racialized spaces, viewed, policed,
and neglected as if they were entirely Black neighborhoods (Ana 2019;
Vargas 2006). Favelas were subject to regular police interventions to arrest
“criminals” or to provide security for eviction campaigns, while also re-
ceiving far fewer urban resources than Whiter urban neighborhoods. Racial
discrimination was not written into law but became a reality through the
practices of the police, the municipal government, and urban elites.
58 Activism under Fire

While favela residents’ access to infrastructure and other social resources

progressed in a scattered and fragmented fashion, the national landscape
of rights witnessed a decisive fall beginning in the 1960s. For one, the fed-
eral capital was moved from Rio de Janeiro to Brasilia in 1960 in an effort
by then-​President Juscelino Kubitschek to escape, in space and symbol, the
old politics of authoritarianism and corruption by ruling from a newly built
“city of hope,” a utopia for democracy (O Globo 2013). The relocation of the
capital resulted in a decline in both political and economic power in Rio de
Janeiro. Additionally, a great deal of turbulence in national politics had led
Vargas to commit suicide in 1954 in the middle of an economic scandal.
By the 1960s, the country had been led by two leftist presidents. Party pol-
itics was becoming increasingly polarized between progressive populist
leaders and conservative elites. The national economy was also in sharp de-
cline. With support from Brazil’s National Congress and the United States,
which had come to associate all leftist politics in Latin America with com-
munism (Gobat 2013), the Brazilian Armed Forces overthrew leftist pres-
ident João Goulart in response to his plan to socialize the profits of large
companies. Political rights were suspended, and the Congress elected army
general Humberto Castelo Branco as president. Castelo Branco promised
to return power to national industries, to expand foreign trade, and to pro-
mote the political stability deemed necessary for effective economic growth.
Neighboring Latin American countries witnessed a similar fate as the anti-​
communist, pro-​capitalist forces overthrew progressive leaders and imposed
authoritarian regimes. For the next 21 years, Brazil remained under dictato-
rial rule. It was in this context—​of dramatic national change and a complex
and contradictory urban landscape—​that Cidade de Deus was borne.

The “Favelization” of Cidade de Deus

Cidade de Deus was not intended to be a favela. Instead, the first houses in
CDD were built by the state of Rio de Janeiro through its State Company for
Housing (COHAB). COHAB was financed by the National Housing Bank
(BNH), founded in 1964 under Castelo Branco, to “promote construction
and acquisition of self-​owned homes, especially among the classes of lower
income, to increase opportunities for employment and to invigorate the civil
construction sector” (Fundação Getúlio Vargas 2009). It is rumored that
Cidade de Deus (or City of God) was so named in order to convince residents
 Cidade de Deus 59

to take pride in their new community and commit themselves to building a

formal, respectable neighborhood rather than a favela (Marcelino 2013).
Labeled a conjunto habitacional, or housing complex, Cidade de Deus was
designed to accommodate families “relocated” (i.e., evicted) from informal
settlements on land areas slated for redevelopment. It was part of a much
larger political project in the city. Then-​governor Carlos Lacerda had been
elected in 1960 on promises to grow Rio’s industrial potential and to reverse
urban decay by removing unwanted shantytowns. He also believed that if the
city’s poor residents were placed in a formal neighborhood, they would adopt
the “values” and behaviors of the wealthy, which would in turn “transform”
them into “respectable urban citizens” (Valladares 2005). During Lacerda’s
tenure, 140,000 people were relocated, mostly from the areas near Rio’s
beaches, the business district, and wealthy neighborhoods, and displaced to
more distant—​and still undeveloped—​areas. Lacerda received significant
funding from the United States under John F. Kennedy’s Alliance for Progress
program,10 in an attempt to combat the perceived risk of communism in
Latin America’s shantytowns through urban “renewal” projects. Kennedy’s
program was so influential that another housing complex constructed at the
same time as Cidade de Deus was named Vila Kennedy.
Cidade de Deus was strategically installed in the Jacarepaguá region in
the West Zone, which had been identified as a new site for the expansion of
urban industrialization. While the Jacarepaguá region had some commer-
cial areas before the 1960s, most of the land was vacant and undeveloped,
having once been used by large plantations. “You know this land is built over
a graveyard,” Esther had lamented to me once, “We live on the bodies of dead
slaves.” Esther’s comment reflected the continuities in racialized urban devel-
opment. The legacies of slavery and state-​sanctioned violence against Black
bodies remains inscribed today in both physical spaces and the individual
and collective experiences of urban segregation. Since then, many CDD
residents have provided the manual labor for the construction of middle-​
class and wealthy neighborhoods in the surrounding area. Urban redevel-
opment became, in many respects, a new colonial project that continued to
reaffirm the dominance of the city’s white elite, constructed on the backs of
poor Black laborers.
Many residents in Cidade de Deus arrived when it was first being built
and have remained until now, raising families and building a community.
The plan for Cidade de Deus held some promise, at least in theory, for of-
fering former favela residents a decent life. In addition to individual houses,
60 Activism under Fire

to which residents would presumably be allowed to earn the legal titles after
paying them off at a substantially reduced price, Cidade de Deus had elec-
tricity, water and sewage systems, and some paved roads. However, the city
provided the bare minimum to residents and left them to their own devices
to make their homes and the area suitable for living. “We had no door, no
bathroom,” recalled Esther, who arrived in Cidade de Deus at age five in the
first years of its construction. As many residents who had been lucky enough
to receive a new public housing unit told me, the homes lacked internal in-
frastructure, such as a toilet in the bathroom or stairs to the second floor.
From its very beginnings, residents were required to build their own infra-
structure in order to have habitable homes. Those with less luck were put
into smaller and less developed provisional homes, while others were forced
to build shacks or extensions onto family members’ homes. Fifty years later,
many residents maintained a great interest in their neighborhood’s history.
Longtime resident Rosalina Brito created a website to document its early
years, post photos, and share an interview she conducted with Cidade de
Deus’s architect Giuseppe Badolato:

Rosalina: Cidade de Deus was not built for the homeless. Who was it
for, then?
Giuseppe: It was a BNH (National Housing Bank) town planning project for
low-​income people, who would have their own house paying 10% of their
salary and who would provide labor, service for Barra da Tijuca that was
in development.
Rosalina: Were you disappointed in what happened to your project?
Giuseppe: I was shocked when I saw Cidade de Deus abandoned by the
public power, which should continue to invest in infrastructure—​CDD
was not designed to receive so many people.

In contrast to other favelas, which were dealing with forced evictions,

slum demolition, and displacement from natural disasters, CDD was the re-
ceiving site of these urban refugees. While this spared CDD from the threat
of demolitions, it encountered another set of struggles: to provide for the
needs of a rapidly growing and extremely diverse population. In Cidade de
Deus’s first five years, thousands of newcomers arrived from 63 different
favelas. Former Cidade de Deus resident Edir Figueiredo de Mello (2010:40)
writes in his doctoral dissertation that “in the first years of the formation of
the Housing Complex, the dominant representation of it, among a large part
 Cidade de Deus 61

of the residents, was that of a multifaceted space, composed of a heteroge-

neous population differentiated according to origin criteria [i.e., the favela
they came from] and types of home.” This heterogeneity also created conflicts
and distrust between residents.
Cidade de Deus continued to expand at a rapid pace into the 1970s. As
the population swelled, the water and electricity supplies could not keep up.
Roads paved with cheap materials began to break. Sewers clogged and ca-
nals filled with trash. There was never enough housing, medical supplies,
or schools. Already accustomed to making do with few resources, Cidade
de Deus’s residents sprung to action. Some added extensions and second
and third stories to their houses to accommodate their growing families
and others built their own shacks. They paved their own roads, connected
new electrical wires, extended water and sewage pipes, and started local
cooperatives for tutoring and childcare. What once began as a formal housing
complex quickly became informal. Cidade de Deus had been “favelized”
(Neto and Nunes 2012).
“Favelization” elicits a negative sentiment of decay and marginality, of
state neglect and urban exclusion. However, it can also be seen as evidence
of social resilience. Gerardo Silva (2013:43) argues that although the term
favela has many definitions, a central component is resistance and struggle.
For him, “favela is a subjective determination, meaning a desire among the
poor to remain in the city, to build quotidian strategies for a better life even in
situations of precarity, violence and risk.” In fact, the absence of government
leadership in Cidade de Deus’s social development engendered a number
of early efforts to improve living conditions in CDD. Residents began
mobilizing to provide the social services the government either would not
provide, or for which it provided too little to keep up with residents’ needs.
According to former Cidade de Deus resident and author Valéria Barbosa,
many residents played an important role in organizing local development
needs and filling some of the voids left by a neglectful state. Their goal was to
improve urban infrastructure and provide cultural and athletic opportunities
for residents. At this time, a progressive branch of the Catholic Church,
which had been inserted in CDD and many other favelas, partnered with
residents to organize community action projects (Netto 2016). One of the
earliest initiatives was organized by Julio Grotten, a priest sent by the Catholic
Church from the Netherlands, and a local resident, Senhor Nelson. Together
they founded the first social service organization of Cidade de Deus. “This
assistance center,” writes Barbosa, “relied on the volunteer work of doctors,
62 Activism under Fire

provided help to families in difficult situations, and worked in the Church

space itself ” (Barbosa 2012:46). Dozens of informal community-​based or-
ganizations were also established, mostly run on a volunteer basis through
donations with no stable sources of funding. Many cultural groups emerged
as well. According to Cidade de Deus ethnographer Alba Zaluar, by the early
1980s Cidade de Deus had a large samba school, four carnival “blocks,” or
street bands, and several soccer teams. These groups helped bring residents
together and many played a role in the political and social organizing of the
neighborhood (Zaluar 1985:175). These were not without conflicts, how-
ever. These divisions had a spatial logic, representing different blocks of the
neighborhood. Samba schools and soccer teams followed a clientelist logic,
cultivating relations to individual politicians in order to obtain donations
for the team or school and basic goods for participants while helping the
politicians obtain votes from block residents. Nonetheless, cultural groups
and social service initiatives served an important role in addressing the needs
of the neighborhood while also building social ties and solidarity. Gradually,
CDD transitioned from a site of chaos and distrust to a community with col-
lective objectives and actions. At the same time, rising gang conflicts created
new challenges to favela living and organizing.

Early Turf Wars

Unlike older favelas on Rio’s hillsides, which were built in the first half of the
20th century and witnessed decades of peace before the rise of the global
drug trade, Cidade de Deus faced high levels of violence almost as soon as
it was created. As residents arrived from dozens of distinct communities, so
too did local armed gang members. By the 1970s, distrust between residents
sparked local turf wars. Socially constructed differences and hierarchies,
based partly on arriving residents’ various places of origin, came to define
and constrain social networks. Armed young men appointed themselves the
enforcers of security in a context of social distrust. Gangs sold drugs, prima-
rily marijuana, and imposed strict punishments on residents who trespassed
onto a rival gang’s territory. People from one “block” could be assaulted,
raped, or killed for crossing into a rival block.
Violence between gang members wreaked havoc on residents’ lives
and made it challenging for outsiders to navigate the territoriy. However,
their actions should also be understood as a form of resilience in the face
 Cidade de Deus 63

of economic exclusion. Alba Zaluar argues that the actions of drug gangs
“can be interpreted as an individual revolt against adverse conditions,
as a refusal of the types of employment destined to the poor population,
as well as a participation in one of the most lucrative economies that we
know of in the capitalist world” (Zaluar 1985:166). Writing about the drug
trade in Harlem, Philippe Bourgois (2003) argued that state violence and
the exclusion of the poor from decent and well-​paid formal jobs catapult
young men in search of resources and respect into an illicit economy that
relies heavily on violence—​often against their own kin and neighbors—​
as a form of resistance. Having been excluded from the formal economy
and wealthy, White urban spaces, many young men in favelas join gangs
to obtain not only much-​needed money but also social status and respect,
thereby producing a new form of citizenship that takes rights by force
(Holston 2008).
Gangs also provided many practical services that the state did not. For
one, they became the local enforcers of the law, policing a range of criminal
activities, including petty theft, home invasions, domestic violence, and child
abuse, often through the deployment of extremely brutal and public forms of
violence intended to affirm their power (Larkins 2015). Gangs also provided
residents with small favors, such as food donations, gifts for children on holi-
days, and block parties, in an effort to gain popular support.
Despite the gangs’ presence in policing crime, women suffered exten-
sively from violence during this time. Luz, an artist and activist in her early
50s, shared some examples with me of how physical and sexual violence led
to other forms of aggression and social exclusion in her life. “At that time,
the bandits of that period did not have pity for women, no, they would kill
women, raped women, it was horrible,” she recalled. These threats led to an-
other problem for Luz: at age 12, her father ordered her to quit school. He
claimed it was for her safety, though he had long advocated against women’s
education. Public violence offered him a legitimate excuse to promote pa-
triarchal values. Three years later, Luz met and quickly married a boy who
worked at the local butcher shop and moved out of Cidade de Deus. It was
both an escape and an act of defiance against her father. Llthough leaving
Cidade de Deus gave her a reprieve from gang violence, her husband soon
became physically abusive. Several years and three daughters later, she
returned to her parents’ home to escape him. Her path back to her control-
ling father reflects the limits of resistance in a context of constrained housing
and economic precarity.
64 Activism under Fire

Luz was not the only woman to have been caught between spaces of gen-
dered violence. Esther had tried to flee the violence of Cidade de Deus by
going to work as a nanny in a nearby middle-​class neighborhood at age 15.
This lasted for only a year before she had to run away from work one day
when her employer’s father tried to rape her. In Esther’s case, both race and
class inequalities further exacerbated the situation: a Black woman from a
favela, the chances that the police would take an attempted rape report from
her seriously were slim. She left the job, losing both her regular income and
the safety it had provided before the assault.
Violence against women is often overlooked in conflict zones, in part be-
cause men make up the overwhelming majority of homicide victims and in
part because the gendered component of violence is erased in discussions
of political violence (MacKinnon 1994). When it is examined, there is often
a focus on how intersecting forms of inequality—​including those of race,
class, and gender—​produce multiple barriers to safety. While this cannot
be ignored, we must also examine how women consciously navigate these
terrains of insecurity. In her work on intimate violence along the journey
across the Mexico-​US border, Wendy Vogt argues that a focus on “intimate
labors” allows us to recognize the resilience and agency women deploy to
survive and minimize violence (Vogt 2018:137). In Cidade de Deus, the in-
timate labors of Luz, Esther, and many other female residents reflect not
only intersecting forms of victimization but also agentic maneuvering be-
tween sites of violence. They reveal how women strategically moved between
spaces, jobs, and kinship networks in order to maximize their safety and try
to create a better life for themselves.
While gang rivalries created significant obstacles for moving about the
neighborhood, they did not deter residents from working collectively to
address mounting problems with housing, food insecurity, education, and
healthcare. Throughout the 1970s and early 1980s, residents founded three
neighborhood associations in which they gathered in assemblies to discuss
the neighborhood’s most urgent matters and create plans for how to address
these problems. Residents’ associations held elections for leadership posts,
partnered with allies in NGOs and government agencies across the city, and
prioritized structural changes based on rights rather than assistencialismo,
or charity. Among the most well-​established of these associations was the
Council of Residents of Cidade de Deus (or COMOCID), founded in 1968.
“The dictatorship permitted it, the registration of a statute for a community-​
based organization” explained Jefferson, an activist in Cidade de Deus for
 Cidade de Deus 65

many decades, “but our statute had to meet two conditions: It had to be not-​
for-​profit, and it had to be apolitical.” By this he meant that they could not
align themselves with any of the national political parties then emerging
to challenge the legitimacy and political power of the dictatorship, such as
the Worker’s Party and Brazil’s Communist Party. Rather than declare alle-
giance to a political party, COMOCID set out to organize around local needs.
Their projects included registering residents’ land titles and helping them
obtain other legal documents, as well as advocating for better trash collec-
tion and sewage systems and resources to meet educational and healthcare
needs. They spearheaded a petition asking the state to build a public health
clinic, which was ultimately successful: the Hamilton Land Municipal Health
Center, inaugurated in 1979 on Cidade de Deus’s main avenue, continues to
serve hundreds of residents a day.
The efforts of residents’ associations was aided by the establishment of sev-
eral state agencies to connect favela residents to the state. The Fundação Leão
XIII, for instance, was founded in 1947 by national decree with the goal of
integrating favela residents into the urban fabric by promoting “the moral
and cultural elevation” of favelas (Valla 1981). In 1974, it was linked to the
state’s Urban Social Center (Centros Sociais Urbanos). National and munic-
ipal investments in these programs aimed to decrease communist, anti-​state
sentiment among the urban poor. Both institutions encouraged residents to
organize into (apolitical) associations, providing trainings for favela youth,
organizing local vaccination campaigns, and financing cultural events. CDD
activists also found allies in local agencies. “We had a strong relationship
with the doctors [at the health center], many of whom were [politically] on
the left,” a former COMOCID leader explained to me. They also partnered
with professors and students at publicly funded universities to design a new
housing plan for residents living in shacks and held several forums with
teachers and other allies working for the state to discuss how to extend and
improve public education.

Power Consolidated under the Comando Vermelho

The internal structure of drug gangs changed in the 1980s. The newly es-
tablished drug trafficking organization known as Comando Vermelho, or
the “Red Command,” took over Cidade de Deus and forced a truce between
rival block gangs. Ben Penglase argues that the Comando Vermelho, or CV
66 Activism under Fire

for short, was the “bastard child” of the dictatorship (Penglase 2008:125).
It was formed in Rio’s prisons, where the dictatorship had incarcerated
both petty criminals and political “subversives.” The two groups conspired
together to insert Rio de Janeiro into the growing global drug economy.
When Brazil’s dictatorship fell in 1985, hundreds of prisoners were
released, and the leaders of the new CV went to Cidade de Deus and other
favelas to enlist local gangs into their new economic project. Two other
drug factions emerged as well, taking over other favelas. Favelas became
the ideal locations in which to process cocaine and marijuana and pre-
pare them for sale or export. According to de Souza, most of Rio’s favelas,
located in twisty hillsides, could not be easily accessed by police patrol
vehicles, allowing drug traffickers to hide drugs, guns, and people from
invading police (de Sosuza 2005). Furthermore, informal criminal gangs
already operating in CDD and other favelas provided the new drug
factions with easy access to an existing, albeit fractured, drug infrastruc-
ture and many unemployed young men. CV leaders—​with connections
to violent criminals across the city—​subdued or bribed block gangs and
appointed “managers” to run the drug operations for each block. In a per-
verse capitalist logic, a focus on growing their entrepreneurial strength
through cooperation significantly decreased daily shootouts between
neighboring rivals while also increasing their economic and political con-
trol over the neighborhood.
The growing power of the CV in Cidade de Deus and many other favelas
gave the state’s security apparatus an ideal new target. No longer charged
with apprehending “political dissidents” under the dictatorship, militarized
police forces in Brazil’s new democracy set out to take down the CV, which
was quickly establishing a “parallel state” within favelas (Leeds 1996). The
rise of the CV also took on a symbolic dimension, representing the connec-
tion between the “threats” of political uprising during the Cold War and the
“new threat” of narco-​trafficking (Rodrigues 2016). According to Thiago
Rodrigues, Ronald Reagan further promoted the “mechanism of the inces-
sant production of enemies,” thereby solidifying the ties between the United
States and Latin America on the basis of fighting the “global threat” of leftist
narco dissidents (Rodrigues 2016:68–​69). The fight against drug gangs in
Latin America had not only political but also economic objectives. As Dawn
Paley (2014:4) argues, the War on Drugs is in fact part of a “war strategy that
ensures transnational corporations’ access to resources through disposses-
sion and terror.”
 Cidade de Deus 67

The consequences of this “drug war capitalism” were devastating to

Cidade de Deus, as well as other favelas. Just as the consolodiation of the
CV helped quell inter-​gang fighting, a new violence spread between invading
militarized police forces and a heavily armored CV. Rates of homicides and
“death by acts of resistance” (i.e., murders by on-​duty police officers com-
mitted supposedly in self-​defense) skyrocketed. Ten thousand people were
killed by police officers in acts of resistance between 2000 and 2010 across
Rio de Janeiro (Misse, Grillo, and Neri 2015). Many residents described their
memory of this time to me. “I saw people dying, you know,” reported Luz.
“Here, a lot of people dying. Many of my friends who came here . . . died.”
Nearly all of my participants had lost a family member to drug-​police vio-
lence, many killed in gruesome ways.
Meanwhile, the CV set about institutionalizing its power by co-​opting
neighborhood associations and local politicians. Those working or speaking
out against the CV, whether residents, outsiders (such as teachers or so-
cial workers), or government officials working in the neighborhood, were
quickly and brutally expelled, bribed, or assassinated. What had been a cha-
otic and decentralized cluster of street gangs transformed into a highly struc-
tured and powerful illicit economic and political system that maintained its
power by instilling fear in residents, controlling everyday behavior, and po-
licing subversion. Even as democratic openings expanded across Brazil in
the 1990s and early 2000s, a topic I explore in-​depth in Chapter 2, an author-
itarian governance flourished under the CV within the borders of the neigh-
borhood. Their control was limited to favelas, however. Most of its leaders
could not leave the perimeter of the neighborhood, lest they be caught by the
police and imprisoned or killed. The CV also did not have broader political
ambitions, such as taking over the government; it was motivated primarily by
economic gain. Political control of favelas was necessary insofar as it allowed
their daily operations to function smoothly.

Organized Violence and the De-​Politicization of Activism

Transformations in the politics of violence in CDD had a chilling effect on

community organizing. While at first the cease-​fire between block gangs
allowed neighborhood associations to recruit members from surrounding
blocks, this was soon stymied as the drug trade closely surveilled the social
actions of the neighborhood and began to threaten community organizers
68 Activism under Fire

who opposed their power. COMOCID was dismantled. Geovana, one of

COMOCID’s leaders, resigned in the 1990s after she was brutally beaten
and raped, likely by a man hired by local political rivals. The residents’
associations that did remain were co-​opted by drug lords, sending activists
fleeing. Another local organizer was murdered by drug traffickers after he
began to secretly mobilize residents in opposition to the drug trade. Rumors
of the brutality with which he was killed circulated—​and still circulate—​
among activists, spreading fear and preventing any organizing that interfered
with the CV. The drug trade proved a greater obstacle to local organizing
than 20 years under the dictatorship.
As residents’ associations disappeared or became depoliticized, activists
turned their attention to less explicitly political tactics, moving away from
party politics and political organizing and toward addressing social and cul-
tural issues, as well as more symbolic practices. Among the most memorable
was the First of May Rendezvous (Encontro), a day in which activists invited
all cultural groups—​samba schools, soccer leagues, artist collectives, the-
ater groups—​as well as local food vendors and musicians to hold a large fair
in the middle of CDD’s main avenue. The event shut down the street and
brought great public attention. “It was an affront,” explained one of its leaders
to me, “both to the existing powers in Cidade de Deus and to . . . all the rich
neighborhoods that didn’t want us to close down the street.” Residents placed
barricades in the streets and celebrated local culture and community. The
event was a great success for many years. The activists I interviewed recalled
the event with nostalgia as an example of how residents from many different
social and political circles banded together to assert their right to occupy
vital urban space. It ended abruptly in 1997 when the inauguration of the
Yellow Line, a major highway that cut straight through the heart of Cidade
de Deus, displaced hundreds of residents and made the main avenue a core
artery for travel from wealthy neighborhoods and the urban center. The state
forced residents to move the event to a distant, small area until it eventually
fizzled out. Activism, however, did not stop. Activists adapted to a changing
physical and political landscape to create new strategies to demand urban
rights and improvements to the neighborhood. Cidade de Deus was, and re-
mains, a site of contestation, even as some avenues for change are rendered
impassable. However, with each transition, activists bring with them their
history of resistance, social networks, external allies, and repertoires of col-
lective action that can be reconfigured and redeployed as new closures and
challenges arise.
 Cidade de Deus 69

Destruction and Development

The history of Cidade de Deus, like that of other favelas, is not only about
destruction but also about development. Although the state has done little
to help and much to harm Rio’s favelas, it also relies on the cheap labor, tax
dollars, and votes of favela residents. It aspires to see not the total but only a
partial destruction of favelas: enough to keep residents alive and working,
submissive and subservient. At the same time, Brazil—​like many other
countries in the Global South—​aspires to gain and maintain legitimacy
on the international stage. High rates of urban violence and inequality can
become an embarrassment to political leaders who are made to look in-
competent. Rio de Janeiro, like many other cities, promotes just enough de-
velopment to maintain an image of economic progress and a commitment
to democracy.
In CDD, state investments in development have come in fits and starts,
often sparked by a combination of internal changes and external pressures.
Between 1980 and 1990, the favela population of Rio de Janeiro increased
by 41%, and many favelas became so large they could not easily be destroyed
and relocated. The increasing strength of the CV and other drug factions over
these neighborhoods further challenged the ability of the police to enforce
evictions. After decades of “urban renewal” projects that promoted mass
evictions and displacement of favela residents, city officials finally began to
accept that favelas were there to stay. Support for investing in urban develop-
ment in favelas replaced the previous policy of displacement.
At the national level, Brazil’s dictatorship was crumbling in response to
growing international pressure and a national debt crisis. In 1982, direct
elections were held for state governors for the first time since 1965. Leftist
governor Leonel Brizola was elected on a platform of investing in the social
needs of the city’s poor and working classes. He appointed socialist anthro-
pologist Darcy Ribeiro as Secretary of Special Projects, and together they
opened 500 Centros Integrados de Educação Pública (CIEPS, Integrated
Centers of Public Education), most of which were installed in or adjacent
to favelas. “The goal was not merely to educate,” writes favela historian
Bryan McCann (2014:93), “but to make the CIEPs the engines of deeper so-
cial reforms” and to transform the harsh realities of the city’s favelas. One
CIEP was built on the outskirts of Cidade de Deus and still operates today,
providing technical courses and a secondary education night school. In
1989, Brazil inaugurated a universal healthcare system, known popularly
70 Activism under Fire

as the SUS, which provided critical health care services to millions of favela
residents.
In 1996, Cidade de Deus experienced a disastrous flood that is still etched
into the neighborhood’s collective memory 20 years later. Cidade de Deus’s
untended canals, clogged with trash and tree trunks, overflowed after several
hours of heavy downpours, sending over a meter of water and mud into most
homes, and completely destroying many shacks. Over twenty years later, I still
vividly recall walking through CDD’s muddied streets with my mother and
sister. Images of the devastation—​wrecked shacks, piles of rubble, the bodies
of those killed in the flood covered by tarps, a doll, children’s flip flops—​
remain etched in my mind. I can only imagine the impact it has had on those
who lived through it. Accounts varied about the number of deaths: some
estimated 50, others 100. Esther believed it was many more: “There are a lot
of bodies that were left, they gave some estimates but not all the bodies were
found . . . There was a lake that [people] had covered up [to build shacks
over] . . . but that used to have a whole other community. People couldn’t
leave because of the lake . . . they were stuck and died . . . They were buried.”
For Esther, the tragedy was not only that they died, but that their lives were
never counted: “They went away with their houses, documents, everything.”
When the bodies and the documents were washed away, they had ceased to
count. They never died because, according to state records, they never lived.
This was the most egregious example of citizenship denied (Glenn 2011).
While the flood of 1996 continues to be remembered as one of the most
traumatic events in CDD’s history, it also paved the way for greater govern-
ment investments in Cidade de Deus’s physical and social infrastructure.
Media coverage about the flood awakened both the government and private
companies to the need for greater attention to and investments in the neigh-
borhood. Esther recalled how many donations of clothes, appliances, furni-
ture, and mattresses were sent to the area. Residents took advantage of these
external resources, quickly rebuilding the neighborhood.
In 2002, another event brought renewed attention and resources to CDD.
Fernando Meirelles produced a movie based on the book Cidade de Deus,
authored by former resident Paulo Lins. It showcased the extreme violence
of Cidade de Deus’s drug traffickers in the 1970s and 1980s, with a backdrop
of poverty and informality. It was not intended to be an ambitious project
and was made on a tight budget, casting several local residents who were on
screen for the first time. However, the extreme violence and “exotic” setting
captivated international audiences. By 2003, it had been nominated for four
 Cidade de Deus 71

academy awards and had won several international prizes. It made its way
onto movie screens and television sets across the world. Suddenly, Cidade
de Deus’s reputation as a violent neighborhood went global. With the spot-
light now cast on Rio’s severe issues with urban inequality and violence, the
mayor of Rio de Janeiro, Cesar Maia, turned his attention to the area. The
city’s reputation with the international community became an impetus for
development.
In 2003, the mayor and his Secretary of Security Luiz Eduardo Soares,
created the Entrepreneurial Forum of Rio, which brought industrialists,
private investors, the World Bank, and other weighty actors to the table to-
gether to invest in Rio’s favelas. With much advocacy from local activists,
Rio’s municipal government helped to fund the construction of 618 new
public housing units and a public preschool in one of the poorest areas of
the neighborhood, and it began construction of a secondary school. These
investments have been mired with challenges, however, which I describe in
detail in Chapter 2. In a published narrative about Cidade de Deus’s history,
residents offer the following reflection on the role of the state in their neigh-
borhood: “We (Cidade de Deus) are the consequence of years of short-​term
and discontinued projects—​schizophrenic projects permeated by clientelist-​
electorate interests, tempered with corruption . . . We are children of me-
diocrity and a lack of seriousness by an exclusionary and centripetal state,
with a few rare and honorable exceptions worthy of our respect” (Comitê
Comunitário de Cidade de Deus 2014). Development in CDD comes in
waves, as growing violence and poverty eventually generate sufficient tragedy
or public humiliation to garner the attention of the state and private investors.
Under pressure from outsiders, they promise to invest more resources into
the area but ultimately do so begrudgingly and unevenly (Fahlberg 2019). As
the rest of the book demonstrates, activists stand ready to capitalize on these
ebbs and flows of public attention, ensuring that external opportunities are
directed into material changes in CDD.

A Temporary Peace

By the time I began fieldwork in Cidade de Deus in 2014, the neighborhood’s

appearance had changed completely from that depicted in the movie. In ad-
dition to being much more urbanized, there were no men selling drugs on
the streets. On a handful of occasions, armed police officers from the military
72 Activism under Fire

police’s Pacifying Policing Unit, or UPP, drove past me as I walked down

the road. I had arrived five years into a controversial “pacification” project
spearheaded by then-​Governor Sérgio Cabral and his newly appointed
Secretary of Security Mariano Beltrame. The UPP program aimed to expel
armed drug traffickers from the city’s many favelas and impose a “policing of
proximity,” characterized by 24-​hour surveillance by specially trained mil-
itary police officers and more dialogue between the police and community
leaders. As in previous instances of development under pressure, the UPP
had sprung from Rio de Janeiro’s newly appointed role as the host of the 2014
World Cup and the 2016 Summer Olympics. As the international spotlight
again descended upon Rio, new resources were invested to contain violence
and promote favela development.
The UPP in CDD began its work in late 2008 when the military po-
lice launched a series of planned invasions in armored vehicles known as
caveirão, or big skull. Invasions were sometimes announced ahead of time on
the television or shared through clandestine channels in order to give drug
traffickers the opportunity to leave, rather than stay and fight. Most chose to
flee. Several were caught and executed or apprehended, and the remaining
put away their guns and moved around CDD as civilians. In February
2009, Cidade de Deus was declared “pacified.” Four UPP precincts were
then installed throughout Cidade de Deus. A similar process (with varying
degrees of “success”) took place in many other favelas. A total of 38 favelas
or favela complexes were appointed a UPP precinct, accounting for almost
half of Rio’s 1.6 million favela residents according to the state government
(Governo do Rio de Janeiro 2014). Rates of homicide reportedly dropped by
as much as 75% in some favelas. Early polls suggested that residents in occu-
pied territories were overwhelmingly supportive of the intervention, noting
that shootouts had decreased, people felt a greater sense of safety and stability,
and everyday life could finally run as it did in other urban neighborhoods
(Cano, Borges, and Ribeiro 2012). Investments were brought in through the
“UPP Social,” a social service initiative administered by the state govern-
ment in areas with a UPP presence. Cidade de Deus received a number of
“public-​private partnerships” as well. The UPP Social also provided courses
to residents, such as karatê and ballet classes. Many were taught by officers in
the UPP force.
Residents had a mixed reaction to the UPP. As I have noted elsewhere,
most residents I talked to believed that the UPP brought peace and safety,
which allowed them to travel throughout the neighborhood without
 Cidade de Deus 73

the constant fear of being shot (Fahlberg 2018). This peace was also sym-
bolic: it transformed the favela into an ordinary urban neighborhood, de-
fined in part by the constitutional right to come and go. Finally, residents
who participated in the social programs offered by the UPP, or whose chil-
dren participated, and even those who just heard about them, were excited
to see investments by the government in their neighborhood. However,
most Black men I interviewed were opposed to the UPP, as they were fre-
quently the victims of unprovoked and physically violent police searches.
Furthermore, few residents believed the UPP would stick around very long;
most beneficial government interventions did not last. Many scholars and
racial justice activists had a more critical perspective, contending that the
UPP program represented strategies of “humanitarian militarism” (Savell
2016), neoliberal accumulation (Freeman 2012), and the amplification of the
“penal state” (Franco 2014) which further entrenched racial segregation and
militarization (Alves & Evanson 2011).
By 2017, the peaceful era of CDD under the UPP had become a distant
memory. In 2014, Comando Vermlho drug traffickers began to reclaim parts
of the neighborhood, selling drugs openly on street corners and parading
through the southern part of the neighborhood with exposed weapons. This
was exacerbated by an economic recession in the State of Rio de Janeiro be-
ginning in 2015. One-​third of the budget for public security was cut in 2016,
freezing the salaries of police and other public employees for several months.
Rumors began circulating that UPP officers were accepting bribes from drug
traffickers to allow them to sell drugs in some areas of the neighborhood. In
response, the more aggressive arm of the military police, known as the BOPE
(Battalion for Special Policing Operations) began to invade in their armored
vehicles, often sparking armed confrontations with drug traffickers. As one
resident explained to me, “The UPP comes for money, the BOPE comes
for blood.” In 2015 drug traffickers became more audacious, gradually set-
ting up bocas de fumo closer to the commercial areas of the neighborhood
and waging occasional drive-​by shootings of UPP precincts. By 2016, drug
traffickers were selling drugs on every major street corner and shooting back
at the police, who now invaded almost daily. Homicides returned to pre-​UPP
rates, and people again were forced to hunker behind furniture or throw
themselves onto the ground as bullets flew around them.
The UPP, like most state interventions, was temporary. It provided yet an-
other example of uneven development, reflecting only a partial and tenuous
interest in affording favelas resources that were just enough to stay afloat but
74 Activism under Fire

never sufficient to experience more permanent security and urbanization.

By 2017, not only were gangs, drugs, and shootouts back, but structural vio-
lence, including poverty and high unemployment rates remained high. The
UPP also did little to change local organizing practices. Activists, like other
residents, assumed that the CV had continued to surveill the neighborhood
even at the height of the UPP’s power and would eventually return in full
force. To prevent gang retaliation once the UPP left, residents and activists
continued to operate as if they were still under the control of drug traffickers.
I describe these practices in greater detail in Chapter 3.
The UPP has nonetheless become a meaningful event in the history
Cidade de Deus. Economic investments into local infrastructure and new
social programming may have been insufficient, but many believed they
were better than nothing. Some of the projects started or funded by the
UPP Social helped to provide residents with supplemental education, gave
children opportunities to learn new skills, and provided some infrastruc-
ture improvements to parks, fields, and other public areas. As I describe in
Chapter 2, the UPP also provided an opening for collective action, helping
to fund some cultural collectives and decreasing the distance between favelas
and the state. While this distance grew again after Dilma’s impeachment,
some of the seeds sown under the UPP are now bearing fruit, which I dis-
cuss in greater detail in Chapter 2. The UPP also had an important symbolic
value: it provided residents a glimpse into what life could be like if it were
free of violence. For many, it was the first time they felt like urban citizens in-
stead of urban outcasts. While most of the activists I profile in this book were
fighting for their rights to the city long before the UPP cleared the streets of
drug gangs, other residents were now able to envision what a safer and more
developed CDD might look like. Many young people coming of age under
the UPP joined local organizations and movements in hopes of finding peace
again, but without militarized policing.

Conclusion

Cidade de Deus is not only a neighborhood, it is a space that is constantly

being re-​created by both external and internal forces as the state and myriad
armed and non-​armed actors struggle for control and survival. As the gov-
ernment intervenes through bursts of investments coupled with waves of
security and development initiatives, residents employ a range of creative
 Cidade de Deus 75

strategies to survive, adapt, help their neighbors, and resist state violence and
urban exclusion. Not all responses are defined by non-​violent collective ac-
tion. Many strategies of resistance are individualized and not explicitly polit-
ical, and some are violent. But in their totality, these many practices reflect a
broad terrain of contestation. It is within this terrain that activism has taken
hold, building off the efforts of local residents constantly searching for new
ways to fight against the broader forces that push them out of urban society.
Even residents not directly involved in local social movements have played
vital roles in creating a neighborhood that enables activism. Rafael, a volun-
teer teacher at a local afterschool program, shared with me all of the different
ways he had supported social movements. These included teaching, hosting
children’s parties, writing grants, sweeping floors, and many other activities.
For Rafael, each person contributed something of value, even if this value
was not always acknowledged or rewarded:

I think that there is no such thing, for me there is no differentiated work,

each one has its importance, everyone has their importance. Intelligence
is not unique. An astronaut is not more cultured than a guy who sweeps
the street. These are functions that depend on each other in the world, in a
universal context, we depend on each person to do something. You depend
on the guy who made the notebook for you to write, understand? So, these
are practical things where we have this perception, it is a way of looking [at
things], it is a perspective that many people do not have.

While most Cidade de Deus residents were never directly engaged in con-
flict activism as I have conceptualized it in this book, they make up the com-
munity around which activists rally. Their problems are the problems that
activists work to address, and their contributions, whether directly through
local collectives or indirectly—​as family members, friends, the local barber,
teacher, or garbage collector—​are essential to the scaffolding upon which po-
litical and social action is laid bare. By engaging in their own, unique forms
of action, adaptation, and resilience, they help create an environment in
which the politicization of everyday problems is not an aberration but a cen-
tral component in the meaning of favela living (Souza 2020).
 2
Milking the Resource Matrix
Democracy, Development, and Digital Devices

Mobilizing Political Opportunities

Many of the activists I got to know in Cidade de Deus had been involved
in collective action for decades. Sonia was among the most well-​known and
respected activists I interviewed there. When I asked her about what life had
been like growing up Cidade de Deus, she immediately began recounting
her engagement with social action. According to Sonia, her spirit of activism
was inspired by her mother, who was among the early pioneers of CDD’s
social movements. Her mother participated in a women’s group in one of
the local residents’ associations in the early 1970s, before it was co-​opted by
drug lords. She was also a poet and songwriter and served as a zeladora de
santos, or “caretaker of saints,” in the spiritist Afro religions of Candomblé
and Umbanda.
Her mother’s engagement with political, cultural, and social issues rubbed
off on Sonia. In the early 1980s, when Sonia was 16, she and her friends de-
cided to start a theater group. “We were watching the violence in Cidade de
Deus, all this stuff happening, sitting in the samba school, listening to the
drums beating and we started talking, like ‘Let’s start a theater group?’ ” she
remembered. “We wanted to protest, to show our community, through art,
the things that were worrying us about Cidade de Deus.” They began to pro-
duce plays addressing social themes like domestic violence, sexuality, pros-
titution, and LGBTQ rights, and they held workshops to promote members’
political consciousness. The group surged to 60 members and found finan-
cial support from the state-​run Instituto Leão XIII and other public and pri-
vate agencies. Sonia explained how she and her colleagues persisted: “Even
though Cidade de Deus had problems, which happened a lot, the drug
war will never end, right? From the moment that money rolls, then things
get complicated. But even then, in this period, we were doing it, always
participating in social movements here inside Cidade de Deus.”

Activism under Fire. Anjuli Fahlberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197519325.003.0003
 Milking the Resource Matrix 77

Sonia remained active in the local cultural scene, but also went on to serve
as a school monitor at a public school and became an active member of the
teachers’ union. In 1997, a group of CDD residents with university degrees
started a college entrance course in the neighborhood. Sonia enrolled in the
class and with great effort got into college and received a degree in social
work, enabling her to get a job as a public servant. As opportunities for par-
ticipation in collective action shifted, Sonia adapted to the changing political
landscape. However, the continuities between these efforts remained salient
for Sonia:

The social movements here inside Cidade de Deus are always making
demands and something here that is very precarious, not only in Cidade
de Deus, but also in communities1 in general: the lack of public policies,
right? . . . we feel the absence of this government investment, you know,
public policies, but even so, we are always making demands, joining forces,
for us to achieve our goal. That’s our goal here in Cidade de Deus.

When I met Sonia in 2014, she was 48 years old and still very involved in
local social movements. She had become a poet, like her mother, and reg-
ularly attended Art Talk Open Mic events. She, along with her close friend
Rosangela and several others, started a community-​based newspaper that
shared stories about “the good things” in Cidade de Deus while also critiquing
government neglect and abuse in the neighborhood. The newspaper was
founded thanks to a collaboration between a journalism program at a prom-
inent university in Rio de Janeiro and local residents. The journalism faculty
provided CDD residents with trainings and student interns to help keep the
newspaper running, though Sonia and her colleagues did most of the heavy
lifting chasing after stories, interviewing locals, collecting data, and writing
the articles. Sonia also remained engaged with several community-​based or-
ganizations (or CBOs) in the neighborhood, collaborating on a range of so-
cial and cultural projects.
In Chapter 1, I argued that activism in Cidade de Deus is situated within
a contested territory, produced by both external forces and a variety of in-
ternal forms of resistance. As Sonia’s story suggests, among these legacies
of resistance was a variety of organized non-​violent forms of action, which
many older activists still alive today had participated in throughout their
lives. While not all of the activists I met in Cidade de Deus were old enough
to boast such a lengthy history of social action, the legacy of organizing in
78 Activism under Fire

Cidade de Deus provided contemporary activists with repertoires of collec-

tive action, or “arrays of known possible interactions that characterize a par-
ticular set of actors” (McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001:49). Over the years,
activists have learned from their own and each other’s experiences, taking
advantage of educational and financial opportunities and creating strategies
they could draw upon to adapt to changing contexts.
Throughout her life, Sonia’s activism was also shaped by external
opportunities. These included the growing popularity of unions, funding
from both state and private agencies, federal affirmative action policies
for Black and low-​income Brazilians to enter university, and a host of
programs that provided education and facilitated networks between
activists in Cidade de Deus and external institutions. These resources re-
flect openings in the political opportunity structures or “exogenous factors
[that] enhance or inhibit prospects for mobilization, for particular sorts of
claims to be advanced rather than others, for particular strategies of influ-
ence to be exercised, and for movements to affect mainstream institutional
politics and policy” (Meyer and Minkoff 2004:1457–​58). While Sonia’s ac-
tivism was engendered by her personal drive—​inspired by her mother’s
activism—​it was also shaped by the repertoires of action she developed
over the years in concert with other activists and by resources, allies, and
openings outside of her social network. Sonia’s activities and forms of mo-
bilization shifted over time, accommodating to external possibilities as
they came and went.
In this chapter, I examine how these external political opportunities have
shaped the repertoires of collective action in Cidade de Deus. I describe three
different “clusters” of non-​violent collective action that compose the terrain
of favela activism in contemporary Cidade de Deus: transformative assis-
tance, community militancy, and cultural politics. I identify some of the po-
litical and economic openings that have enabled their rise. These openings
can be traced to several global, national, and municipal shifts, which include
(1) new rights and resources that emerged with the transition from dictator-
ship to democracy in the 1980s; (2) increasing funds for favela development
with the rise of progressive populist leaders, including the election of Rio de
Janeiro’s leftist Governor Leonel Brizola in 1982 and the rule of the Worker’s
Party over Brazil from 2002 to 2016; and (3) globalization and the democra-
tization of information communication technologies (ICTs), which enabled
favela activists to gain entry into—​and resources from—​the global public
sphere.
 Milking the Resource Matrix 79

These political opportunity structures have created what I term a resource

matrix: an array of economic, social, political, and cultural openings that
offer a scattered landscape of supports to social mobilization. It is particularly
important to consider this resource matrix in areas of conflict, where leader-
ship and politics are fragmented. While much has been written about the
importance of political opportunity structures in promoting social change,
these opportunities do not simply arrive at the door of marginalized groups.
CDD’s activists have played a vital role chasing after external resources and
configuring their collectives to gain access and membership to emergent
political institutions and openings. In a neighborhood characterized by a
dearth of private or public resources, conflict activism survives by “milking”
the resource matrix, capitalizing on every opportunity that becomes avail-
able, while still working toward their larger goals of improving the neigh-
borhood and promoting broader social change. A key role of activists in
conflict zones, then, is to identify, access, and bring external resources into
their community and to utilize them creatively to resist violence and address
inequality. In CDD, activists succeed at milking the matrix by “clustering”
around particular sources of funding, political practices, and external allies.
Activists become proficient in how to access them, developing ties with the
actors who can connect them to those resources and learning the discourses
and practices used in each space to signal worthiness of particular types of
support. In other words, the fragmentation between these clusters reflects a
divide-​and-​conquer approach, whereby residents disperse in order to capi-
talize on the variety of political opportunities opening at different times and
via distinct avenues.

Democratization and the Expansion of Rights

Like much of Latin America, Brazil was under dictatorial rule for more than
20 years—​from 1964 to 1985—​which restricted many of the political rights
allowed under more democratic regimes. The dictatorship criminalized
many forms of contentious politics and imprisoned and killed dissidents,
including politicians, activists, and intellectuals. It abolished direct voting
and in 1968, suspended habeas corpus for those arrested for threatening
“national security.” The death penalty was legalized and newspapers and
other media outlets were severely censored. Nonetheless, groups continued
to mobilize against the regime. Workers’ unions organized massive strikes
80 Activism under Fire

to demand better wages. Among the most vocal and charismatic leaders
of union organizing was Luiz “Lula” Inácio da Silva, a founding member
of the Worker’s Party who would, 30 years later, go on to be elected presi-
dent of the country. While the conservative branch of the Catholic Church
supported the dictatorship, progressive priests who subscribed to liber-
ation theology played an important role in speaking out against the re-
gime. The Worker’s Party and progressive leaders in the Catholic Church
became influential in favelas, working with residents and neighborhood
associations to spearhead grassroots organizing around housing rights
and “popular education” aimed at increasing literacy and critical thinking
among the poor.
For many years, the dictatorship maintained power in part by inflicting
terror and in part thanks to significant improvements in the national
economy during the late 1960s and 1970s, which were widely hailed as Brazil’s
“economic miracle.” By the late 1970s, however, skyrocketing inflation, un-
employment, and poverty sparked widespread discontent towards the state.
Across Latin America, other authoritarian regimes were also facing in-
ternal pressures from mass street protests of unhappy citizens. International
human rights organizations worked with activists across the region to spread
accounts of political violence by dictatorships to US and European audiences
and called for accountability of repressive regimes and open elections. With
pressure from the United States and Europe, authoritarian regimes began
to weaken, ultimately conceding to democratic elections. As the dominoes
began to fall around Brazil, a transition to democracy seemed imminent.
Massive street protests emerged across major Brazilian cities as Brazilians
demanded “Diretas Já!,” referring to direct representative presidential
elections.
In 1982, democratic elections were held for state governors for the first
time since 1965. The military regime hoped they would win elections,
thereby reinforcing their power through “legitimate” means. While many
allies of the military’s political party did win elections, opposition parties,
including the growing Worker’s Party, also won seats and grew their political
power and legitimacy. In 1985, the first presidential election in 20 years was
held through an indirect electoral vote. President-​elect Tancredo Neves died
before he could take office, however. José Sarney, the representative of the op-
posing party who had been listed on the ballot as vice-​president to appease
the opposition, took office instead. His reign was disastrous, as were those
of his successors. The currency changed four times over the following eight
 Milking the Resource Matrix 81

years in the middle of six different experiments with economic stabilization.

Mary Kinzo (2001:8) argues that this “succession of failures not only aggra-
vated the economic and social crisis, but also compromised the capacity of
the state to govern, making the problem of governance a permanent reality.”
However, democratic openings continued to emerge. The literacy
conditions for voting were lifted and rights to free expression, press, and
public assembly were reinstated. Activist leaders and left-​leaning polit-
ical parties collaborated to design Brazil’s 1988 Constitution, which was
lauded as one of the most comprehensive and progressive constitutions in
the world. It guaranteed a broad array of political, civil, and social rights,
expanding entitlements related to retirement, the rights of people with
disabilities, and maternity and paternity leave (Fleury and Pinho 2018).
Penalties for racism and torture were increased. The new constitution also
guaranteed universal rights to healthcare, which laid the foundation for
the inauguration of a universal healthcare system two years later. In 1989,
the first direct presidential election was held. Three years later, President
Fernando Collor would be impeached for embezzling public funds during
a period of high inflation and economic instability. Brazil’s economy finally
stabilized in the late 1990s under President Henrique Fernando Cardoso
and continued to improve after the election of President Luiz Inácio “Lula”
da Silva in 2002.
Despite, or perhaps because of, the poor governance of its leaders, Brazilian
citizens have taken advantage of the democratic abertura (or opening) to or-
ganize thousands of social movements around a wide variety of issues. From
labor and housing rights to identity-​based movements around indigeneity,
Black rights, and gender rights, among many others, social organizing has
proliferated in Brazil. Brazilian cities have become important hubs of pro-
test, and it is now common for people to launch strikes and street protests.
In 2013 and 2014, for instance, millions of Brazilians took to the streets in
reaction to a hike in bus fares. As protests grew, participants also demanded
better healthcare and education, more accountability for corruption and po-
lice violence, and more employment, among other things (Ricci 2014; Vicino
and Fahlberg 2017). The favela activism I witnessed after 2014 emerged in
this wider context of mobilization across the country for an array of issues
and demands.
Brazilians have faced several highs and lows in their journey to re-​
democratization. On the one hand, the shift to democratic elections enabled
citizens, including favela residents, to vote in largely fair multi-​ party
82 Activism under Fire

elections. This has resulted in the election of many progressive politicians

at the national, state, and municipal levels who have supported significant
social and cultural initiatives, described in the following section. Protections
guaranteed by the new constitution also provide favela activists and other
social movements the right to organize and make public demands for their
rights, to speak out against government officials, and also to work collabo-
ratively with the state—​luxuries that people in many other conflict zones do
not have. At the same time, many of these rights are limited by police vio-
lence against protestors, as well as the war on drugs described in Chapter 1,
which overwhelmingly targets poor Black people in favelas. The biases in the
legal and criminal justice systems result in a “disjunctive democracy” that
violates the civil rights of Black Brazilians, who are unable to benefit in prac-
tice from many of the rights they have on paper (Caldeira and Holston 1999).
Finally, as the impeachment of Collor and the imprisonment of Lula in 2017
for fraud demonstrate, corruption has remained endemic in Brazilian poli-
tics. Democratic elections are not, on their own, enough to curtail centuries
of clientelism and political manipulation, or to ensure that elected officials
will govern effectively.
Despite these challenges, there is a meaningful difference between
organizing collective actions in a country with expansive political and civil
rights and mobilizing in one without these protections. While Cidade de
Deus is replete with political closures, it is also embedded in a democratic
country, however imperfect. The conflict activism in Rio’s favelas benefits
from a progressive constitution and the right—​at least in law—​to organize
and engage in both contentious and collaborative politics with the state. The
activism I witnessed also benefited from stability at the urban and national
levels, as elections were generally viewed as legitimate, and there were no sig-
nificant threats to the national government from international or civil armed
groups. While the impeachment of President Dilma Rousseff in 2016 was
viewed by many left-​leaning Brazilians as an illegitimate “coup,” the transi-
tion to her replacement, Michel Temer, was peaceful. My point is not that
Brazil’s democracy is working well. But when we consider the instability and
violence faced by activists in sites of domestic and international warfare, it
becomes clear that national stability allows for activists to operate in a more
predictable and less volatile political arena than many others. As I demon-
strate in this chapter, favela activists have benefited from these openings,
deploying a host of strategies to engage with the state and make demands for
resources.
 Milking the Resource Matrix 83

Development and New Fountains of Funding

Another important opening that began to emerge with the fall of the dicta-
torship was a growing concern for social development, both nationally and
in favelas. In 1982, a “reformist wave” swept Rio de Janeiro with the election
of Governor Leonel Brizola, who had run on a vision of “brown socialism”
(McCann 2014). Brizola spearheaded many improvements to infrastruc-
ture, housing, and social services in Rio’s favelas. He also put a stop to favela
removals and appointed five key favela leaders to positions in state and city
government. While these reforms were limited by a number of factors, in-
cluding a long period of high inflation and the hemorrhaging of government
funds to corrupt political leaders, many favela activists cultivated political
ties and a shared identity and vocabulary with the rising progressive leader-
ship, which would be activated repeatedly over the following 40 years.
The economy finally stabilized after President Henrique Cardoso created
the Brazilian real in 1994. However, economic stability came at a cost. Like
many other national leaders across Latin America (and the globe), Cardoso
jumped on the neoliberal bandwagon, restricting the power of labor unions
and decreasing regulations for foreign investors. Unemployment rates rose,
especially in large cities (Filgueiras 2006).
By the 1990s, a tenuous commitment to improving favelas in Rio de
Janeiro had begun to emerge. Several new social development projects
were created to urbanize many favela neighborhoods. Rio’s 1992 Master
Plan explicitly declared the city’s objectives of “integrating the favelas into
the formal city” and “preserving their local character.” With funding from
the Inter-​American Development Bank and the municipal government, the
Program Favela-​Bairro invested USD$300 million in upgrading 38 favelas,
with a focus on infrastructure and social services, mostly directed toward
mid-​sized favelas (Urani 2008). The city’s stated commitment to improving
favelas was an important detour from its historic approach of evictions and
provided a symbolic reframing of its poor areas as spaces that needed invest-
ment rather than exclusion from the urban fabric (Atuesta and Soares 2016;
Pereira 2008). Many of these improvements were made hastily and with
cheap materials, however, and after only a few years of wear and tear, they
began to quickly disintegrate (Perlman 2010).
New social programs for the poor emerged after 2002 when Lula was
elected president of Brazil on a leftist platform. Under Lula’s governance,
several national programs were funded that improved the social landscape
84 Activism under Fire

in favelas. One of these was the extremely popular Bolsa Familia, or Family
Purse, a welfare program that provided conditional cash transfers to families
living below the poverty line. Participating families were required to keep
their children enrolled in school and take them to regular medical checkups,
among other obligations. Widely hailed as a model for conditional cash
transfers in other countries, Bolsa Familia reduced poverty from 13% to 3%
between 2003 and 2015. Rio’s municipal and state governments also began
providing a number of benefits to low-​income families, including free or
reduced-​fare bus passes and low-​cost electricity and internet access.
These national wealth redistribution programs benefited millions of favela
residents across the country. In the survey my team and I administered in
2017, 19% of CDD’s households received income from Bolsa Familia, and a
total of 48% of households received some kind of public assistance, such as
transportation passes or reduced electricity costs. Lula also spearheaded the
PAC, or Growth Acceleration Program, which sent federal funds to munic-
ipal governments to invest in social and urban infrastructure improvements.
PAC money has supported several urbanization efforts in Cidade de Deus
in recent years, including the construction of new housing and the installa-
tion of a local emergency room, or UPA (Unidade de Pronto Atendimento).
Cidade de Deus was also the recipient of the programs Território da Paz
(Territory of Peace) and Espaço Urbano Seguro (Safe Urban Spaces). Both of
these funded various infrastructure improvements, such as the construction
of parks, soccer fields, and paved roads and the expansion of sewer systems,
as well as social services and cultural activities.
In an effort to improve the national security landscape, Lula launched
PRONASCI, which has been described as the “PAC of Security.” Its objec-
tive was to improve public security through prison reform, the retraining of
police officers in non-​violent forms of conflict resolution, and the provision
of education and jobs to vulnerable youth. It funded many social projects,
including rehabilitative services for youth and prisons for women and young
adults (Urani 2008). While PRONASCI funding was terminated in 2011, it
benefited many favela residents through investments in social development
(Ruediger 2013).
Another important shift under Lula and Dilma was an expansion of rights
related to housing and urban inclusion (Stefani 2021). Lula’s first term in-
cluded the inauguration of the Ministério das Cidades (Ministry of Cities),
which redistributed funds and responsibility for urban rights to three levels
of government and included opportunities for citizen participation in local
 Milking the Resource Matrix 85

planning. In 2009, during Lula’s second term, the public housing program
Minha Casa Minha Vida (My Home My Life) was established to offer housing
subsidized by the federal bank to low-​income residents for a small monthly
fee. After 10 years of regular payments, residents gained the title to the home.
For many years, the program was a major success, with three million homes
being delivered by 2016, primarily to female heads of household.
The expansion of social investments began to wane after Dilma Rousseff ’s
impeachment and the ascendance of Michel Temer to power. Temer, a
member of the more conservative Brazilian Democratic Movement Party
(PMDB), spearheaded multiple austerity measures, including a 20-​year cap
on federal spending and slashes to Bolsa Familia and many other public
programs. At the same time, Rio de Janeiro fell into an economic recession;
programs that provided subsidized meals were closed down and state-​run
welfare programs eliminated. Maria Rita, Esther, and I spent many nights
watching the news and worrying about yet another federal program under
attack by the new president. While these austerity measures continued over
the following years, many seeds had been sown in CDD’s activist circles
under the Worker’s Party and were already bearing fruit. While financial
opportunities declined after 2016, the organizational infrastructure devel-
oped in the previous decades remained sturdy.

The Global Civil Sphere

Political and economic openings have also been accompanied by Brazil’s

participation in the global civil sphere. The internet was first “inaugurated”
in Brazil in 1992. During much of the 1990s, it was utilized primarily by
researchers and activists in NGOs, who used email and newsletters to
communicate and share information with other researchers and social
movements. Use of the internet exploded across the globe in the 1990s, and
Brazil was quick to join the fray. By 1998, one million Brazilian citizens were
connected to the internet, primarily from wealthy and middle-​class groups.
The widespread installation of “LAN Houses,” or internet cafés, in poor
neighborhoods in the early 2000s helped expand and democratize internet
access (Aguiar 2021). The transition to wifi also afforded people the option
to access the internet via personal phones or computers, further facilitating
internet access. In 2009, the state of Rio de Janeiro launched the program Rio
Estado Digital (Rio Digital State) which provided free, though often spotty,
86 Activism under Fire

wifi hotspots in many favelas. A combination of technological advances and

state programs have thus helped connect Rio’s favelas to each other, the city,
and the global online community. Favelas still remain underrepresented in
internet use, however, reflecting an ongoing digital divide that entrenches
their subordinate location in the city (Nemer 2022).
Despite these challenges, favela residents are nonetheless active on social
media platforms, particularly WhatsApp and Facebook, as well as Twitter,
Instagram, and other popular sites. As I describe later, it has given activists
entry into what Manuel Castell’s calls the “global civil society,” where a va-
riety of actors and institutions at local and international levels mobilize to
discuss and address problems provoked by globalization (Castells 2008).
Participation in the global civil sphere via information communication
technologies, or ICTs, allows social movement organizations and individuals
to share information, discourses, and tactics (Young, Selander, and Vaast
2019); expand their social and political networks (Anderson 2021); cultivate
new relationships; and connect movements with elite allies across the world
(Hunt 2019). Many movements, including those focused on gender, racial,
and class injustice, have gained momentum through online networks of sol-
idarity that articulate shared challenges as products of global institutions—​
patriarchy, colonialism, and capitalism—​and connect disparate groups to
transnational social movements (Arbatli 2017; Mohanty 2013; Smith 2016).
ICTs have been especially beneficial to activists in conflict zones across
the globe, allowing them to organize below the watchful eye of repressive
regimes, while also reaching out beyond their border to seek support from
transnational allies (Moss 2022). Participation on social media and connec-
tivity to international institutions and movements has given activists access
to allies, resources, ideas, and communities they can turn to in the face of a
closed national political landscape.
Against this backdrop of political, economic, and technological openings,
several new political formations emerged in Cidade de Deus. Each of these
political forms clustered around a different configuration of resources,
networks, and political discourses, all of which are embedded in history, na-
tional politics, and international openings and pressures. Some are riding
the wave of the rise of NGOs, thanks to funding provided under multiple
Worker’s Party initiatives, and utilizing funds to provide social assistance
to needy residents. Others, particularly those who were once active in anti-​
dictatorship movements, adopt more of a militant approach to demand rights
for the neighborhood. A third cluster, led primarily by a younger generation
 Milking the Resource Matrix 87

raised under the Worker’s Party and networked into the global public sphere
through social media, is taking advantage of political openings to demand
broader forms of social change. I describe these in greater detail next.

Transformative Assistance

Cidade de Deus is home to dozens of CBOs and informal collectives, known

locally as projetos, that provide services to the neighborhoods. CBOs and
projetos are an important part of the civic life of Cidade de Deus and offer
many residents a semi-​formal space for giving and receiving support to and
from fellow residents facing similar challenges. Among those who responded
to the survey my team and I organized, 2% claimed to have founded their own
NGO or projeto and 8% of our participants reported being a volunteer for
one of these in the previous two years. In a population of 60,000, this would
equate to nearly 5,000 volunteers. The social service landscape in Cidade de
Deus offers a vast array of supports to favela residents. Youth Promise, the
organization for which Maria Rita worked, offered morning and afternoon
classes five days a week, every week of the year except during summer and
winter holidays. The Center Dona Otávia offered elderly women a place to
learn sewing and other skills they could use to earn an income, while also
providing them an informal support system. The Center for Racial Justice,
when it had the funds, provided percussion lessons to youth coupled with
classes on African culture; it also led trainings for women on how to create
African hairstyles, a skill that could generate an income.
There were many others. The Senior Center provided physical therapy,
aerobics, percussion classes, free lunches, and other basic care needs to the
neighborhood’s elderly population. Esther’s son Leonardo and two colleagues
founded and ran a theater group inspired by the one Sonia had led many
years earlier. It offered adolescents acting classes and helped connect them
to theaters and television producers across the city. Many groups provided
professional dance classes to young adults, several of whom performed in
competitions and cultural centers across the state. Another offered the pop-
ular forró dance classes to adults. Projetos were constantly popping up to pro-
vide soccer, jiu-​jitsu, and dance lessons, help people obtain employment or
a high school diploma, provide computer literacy courses, and much more.
The social service landscape in CDD also included publicly funded and
administered organizations, staffed primarily by residents who often worked
88 Activism under Fire

collaboratively with private CBOs to service the population. The Teen

Connection, a project run by the municipal government, offered a host of
technical and professional courses and certificates, as well as college prepar-
atory courses and computer classes. The local health clinic employed nurses
from CDD, as well as “health agents” who provided case management to
needy families with small children in some areas of Cidade de Deus. For sev-
eral years during the height of the UPP, SESI Cidadania offered a children’s
library, physical education, and classes on “citizenship” for children. There
were also a few medium-​sized NGOs on the outskirts of the neighborhood
that tended to hire CDD residents. These included two large early childcare
and elementary school facilities, which provided basic health and educa-
tional services to the families of enrolled children. While I return to the re-
lationship between private and public social services in Cidade de Deus in
Chapter 5, the important point here is that private CBOs operate within a
larger field of social services financed and administered by a range of private
and public actors. Local residents insert themselves into this landscape as
employees and volunteers, and also frequently start their own groups.
There were so many different activities, classes, and other types of assis-
tance in Cidade de Deus that one resident, Isabella, founded a Facebook
page in 2011 called CDD Connects to facilitate the connection between
those in need and those providing for those needs. The page shared dozens
of announcements every week, ranging from flu vaccine clinics to a new
karatê class to a high school equivalency course. By 2017, CDD Connects
had nearly 100,000 followers, demonstrating how citizen engagement in dig-
ital technologies could promote information sharing and the strengthening
of local ties (Amaral 2021; Custódio 2017). Dozens of other Facebook pages
have also been created to connect residents with similar interests, including
pages for particular religious groups, cultural practices, and interest in
the history and news of the community. CDD Connects and other similar
sites that have emerged since 2011 reflect the importance of these digital
technologies for promoting social cohesion and collective efficacy in a con-
text of fragmented and often violent political relations.
CBOs operate like other NGOs in that they are private, not-​for-​profit
institutions dedicated to social actions to improve society. NGOs became
increasingly popular in the years following re-​democratization, as Brazilian
activists institutionalized the demands of their social movements through
formal associations. However, the transition from a movement to an institu-
tion eroded some of the more radical politics of these groups as they moved
 Milking the Resource Matrix 89

toward collaboration with the state. By the 1990s, civic organizations were
no longer “derived from processes of mass mobilization but more punc-
tual (specific) mobilizations,” driven toward “servicing the needs of some
pluralistic entity, rooted in humanitarian objectives” (Gohn 2013:239–​40).
These were less geared at contentious claims-​making and more toward what
Gloria Gohn (2013) calls “citizen participation:” small-​scale and institution-
alized forms of assistance. The shift was formalized with the passing of the
Nonprofit Law in 1999, which established the legal concept of Public Interest
Civil Organizations (OSCIPS) (Alves and Koga 2006). Furthermore, the cre-
ation of various councils, committees, and conferences with both state and
civic actors across multiple levels of government also inspired more collab-
orative efforts to address social issues. The rise of CBOs in Cidade de Deus,
therefore, was not especially unique to favelas but rather an outcome of a
national shift in the configuration of collective action with the emergence
of an organized civil society supported by—​rather than opposed to—​the
formal state.
Across the globe, another major transition was underway, as western
countries shifted away from the welfare state and toward neoliberalism,
pressuring developing countries to do the same. According to David Harvey
(2005:2), neoliberalism—​also called advanced capitalism—​is “a theory of
political economic practices that proposes that human well-​being can best be
advanced by liberating individual entrepreneurial freedoms and skills within
an institutional framework characterized by strong private property rights,
free markets and free trade.” Neoliberal economics calls for the deregulation
of the market, a greater emphasis on individual freedoms and individual re-
sponsibility, the expansion of the state’s control over the social order through
policing, criminal courts, and incarceration, and the privatization of its social
sphere, among other things. Although Brazil witnessed a “softer” shift to ne-
oliberalism than many other Latin American countries, President Henrique
Cardoso, who governed from 1995 to 2002, restricted the power of labor
unions and decreased regulations for foreign investors, which contributed to
high rates of unemployment, especially in large cities (Filgueiras 2006).
This shift also impacted favelas. By the early 2000s, violence in favelas
was so great that the municipal government feared sending public servants
from outside the neighborhood in to service the community. Rio de Janeiro’s
mayor Cesar Maia advocated for the outsourcing of public services directly
to favela residents, in many cases placing residents’ associations in charge of
overseeing community garbage collection, public childcare programs, and
90 Activism under Fire

healthcare programming for families. The state also appointed “community

agents” who helped connect favela residents with public benefits. This shift
created both new opportunities and new challenges. Journalist Fernanda da
Escóssia (2003) sums up the consequences of this approach:

Among the advantages [are] the ease of the hiring process, the genera-
tion of local employment and the easy access to dangerous places, since
the labor(ers), recruited in the community, have free transit. The risks are
the transfer of responsibilities from public authorities to civil society, po-
litical patronage and, in the case of Rio, the appropriation of [residents’
associations] by criminal groups, such as drug traffickers.

In 2003, the Inter-​American Development Bank and the World Bank pro-
vided R$115 million to Rio’s municipal government to promote favela devel-
opment. The city transferred the funds to private NGOs to carry out the work.
Some of these NGOs directly serviced favelas and others commissioned lo-
cally based CBOs to do the work. While this put thousands of favela residents
to work, they were usually paid far less than public servants in the same
occupations working outside the favela.
Many scholars have been critical of the privatization of social services in
the neoliberal era, arguing that this shift has exacerbated income inequality
(Harvey 2005; Wacquant 2009). In Brazil’s informal settlements, however,
the state was not doing a great job of promoting equality even before the ne-
oliberal era. In favelas, where the state has a long history of inefficient and
underfunded public goods, the shift to relying on NGOs and CBOs offered an
alternative with some possibility for improved services. Unfortunately, public
grants and private donations to NGOs and favela CBOs have been wholly
insufficient to address the many needs of these communities. Government
incompetence only made matters worse. In 2017, for instance, the municipal
government failed to invest R$230 million they had received in loans from
the Bank of Brazil and the Brazilian Development Bank slated for construc-
tion projects mostly intended for favelas. The city councilman appointed to
investigate the stalling of these projects claimed the issue was due to a lack of
attention and oversight (Magalhães 2018). While there are many concerns
regarding the privatization of the social sphere, including an overreliance on
private companies whose primary concern is profit, it does offer an alterna-
tive development path in a context of a fragmented, corrupted, and ineffi-
cient public sector.
 Milking the Resource Matrix 91

The turn toward privatization has enabled CDD residents to take on an

important role in providing for the social, economic, and psychological
needs of the neighborhood’s most vulnerable residents. At the same time,
the dearth of public or private support for favela-​based CBOs has left most
of these small groups with insufficient resources to pay their staff and pro-
vide for the needs of the neighborhood’s residents. Youth Promise, one of
the neighborhood’s most formal and well-​funded CBOs, only had the ca-
pacity for 150 to 200 full-​time participants and served an additional 50 to 100
families through workshops, fieldtrips, and holiday parties. In a neighbor-
hood as large as Cidade de Deus, these services barely scratched the surface
of the population’s needs.
The barrier to accessing resources is also exacerbated by the informal
infrastructure of most favela CBOs, which makes them ineligible for large
government or foundation grants. These grants tend to go to formal NGOs
located in more central urban areas, a topic I explore in detail in Chapter 5.
While large NGOs do offer a number of services in many favelas, particu-
larly in the favelas closer to Rio’s downtown area, in Cidade de Deus, small
resident-​run CBOs do most of the heavy lifting. Often, they receive small
grants from larger NGOs to provide the services for which the grant-​giving
NGO was contracted. Consequently, most of the “employees” in Cidade de
Deus’s CBOs are either volunteers or receive irregular stipends when small
streams of funding become available.
Many CBOs have attempted to become formal NGOs. According to
Wellington França (2019), the process for this formalization involves several
steps and occurs when:

two or more people invite friends and neighbors with the idea of creating
an entity, hold a meeting, draw up a statute, elect among themselves
leaderships for the exercise of positions of Executive Board, Fiscal Council,
and Coordinators of technical or thematic commissions. They seek the
assistance of a lawyer and register the constituent acts in the registries
specializing in civil registries of legal entities.

It is an exhausting process that requires administrative knowledge, endless

patience with bureaucratic loopholes, and constant upkeep. Rosangela, for
instance, was the retired director of a childcare center who volunteered for
the Center Dona Otavia. She spent several years attempting to formally reg-
ister the CBO so they could become eligible for federal grants. Often when
92 Activism under Fire

I visited her, she complained about the inumerous hours she had spent trav-
eling on long bus rides across the city and in long tires lines attempting to
obtain the proper signatures, letters, and documentation. Even with her ex-
pertise and time, she faced multiple bureaucratic hurdles.
Not surprisingly, many private social service initiatives are never formally
registered and remain in the realm of informality. While we often think of in-
formality in relation to housing or employment, it also extends into Cidade de
Deus’s civic sector where the systems of mutual support hold an ambiguous
identity of organized social actions that lack the documentation to prove
their legitimacy. This ambiguity creates many challenges for CBOs and small
NGOs. According to Colin McFarlane (2012:89), “the informal–​formal re-
lation is both a seemingly modest descriptor and a powerful distinction that
has an active effect on urban imagination and practice.” A bulletin published
in 2008 by the Audit Offices of the Municipality of Rio de Janeiro, claimed
that “Despite the evident social importance of NGOs, it is evident that not all
of them have the financial, administrative, technical and operational suita-
bility to contract with the Public Power” (TCMRJ 2008:3). Political exclusion
of favelas is facilitated, in part, by pushing favela civic life outside the formal
bounds of the state. This has a spiraling effect, enabling the government to
deny them the funding they need to become formalized and procure larger
funding sources; civic belonging itself is denied to favela CBOs, and the view
of the favela as “marginal” to the state becomes entrenched by bureaucratic
exclusions.
The outsourcing of social services from the public sector to NGOs and
CBOs has also been met with another challenge. Brazilian scholars fre-
quently charge NGOs with subscribing to assistencialismo, translated
roughly as “welfare” or “charity.” I first heard the term from Leonardo,
Esther’s older son, who argued that the assistencialista approach to social
change was atrasado, or behind the times. Leonardo believed that NGOs
(among which he counted Youth Promise and Cidade de Deus’s other CBOs)
were great at addressing the immediate needs of desperate people but did
little to challenge inequality or violence in a more systemic way. In a similar
vein, researchers Natália Lourenço and João Paulo dos Santos (2011) argue
that the assistencialismo model prevents the poor from becoming conscious
of their constitutional rights, thereby entrenching their dependence on the
state and their subordinate class status. By making poor people reliant on
donations and funding from the state or the private, for-​profit sector, NGOs
become victims of a “social interventionist model of the neoliberal policies in
 Milking the Resource Matrix 93

force” wherein marginalized populations are given just enough resources to

survive but not enough to overcome their oppression (da Silva Porto 2005:1).
At the same time, assistencialismo helps to destroy democratic processes by
entrenching clientelistic practices, such as when specific politicians use the
provision of social services to get votes (Instituto Millenium 2012).
In line with some of these criticisms, Cidade de Deus’s individual CBOs
rarely engage in contentious politics aimed at either the state or private
corporations. Because CBOs are focused on offering services to extremely
needy people (of which Cidade de Deus has many), they rely on friendly ties
to potential allies across the city (and the world), leveraging these ties to ob-
tain donations, volunteers, small government grants, or funding from private
institutions. For instance, Solange, the director of Youth Promise, welcomed
nearly all offers of support, provided there were no known ties to the drug
trade (a strategy I take up in Chapter 3). Just before I first arrived, she had
hosted two foreign student volunteers from the Netherlands, including one
who lived in Solange’s house for a short, but very stressful time. She received
visitors traveling from other countries as well and was constantly receiving
messages of support and donations from people in Europe and the United
States, as well as from wealthy donors in Rio de Janeiro. She worked hard to
maintain good relations with government agencies and private foundations
who supported Youth Promise with small or medium-​sized grants.
While CBOs do not directly protest or otherwise confront the state or
private companies, I argue that their potential for transformative change
exceeds the critiques of Leonardo and many NGO scholars. Beneath their
emphasis on social assistance is a subtler but nonetheless critical compo-
nent of the logic of social action that undergirds the political imaginaries of
Cidade de Deus’s CBOs: they believe that by transforming individuals, they
can transform society. This is neither a top-​down approach to change nor
even a bottom-​up, grassroots approach, because it does not involve com-
munity organizing. Their focus is heavily on the individual and, at most, the
family. Yet they provide much more than just charity: they offer the social and
psychological building blocks necessary to cultivate successful, politicized
individuals who, at the very least, will practice the types of active citizenship
characteristic of a just, non-​violent society and, at best, might actually be-
come leaders of these transformations.
They do this in several ways. Solange told me that what most drew her
to social work were “the transformations that we see happening in people’s
lives.” As she explained to me:
94 Activism under Fire

Solange: What moves me to continue this work is the transformation we see

in people, small as it is, but most of the time it is crucial for people to lift
themselves up, you understand? This is what makes me love my job.
Me: Have you seen a lot of these transformations?
Solange: Oh boy! Many, many . . . I get really happy when I hear people
say, “Oh, that email you sent about the job opening I sent to a friend and
she got the job.” Or I run into a mom in the street: “Do you remember
me? I am the mother of so-​and-​so, he is working at x place.” Or the very
student, we run into them, you know? And all happy he says: “Oh, I’m
attending university because of that job I got.” So, you see, there are a lot
of people, a lot of people who, from the work that I do, who are grateful to
me for what they were able to accomplish because of our activities, they
were able to lift themselves up, know you? This makes me very happy.

Jefferson, a karatê teacher and director of a local cultural center, told me

that their goal “really is to work with culture, with a new vision, not simply
seeing people as human beings, but also as protagonists of the process of cul-
tural construction of Cidade de Deus.” Jefferson used karatê as a means to
teach his students about learning discipline, respect for others, and the im-
portance of working hard to accomplish personal goals. He proudly noted
that many of his students had decided to go to college or seek professional
employment rather than settle for low-​paying, low-​skill jobs or join the drug
trade. By helping favela youth obtain professional skills and jobs and gain
entry to competitive public universities, Solange and Jefferson hoped to re-
verse some of the barriers created by segregated inequality and the exclu-
sion of the favela from mainstream institutions. CBO leaders also hoped that
they could prevent young people from entering the drug trade. Maria Rita
explained this logic to me:

This generation, we have to start opening their horizons, open their eyes
to something else, right? For when they choose, to make a different choice.
Sometimes you come from a family that the father is a drug trafficker, the
uncle is a drug trafficker, the mother is addicted, there are people who are
like that . . . So the negative points add up . . . Here we can get him in touch
with other things, [so] that he can amplify his vision: “No, I can be a com-
puter programmer; I can be an athlete; I can be a teacher,” so that he has
these opportunities, [he can] see that it is not at all impossible, that he can
have it too.
 Milking the Resource Matrix 95

Maria Rita, Solange, Jefferson, and other CBO leaders focused on what
they believed they had some control over: the cultivation of a strong self-​
esteem, viable economic alternatives to selling drugs or living poverty, and a
commitment to non-​violence, which could help to interrupt the cycle of vi-
olence and place youth on a new path toward inclusion in the economic and
political urban centers of power. In the meantime, they hoped to decrease
the number of potential “soldiers” in the drug trade, thereby subverting gang
violence indirectly.
CBO leaders themselves are quite adamant that they do not subscribe to
assistencialismo, which has become a pejorative term within the social service
sphere. When I presented a first draft of my book manuscript, in which
I termed their model of change “transformative assistencialismo,” CBO leaders
were quite unhappy with the term. In an effort to respect my participants’ own
narratives of their work, I revised the name to “transformative assistance,”
a label that reflects a similar idea but moves away from such a loaded term.
However, my participants also emphasized that assistencialismo does remain
alive and well in CDD and other favelas and that several NGOs and projetos
do little to help lift families out of poverty in an effort to maintain dependence,
class inequality, and even political control over desperate residents.
As I show in the remaining chapters, CBOs also contribute to political mo-
bilization in another important way: they provide a safe, politically neutral
space in which more explicitly political ideas and projects could be fostered
and organized. Many CBOs hired teachers with a broad range of political
perspectives, and some of these taught their students about systemic injus-
tice, racism, police brutality, class struggle, and the harms of authoritar-
ianism. Youth Promise and other well-​established CBOs also “rented” out
space (usually for free or at low cost) to local collectives who touted more rad-
ical perspectives. Cultural activists, who I describe later in this chapter, were
frequently reliant on CBOs to gather and organize. Thus, while providing so-
cial assistance may emphasize charity over structural change, CDD’s CBOs
seek to also create transformation by providing people with pathways away
from poverty and violence and creating possibilities for more radical politics.

Community Militancy

In contrast to Youth Promise and other CBOs, which have taken advan-
tage of more collaborative avenues for state support, the Residents’ Board
96 Activism under Fire

emerged as a direct resistance to exclusionary urban politics. In the wake of

the release of the movie “Cidade de Deus,” Rio’s mayor Cesar Maia was under
pressure to do something—​or at least act like he was doing something—​
to address the violence and under-​development of the city’s many favelas.
Maia and National Secretary for Public Security Luiz Eduardo Soares invited
members of the newly founded Business Forum of Rio, composed of local
business leaders and investors, to develop a plan to address urban poverty.
Cidade de Deus was at the top of their fix-​it list. State officials and representa-
tives of the Business Forum scheduled a planning meeting in a meeting room
of one of Cidade de Deus’s residents’ associations and invited several impor-
tant actors: representatives from the United Nations; O Globo, Brazil’s media
giant; several federations of business conglomerates; Viva Rio, a mega NGO
in Rio de Janeiro; and a large and well-​known NGO that was founded in
Cidade de Deus but ran most of its activities in other favelas (Pfeiffer 2014).
Conveniently, they had not invited other local CBO leaders who had been
leading neighborhood development efforts in CDD for decades.
“We found out [about the meeting], and that we weren’t participating”
Carmen recounted to me. A tall, imposing woman with long wavy black
hair and tan skin, Carmen was born and raised in Cidade de Deus and had
founded a CBO called the Environment League in 1998. Originally founded
to provide literacy classes to mothers and other low-​income residents, the
league has, in more recent years, created curricula to teach students about
the environment, trained residents in recycling collection, and established 14
recycling “points” across the neighborhood. “Hold on!” Carmen exclaimed,
recounting the mayor’s development initiative, “How can it be that the
institutions of Cidade de Deus are not being invited to discuss a social in-
tervention in Cidade de Deus?” Carmen and many other CBO leaders were
appalled.
They fought to gain entry to the meeting. They sent letters to all possible
allies on city council and went to City Hall and knocked on office doors de-
manding that they be included in the development plan for their neighbor-
hood. According to Carmen, they were finally allowed into the meeting after
calling a friend at a major newspaper, who in turn called the leader of the
meeting and threatened to leak the story. Clara, who had founded a small
CBO to offer childcare and sewing classes to CDD residents, chuckled as she
recollected the scene: “Imagine me, a favela resident, with pitch-​black skin,
a woman, arguing with these important people to let me in. I wasn’t going to
sit around and let them make decisions about our community without us!
 Milking the Resource Matrix 97

And you know what? We got in!” As Clara’s narrative suggests, entry into the
meeting was as much about symbolic representation—​of having Black, fe-
male favela activists at the table—​as it was about the material implications of
social development.
Once inside, they were told to listen quietly to the mayor’s presentation.
However, the plans proposed by the government had not taken into account
the concerns of local residents, and Carmen had interrupted loudly, accusing
the group of ignoring the voices of those whom their plans would most af-
fect. Feeling embarrassed, the directors of the meeting ended the meeting
and gave the CBO leaders that weekend to put together a better plan. “The
meeting was on a Friday,” Carmen remembered, “and we worked all weekend
on the plan.” Carmen and her colleagues divided up into teams, surveyed
local residents about their needs, and wrote them up. “We spent hours put-
ting together the plan and trying to get it typed up.” As Carmen recalled, they
could only find one working computer among all the CBOs, and they took
turns drafting the document and making edits.
The final product was a 50-​page document with detailed demands for
neighborhood improvement, including better trash collection, community
gardens, a community bank, a high school, additional public housing, better
infrastructure, and more resources for the local health clinic. On Monday
morning, they pulled together just enough funds to cover their bus fares and
headed to the scheduled meeting with municipal officials and forum repre-
sentatives at City Hall, 30 kilometers outside Cidade de Deus. According to
Carmen, “We were exhausted by Monday morning. But we did it. And they
were shocked! They didn’t think that we could do it . . . We dressed up in our
best business attire, you know, looking professional, and there was that whole
thing of, poor people don’t dress this way, which really threw them off.” Their
hard work paid off. State officials agreed to adopt their proposal. To date,
the Development Plan of Cidade de Deus, developed by its CBO leaders, re-
mains the official plan for identifying where and how to invest in the social
development of the neighborhood when funds—​and political will—​become
available.
Over the following years, the group established itself as the Residents’
Board and founded an institute registered as an NGO that could apply for
grants. The board would identify the most urgent needs and the institute
would gather funds to realize some of these goals. The board partnered with
the Business Forum of Rio, UNESCO, researchers in some of Rio’s public
universities, SESI (the social branch of Brazil’s industrial complex), LAMSA2
98 Activism under Fire

(a private highway construction company), and a host of other private and

public partners in order to make their demands a reality. Between 2005
and 2009, they helped to create several new literacy classes and establish a
community-​based newspaper and radio station (Pfeiffer 2014). The board
also worked with municipal officials to increase the number of trash collec-
tion days, to clean up debris sites, and to add “community cleaners” to sweep
the main streets. It successfully mobilized the municipal government to con-
struct hundreds of new housing units for families who had lost their homes
in the 1996 flood. In 2011, the Residents’ Board secured a grant from the
Municipal Secretariat for the Development of Economic Solidarity to open
the first Community Bank in Brazil. The bank produced a neighborhood-​
based currency to promote local investments, and the project was hailed as a
model for community-​based economic development across Latin America.
The currency remained in operation until 2014, when the bank—​one block
from the UPP Station—​was robbed and all the money was taken.3 Even in
2017, board members remained hopeful that someday they could re-​open it.
Board members also organized a coalition to demand the building of a
secondary school in Cidade de Deus. This multi-​year effort entailed multiple
steps, including several meetings with local residents and potential partners
as well as with state deputies and secretaries,4 submitting multiple letters,
petitions, and other written requests, collecting evidence of the “demand”
for a secondary school in Cidade de Deus through surveys, and filing mul-
tiple documents. And, when this all proved insufficient, they accosted the
governor in the middle of a live televised interview and demanded that he
sign the mandate for a secondary school in Cidade de Deus. Embarrassed
and caught off guard, the governor signed the mandate, and the state finally
invested a supposed R$6 million into the construction of a the school. The
project was halted after two years when, according to the governor’s office,
the funds ran out. In 2017, Carmen re-​initiated the coalition in an effort to
reignite the fight for secondary education in the neighborhood. I attended
several meetings, which included partners from Farmanguinhos (the federal
association for health research5), researchers from Pontífica Universidade
Católica (a prestigious private university in Rio), and staff from SESC, a so-
cial service organization funded by Brazil’s commerce sector. My research
team and I contributed by adding questions in our survey to measure de-
mand for secondary education in Cidade de Deus. Even as I write this book,
the battle for the school continues, with progress being made slowly and with
great effort.
 Milking the Resource Matrix 99

According to the updated Social Development Plan of Cidade de Deus

published in 2010, the board aims to “establish a dialogue with the Public
Power (the state) with the goal of the construction of urgent and necessary
public policies in collaboration with residents of the neighborhood, in a
context in which government initiatives are directed towards this” (Pfeiffer
2010). In other words, their objective is to direct state resources to Cidade
de Deus and to ensure that these are implemented with input from local
residents. In many respects, the board operates as an urban social movement.
According to Manuel Castells (1983:xviii), urban social movements include
three elements: “1) demands focused on collective consumption . . . 2) de-
fense of cultural identity associated with and organized around a specific ter-
ritory, and 3) political mobilization in relationship to the state, particularly
emphasizing the role of local government.” Unlike individual community-​
based organizations that focus on serving the needs of individuals, the board
was concerned with social development projects utilized by all of Cidade de
Deus’s residents. Importantly, these demands were targeted explicitly at the
“Public Power,” which they viewed as responsible for providing the services
that favela residents needed to become full urban citizens.
Thirty years after Castells’s original work, more recent literature on urban
social movements has focused attention on how activists work to address the
“contradictions of the neoliberalization of the urban” (Mayer 2013:70). While
neoliberalism has certainly affected Rio’s favelas, the Residents’ Board works
to address issues that have plagued their neighborhood for decades thanks
to historic legacies of spatially concentrated exclusions. It is the community,
and not neoliberalism, that lies at the core of their efforts. Consequently,
the activist model employed by the Residents’ Board is better described as
community militancy, based on an unrelenting fight for their neighborhood
through both collaborative and contentious, though always non-​violent, pol-
itics. The term is theirs, not mine: board members regularly referred to them-
selves as “militants” to define their shared struggles and collective action.
According to Carmen:

We are not volunteers, we are militants. Volunteers come from time to

time and do an activity. We are militants. Militants commit themselves to
making a change, commit themselves to studying about that. Every day
[we] are there.6 Every day there, having money or not we’ll be there. So we
militate. We fight for the community no matter what, even when there is no
money, no time, we fight for the community.
100 Activism under Fire

Board members have re-​appropriated the term “militancy” from the col-
lective resistance against the military dictatorship in which many board
members had once participated. Though anti-​dictatorship mobilization
was led primarily by members of the working class with support from
student, labor, and farmworker movements (Santana and Pimenta 2009),
favelas had also been activated in the struggle in response to housing inse-
curity and under-​development (Souza 2006). Several board members and
other community militants had been key leaders of CDD’s early movements
for housing rights during the dictatorship. Several had also been active
members of the Worker’s Party and viewed the fight for favela rights as a
contribution to the larger guerrilla movements against the regime.
When I arrived in Cidade de Deus in 2014, its community militants were
still employing the multi-​pronged strategy they had used under the dicta-
torship, which combined popular education, contentious claims-​making,
coalition building, and a focus on expanding resources in favelas. At the
time, the upcoming World Cup and Summer Olympics, which would shine
a bright light on Rio de Janeiro’s violence and inequality, pressured then-​
Governor Sérgio Cabral to invest more heavily in favela upgrading. The
Residents’ Board took the opportunity to update Cidade de Deus’s Social
Development Plan and to work with various private and public funders to
demand these improvements. They had succeeded in pressuring the gov-
ernment to build a new set of public apartment complexes to house families
who had been living in temporary homes since the 1996 flood. These were
inaugurated in 2014 and had enough units to house nearly 1,000 families.
But the board was also furious with the UPP Social, the social branch of
the UPP policing program, for building some of its own “new” projects—​
including a Youth Recreation Center, with shiny linoleum floors and air
conditioners that local residents flocked to—​rather than direct funds to
community-​based organizations that had spent years doing much of this
development work without government support. At one board meeting
I attended, Geovana, a long-​time community militant and active board
member, had railed against the UPP Social, which had just won the UN-​
Habitat award for promoting development in favelas: “We’re the ones
promoting development in favelas! And here comes the government and
gets all the credit!” she’d exclaimed. Board members nodded in a shared
sense of anger and invisibility. In our book workshop years later, Carmen
added to this critique:
 Milking the Resource Matrix 101

I would like it to be documented that when the UPP enters, we were very
well organized, and when we presented this process to the UPP, they simply
said they were not going to execute it. There were two UPP coordinators [at
the time], . . . and I remember what they said: What we did until then didn’t
matter. What mattered was what they were going to do going forward.

For Carmen and many others, the success of the Residents’ Board—​an
autonomous civil society organization—​ threatened the control and in-
fluence of the state in Cidade de Deus. Wishing to take the credit for so-
cial improvements, and fearful of the organizing capacity of the board, the
UPP Social disrupted what had been, for many years, a cohesive contentious
movement.
Ultimately, the Residents’ Board succeeded in fits and starts, with an
eye for the ebb and flow of political opportunities in the municipal and
national political arena. Obtaining government support had never been
easy; in most cases, board members had to employ a range of collabora-
tive and contentious strategies to succeed. The most common strategy was
to organize councils, committees, and meetings with private organizations
and public administrators—​who often were referred to as “partners” or
“collaborators”—​with an interest in investing resources in Cidade de Deus.
I attended several of these, and in nearly every one of them, board members
asked pointed, direct questions of their “partners” in government or private
organizations, quizzed them on their level of commitment to the neighbor-
hood, pointed out power differences between them and these “collaborators,”
and often turned down offers for projects that were unlikely to bring mean-
ingful improvements to the community.
As I describe in Chapter 5, board meetings were often long, contentious,
and stressful. But board members were steadfast in their approach. In ad-
dition to meetings with potential allies, they also engaged in letter-​writing
campaigns, in-​person lobbying of representatives and public administrators,
and the strategic placement of news stories about Cidade de Deus’s devel-
opment needs in newspapers. Community militants thus filled the vacuum
left by the city’s half-​baked slum-​upgrading efforts, identifying shortcomings
and drawing on historic repertoires of contentious politics to demand long-​
term improvements to social infrastructure. They also strategically targeted
political openings, particularly moments in which the government’s failures
in CDD have been most visible to the international public. The Residents’
102 Activism under Fire

Board was not the only model of political activism, however. Next, I describe
how cultural politics provided a third cluster of social change.

Cultural Politics

I stepped into the bar shyly, searching unsuccessfully for a familiar face.
To my left, a man sat shirtless, nursing a glass of beer, his large belly pro-
truding out from the wall against which he leaned. I stepped toward the
back, where the bartender wiped down the counter and chatted amiably
with a small group of men, glancing intermittently at the soccer game on
the television behind them. Wandering over to the bartender, I asked if this
was the place where Art Talk was gathering. I was at the address they’d sent
out on WhatsApp, though the place wasn’t what I had imagined for a po-
etry reading. The bartender pointed at a bouquet of plastic flowers on a
table behind me, and I turned just as Cibele walked in, her hands full of
bags. Relieved, I greeted Cibele, and she handed me a stack of flowers to
weave through the iron bars that separated the bar from the street. Cibele
turned to organize the remaining decorations—​Christmas tree lights and
large sheets of red fabric—​and I went to task, threading wire stems through
the thick iron bars.
Cibele was a light-​skinned woman of around 25 I had briefly met at an Art
Talk meeting the week before. Her dark curly hair accentuated her thick black
eye liner and large gauge earrings. I didn’t know anyone else who looked like
her in Cidade de Deus, and I wondered if she was even from there. Before
I could ask, a van pulled up. Two dark-​skinned men got out. A man with
Cybele long dread locks and dozens of tattoos down his arms opened the
back of the van and began removing large, brightly colored paintings. Having
finished with the flowers, I was tasked with hanging the paintings on the
bars. Suddenly, Cibele realized she could not find the Art Talk banner, which
she normally hung behind the microphone. She searched agonizingly for it,
until she came across a painting of Frida Khalo that had been in the van. She
placed it on a shelf behind the mic. “Here! This will do!” she exclaimed, satis-
fied with the substitution. We pushed tables off to the side and arranged the
chairs to face the microphone and Frida. The men brought in a large sound
speaker. I stepped back for a moment. Aside from the shirtless man, still
staring aimlessly past us, the bar had transformed into a stage—​a sparkling,
flowery, feminized theater.
 Milking the Resource Matrix 103

Soon, other Art Talk members began arriving, greeting each other warmly,
looking for ways to help set things up, and purchasing beer. Within an hour,
around 25 people of various ages, skin tones, tattoos, piercings, and gendered
presentations of self were congregated. Some sat on chairs, others on the
floor, and many others stood outside the bar chatting and smoking. As I later
discovered, though Art Talk was run by Cidade de Deus residents and most
events took place within the neighborhood, a number of those in attendance
that night were from neighboring, middle-​class areas or from favelas in other
parts of the city.
Natalia, a very thin 25-​year-​old woman with an androgynous appearance
walked up to the mic and called the evening to order. In later conversations
I had with Natalia, she had identified at times as Indigenous, at times as Black,
and at times as Black-​Indigenous. As it turned out, discussions of racism and
racial identity were an important component of discourse in Art Talk. While
most Art Talk Open Mics did not have a theme, they had made an exception
for this one, calling it “Women against the Coup” in reference to the recent
vote by the House of Representatives to impeach Workers’ Party President
Dilma the week before. Natalia had invited the most prominent female poets
from Cidade de Deus, including Dona Mia, a spunky woman in her 70s who
had become one of the cultural icons of the neighborhood, as well as several
other Black female poets. Over the course of the next four hours, dozens of
people got up to the microphone. This is an excerpt from my field notes after
the event:

The microphone was open to anyone, and several people read poems that
weren’t necessarily political, and some that were written by other poets.
A couple of people read poems written by their friends. Some people sang
their poems. Seu Zé, an older man, was especially entertaining as he had
brought outfits for each of the characters that he performed. He performed
a couple of poems about the police that were especially provocative and
interesting, and I wish I could have filmed them. There were poets from
all walks of life, some seasoned, some great, some timid, some novices . . . .
Although I don’t recall all the moments, there were some that were espe-
cially memorable. Carina was a 30-​something-​old tall Black woman with
long braids wearing a long dress, and she was a formidable poet. She cried
passionately several times as she recited her poems, and it was hard not to
feel the pain of the poem with her. One was about the pain of giving birth
to a stillborn child . . . . Natalia had also invited a young woman whose
104 Activism under Fire

nickname was LilyQ. At the beginning of the Open Mic she had hung sev-
eral pages with provocative quotes about women’s sexuality and equality in
sex. Some read: “You want a shaved vagina but you give me a hairy asshole”
and “If you don’t like kissing after oral sex, then you are repulsed by your
own body.” LilyQ had a very sexually empowering speech that included
the importance of being open about sex so that women’s rights could be
respected. Natalia asked her several provocative questions about her own
sexuality, and Natalia herself even made a few comments about preferring
large penises and having bought a few sex toys from her shop.

While some poems focused on personal issues, the majority had po-
litical undertones as poets criticized the corruption in Brazil’s govern-
ment, renounced police brutality and the violation of the rights of favela
residents, especially of its Black population, and decried violence against
women. Others celebrated women’s sexuality and called for the protection
of lesbian, gay, and transgender people. Many had opened their poems by
exclaiming: “Long live democracy!” as they lifted their fists to the air. These
were greeted with cheers of solidarity from the crowd. Through songs,
poems, and rap, Art Talk transformed the bar into a site for making demands
for democracy, safety, a more equitable distribution of resources, and an end
to racial discrimination. This was true in the paintings as well. One painting
featured a small white house with two windows and a triangular red roof sit-
ting alone on a bucolic green pasture. It did not resemble any house in Cidade
de Deus or Rio de Janeiro. I asked Luz, the artist whose experiences with gen-
dered violence I described in Chapter 1, about her paintings. The house, she
told me, represented a place of quiet because her own house was so noisy
from the blasting music of the baile funk parties hosted by drug traffickers, as
well as the loud sermons coming from nearby evangelical churches and the
screams of children playing in her street. How wonderful it would be to es-
cape it all, she reflected aloud. Another painting was of Batman, his face half
in the light, half in the dark, which Luz explained was meant to reflect the
good and the bad sides of humanity. A passerby looking at these paintings
would be unlikely to see the symbolism in them, but, lining the iron walls of
the bar that night, they contributed to the collective airing of grievances in
the favela.
When all the poets had concluded their readings, Natalia ushered us out
onto the street. A few minutes later, the 550 bus rounded the corner onto
our road, and two dark-​skinned men from our group stopped the bus to
 Milking the Resource Matrix 105

talk to the driver, who appeared confused and petrified. A few seconds later
they gestured us over, and we crowded in front of the bus to pose for a group
photo. It was intended as a symbolic gesture: the 550 route began in Cidade
de Deus, passed through another favela, then down Rio’s wealthy commer-
cial district, past several beaches, and ended in Leblon, one of Rio’s most ex-
pensive neighborhoods. As Natalia later explained to me, stopping the bus
on its journey signaled their efforts to interrupt the systems of inequality that
exacerbated the social and economic distance between the poor and the rich.
On my way out of the Open Mic, I ran into Maria Rita’s neighbor Jordana,
a Black 20-​year old sporting long, colorful braids and bright green lipstick.
She had been at the open mic after returning from university two hours away
with two of her white middle-​class friends. “You don’t find this kind of thing
in Zona Sul,” Jordana noted, referencing a wealthy district of the city. “Only
here in Cidade de Deus are you going to see a poetry Open Mic in the middle
of the sidewalk, at a bar.” Jordana was referring at once to the informality with
which artistic events took place in Cidade de Deus and to the unique logic
and form of politics in the favela. Poetry, rap, paintings, and a host of other
artistic practices allowed favela residents to develop political subjectivities
that were both public and hidden and to demand change in a manner that
was both public and indirect. At the same time, they transformed everyday
public/​private spaces, like parks, open bars, and streets into sites of protest
and claims-​making for the rights of citizenship.
While Art Talk is the largest and most well-​organized artist collective,
Cidade de Deus is filled with produtores culturais, or cultural producers,
people engaged in the creative economy through both traditional forms of
art, such as poetry, painting, song writing, and theater, and more contem-
porary digital art forms, such as graphic design and film production. There
are also many community journalists, novelists, hip hop artists, classical
ballet dancers, martial arts fighters, and soccer players. Many of them are
autodidacts: they learned their trade through informal apprenticeships and
lots of independent study and practice. Yet, much of what they produce
is so good you would not know its makers did not have a professional de-
gree, which is a valuable reminder that informality should not be confused
with mediocrity. In fact, Cidade de Deus residents have produced movies
and documentaries, performed in international dance troupes, made inter-
nationally acclaimed music, won national and world championships, and
played for international sports teams. Many, if not most, of Cidade de Deus’s
artists have sold their art or been employed by businesses outside the favela.
106 Activism under Fire

Art transports the favela into the urban and global knowledge economy, of-
fering poor citizens economic opportunities, new social networks, and, for
some, a platform through which to make broader critiques of inequality and
state violence.
While Cidade de Deus is often imagined as a site of violence, it is also a
site of great cultural vitality. Art provides an avenue for personal expres-
sion, contributes to personal well-​being, and can promote the construc-
tion of shared images and values within a subculture. Furthermore, artistic
creations are “among the first manifestations of collective resistance, and art
becomes a crucial and fundamental way of conveying demands, struggles,
and the collective identities constructed by the act of resisting oppression”
(Déa 2012:5). From the freedom songs of the civil rights movement and
the anti-​war posters of the Vietnam War to critical theater performance in
anti-​Apartheid South Africa and photography during the Arab Spring, art
“play[s]‌a key role in social movements and wider currents of social change”
(Reed 2019:13). Cultural activists in Cidade de Deus do exactly this: they uti-
lize artistic expression to critique the political, economic, and symbolic sys-
tems of oppression that entrench concentrated inequalities, thereby offering
local residents a narrative that holds the state, capitalism, the patriarchy, and
racism responsible for their struggles.
However, cultural activists contribute more than just symbolic forms of
protest. Many are directly engaged in politics either as employees in mu-
nicipal government, candidates or campaign staff for political candidates,
or members of formal social movement coalitions, and some have held sev-
eral of these roles. In many cases, local artists engaged in these institutional-
ized political spaces in the hope that they could make some kind of positive
changes from within the formal state. The desire to make institutional change
inspired Leonardo, an actor and co-​founder of a performing arts organiza-
tion for adolescents, to campaign for a city councilman from another favela
and to participate in the founding of a national movement that addressing
the impact of Brazil’s drug policies on poor Black citizens. Jordana had
started her own YouTube channel dedicated to telling positive stories of the
favela. Natalia, meanwhile, would go on to run for city councilwoman, and
many Art Talk participants would become loyal volunteers on her campaign.
They protested the state while working for it and in opposition to it, all in an
effort to change it.
Just as the Residents’ Board and Cidade de Deus’s CBOs emerged in a
particular social, political, and economic context, so have Cidade de Deus’s
 Milking the Resource Matrix 107

politicized artists. For one, national investment in the arts has grown steadily
since the National Foundation for the Arts (Funarte) was created in 1975,
followed 10 years later by the establishment of the Ministry of Culture. In
the 1990s, President Fernando Henrique Cardoso promoted the slogan
“Culture is a good investment” in an effort to push the neoliberal agenda of
private investments in the arts (Calabre 2014). The shift in perspective that
took place with Lula’s election in 2002 marked a new era, as the govern-
ment invested in “public policies for culture,” arguing that culture itself was
a basic right. Funding for the arts increased substantially. The Secretariat for
Identity and Cultural Diversity (SID), established in 2003, was charged with
channeling government funds to artistic groups and initiatives for “popular
cultures” (a euphemism for poor people), indigenous, LGBT, and the eld-
erly, among others. These programs largely continued to expand throughout
Lula’s two terms and Dilma Rousseff ’s first term.
Brazil’s shift to democracy also decentralized power, placing states and
municipalities in charge of the distribution of federal investments and
capturing their own, private investments. This urbanization of the nation-​
state has made Brazil’s cities the sites for social conflict and contentious
politics (Davis and Duren 2011) while also offering urban citizens great
proximity to—​and power over—​political and economic decision-​making. In
Rio de Janeiro, the nationalized oil company Petrobras was among the largest
“patrons” of the city’s cultural landscape. In 2011, they established a partner-
ship with the State Secretary of Culture and the Observatório das Favelas,
one of the largest and most highly regarded favela-​based NGOs. According
to Petrobras, “we seek to sow seeds to develop actions in the field of culture
that would increase the recognition of the role of favelas in the construction
of the city’s identity. The idea of the project is to make known and recognize
their richness and cultural plurality” (Barbosa and Dias 2013).
Funds for culture in favelas increased even further during the height of the
UPP, as Rio de Janeiro’s governor and mayor attempted to prove to the world
that they cared about favelas. By 2014, these funds were paying dividends. In
2011, Art Talk won a R$25,000 award7 from the state’s Secretary of Culture,
which allowed them to purchase a van for their equipment and to hold street-​
side open mics throughout the city . They went on to win several other small
grants that financed supplies and transportation. Rosangela, a poet and the
co-​founder of a community newspaper, was selected for a national book
prize by the federal Ministry of Culture. The award paid for her to publish her
book and a CD of original songs. Leonardo’s theater group received funding
108 Activism under Fire

from Funare and was invited to present a play at one of their annual events.
Meanwhile, Luz showcased her paintings at various cultural centers and fairs
across the city, many of which had been sponsored by the Ministry of Culture
or large private foundations.
Affirmative action policies have also played a critical role in promoting
education and political action in favelas. In 2004, the State University of Rio
de Janeiro began to require that 20% of newly admitted students be Black. Six
years later, the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro implemented quotas for
public high school graduates and low-​income students. Then, in 2012, the
federal government passed the Law of Social Quotas, which required that
half of new openings at Brazil’s federally funded universities (considered the
most prestigious in the country) be earmarked for graduates of public high
schools and a quarter for students from households earning 1.5 times the
minimum wage or less. These quotas have been part of a larger movement
across Brazil to value the inclusion of the poor and people of color in higher
education. Dozens of preparatory courses for college entrance exams were
offered—​some by volunteer favela residents, others sponsored by private
companies—​in Cidade de Deus and other favelas. I met many CDD residents
who had taken advantage of these openings to enroll in university, where they
not only gained formal degrees that could be leveraged for jobs and status
outside the favela, but also received training in history, sociology, and critical
economics. With both knowledge and formal degrees, young favela activists
have brought these resources into local networks of cultural resistance.
Beginning in 2016, however, funding for social programs began to wane.
For one, the Worker’s Party, which had been responsible for a spike in cul-
tural investments and a general shift in perception about the rights of the
poor, witnessed a dramatic fall with President Rousseff ’s impeachment and
the imprisonment of dozens of Worker’s Party leaders embroiled in the Lava
Jato corruption investigation. As the investigation unfolded, leaders of the
Workers’ Party, including Lula himself, were charged with accepting large
kickbacks in exchange for construction deals and operating permits granted
to Petrobras, the nationalized oil giant. The scandal also hastened the de-
cline of Petrobras, already underway after years of poor management, and
exacerbated an ensuing economic recession. Cultural programs that had
been funded directly by Petrobras were suddenly abandoned. The new, fis-
cally conservative President Michel Temer immediately initiated widespread
cuts to investments in culture and education, along with many other social
programs. Then, two months before the 2016 Summer Olympics, the State
 Milking the Resource Matrix 109

of Rio de Janeiro faced an economic crisis thanks to revenue losses from

Petrobras, mismanagement, and the overwhelming costs of the mega-​events.
While the economic decline continued well into 2017, cultural producers
remained firm in their endeavors, searching for other streams of funding and
taking advantage of the skills and networks they had developed at the height
of Brazil’s cultural investments.
Fortunately, cultural producers were not reliant solely on the municipal
or federal government. In fact, cultural resistance has risen alongside and
in connection with the global public sphere (Castells 2008). Their access
to information communication technologies, such as the WhatsApp text
messaging service, Facebook, Twitter, and email facilitated connections to
activists, donors, and media across the globe, specifically activists in trans-
national social movements focused on racial justice and gender-​based issues.
Leonardo and 20 of the youth from his theater group received funding from
a German theater group and flown to Germany to perform there. Natalia
spent six months in North Carolina as an exchange student, where she
learned English and had the opportunity to study philosophy and sociology,
learning ideas that later informed her poetry and critical writing. Rosangela
worked as a journalist for an international feminist community newspaper
and attended a number of international feminist conferences across Latin
America. There were many other examples of activists’ connections to coun-
tries across the world, demonstrating that favela activists were not restricted
by either neighborhood politics or the ebb and flow of government resources.
While conflict activism does expand, contract, and become reconfigured in
response to political openings, the international community has become an
important source of solidarity and support, a theme I discuss at length in
Chapter 5.

Conclusion: A Patchwork Politics

This chapter has demonstrated how activists tend to cluster around partic-
ular resources and networks in an effort to channel as many national and
international opportunities as possible into the favela. As they become
proficient in grant applications, grassroots organizing, and cultural con-
nection across favelas and countries, activists bring in a wide variety of
resources that benefit local residents, improve the overall well-​being of the
neighborhood, and insert CDD into broader social change movements.
110 Activism under Fire

The result is a patchwork of opportunities, services, and political views

that make Cidade de Deus a better and more inclusive place to live. In lieu
of one consolidated social movement, activists have dispersed into sev-
eral organizational forms that each bring in a particular set of resources
but that, in totality, help to produce a great variety of opportunities and
political visions. The dispersion of organizations, projects, initiatives, and
events across the neighborhood is a product of a dynamic, disjointed, and
multi-​dimensional field of opportunities outside of the neighborhood. It
is an imperfect solution to intersecting and deep-​rooted problems. But
when taken together, these collectives provide local residents with ac-
cess to many of the elements that contribute to political participation
and social change: the basic public goods needed for survival, organized
mobilizations around collective consumption, creative expressions of
shared identity, and avenues into the formal and transnational spheres of
political power.
Although this chapter has laid out three distinct clusters of collective ac-
tion, activists and other residents navigate in and out of these groups as
new funding sources become available, personal relationships grow or fall
apart, or even as the security landscape shifts. Maria Rita, for instance, was
a long-​time employee at Youth Promise and tended to focus her energy
on applying for grants from the government and private foundations that
could be used to keep the organization afloat. However, she was also en-
gaged in cultural production, teaching her students how to design websites
or new apps and attending many of the events hosted by local artists.
A 2013 study by the Observatório das Favelas found that of the 62 entities
engaged in cultural production in Cidade de Deus, 27.4% were CBOs
and another 27.4% were informal organizations (i.e., projetos) (Barbosa
and Dias 2013). Carmen, one of the core leaders of the Residents’ Board,
also ran her own CBO, where youth learned, among other things, how to
transform recycling materials into artistic products. Jefferson, the karatê
teacher, published several books and was among the organizers of Art Talk.
Leonardo’s organization used the arts to promote the social and political
development of youth, and could be viewed as both a CBO and a site of cul-
tural resistance.
For local activists, the distinctions between these three clusters of change
were not always apparent or even perceived as relevant. The first time many
local activists came to see these as distinct approaches to collective action was
when I presented some of my findings to them and invited their feedback.
 Milking the Resource Matrix 111

I received no rejections to my analysis; instead, we spent the following two

hours discussing the many shared challenges activists faced in a context of
endemic corruption, extreme insecurity, and a racist and exclusionary gov-
ernment. It was what they had in common, more than what differed, that our
diverse group rallied around.
Nonetheless, making these distinctions is helpful for two reasons. The first
is that, even while residents move between these clusters, each has a unique
logic and set of practices that demarcates it as distinct from the others. How
one operates and funds a CBO requires a different set of skills, resources, and
networks than how one organizes an Open Mic event, and it may very well
attract a different audience and offer different benefits. CBO leaders learned
to master the language of grant applications, community militants became
fluent in contentious political activism, and cultural actors had to navigate
a broader cultural and social scene within and beyond CDD. Each cluster
followed a particular set of norms and practices, and each was based on a dis-
tinct view of how to address violence.
Second, there were often conflicts between the leaders of these groups, who
did see their ways of making change as fundamentally different from—​and
better than—​the others. Older activists who had organized under the dicta-
torship and were now involved in community militancy often felt snubbed
by the younger generation of cultural activists who spent less time in CDD
and more time traveling around the city. Young artists, in turn, viewed the
Residents’ Board and other formal institutions as outdated and too focused
on place-​based bureaucratic practices. Additionally, more radical activists
were sometimes critical of CBOs who focused on social services, some-
times at the expense of organizing for more structural change. There was no
shortage of disagreements, and these sometimes erupted and led to cleavages
between collectives.
Conflict zones are often examined from the lens of political and physical
closures, as researchers identify the many overlapping obstacles that hinder
organized activism. However, even areas suffering extreme violence and pov-
erty exist within a broader national and global landscape that is teeming with
new economic, political, and social flows that can, with struggle and strategy,
be channeled into even the most hostile terrains. As I discuss in Chapter 5,
the ties that local collectives foster with external allies are not only produc-
tive of new opportunities but also reproductive of global, racialized, and
classed inequities. It is important that these ties are not overly romanticized.
But it is just as important that they are not overlooked. For activists in areas
112 Activism under Fire

of extreme violence, in dire need of whatever crumbs they can gather to feed
and sustain their community, their ability to disperse and cluster around ex-
isting political opportunities is an important repertoire of action that keeps
people and political ambitions alive in a context of violence and scarce
resources.
 3
Violent Clientelism and
Gendered Governance

Introduction

“We aren’t going to serve as a stepladder for politicians. We definitely aren’t!

(Não vai mesmo!),” Isabella exclaimed, justifying her refusal to praise the
work of the candidates for city council on her Facebook page. Isabella had
become a lightning rod for local politics since her page, CDD Connects, had
gained tens of thousands of followers within only a few years. Founded in
2011, CDD Connects was a digital platform for sharing all types of useful
information, including the many free or low-​cost services being offered
by community-​based organizations, promotions at local businesses, news
about government construction projects, and bus routes shut down due to
shootouts, among other things. In a neighborhood characterized by informal
economies, irregular public services, and few reliable news sources inter-
ested in publishing anything but stories of police invasians and homicides,
CDD Connects filled an essential need for information about everything
else that was happening across the neighborhood. Her first posts had been
about local services being offered: a new computer course, a vaccine clinic,
distribution of school supplies, and other public programs, some organized
by the government, others by local CBOs (community-​based organizations).
Isabella also wrote stories about community issues, such as broken pipes,
unpaved roads, and under-​staffed schools. She frequently tagged municipal
policymakers in her posts, demanding that they address these problems. As
the page gained in popularity, however, so did her own status and power. Not
surprisingly, when the 2016 municipal elections for mayor and city council
rolled around, political candidates were eager to get their ads marketed on
her site, which could quickly reach nearly every resident in Cidade de Deus
and many others living nearby.
Isabella decidedly turned down every request to post campaign flyers
on CDD Connects, regardless of the sum they offered to pay her. She had

Activism under Fire. Anjuli Fahlberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197519325.003.0004
114 Activism under Fire

recently been avoiding some of her own friends who were running for of-
fice. “Politics is a topic that I hate, that I don’t understand, and I don’t be-
lieve in it,” she’d told me as we splayed across Maria Rita’s couch a few weeks
before the election. “Instead of speaking gibberish (falando besteira), isn’t it
better to stay silent?” I nodded in agreement, but I knew from many previous
conversations that Isabella’s refusal ran much deeper than a supposed lack of
understanding about politics, which she actually had in abundance. Instead,
Isabella feared being caught up in a game that everyone in CDD knew to be
corrupt and dangerous. She hated what she called politicagem, or the ten-
dency for politicians to engage in clientelism and take the credit for the hard
work of favela residents and public servants without providing them proper
compensation. And she, like most of my other participants, feared becoming
involved in relationships with elected officials who might have some con-
nection to drug traffickers or other violent actors, such as the milicia or the
police.
However, Isabella was among dozens of residents whom I came to see as
extremely politically active. While we frequently view participation in poli-
tics as running for office, joining a campaign, or working for the government,
we might also define politics as contestations over who gets what, when, and
how (Lasswell 2018). In this broader view, politics involves intentional and
strategic engagement with power structures in order to obtain resources and
make demands for rights. Defined this way, politics can be the purview of any
member of civil society who is engaged in claims-​making, whether within
or outside the formal political system. This allows us to recognize the work
of people like Isabella and other favela residents as political. Few activists in
CDD run for office or become closely affiliated with elected officials, and most
refuse to ask for favors from state officials, particularly those with suspected
ties to local drug lords. Yet local activists were constantly organizing to ad-
dress the needs of their neighborhood and make demands for resources and
citizenship rights.
It is widely argued that gang territories are governed by the politics of
violence, composed of the webs of illicit ties between drug gangs and state
officials, mediated through bribes and threats that ultimately determine who
gets what and how (Arias 2017; Barcellos and Zaluar 2014; Gay 1993; Larkins
2015; McCann 2014). This view is partially correct. In Rio’s favelas, gangs and
milicia cultivate alliances with politicians in order to co-​opt local governing
bodies—​ including some civic associations and state-​run agencies—​ and
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 115

obtain the resources they need to keep their operations lucrative while
quashing any direct threat to their authority. However, although such violent
networks operate with great force and resilience in Cidade de Deus, they are
not the only mechanism through which politics is enacted. Favela activists
like Isabella and the participants of many collectives I described in Chapter 2
also play an essential role in local governance by bringing in and distributing
resources and creating possibilities for social and cultural development. In
order to remain effective and safe, activists have developed a host of strategies
to resist co-​optation by gangs or use the threat of violence to push forward
their objectives. In other words, alongside the politics of violence operates a
politics of non-​violence. Together, they govern the neighborhood.
This chapter examines how these two political spheres manage to co-​exist
somewhat peacefully and to share power in a context of segregated violence
and poverty. The central argument is that in Cidade de Deus, and I suspect in
many other conflict zones, the politics of violence and non-​violence are rela-
tional political forms which operate through a gendered division of governing
labor. While the masculinized politics of violence controls formal political
institutions and the management of law and order, the feminized sphere of
non-​violence maintains the social and cultural development of the neighbor-
hood. To be clear, there are many women involved, directly or tangentially,
in the drug trade, and there are hundreds of men involved in non-​violent
activism. However, each sphere performs a set of tasks that are generally
attributed to masculinity or femininity. Furthermore, while the most pow-
erful actors in violent governance are almost entirely men, the leaders of
CDD’s non-​violent politics are primarily women. As I will demonstrate, the
gendering of political spheres is critical to the survival of non-​violence in
areas of conflict and repression.
Just as in a traditional patriarchal family, these gendered spheres are not
evenly balanced. Drug traffickers maintain ultimate control over what ac-
tivities are allowed and how to enforce those boundaries. Meanwhile, non-​
violent activists must squeeze into the social and cultural spaces that drug
traffickers do not fill, creating a semi-​autonomous sphere of social action
that is constantly at risk of being co-​opted or harmed. The preservation of
this balance requires that activists draw on internalized, often subconscious
practices developed over years of living under violent politics, as well as more
consciously determined strategies of action and avoidance to remain both
effective and alive.
116 Activism under Fire

Politics through Violence

The power of the drug trade over Cidade de Deus is hard to miss, being a
pervasive presence in both the physical spaces of the neighborhood and
everyday economic and political issues. I had an opportunity to learn about
some of its many facets on a warm night in April 2016, when Esther and
I headed to a poorer section of the neighborhood to sell pizzas at her friend’s
luncheonette. Armed drug traffickers roamed many back streets openly,
displaying their dominance by showing off weapons tucked into the back of
their pants, yelling loudly at each other from down the street, and zooming
past residents on noisy, high-​end motorcycles. Many also wore thick gold
chains and boasted the latest model of cell phone. These “spectacles of con-
sumption” demonstrated their dominance over the territory by embodying a
masculinity based on both physical power and styles of leisure (Larkins 2015;
Zaluar 2010). It set them apart from—​and above—​other residents.
Visible symbols of gang membership1 are especially critical in a context of
urban warfare in an informal neighborhood where there was no official uni-
form to distinguish narcotraffickers from unarmed residents. As I described
in Chapter 1, a five-​year ceasefire between the police and the drug trade had
begun to unravel in 2014. It had started, I was told by many residents, when
UPP police began accepting bribes to allow gang members to sell drugs on
particular street corners. However, more aggressive branches of the military
police were soon sent in to crack down on these open displays of power by
the drug trade through armed police troops ready to wage direct combat.
Drug traffickers, noticing fissures within the police, become bolder, shooting
back instead of paying bribes. Their forces and their determination had
grown, and they were ready to battle the police for complete control of the
neighborhood. They began by growing their visible presence in Karatê, one
of the poorest areas of CDD, which abutted a large swamp and could not
be as easily accessed by police vehicles as other areas. At night, armed men
wandered the streets freely, participating in street parties and mingling with
other residents.
This was the kind of scene most activists would avoid. Though street
parties are a permanent fixture in favelas, activists usually avoided socializing
where drug traffickers were likely to hang out. They did not want to risk being
caught in shootout crossfire, and they certainly did not want to be seen talking
to gang members. Esther, a long-​time CDD resident who was not directly
active in collective organizing, was less concerned about the appearance of
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 117

“mixing” with drug traffickers than her sister Maria Rita, who worked for
a well-​known CBO and had a reputation of honesty and legality to uphold.
Esther knew many gang members since birth and had no problem asking
the “managers” of drug sale points for favors on behalf of needy families: a
food basket, protection against an abusive partner, or permission to occupy
a government-​run apartment unit. Esther’s ability and willingness to nav-
igate between CDD’s violent and non-​violent political spheres positioned
her as what one activist termed a “nebulous person,” someone who could—​
and would—​traverse between the gang, ordinary residents, and the activist
sphere, thereby preserving a sense of connection between distinct socio-​
economic forces.
Esther’s friend Claudia had gone on a long trip to visit family members in
the northeastern state of Bahia and left Esther in charge of her pizza shop.
Esther had prepared dozens of treats, individual-​sized pizzas, empadão, and
açaí. It was a festive night. The pizza shop sat across from a bar blasting funk
music. Adults gathered in small groups drinking beer, while children jumped
excitedly on a large trampoline that took up much of the main road. The
yellow streetlamp cast shadows down the side street behind us, and I could
make out the bodies of two scrawny girls chatting as a small child ran be-
tween their legs. In contrast to the part of CDD where I lived with Esther
and Maria Rita, composed primarily of finished brick and mortar homes, the
homes here were only semi-​finished. Exposed brick had been layered to make
second and third stories. Bedsheets hung in empty windowsills, blowing in
the wind. Residents I spoke to in this area often referred to their homes as
“under construction,” though few had been able to invest in improvements
in recent years. The roads were made of dirt, and I imagined the challenge of
keeping these homes clean of the dust.
Esther and I squeezed into Claudia’s luncheonette, a tiny space with a giant
freezer, some shelves, and a dusty old microwave. There was barely room for
the two of us, although once we lifted the metal gate we could stand outside
in front of the luncheonette and watch the festivities. While Esther sorted the
food and chatted with friends coming over to greet us, I stood around ner-
vously trying to look at ease and non-​curious. I knew I stood out. I worried
I might be perceived as an undercover police officer, spying on an area that
drug gangs had designated their own but which they still had to “defend”
from invading police. Seu Tony, Claudia’s husband, had not gone on the trip
with his wife and was hanging around outside. He came over to chat with
me. After a tense conversation in which I tried to convince him that I did not
118 Activism under Fire

work for the government, he eased up and began telling me about his life. He
shared many stories with me about his formative years, his marital issues,
and the soccer players he used to manage in hopes of getting them signed to
major teams.
He explained that soccer is the only way to leave CDD and make big
money (for young men, I believe he meant). It is an escape from favela life, if
you can be so lucky. But making it in soccer was a dangerous game in favelas.
Assuming you had skills, the opportunity to play on a team, and get a coach
from a professional league (in Brazil or abroad) to notice you, you then had
to finance your trip to the recruiting city or country, as well as the field and
the equipment to practice ahead of time. According to Seu Tony, who hoped
he might make it big someday by being the agent of a successful player, the
state did little to help poor aspiring players be competitive in the market.
Once a local politician had offered to cover the transportation and field costs
for one of Seu Tony’s players and to give the player a R$300 stipend, in ex-
change for Seu Tony’s helping him get votes. This patron “relationship” only
lasted four weeks, after which time the politician stopped giving him money,
and Seu Tony had to pay the rest of the field fees out of pocket. In response,
Seu Tony stopped helping him earn votes. “Here, every politician is dirty,” he
told me.
Seu Tony’s experience reflects one of many entanglements favela residents
have with corrupt politicians, which can end badly when one side does not
live up to their end of the deal. In a well-​functioning democracy, financial
and material resources are distributed through public policies to those who
qualify, regardless of the candidates for whom they voted. In favelas, how-
ever, people received state resources through clientelism, whereby resources
are distributed by individual politicians directly to their friends and allies
who help them get elected (Chasteen 2016). In Rio and across Latin America,
clientelism has been so pervasive, particularly in poor neighborhoods with
little control over the urban or national political process, that it has become
embedded in everyday life (Auyero and Benzecry 2017).
In Rio’s favelas, drug traffickers often mediate these relationships, serving
as brokers between politicians, who need the support of local drug lords to
garner votes from the favela, and local residents, who need money or other
types of resources to make ends meet or to grow a business venture (Arias
2006b). The result is a violent configuration of clientelism, wherein involve-
ment in political networks is interwoven with armed illicit actors and always
tinged with the threat of exile, torture, and death for residents who fail to
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 119

meet the demands of the politician or gang lord. Enrique Desmond Arias,
drawing on over a decade of research on politics in Rio’s favelas, argues that
these neighborhoods are governed by “micro-​level armed regimes . . . that
alter political practices within the same urban and national-​level institutions
[and] also generate particular localized political orders” (Arias 2017:2). In
Cidade de Deus, where drug gangs have governed the streets since the 1970s,
the gang-​led micro-​regime is sustained through illicit ties to political actors,
making any involvement with politicians a potentially deadly affair.
Those who rise to power in this system are those who are willing to play the
game and incur the risks. This includes of course drug traffickers and corrupt
politicians, but also local “big men,” or favela residents—​usually men—​who
are not directly involved in either the drug trade or politics but who accept
resources in exchange for political favors (Penglase 2014). Seu Tony offers a
prime example. Seu Tony was among the lucky ones, however, as he survived
the unraveling of his agreement with his benefactor. In other cases, the ex-
change of favors in CDD can end much more badly. According to Seu Tony,
many aspiring soccer players end up being “sponsored” by the drug trade.
Few are recruited to major teams, however; the rest return to CDD having
spent the gang’s money with little to show for it and no way to pay it back.
Seu Tony told me about one player who was murdered after he returned to
CDD without fame or money and was unable to pay back his sponsor in the
drug trade. I left that night with a clearer understanding of both the physical
and economic mechanisms the gang utilized to affirm their control of the
neighborhood.
We returned the following night to sell pizzas again, but this time I sat
talking to Rafael, Seu Tony’s son, who was in his late twenties. Rafael opened
up about his experiences in CDD immediately. “I have already lost more than
one hundred friends, more than one hundred. I’ve seen a lot of stuff here,”
Rafael reported matter-​of-​factly. We sat in folding chairs staring at the in-
tersection. He pointed to different spots nearby, reporting the executions he
had witnessed. Some were killed by drug traffickers who suspected them of
being undercover spies for the police. Others had been shot by the military
police during an operation or for refusing to pay the bribes they charged.
The very state actors charged with citizen protection were among the greatest
perpetrators of violence in Rio’s favelas.
Suddenly, we heard fireworks in the distance and the street went quiet.
The fireworks had been a warning that the caveirão, or armored vehicle of
the BOPE (the Battallion for Special Operations), similar to a SWAT team,
120 Activism under Fire

was riding through the neighborhood. The children and armed men scurried
out of sight so quickly it seemed more like a reflex than a negotiated plan
of action. The rest of us looked down the road in apprehensive silence. Sure
enough, barely a minute passed before the caveirão appeared. I held my
breath as it drove past us, only a few feet away, as slowly as a person walks.
The rifle tips of the officers inside stuck out of small holes pointed directly
at us. I could see the whites of some of the officers’ eyes. Reaching the end of
the road, the caveirão turned around and drove past us again. I said a silent
prayer that they would not shoot at us and that the drug traffickers would
not shoot at them. A few minutes later, we heard fireworks from another
area of the neighborhood, alerting us that the caveirão had moved on to an-
other place. They left in peace that night, though on many other nights these
incursions ended in shootouts and death.
Violent governance in Cidade de Deus operates through a combination of
cooperation and competition between drug traffickers, the police, and cor-
rupt politicians who rely on extortion, bribes, threats of violence, and actual
violence to perform dominance over the neighborhood and each other. This
political arrangement has a distinctively masculine characterization. For
one, although both men and women commonly asked drug traffickers for
favors and resources, most of those with the power to distribute such favors
are men. Furthermore, displays of physical and consumptive power allow
men to signal their dominance in the masculine hierarchy. In his research on
gangs in Medellín, for instance, Adam Baird found that “Like soldiering, the
capacity for violence is a rite of passage into the gang and a definitive assertion
of male adulthood” (2018:203). While more affluent or lighter-​skinned men
may perform hegemonic masculinity through high-​skilled jobs or electoral
politics, gangs and the police become some of the few institutions in which
poor, darker-​skinned men can exercise masculine power and status (Baird
2018; Bourgois 2003). While in less violent contexts it may be common for
women to be key political brokers in clientelist networks (Auyero 2001), in
gang territories, violent clientelist networks have been constructed as hyper-​
masculine spaces that enable individual men to showcase their dominance
over the territory.
This model of governance empowers individual drug lords and politicians
while draining actual government institutions of political power. As noted
in Chapter 1, drug traffickers under the Comando Vermelho gradually took
over favela neighborhood associations in the late 1980s and 1990s, killing or
expelling their presidents and placing their own puppets in their place (Gay
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 121

1993; Perlman 2010). In CDD, the four “RAs,” or Residents’ Associations,

now do little more than rent out rooms in their buildings for birthday parties
or dance classes. According to one local activist, “We don’t have a functional
Association here in CDD. It doesn’t work here.” As several participants told
me, residents have not been allowed to vote for new presidents in nearly
twenty years. The role of the RAs, which had once been sites of enthusiastic
debate and discussion about how to address the needs of the neighborhood,
has been essentially de-​politicized in order to ensure that residents did not
have a space to organize against local gangs (Fischer 2008; McCann 2014;
Perlman 2010).
CDD also has a Regional Administration office, a branch of the municipal
government charged with overseeing local construction and development
projects and distributing housing titles and other neighborhood-​based re-
sources to CDD residents. I tried four times to get an interview with the di-
rector, but she was never in her office and failed to show up to appointments
I’d scheduled with her assistant. The building itself was falling apart, with
large puddles of water spread throughout the concrete floor and giant
patches of mold on the ceilings. Most residents had no idea what the Regional
Administration did. Many participants believed it was co-​opted by gangs.
Some of the evidence for this, I was told, included how often individuals with
connections to the drug gang were issued permits for large block parties, as
well as rumors that some of the public goods administered by the Regional
Administration often ended up in the hands of gang members, who then
determined which residents could access them. When I asked one of my
participants if they thought the director of the Regional Administration
had been bribed, they replied, “If not bribed, then threatened.” If the carrot
did not work, the stick was sure to do the trick. In a space where so much
of the “real” politics happened behind closed doors, residents used small
pieces of evidence and rumors to make a best guess about who controlled
what (and whom) and to determine which institutions had the potential to
address residents’ demands for improvements. While I have no personal
knowledge about the veracity of these claims, the more important point here
is that residents believed them. The perception of corruption among local
government made the Regional Administration an ineffective space for
claims-​making.
Although I heard over and over from residents that “they (drug gangs) don’t
mess with me” (eles não mexem comigo não), it was clear that the drug trade
had a more implicit power over the neighborhood. The network the gang
122 Activism under Fire

cultivated through favors and threats had rendered formal political spaces
inadequate, if not outright dangerous, for demanding a fair distribution of
resources or meaningful representation with government officials. Drug
traffickers also administered law and order, since the police only entered to
search for drugs or make arrests and rarely (if ever) policed interpersonal
crimes. Drug lords “assisted” residents with “protection” from petty crime,
including theft, vandalism, and bar fights. They sometimes policed child
abuse and domestic violence, and I knew several women who only found
peace from an abusive partner after asking the local drug lord to intervene.
I also heard of men being horrendously tortured and killed after accusations
of child abuse, often with very little, if any, evidence of guilt. In theory, these
interventions are meant to establish a reciprocal relationship between drug
gangs and the community (Silva 2008; de Souza 2005). However, this rela-
tionship is far from even: drug traffickers can impose their demands at any
time through the threat of violence while residents rely constantly on their
good graces. Additionally, the safety and freedom that residents must give up
far exceeds the benefits of gang-​mediated law and order.
When I learned that Rafael’s son was taking soccer classes with one of the
local community-​based organizations, I breathed a sigh of relief. From what
I had observed, there was a decent chance that drug traffickers were not in-
volved in funding this CBO, which more likely was receiving support from
a government program or private philanthropist. It would be less likely that
the boy or his family would have to “repay” a debt for soccer training or risk
violent retaliation for non-​payment. Taking classes through a CBO would
put some distance between the child and the violent tentacles that reached
into so many neighborhood spaces. I secretly hoped the child did not dis-
play too much talent, however, lest he also get trapped in the costly dream of
making it big—​which no local CBO could afford to fund on their own. But
in CDD, the dream of making it big was also critical to keeping hope alive in
a neighborhood with so few alternatives. Fortunately, violent clientelism was
not the only avenue for obtaining resources or becoming politically engaged.

Non-​Violence as Political Sphere

While local drug traffickers joust with the police and corrupt politicians for
control over the physical territory and the enforcement of law and order,
they are not the only favela residents who manage the neighborhood.
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 123

Community-​ based organizations, the Residents’ Board, community

journalists, and art collectives also play an essential role in overseeing the
community through the provision of social and cultural resources. While we
commonly view the government as responsible for governing its citizens, the
concept of governance recognizes that a broad array of both state and non-​
state actors can partake in these tasks. As Mark Hufty (2011:405) explains:

Governance does not presuppose vertical authority and regulatory power

as the concept of “political system” and the traditional idea of “politics” do.
It refers to formal and informal, vertical and horizontal processes, with no a
priori preference . . . Using a governance perspective permits the inclusion
of all political processes, including formal ones, those embedded in larger
social systems, and unrecognized ones.

In informal neighborhoods and conflict zones, where the presence of

the state is often weak and/​or fragmented, it is essential to examine the role
of non-​state actors in local governance. In Cidade de Deus, activists have
deployed a host of strategies to identify, access, and distribute resources to the
neighborhood, help to improve living conditions, and advocate for residents’
rights. This often involves working with state officials in the social service
branches of the state and with private philanthropic organizations in order
to direct resources to the most urgent issues. Community-​based organiza-
tions were often the first stop for residents looking to address a variety of
needs. Access to food, help finding a job, care for children or the elderly, the
development of new skills, even basic health care were often administered
by CBOs who carefully managed funds from government grants and private
donors to spread resources as widely as possible. They also partnered fre-
quently with staff from local public institutions, inviting them to talk about
welfare and healthcare benefits or organizing joint events for the neighbor-
hood, such as vaccine drives or courses on citizenship rights.
The Residents’ Board has also played a critical role in advocating for the
development needs of Cidade de Deus. In recent years, the board worked
with municipal officials to increase the number of trash collection days, to
clean up debris sites, and to add “community cleaners” who swept many of
the main streets. The board successfully mobilized the municipal govern-
ment to construct new housing units for families who had lost their homes
in the 1996 flood and were living in temporary homes. Geovana, Carmen,
and the other board members spoke fondly of this project. They worked
124 Activism under Fire

with the architecture department at Rio’s state university to meet with dis-
placed residents and collectively design models for the houses in which they
wished to live. At the same time, they refused to allow outside contractors
to take on the project, insisting that Cidade de Deus residents be trained,
organized into a cooperative, and hired to build the homes. Though their
original request was for 4,000 units, they succeeded in securing the con-
struction of 618 homes, which have now been inhabited for over a decade.
The board also secured partners to fund the establishment of a commu-
nity radio station that shared public interest stories and information about
courses and upcoming events. Youth Promise—​with a great deal of support
from Solange and Maria Rita—​had embraced the task of overseeing the
radio station.
In 2011, the Residents’ Board worked with a local social development
organization to secure a grant from the Municipal Secretariat for the
Development of Economic Solidarity, which allowed them to open the
first Community Bank in Brazil. As I detailed in Chapter 2, the board has
helped bring multiple forms of development to the neighborhood, in-
cluding a local currency, several additional public schools, more resources
for the local health clinic, and a host of other improvements. Often, board
members succeeded by partnering with urban NGOs, private companies,
universities, and allies in various branches of the municipal and state
governments. The board also created an online portal in which government
and private actors could learn about the board and local CBOs to promote
new partnership and funding opportunities. Some of the partnerships were
with various secretariats at the municipal and state levels, public research
institutes, federal and state universities, the social service branch of pri-
vate conglomerates, and international organizations, such as UNESCO
and Action Aid, all of which provided funds or other resources to offer the
types of trainings or services that addressed the demands in the develop-
ment plan.
Isabella also took a leading role in addressing immediate issues through
CDD Connects, which became so popular that not only residents but also
politicians and state administrators followed the page. Isabella routinely
posted stories about government mismanagement of buildings, public
spaces, and public social services, tagging the Regional Administration and
calling for them to intervene. In 2015, for instance, she made and posted a
video of water pouring out of a pipe near a preschool that had been without
water for weeks.
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 125

Do the basic math: This video is 36 seconds. How much water was wasted
during this recording? Now multiply that by 1 month uninterrupted.
A lot, no? This leak is on Travessa Lilas. Because of this waste, the Monica
Preschool is without water. Residents claim they have called and filed
complaints, asked for solutions at the “pretend” office of CEDAE [the
city’s water company] and still this clean water is going to waste. Maybe
the Regional Administration of Cidade de Deus can ask the people of
“Conservethemselves” to resolve this issue ☺.

In a reply to the post, that same day, the Regional Administration said they
had already sent a team to fix the problem. The next day, another resident
replied on the post that no team had actually come. Five days later Isabella
replied that the water was still leaking. Finally, a full week later, another res-
ident replied to the thread that CEDAE workers were on site and working
on the leak, thanking CDD Connects for helping get this done. Isabella’s
Facebook page is replete with hundreds of such stories, in which a resident
sounds the alarm about broken infrastructure, piles of garbage, downed
wires, water shortages, and many other public issues. Isabella did not hesi-
tate to tag the Regional Administration and call out various branches of the
municipal government for their neglect and demand attention. By publicly
“outing” their failures, Isabella managed to exert pressure on state institutions
to address public maintenance issues in the neighborhood.
CDD Connects had also achieved incredible success locating missing
children and adults. While finding missing people may be the police’s job
in other areas, in CDD, Isabella was residents’ best hope. I was constantly
amazed by how frequently CDD Connects shared pictures and informa-
tion about someone who had gone missing—​where they had last been seen,
what they were wearing, etc.—​only to post a picture with the words “Found”
stamped across the post a day or two later. Over the years, the number of
located people reached into the hundreds. Through the prolific reach of the
Facebook page, CDD Connects successfully filled an essential role that nei-
ther the police nor the drug trade fulfilled.
CDD’s art collectives were vital in distributing cultural rights and re-
sources to the neighborhood. Local artists routinely organized events in-
viting children and adult members of the community to paint benches and
posts in colorful designs, to create murals, and to perform dance, theater, and
percussion shows, among many other events. “Art in the Park” was among
the favorite and most long-​running events. Organized by an older man with
126 Activism under Fire

a long, white beard and Luz, the artist discussed in Chapters 1 and 2, Art
in the Park provided a variety of art supplies, paper, and canvases for chil-
dren to sit outside in the park and paint together. Through these and many
other events, activists provided the community with access to materials and
the opportunity to develop artistic skills that the severely under-​resourced
public schools often were unable to offer. In other cases, poets and writers
from the community partnered with the public schools to provide poetry
and writing classes in the schools. While private schools in Rio de Janeiro,
and many public schools in the United States and Europe provide their chil-
dren with these cultural rights, in Cidade de Deus, local activists have had to
fill this space.
Drug traffickers and unarmed activists are central actors in neighbor-
hood governance. While the drug trade enforces law and order, controls
formal political associations, and imposes territorial control, the sphere of
non-​violent politics locates and distributes social and cultural resources,
addresses residents’ urgent issues, and promotes civic engagement. In con-
trast to violent clientelism, whose connections to the state are often through
illicit ties with corrupt officials and the police, non-​violent politics connects
to social institutions within the government via licit channels, such as by
administering a grant from the municipal government, co-​organizing a
community event with public servants, or calling elected officials to demand
their rights be upheld. Both groups of favela residents (drug traffickers and
activists) take leadership in managing the everday affairs of the neighbor-
hood and cultivate relationships with state actors, and both have become
central to local governance.
Given the many risks involved in sharing governing power with armed
actors, activists were intentional about keeping their practices as separate
from those of the drug trade as possible. While ordinary residents like
Seu Tony and Esther were at times willing to ask drug lords for favors for
needy families or aspiring athletes, activists were not. The leaders, staff, and
volunteers of CBOs and coletivos were decidedly committed to avoiding
any connections to violent clientelism. I did not know of any activist who
owned a gun, and I never heard any story or even rumor of an activist
utilizing their ties to a drug trafficker or other armed resident to gain an
advantage in a relationship. While most activists did know one or several
members of the gang they avoided close relationships with gang members
at all costs. Additionally, as I detail later in this chapter, they refused re-
sources connected to drug traffickers or anyone believed to be associated
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 127

with the drug trade, thereby preventing the kind of repayment expecta-
tions that Seu Tony had faced.
This is not to say activists never broke the law. Rumors occasionally
circulated that some CBO leaders pocketed money from government grants
to pay their own bills, which fomented suspicion and distrust between
activists. Residents pointed to evidence of corruption in CBOs when, for in-
stance, a CBO won a government grant but did not offer the promised activi-
ties. Given how rarely the public was privy to detailed information about the
funds any given CBO received or how they were spent, what people believed
about a CBO or its leaders was often more powerful than the truth. The ease
with which rumors of corruption could spread also reaffirmed the very slip-
pery slope that activists faced in preserving their reputation and legitimacy
in the eyes of the community.
Activists could also be accused of putting their desire for fame and status
above the needs of their clients or colleagues if, for instance, they accepted
an offer to give a talk about their organization’s work, were interviewed by
local newspapers without consulting others, or vied for a job in a large urban
NGO, presumably leaving their colleagues—​and their community—​behind
in pursuit of success. In a context where being poor and from a favela severely
limited one’s chances of rising in the ranks of urban society, activism had be-
come one of the few avenues for urban respectability, and some activists used
their work to climb the NGO ladder. Finally, as I describe in the Appendix,
the only man I ever felt directly threatened by was a leader of an important
favela-​based cultural movement. As Lee Ann Fuji (2011) has noted in her re-
search on political violence in Rwanda, fixed categories of “perpetrators” and
“victims” severely oversimplify and misconstrue the dynamism and fluidity
of violent acts on the ground. Activists, like drug traffickers and other favela
residents, are people with layers of complexity. Just like other people, they
could engage in theft, backstabbing, and interpersonal violence, even while
participating in movements and espousing values that advocated for non-​
violence, equality, and social justice. At the same time, they worked hard to
preserve their reputation and avoid any rumors of illegality or immorality in
order to distance themselves and their collectives from the sphere of violent
governance.
Keeping this distance was further complicated by the fact that most
activists had connections to individual drug traffickers through kinship ties
or other social networks. Given how many young men joined (and some-
times left) the drug trade, most people were connected to someone in a gang,
128 Activism under Fire

or someone who had once been in a gang. Esther and Maria Rita knew sev-
eral young men whom they had helped to care for as children who eventually
decided to join the drug trade. Additionally, most of the children and vul-
nerable adults who received services from local CBOs were related to people
in the drug trade. As I describe later, the impossibility of avoiding all ties
to violent clientelism made the performance of non-​violence of utmost im-
portance. Even as activists acknowledged and sometimes engaged in inter-
personal relationships with people connected to the drug trade or corrupt
politics, they worked hard to keep these actors in the realm of “weak ties,”
they avoided any formal or informal partnerships with corrupt or violent
actors, and they regularly expressed their commitment to peace and social
justice. Individuals could not always be kept apart, but the activist sphere
positioned itself as economically, politically, and morally separate from vio-
lent clientelism.
Although non-​violent politics stood, in many respects, as an opposi-
tional force to the drug trade, drug traffickers generally allowed CBOs and
informal collectives to continue their work without constant threats, extor-
tion, or other disturbances. I did hear of a handful of cases in which activists
had been warned by drug traffickers to stand down when their protests di-
rectly challenged drug traffickers, and I have no doubt that there were other
such cases that were never shared with me. However, within the constraints
imposed by gangs, activists were largely able to oversee the cultural and so-
cial development of the neighborhood without the interference of or threats
from them. Why did local drug lords allow activists this freedom and this
power? How have non-​violent politics managed to survive within a context
of violent clientelism?
When I asked activists these questions, they often cited the common
saying: If you stay away from them, they stay away from you. My observations
of how activist groups operated—​keeping great distance from gangs—​
suggests that this was certainly an important component of the explanation.
I had found this to be true in my own experiences of fieldwork in Cidade de
Deus. I never intervened in the drug trade’s affairs, and to my knowledge they
never intervened in mine. However, given the long history of the execution of
leaders of civic associations and the co-​opting of political organizations, the
relative autonomy of non-​violent politics in Cidade de Deus hinged on more
than just separation. Politics in CDD rested on a number of invisible social
forces and more consciously intentional practices that had to be navigated
with great caution. These include the gendered division of governing labor,
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 129

the spaces created by the fragmentation of sovereignty, and a strategic avoid-

ance of any participation that could be tied back to drug gangs.

The Gendered Division of Governing Labor

Rosangela and I stood in front of a bright yellow aluminum door surrounded

by a sky-​blue cement wall with yellow trim. On the door was a poster
announcing an upcoming computer class. It was my first day in Cidade de
Deus, and Rosangela had kindly offered to bring me to Youth Promise.
Rosangela rang the buzzer, and a voice came on: “Good afternoon?” “Hi,
it’s Rosangela and Anjuli,” Rosangela responded. The door buzzed open, and
we made our way through an open veranda with shiny white tiles and sky-​
blue walls to a narrow hallway and turned a sharp right up uneven cement
stairs to the second floor. We came to a small landing packed with over a
dozen children chatting animatedly. Some stood, others sat squished to-
gether onto the three chairs lining the hallway. Over their heads we could see
into the main office, which was also packed with children gathered around
two large office desks. Rosangela nodded her head toward Solange, a white,
middle-​aged woman with short curly blonde hair sitting behind a large desk
in a swivel chair she had turned to face two girls of about ten years of age. It
was impossible to hear her over the laughter and chatter of the other chil-
dren, but from the girls’ bowed heads and the stern look on Solange’s face it
seemed clear that they were being scolded. After a minute, she pointed at the
two girls, and they turned to each other and uttered what appeared to be half-​
hearted apologies. “Come get your snacks!” a woman’s voice resounded over
the noise from the kitchen next door. Excused, the two girls ran off to join the
other children lining up to receive their snacks—​a juice box, saltine crackers,
and a piece of chocolate packaged into small paper bags.
Solange made her way out of the office and over to us and gave me a warm
hug, welcoming me to Youth Promise. The two girls, she told us with a sigh,
had exchanged some unpleasant words and a few pushes before the teacher
intervened and sent them down to the office. We watched as the sea of chil-
dren dispersed down the steps with their snacks. “Good-​bye, Tia Solange!”
some of the children shouted,2 glancing at me with curiosity. Within five
minutes, the children were gone, and Youth Promise fell silent. Solange
apologized for the craziness and proceeded to introduce me to the two
women in the kitchen: Andressa, who had been handing out snacks, and
130 Activism under Fire

Vanda, who helped with cooking and cleaning. “Sure smells good in here,”
Solange noted as she lifted the lid of a pot of steaming chicken. A tall man
with abnormally smooth ears, characteristic of martial arts competitors,3
descended from the third floor. “This is our wonderful jiu-​jitsu teacher,”
Solange smiled as she made the introduction. After I greeted each of the staff
with the typical kiss on each cheek, Solange and I made our way back to the
office where we spent the next hour talking about Youth Promise and how
I might be of help.
Throughout my many trips to CDD and my time volunteering at Youth
Promise, I was able to observe Solange’s motherly approach to her flock of
children, volunteers, and staff. It was not uncommon to find Solange behind
a desk surrounded by children, hard at work applying for a grant, or bent
over putting ointment on a child’s skinned knee. Her other staff, nearly all
women with the exception of a few male teachers, were similarly caring of
each other, the children in the program, and the children’s parents. This care
came in the form of affection, education, and the provision of services, as well
as disciplining practices intended to address problematic behaviors. Solange,
Maria Rita, and Camila also worked tirelessly to help the caretakers of their
youth—​usually mothers or grandmothers—​find food, housing, transporta-
tion to a job interview, or solutions to any other urgent need, though this
type of social service work fell outside of their organization’s formal pro-
gramming. Youth Promise also had a strong social media presence, which
they utilized to showcase the children’s activities, send messages praising
the projects the children accomplished, and affirm their commitment to ra-
cial justice and gender equality. The regular postings also provide evidence
that the funds they received were being put toward the promised events and
resources.
Solange and Youth Promise’s motherly style in caring for the commu-
nity represented a feminized approach to activism that I similarly observed
among many other activist groups. The Residents’ Board was run by several
strong, fierce women, including Carmen, Clara, and Geovana, who tackled
the social development needs of the neighborhood, in many respects acting
as the caretakers of the community. Most of CDD’s art collectives are also run
by women and engaged in practices we might think of as feminine: hosting
activities for children and youth, helping to beautify the physical landscape,
and encouraging the social and educational development of its residents
through courses and skill-​building workshops. Across the spectrum of
CDD’s “clusters” of political organizing, women’s leadership plays a central
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 131

role in enabling local activists to organize politically without upsetting the

local structures of masculine governance.
Feminized non-​violent politics can be understood as occupying an oppo-
sitional space to masculinized violent governance. While there were many
men involved in local activist efforts, male leaders were in the minority and
were sometimes viewed with distrust and suspicion by other residents. The
few male leaders I knew made frequent public remarks about the leadership
roles of various women in their organizations. Leonardo, himself a local CBO
leader, emphasized to me that this sphere was governed primarily by women.
Meanwhile, Jefferson, the karatê teacher and president of a cultural CBO in
CDD, was constantly praising the hard work and leadership of the women
in his group, emphasizing that his role was mostly to carry out their orders.
Additionally, activists, particularly those most well-​known in the neighbor-
hood, were expected to perform femininity by expressing their concern for
vulnerable populations and their commitment to care work. For instance,
several of the male activists I met worked as educators, teaching courses to
children and adolescents on acting, photography, dancing, or writing that in-
corporated themes around human rights, while also engaging in other types
of social organizing or political work. By taking on some of the many activi-
ties associated with care work, female and male activists enacted a feminized
role in the neighborhood.
It has become common to associate politics with men and masculinity.
In fact, in 2016, women held only 13% of elected municipal posts and 10%
of national representative positions in Brazil (Cazarré 2016). Men are more
likely to be asked to serve in high-​level government posts, and men are often
the spokespeople or appointed leaders of contentious, anti-​institutional pol-
itics, including labor unions and many social movements. Furthermore, as
previously noted, gang territories are often governed by informal networks
of male “specialists of violence,” corrupt politicians, and local “big men.”
However, for all that has been studied and written about masculinity in gang
territories, we have paid much less attention to its symbolic opposite: fem-
ininity. When studies of politics in areas of violence and conflict focus on
clientelism and the ties between armed actors, this brings attention to rela-
tions between men and the ways in which masculinity becomes connected
to violence. While masculinity and violence are central to understandings
of politics in conflict zones, they only represent half of the gendered field of
power that characterizes this environment. Cynthia Cockburn reminds us
of the importance of applying a more complete gendered analysis by asking,
132 Activism under Fire

where are the women? (Cockburn 2004). By looking toward the women and
forms of femininity in conflict zones, we can shift our lens away from clien-
telism and notice other forms of political action. For instance, in her explora-
tion of housing activism in a poor neighborhood in the predominantly Black
Brazilian state of Bahia, Kheisha-​Kahn Perry found that Black women were
“key political interlocutors between local communities and the Brazilian
state for greater access to resources. They are the foot soldiers of the historical
struggle for social and territorial belonging, participatory urbanizing policies
and improved living conditions for black citizens in Brazil” (2013:15).
As Perry’s finding suggests, when we move our focus away from elec-
toral politics and clientelism and toward the fight for resources and rights,
women—​and in many cases, Black women in particular—​emerge as mean-
ingful political leaders. Across Latin America, women have played key roles
in community organizing, service provision, and demanding resources
from the state (Berry 2018; Zulver 2022). According to Perry, Black women
play key economic and social roles in their neighborhood and often serve
as “mediators of familial and social relationships within their communities,
influencing political decisions and how important resources such as land
are distributed” (Perry 2013:15). Women’s political leadership in poor
neighborhoods emerges from the gendered distribution of socio-​political
roles, which places female bodies in a position to understand and advocate
for community needs (Fernandes 2007).
Solange’s approach to leadership also demonstrates the centrality of moth-
erhood in activist work. Motherhood is often viewed as one of the greatest
social contributions with which women are tasked. In poor neighborhoods,
where mutual assistance is crucial to survival, women are expected to care
for their own biological children as well as other family members and vulner-
able people. Esther herself was a mother figure to nearly a dozen adolescents
whose mothers had died or were abusive, and she was often called upon to
assist sick or hungry neighbors. While some men did also embrace parental
roles beyond their families, the expectation and burden of this care remains
strongly feminized.
Drawing on her research in the poor barrios of Venezuela under Hugo
Chávez, Sujatha Fernandes argues that women’s social role as mothers pushed
them into community care work, which in turn transformed women into po-
litical actors. According to Fernandes, barrio women “utilized a maternal-​
centered notion of responsibility and nurturance as the basis of their
political identity” (2007:122). In the context of male-​dominated Chavista
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 133

networks and institutions, women’s involvement with the local needs of their
neighborhoods provided them a unique space in which to become politically
active. She writes:

Despite male leadership and authority, the growing presence of women in

local assemblies, committees, and communal kitchens has created forms of
popular participation that challenge gender roles, collectivize private tasks,
and create alternatives to male-​centric politics. Women’s experiences of
shared struggle from previous decades, along with their use of democratic
methods of popular control, such as local assemblies, help to prevent the
state’s appropriation of women’s labor for its own ends. (Fernandes 2007:98)

As women occupy the spaces of social development not properly filled by

the state or, in the case of CDD, by armed drug traffickers, the leadership over
activities that began as an extension of motherhood transform women into
political subjects. Ironically, the very act of performing traditional gender
roles produces its opposite: the private sphere becomes public, and women’s
domestic work turns political.
In contexts of armed conflict, the gendered division of care work is further
entrenched. Mothers (and grandmothers, aunties, or non-​biological female
guardians) are usually the primary caretakers of the men killed in armed
conflict. When they become organized, women’s groups also become pow-
erful advocates for peace and mobilizers against armed conflict (Zubillaga,
Llorens, and Souto 2019). The anti-​dictatorship movement led by the Madres
de la Plaza de Mayo in Argentina in the 1970s is perhaps the best-​known
example of politicized motherhood. However, stories abound of women
protesting against state brutality targeted against their children (Diego
Rivera Hernández 2017; Gallo-​Cruz 2020; Hasić, Karabegović, and Turković
2020; Santiago et al. 2017). When maternal grief for the loss of a child due
to racialized physical and structural violence becomes expressed through
activism, it becomes what Erica Lawson terms “public motherhood,” rather
than a “private expression of pain” (Lawson 2018:713). Thus, while mother-
hood may not be commonly associated with activism, “gender and moth-
erhood become the foundation for work that is implicitly and explicitly
political and often transgresses social boundaries within local communities”
(Vogt 2018:189).
In contexts of violence, motherhood can serve as a strong unifying force.
Rosangela had once made the point that “there is no difference between
134 Activism under Fire

mothers of PMs (military police) and mothers of criminals—​both worry

about whether their sons will return alive.” As mothers and caretakers,
women bear a heavy emotional toll from the constant worry that their chil-
dren might be killed in conflict. This fear and pain can be generative of
action. Women have become embroiled in anti-​violence work in regions
under armed conflict across the globe. In Sierra Leone, women mobilized
against the war and promoted the reintegration of ex-​combatants at higher
rates than traditional leaders or international aid workers (Mazurana,
Carlson, and Anderlini 2004). In Colombia, women’s groups have helped
to promote healing, peace-​building, and collective memory projects in
the aftermath of the decades-​long civil war (Menés 2020), even when the
risks of activism were high (Zulver 2022). In Mexico, feminist groups ac-
tively decry feminicidios and militarized violence (Staudt and Méndez
2015). And in the gang territories of Caracas, mothers help to resist vio-
lence by negotiating truces between gangs or using the power over their
(armed) sons to pressure them to respect cease fires (Zubillaga et al. 2019).
While women often become involved in anti-​violence activism to protect
their families, friends, and their neighborhoods, they are also uniquely
positioned to advocate for peace and help rebuild war-​torn communities.
The politicization of femininity in CDD was also reflected in the fervor
with which Residents’ Board leaders, such as Carmen, Clara, and Geovana,
fought for social development in their neighborhood. By engaging in
grassroots organizing, these powerful women extended the care discourse
beyond the children and families in their organizations to the entire com-
munity by fighting for collective resources and services. By connecting their
political efforts to communal caretaking, they could leverage this feminized
role to legitimize more explicitly contentious claims-​making. This exten-
sion of the domestic sphere outward to the neighborhood is not unique to
Cidade de Deus. In a context of both poverty and warfare, women’s commu-
nity organizing has become even more accentuated and necessary. When cli-
entelism becomes conflated not only with corruption but also with violence,
non-​violent activism becomes relationally tied to the feminine. According to
Marie Berry:

As is frequently the case in the developing or post-​socialist world, non-

governmental organizations (NGOs) can represent a dynamic space
in between the public “male” government realm and the private “fem-
inine” one. Such an in-​between space—​or “third sector”—​must be
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 135

considered when looking at women’s political power,” particularly after

war (2018:12).

While CDD was still very much “at war,” Berry’s point remains sa-
lient: the sphere of non-​violence operates as a feminine space in contrast to
the male sphere of violent clientelism. When non-​violent politics becomes
feminized, it comes to be perceived as subordinate and not directly threat-
ening to the masculinized violent sphere. (Male) drug lords are less likely to
be intimidated by female CBO leaders, particularly when these leaders are
engaged in feminized labor. Thus, by placing women in leadership roles, the
sphere of non-​violence performs the “private” work of caretaking, but does
so in collective and public spaces that enable it to serve a political role, yet
one that does not directly confront violent clientelism.
There were both benefits and costs to the gendered relations of politics
in Cidade de Deus, however. For instance, different people received dif-
ferent rewards for their participation in each sphere. Men participating in
masculinized violent politics could bolster their claims to hyper-​masculinity,
which could be rewarded through promotions within the gang and access
to material objects such as guns, motorcycles, money, and drugs, as well as
women. Men engaged in violent clientelism were also much more likely to
be killed. Meanwhile, women participating in the feminized sphere of non-​
violence were rewarded with praise for their commitment to community
work and their moral contributions to the neighborhood, a theme I return
to in Chapter 4. However, feminized social services came with few financial
benefits. Most activists worked for very little money, if any at all. The work
was exhausting on many fronts. Maria Rita, Solange, Carmen, and many
others had often told me how emotionally draining the work was, having to
expend many hours of labor for little pay while constantly worrying about
the vulnerable children and families they served. Meanwhile, Geovana, one
of the board leaders, who was in her 60s when I met her, had no retirement
savings and was beginning to have serious health issues. She worried about
how she would survive and get the care she needed.
While individual women gain moral capital from this work, what motivates
men to participate in non-​violent activism? For some men, CBOs provided
an avenue to “get ahead,” allowing men with more political ambitions to dem-
onstrate their dedication to the neighborhood, to gain support when they
ran for public office. Solange, Geovana, and many other activists I met were
suspicious of male volunteers who aspired to a political life, approaching
136 Activism under Fire

them with a high degree of caution, fearful of being taken advantage of or—​
worse—​becoming inadvertently embroiled in illegal schemes. Most male
activists I met, however, had no desire to run for office and did not appear
to obtain any reward from this work beyond participation in activities they
believed in and had been dedicated to for many years. I believe that CBOs
and informal collectives provided a safe space in which to enact alternative
forms of masculinity that did not cater to hegemonic values of violence, ag-
gression, competition, and corruption.
In an analysis of how transgender men enact different constructs of mas-
culinity, Miriam Abelson found that transgender men frequently enacted
“transformative masculinity,” which aimed to “fundamentally alter the
gender system” by promoting gender equality whenever they were in safe
spaces, such as in female dominated spaces or LGBTQ-​friendly groups
(Abelson 2014:562–​63). These same men felt more constrained in expressing
views of gender equality and defending women in more male-​dominated
spaces. Abelson’s study ultimately points to the importance of spaces and
their gendered meanings in creating the potential for alternative expressions
of masculinity. In Cidade de Deus, Youth Promise and the many other or-
ganizations and collectives dedicated to non-​violence provide physical and
social spaces in which men who aspire to enact masculinity differently from
the drug trade and Brazil’s corrupt politics can safely perform transformative
masculinity. Within this political sphere, the meanings of masculinity can be
challenged and re-​written, allowing men to “be men” by working against vio-
lence, rather than participating in it.

Fragmented Sovereignty and the Spaces for Civil Society

The autonomy afforded to CDD’s sphere of non-​violent politics has also

been aided by fragmented sovereignty. Governance of conflict zones can
take many different forms, which vary based on the approaches of criminal
regimes to territorial control, relationships to state actors, and community
relations (Magaloni, Franco-​Vivanco, and Melo 2020). In his typologies of
criminal-​state relationships across Latin America, Nicholas Barnes identifies
four forms of “arrangements” between the state and non-​state armed actors.
On one end of the spectrum, he argues that confrontation between crim-
inal gangs and the police is the most competitive type of arrangement. On
the other end of the spectrum, criminal groups can be “directly incorporated
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 137

into the state apparatus, allowing criminals to engage in violent and illegal
activities with impunity” (Barnes 2017:973). The politics of the Comando
Vermelho gang that dominates Cidade de Deus lies on the “confrontational”
end of the spectrum, though they also engage in some collaborative rela-
tions with local-​level officials. This arrangement results in constant dise-
quilibrium, whereby competition between state and non-​state armed actors
makes it difficult for any one entity to assert complete control over the ter-
ritory. Since political alliances are fragile and may be disrupted at any time,
drug lords may be so focused on maintaining the upper hand in their daily
battles with the police that little impetus remains to exert coercive control
over small-​scale civic associations. The result is a complex landscape of mul-
tiple state and non-​state actors who take on different roles and activities.
Such instability and diversity are not just features of Cidade de Deus. In
an analysis of shifting patterns of citizenship and sovereignty in the modern
era, Diane Davis (2010:402) argues that non-​state armed actors are creating
new imagined communities in contexts of poverty and political exclusion.
Particularly in “brown zones,” where state institutions are weak or absent,
drug gangs are able to compete for territorial control and local sovereignty,
thereby fragmenting power, governance and citizenship.
The fragmentation of sovereign rule is both destructive and productive. In
Cidade de Deus, violent confrontations produce chaos and disorder, putting
residents’ lives at risk and making everyday living unpredictable and incred-
ibly stressful. Local activists had to constantly contend with this chaos, often
canceling meetings at the last minute due to shootouts nearby. However,
the chaos also created spaces for civic engagement and governance. Given
the limited power of the Comando Vermelho gang over the civic life of the
neighborhood, activists were able to help fill the governance void. Enrique
Desmond Arias found a similar phenomenon in Rocinha, Rio’s largest favela.
According to Arias, there was a greater density and independence of civic
associations in gang-​controlled Rocinha than in Rio das Pedras, where vigi-
lante milicia groups are more tightly connected to the state and exert greater
control over civic life. In Rocinha, much like in Cidade de Deus, the gang’s
“uneven relationship with the state prevented it from fully dominating local
social life” (Arias 2017:161). The “divided governance” between gangs and
the police thus created opportunities for non-​armed actors in Rocinha to es-
tablish local organizations without constant oversight from gangs, provided
they did not engage in street protests or mobilization activities that threated
drug operations.
138 Activism under Fire

Marie Berry, in her research on gendered politics in post-​war Bosnia

and Rwanda, argues that war has transformative power, producing radical
shifts in the social and political context, which can create opportunities for
women’s leadership. War, she claims, “can loosen the hold of traditional
gendered power relations as it restructures the institutional and structural
layout of society,” leading to the increased participation of women in “in-
formal political capacities” (Berry 2018:14). This argument can be usefully
extended to gang territories. In Cidade de Deus, where armed conflict be-
tween gangs and the police have been raging for over fifty years with no end
in sight, gendered possibilities emerge not from the end of war but from
fragmented sovereignty, which engenders both political disorder as well as
space for alternative forms of political leadership. Since state officials cannot
impose complete control over the neighborhood and drug lords are too busy
defending their territory to manage the paving of roads and the staffing of
schools, non-​armed residents take on a vital role in the management and
maintenance of the neighborhood.
This division of governing labor appeared to work well for the Comando
Vermelho. The economic viability of the drug trade relies on favela activist
efforts, who help to promote social development and keep the neighborhood
functioning. Paved roads allow middle-​class customers to drive in to pur-
chase drugs, and functioning hospitals enable injured gang members to re-
ceive care for bullet wounds. Individual drug traffickers, most of whom were
CDD residents, also benefited from these services. Drug traffickers are, after
all, people with physical and emotional needs. They need water, food, and
clothes to survive. They have grandparents who need companionship and
medical care, they have children who need to be cared for and educated, they
have girlfriends and wives who need reproductive care and job training. In
their efforts to improve the neighborhood, activists also maintain the basic
conditions of development needed for the survival of drug traffickers and the
successful operation of the drug trade.
Non-​violent politics thus operates as a parallel force to criminal govern-
ance, filling the gaps in services that have emerged thanks to the fragmen-
tation of state sovereignty. While drug traffickers mediate relations with
armed state actors, activists cultivate ties with public administrators and
policymakers in the social branches of the state. As the image in Chart 3.1
illustrates, the state engages with both armed and non-​violent groups in
CDD to administer governance. On one side, the state’s security apparatus
negotiates territorial control and law and order with drug gangs; on the other
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 139

Gendered Division of Governing Labor

Masculinized, violent sphere: Police; State Feminized, non-violent sphere:

Local security Local social Cultural and social rights
Neighborhood formal politics Gov’t service Social development
Competition for territorial control officials sectors Civic engagement

Drug traffickers CBOs and

Local “big men” collectives

Chart 3.1 Gendered division of governing labor

side, various state branches that deal with health, education, housing, and
development work with activists to implement new projects, improve serv-
ices, distribute resources, and promote participation in civic groups and ac-
tivities. I look more closely at the relationship between activists and the state
in Chapter 5. The important point here is that the fragmentation of sover-
eignty in Cidade de Deus has bifurcated local governance, such that activists
also cultivate relationships with the state in order to improve neighborhood
conditions and administer services to residents.
It is important to note that occasionally drug lords also helped to pro-
vide some basic services in the neighborhood. For one, drug lords issued
“mandates” or rules, that were displayed in spray paint across the neighbor-
hood or disseminated through word of mouth. One apartment complex,
for instance, had been spray painted with the phrase: “Whoever is caught
stealing will die. Signed CV.” Another mandate had been painted on a ce-
ment wall: “Don’t throw trash here. CV.” These signs were often effective: I
never saw any trash near no-​trash warnings from the Comando Vermelho.
The same could not be said for state signs. I once walked with Isabella past a
giant heap of trash in front of a sign the municipal government had installed
that read “No trash allowed here” (Figure 3.1) Chuckling, I pointed out the
irony to Isabella, who simply responded, “If only the CV would put up a sign,
the trash wouldn’t be here.”
The drug trade also offered charity to needy residents. According
to Leonardo, one of the local managers for the drug trade spent
140 Activism under Fire

Figure 3.1 “Attention: Forbidden to throw trash”

Photo by the author.

R$60,000—​approximately USD$15,000—​a year on “cesta básica,” or gift

baskets with food and basic supplies to be distributed to needy families. He
also recounted another time when he was helping to collect and hand out
Christmas presents for poor children as part of a local projeto and he and
his colleagues saw a man with a well-​known affiliation with the drug trade
taking photos of the event with his phone. They went over to ask him what he
was doing, and the man asked what the event was all about and whether the
UPP was paying for it. When they told him it was all funded by donations, he
was shocked. “You got all this from donations? Without any help from an-
yone?” He went off and talked to someone on the phone, who said, “Man, we
aren’t doing anything to help? See what they need.” Leonardo mentioned that
all the soda was getting warm because they had no ice. Soon a whole truck
full of ice showed up, paid for by the local drug manager. In small ways, drug
gangs contribute to social needs, often in one-​off situations like this one.
These contributions were mostly symbolic, helping them show their support
for the community without having to do much. They were not involved in the
everyday management of civic life, however, leaving the organization of asso-
ciational life to local activists instead.
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 141

Figure 3.2 A UPP police precinct in CDD, which remained under construction
for several years
Photo by the author.

A Tenuous Co-​Existence

While gendered governance and fragmented sovereignty provided

opportunities for non-​violent political action that CBOs and collectives
could wiggle into, activists also had to engage in much more conscious
decision-​making to circumvent violent political networks. Drug lords were
not eager to share power with community leaders, and activists knew this
well. People with too much power—​such as those with wealth, many reli-
gious or social “followers,” or political connections—​were more likely to
have access to financial resources the gang leaders might want; or they could
become a liability if they decided to speak out against the drug lords. Favela
activists thus had to be extremely vigilant over their own financial success
and social status in the neighborhood. Members of the Residents’ Board
were especially careful to minimize their positions of authority. Many times,
Geovana, Clara, and other board members emphasized to me that they were
not representatives of the community. To be a community representative
142 Activism under Fire

Figure 3.3 A “caveirão” or “big skull” armored vehicle driving through Cidade
de Deus
Photo by anonymous.

would be to classify oneself as a political leader and become a target for co-​
optation or violence.
Solange and I had many conversations in which she shared with me her
worry about securing enough funds to run Youth Promise, but she also was
fearful of getting too much money. Her success, she explained to me, was
a double-​edged sword. On the one hand, providing many activities and re-
sources for the kids in her program was exciting and helped them fulfill
their mission. On the other hand, it made people suspicious of how she was
managing to do so much in a community with so few (legal) channels for
obtaining money. She worried people would spread rumors that she had re-
ceived funds from the drug trade or corrupt politicians, which could destroy
her reputation. Since the government and private institutions rarely invest
heavily in favela-​based organizations, CBOs that appear to be well-​funded—​
that have nice equipment, expensive electronics, modern furniture, and
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 143

new uniforms and backpacks for their participants, etc.—​are often believed
to be tied to violent clientelism. Solange was adamantly against accepting
donations from any actor with ties to the drug trade. As she explained to
me, no money was free in CDD. If she accepted a donation tied to the drug
trade, that debt would eventually be called in, which could include being
asked to store guns or drugs in her organization, or even repaying that dona-
tion with funds from a government grant. She also rarely accepted donations
from individual politicians, regardless of known ties to the gang. Given the
track record of many Brazilian politicians, who were often involved in cor-
ruption schemes and sometimes arrested and put in jail, Solange worried
that her organization might inadvertently receive illegal funds and face legal
consequences.
I had been in her office once when she turned down an offer for free t-​
shirts from a local state representative. “Imagine,” she told me after she hung
up the phone, “we all put on the t-​shirts and then he’s going to want to come
and take a picture with us for the newspaper with the shirts. And then he goes
and gets arrested for some dirty game, and there I am, smiling like an idiot
next to him.” In a neighborhood where corruption was so closely tied to vi-
olence, Youth Promise could not afford even the appearance of impropriety.
Solange also turned down an offer from a local resident to use a building
he owned to hold dance classes. Though Youth Promise desperately needed
more space to host activities, Solange had heard rumors that the building
owner was related to a local drug trafficker. Worried that he might eventually
ask for “favors,” she decided the space was not worth the risk.
However, there were times when Solange bent her own rules. I was sur-
prised when I learned a few months later that she had accepted financial as-
sistance from another state representative, who would be coming by to pay
a visit to Youth Promise. João Carlos, a dance teacher at Youth Promise,
explained her logic to me. According to João Carlos, young politicians are
more likely than older ones to be corrupted. Although there are plenty of
older corrupt politicians, he explained, if a politician is already seasoned
and still hasn’t shown any sign of corruption (a public scandal, consorting
with a suspicious crowd, etc.) then there is a better chance that he is not cor-
rupt. Thus, CBO leaders like Solange had created certain logics to guide their
decisions and attempt to avoid dangerous clientelist networks as much as
possible.
Other activists I talked to had similar concerns as Solange and, with
few exceptions, espoused a refusal to accept illegal money. While it would
144 Activism under Fire

be impossible for me to know for sure whether CBOs and collectives al-
ways turned down resources with known ties to gangs or corrupt actors,
what I did witness was a host of groups subsisting on virtually no money at
all. Activists’ refusal to accept donations from individuals with potential
ties to violent clientelism heightened the financial burden of CBOs and
collectives and made it extremely challenging to pay workers a living wage
or even a small stipend. They often lacked money to pay electricity bills,
fix broken computers, or even buy printer paper. Most counted on small
donations from private individuals or from stipends provided by larger
NGOs outside the favela. Youth Promise succeeded in large part because
Solange, with much help from Maria Rita, had become highly adept at
obtaining funding through government grants, philanthropic organiza-
tions, and private donations. Maria Rita spent tireless nights on the couch
writing grants and drafting reports. Most other groups that had managed
to provide consistent services over several years had also benefited from
the assistance of someone with research and writing skills who knew how
to read and complete funding applications. However, many organizations
did not have members with those skills and were thus unable to sustain
large or regular operations. While the lack of money limited their effec-
tiveness, it was also protective, as it prevented organizations from being
suspected of gang involvement or becoming too powerful or threatening
to gangs. CBOs and other local groups thus remained economically sub-
ordinate to local drug lords, retrenching the unequal divide between gen-
dered political work.
In addition to maintaining a distinctly independent economic network,
activists also had to be extremely cautious about avoiding becoming involved
in social issues that impacted drug gangs. The Residents’ Board was especially
at risk of ruffling the wrong feathers in their efforts to fight for improvements
to the neighborhood’s development landscape. Geovana, one of the founders
of the board, offered a useful lens into how she and her colleagues navigated
these challenges. Her own strategies were informed by a well-​known story
of a 1980s activist, João de Mendes, an activist who had been killed after
organizing against local drug traffickers.
Much like the Residents’ Board in the 2000s, João had helped to organize
residents to advocate for housing rights in the 1990s. Instead of mobilizing
political action aimed at the municipal government, João organized a
housing cooperative, in which he gathered money from residents and put
it toward the construction of new homes. João had initially received tacit
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 145

permission from the drug trade, who wanted to see improvements in the
availability of housing but could not themselves be the public face of the
movement. However, according to Geovana, João began to “conscientizar
os moradores,” to raise awareness about political issues among residents. He
held secret meetings in his house at night, when he knew the drug traffickers
would be out selling drugs, talking about how residents should have the
power in the community and that they should not allow the drug trade in
their neighborhood. His plan backfired. According to Geovana:

They [the drug traffickers] went and got him at his house, put a hood over
his head, took him out of his house and made him dig his own grave, put
a gun in the hand of a young boy [and made him shoot him]. He died, was
buried. The women came to my house [to tell me. He was shot] in front of
the women. He was killed and buried.

During one of our informal after-​dinner chats, Esther and Maria Rita
began talking about João de Mendes without my bringing it up. Apparently,
his murder had become a part of Cidade de Deus’s collective memory.
According to Esther, he had been brutally tortured before he was finally
killed. While the details that Esther recalled of his death seemed to vary from
Geovana’s account, João’s death served as an enduring reminder of what
happened to those who attempted to challenge the drug trade.
I asked Geovana how she had managed to avoid the same fate as João.
According to Geovana, “I always, always had the wisdom to never directly
attack them head on (bater de frente com eles). I never challenged them di-
rectly.” She explained her strategy to me by referencing a talk show she
hosted on the local community radio station in the late 1990s with several
colleagues:

I’d get home and the drug traffickers [from my block] would cluster around
me on my way home, and say, “Miss Geovana, we are listening to you.” So it
was a message (i.e. a threat). I did my work that didn’t deal [with the drug
trade]. But we also didn’t announce the baile funk, or the deaths of [drug
traffickers]. We didn’t announce any deaths actually, so we wouldn’t have
to announce theirs either, you understand? So you had to have wisdom to
not affront [them] . . . Our philosophy was the following: we are not police,
we are not the justice department, we are not responsible for security. This
issue was not our business.
146 Activism under Fire

I asked Geovana if they were conscious of this approach, if it required ex-

plicit discussion to navigate when and how to talk about security issues or
anything related to the drug trade: “No, it was just common knowledge, it
was understood . . . I just learned it . . . You notice that people are not talking
about that. And sometimes people from Cidade de Deus would come and say
‘Oh, we want to talk about this,’ and [we’d say], ‘No, we don’t talk about that
issue. Not that issue.’ ”
As Geovana’s response suggests, CDD’s activists survive by completely
avoiding any discussion of security issues or the drug trade. Instead, they
focus on social development issues and explicitly reject requests by residents
to bring up matters of insecurity. Furthermore, like Solange, Geovana also
avoided any collaborations with drug traffickers and did not allow them to
participate in her mobilization efforts insofar as she could avoid it. Thus,
activists make an explicit effort to keep their activities as distant from drug
traffickers as possible by avoiding any close relationships with politicians
or residents believed to have ties to drug traffickers and refusing to publicly
discuss issues related to insecurity and criminal justice, which might come
across as a challenge to gangs.
Overall, this strategy seemed to be effective, but had its limits. Carmen,
affirming during our book workshop the importance of avoiding direct con-
frontation with drug gangs, explained: “If I had confronted them, I would no
longer be alive. And some people say, oh, but you don’t fight. We do! Political
confrontations, confrontation of ideas, of education, of culture, of ideology,
we do confront things.” Through this logic of confronting political and social
inequities but leaving the drug trade alone, the board had helped to secure a
number of important improvements to housing, healthcare, and education
in Cidade de Deus. However, once resources came into the neighborhood
board members could not always control how they were distributed. Paved
roads, for instance, were not only beneficial to residents who could drive
their cars and bicycles with greater ease; they also allowed drug traffickers
to fly down them on their motorcycles and the military police to roll in with
their armored vehicles. The schools they helped get built were constantly
shutting down due to shootouts, and most schools were littered with bullet
holes. Community projects had at times been forced to close if their activi-
ties were located in an area that drug traffickers needed for their own activ-
ities. Not unlike gender relations within a patriarchal society, the masculine
sphere of politics maintained its dominance over the feminized sphere of
non-​violence.
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 147

Conclusion: On the Edge of Electoral Politics

In 2016, Natalia, the founder of Art Talk, declared her candidacy for City
Council. She had announced her bid at one of the monthly open mic
meetings, and the audience had fallen silent. I wondered if they were trying
to figure out if she was joking, or maybe they believed it was a terrible idea or
were worried for her safety, but they were certainly not enthusiastic. Electoral
politics was neither an effective nor a safe avenue for making social change in
favelas. I feared her candidacy would destroy her reputation, or her life.
I was also curious about what would unfold and quickly volunteered for
her campaign. Though over a dozen Cidade de Deus residents had opted to
run for City Council that year, Natalia had been only one of two activists
I knew who was running for office; most activists would have never even
considered the idea. Natalia’s party flyer labeled her a “Partner of the City,”
followed by this description:

Natalia has a lengthy history of student struggles. She participated in the

Municipal Association of Higher Education Students. As a resident of the
Cidade de Deus, she founded Art Talk, making her a cultural reference in
the city. She is leader of the movement #PeaceCDD against violence. This
candidate for city council intends to create grants for poetry readings and
cultural circles, to bolster sports projects in favelas, to territorialize the
budget for Culture, and stimulate Economic solidarity. She wants to sup-
port public college preparatory courses and fight for wifi in the parks.

Natalia had gotten Dona Iracema to write her candidacy song. Dona
Iracema was a cultural icon in Cidade de Deus and a beloved member of
the artistic community. The refrain for the song, which played over and
over on the loudspeaker in front of Natalia’s campaign headquarters, teased
residents: “I like womeeeeeen . . . (long pause) . . . in politics!” The pause
had been intentionally provocative, at once advocating for LGBT rights while
also emphasizing women’s political empowerment. Natalia also publicized
her campaign over a megaphone as she rode on the back of a motorcycle.
“The favela needs women in politics!” She shouted into it. “The favela needs
to be represented in politics!” As Natalia told me, she believed her leverage
came from being “a young female cultural leader from the favela.”
Natalia did not win. In fact, of the 51 city councilors elected in 2016, only
one of them—​Marielle Franco—​was from a favela. Marielle was a Black
148 Activism under Fire

lesbian sociologist who had advocated fiercely for racial justice and gender
rights. She and Natalia had been active in the same circle of young favela
activists. Once in office, Marielle continued to advocate for progressive poli-
tics. She spoke out against police violence and exposed extrajudicial killings
in favelas. In March 2018, her car was attacked; both Marielle and her driver
were shot and killed. Her murder has had a lasting impact on favela activism.
While many have since dubbed Marielle the “seed” of a larger movement,
her execution demonstrates the extreme risks of engaging in formal politics,
particularly around issues so closely tied to violent governance networks.
The “women’s work” of caring for the community can, and in many cases
has, transitioned into a radical feminist politics that dares to demand total
inclusion in the formal political system and accountability within the crim-
inal justice system at the highest levels of the state. While a handful of brave
activists continue to follow in the footsteps of Marielle and Natalia, most of
CDD’s activists refuse to engage in electoral politics. Many also have become
so disillusioned with Brazil’s government apparatus that they perceive run-
ning for office as not only risky but also ineffective for producing meaningful
change. Avoidance of formal politics coupled with a somewhat peaceful co-
existence with drug gangs remains the most common path for non-​violent
action in favelas. It offers an important reminder that, if we are to study non-​
violent politics in other areas of extreme violence, we must look beyond the
formal political system and local clientelist networks. And we must look for
the women.
 4
Political Upcycling
Anti-​Violence Protest through Education, Culture, and
Racial Solidarity

Bentinho, you’re going to grow Bentinho, você vai crescer

And learn to listen . . . and to E vai aprender a ouvir . . . e a
speak . . . falar . . .
By questioning you also learn . . . . Perguntar também se aprende . . .
The things of the world, and the As coisas do mundo e mundo dos
world of symbols . . . símbolos . . .
You’re going to plant and sow Você vai plantar e colher
knowledge . . . conhecimentos . . .
You’re going to do and learn Vai fazer e aprender o que é
what is culture . . . cultura . . .
You’re going to recreate the world . . . Você vai recriar o mundo . . .

Pablo das Oliveiras, 2019

Violence Talk

“This is not a war!” exclaimed Leonardo excitedly in reaction to my having

just called the police-​gang combat in favelas “urban warfare.” He threw his
hands in the air to emphasize the importance of his point. Heated debates
had become among our favorite activities over the years. It was nearing mid-
night. I sat on the curb outside Esther’s front door while Leonardo stood
in the middle of the narrow street, a few feet in front of me. I scanned the
street for drug traffickers. The intersection just around the bend was among
the most popular bocas de fumo in the neighborhood. Armed men on
motorcycles and on foot constantly passed us to get to and from the boca,
especially at night when sales and use of drugs ramped up. Several armed

Activism under Fire. Anjuli Fahlberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197519325.003.0005
150 Activism under Fire

men had passed us already. I always felt anxious discussing violence in public
areas where drug traffickers might overhear us, but Leonardo seemed un-
concerned. Leonardo’s cousin, an economics student at a prestigious public
university, leaned against an old car and watched our debate with interest.
The rest of the family had already retired for the night, bored by our debate,
which would likely go on for many more hours. “Well, if it’s not a war, what is
it?” I retorted.
“It is a genocide!” Leonardo exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air
again. I should have anticipated his response. Leonardo was a fierce racial
justice activist and was among the founding members of a national NGO
advocating for the decriminalization of drugs as a long-​term solution to ag-
gressive policing in favelas. He echoed the views of many other activists and
scholars who have long been referring to police-​gang violence in Rio as a
genocide, evidenced by the thousands of killings of young Black men by the
police each year (Dantas, Dantas, and Cabral 2020; Marques Junior 2020).1
I looked around cautiously as I prepared my response. I didn’t disagree
with Leonardo, but we both enjoyed the debate too much to stop now. When
no armed men were in sight, I pointed out that drug gangs also were respon-
sible for thousands of homicides. Leonardo retorted by blaming colonialism
and slavery for the strength of drug gangs. I replied that many other residents
in CDD called it a war, to which he responded that Reagan’s War on Drugs
had popularized this term and now even favela residents had internalized
that notion. Leonardo had some excellent points, as always, and I eventually
conceded and transitioned to a new topic, making a mental note to incor-
porate his arguments more explicitly into my analysis. But what most struck
me about that conversation was how openly he discussed gangs, police, and
violence, even as armed men walked by and paid little attention to our noisy
banter. No drug traffickers came by to monitor or stop our debate, and nei-
ther Leonardo nor his cousin—​both well versed in the dos and don’ts of favela
living—​felt the need to censor our conversation. To the contrary: Leonardo’s
enthusiastic retorts could be easily heard by those around us.
What enabled him to speak so freely about drugs and violence near drug
traffickers? One explanation could be that he was protected by his status as
a long-​time CDD resident who was well known and well liked by most of
the neighborhood, including drug traffickers. Or perhaps no one overheard
the details of our discussion. But I suspect Leonardo spoke with ease be-
cause he had become adept at navigating the unspoken codes of the favela.
Leonardo, like the other activists in Cidade de Deus, had learned to construct
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 151

anti-​violence narratives within political frames that fit into the larger sym-
bolic fields of the neighborhood. Favela residents, and activists in par-
ticular, knew what was tolerated and what was not, and they instinctively
maneuvered the terrains of acceptable political discourse as they constructed
the narratives around which to mobilize non-​violent action.
In Chapter 3, I examined the gendered spaces that have emerged in Cidade
de Deus for political action, enabling activists to take on a role in the so-
cial and cultural governance of the neighborhood while drug traffickers
remained occupied with security matters. However, favela activism is not
only about the everyday work of governance, but also about public, collec-
tive mobilizations against violence. What, then, enables activists to engage in
public forms of non-​violent action in a context of armed conflict and polit-
ical repression?
To answer this, I focus in this chapter on the symbolic spaces that activists
have constructed for their anti-​violence work and the strategies—​some
negotiated consciously but most enacted intuitively—​that they deploy. If
Chapters 2 and 3 were about what activists do, this chapter is about what
they say, not only among themselves but on public platforms, such as the
streets and social media. I argue that activists engage in embedded resist-
ance, framing their activities and organizations to conform to the ideologies,
values, beliefs, and meanings of the neighborhood. In other words, activists
do not speak out against the norms permitted by drug traffickers but rather
work within them. At the same time, they push the bounds of local narratives
by engaging in political upcycling, or a reappropriation of local discourses,
identities, and cultural tools to produce new forms of resistance and collec-
tive action. They build upon, rather than go against, the symbolic fields of
power in Cidade de Deus.
Social movement scholars use the term “collective action frames” to mean
“action-​oriented sets of beliefs and meanings that inspire and legitimate the
activities and campaigns of a social movement organization” (Benford and
Snow 2000:614). Often, frames are deployed to gain momentum, legitimacy,
and mass mobilization among a large group of followers. In Cidade de Deus,
however, frames had a more primal function: to ensure the survival of local
activists. Activists were just as concerned with staying alive as with gaining
support from other residents. To do this, activists relied heavily on their
local, organic knowledge, or a deep understanding of the norms and values
of their neighborhood, in order to both fit in and speak out. As I demon-
strate, activists connected local norms and narratives to campaigns for peace
152 Activism under Fire

and justice in several ways. First, I provide examples of three different ways
in which activists fight against violence within the limits allowed by drug
traffickers. I then examine how education and culture, which have strong
moral and social power in the neighborhood, provide platforms for residents
to engage in more political action. I then detail the importance of organizing
against racism in helping to create solidarity across the neighborhood, and
between activists and gang members in particular.

Protest within Limits

“This is Lucas Canuto, who was shot to death this afternoon in Karatê,” began
Isabella’s Facebook post on CDD Connects in June 2014. Below the post was
a picture of a boy with tan skin and dark, thick hair, standing on a dirt soccer
field dressed in a dirty soccer jersey. “A boy of 12 years of age, according to
sources, a studious boy, totally of the good (hiper do bem), who had a prom-
ising future. May God receive him in a good place . . . and comfort the heart
of the family. This is a great sorrow for CDDforALL. #mourning.” In news
articles, witnesses were quoted reporting that the boy had been killed by a
stray bullet while five men in Cidade de Deus were shooting at the police
(Torres and Guimarães 2014). While the shooters were not identified, they
were most likely involved with the drug trade, since few men not involved in
gangs openly carry weapons in CDD.
Stories like these are all too common in Cidade de Deus and Rio’s many
other favelas. These incidents usually begin with a provocation by the po-
lice followed by an armed response from drug gangs, often ending with
the deaths of gang members, and sometimes innocent civilians. They have
become a feature of everyday living, and residents have constructed par-
ticular narratives through which to protest against them. Not surprisingly,
families are outraged at these deaths. How they respond is instructive of the
possibilities of and limits for protest in gang territories.
Family members of “innocent” people2 killed during shootouts often or-
ganize peaceful marches to celebrate the person’s life and speak out against
violence. In the case of Lucas, where there was ample evidence of his lack
of gang involvement, residents were quick to rally. Shortly after his death,
his family and friends marched from Cidade de Deus to the local cemetery
in Pechincha, the next neighborhood over. Many in the crowd were chil-
dren. They held signs that read “I just want to be happy, living in the favela
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 153

where I was born,”3 and photos of Lucas. “We don’t want problems, we don’t
want issues,” his cousin told reporters. “We just don’t want Lucas to be for-
gotten.” The phrase “we don’t want problems” has become a euphemism fa-
vela residents use to communicate indirectly to local gang leaders that they
are not challenging the drug trade’s actions. The march was small, not partic-
ularly well organized, and composed largely of women and children, further
evading the appearance of threat to gangs. A news article reported that one of
the protestors swore at the UPP police precinct as they walked past it. While
protesting against the drug trade was not allowed, showing contempt for the
police aligned with the interests of drug gangs and was therefore tolerated
by gangs.
Within these constraints, peaceful marches after tragic loss have become
a repertoire of collective mourning, even among residents with no affiliation
to local CBOs or collectives. Activists took advantage of this opening to or-
ganize street protests against violence more generally and the police in partic-
ular. For instance, in March 2017, local activists organized a peaceful protest
in Cidade de Deus’s main park after a series of raids by the police, which had
resulted in multiple shootouts and the deaths of four CDD residents.
“Today is a day for protest, to respect life, for dignity, for the right to come
and go with safety through the streets of the favela,” Natalia posted in a short
video on Facebook, inviting people to attend the event. Another local ac-
tivist posted a similar video calling on residents to participate: “I’m asking
all of my friends to come in white, to show that we don’t support this vio-
lence. This peaceful protest is an act against the violence that our commu-
nity has suffered, and many innocent victims are losing their lives . . . We
need answers from the government of the state and our city. We cannot
stand this violence anymore.” Approximately 50 residents attended wearing
white, holding signs that read “We want the right to come and go” and “CDD
Demands Peace.” Between 2015 and 2017, a handful of other such protests
were organized after the deaths of civilians during police invasions. Like
marches organized by victims’ families, these protests were also relatively
small and composed of many women and children (Figure 4.1). They also
avoided any direct mention of gangs. The difference, however, was their more
explicit and united calls for action by the state. Rather than mutter discon-
tent under their breath, activists held their banners high, decrying the harm
provoked by routinized and aggressive police invasions and demanding that
the government halt police raids (Figure 4.2). Activists had a clear target—​
the state—​and a clear set of demands—​a stop to policing operations. By
154 Activism under Fire

Figure 4.1 Rally for peace after weeks of intense police invasions and shootouts
Photo by anonymous.

conforming to the pre-​existing forms of collective mourning tolerated by

drug lords, activists were able to launch a more explicitly political event.
While these occasional protests were tolerated by drug traffickers, street
marches and rallies created many risks. On several occasions when I was in
Cidade de Deus, my activist participants had refused to attend these marches
out of concern for what might unfold. For one, marches held after a death
sometimes turned chaotic as angry protestors set fire to trash bins or blocked
main avenues. Additionally, it was rumored that the drug trade often sent
their men to surveil the event or to initiate riots, and activists, like many
other residents, feared they might get hurt or caught in a confrontation be-
tween gangs and the police. Finally, the possibility remained that the police
might retaliate or that drug gangs might return fire.
Natalia told me about an occasion in which she and a group of peaceful
protesters were taking a minute of silence to remember the lives lost in a
recent police operation when some police officers arrived on the scene.
The protestors noticed this and began encroaching on the police chanting
“Justice! Justice! Justice!” “They could have started a confrontation with the
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 155

Figure 4.2 “Stop Killing Us!” poster from the rally for peace
Photo by anonymous.

police,” Natalia recounted. “It was this automatic thing, like a crowd men-
tality.” Two of her fellow organizers went over to talk to the police and man-
aged to draw the crowd back to the center. Around the same time, an armed
drug trafficker drove by on his motorcycle. Fortunately, the police did not
notice him, or if they did, they chose not to fire at him. Although the protest
ended without violence, it left a mark on Natalia:

We were in the park doing a peaceful protest, but later we realized that it
could have gone to shit, like a serious brawl, and then [our collective] would
get a bad name, you know, inside the favela, trying to get people to come out
and protest.

Given the many risks to both physical safety and reputation that came with
street organizing, some activists have found social media to be a safer space
to protest against violence than the streets. They are not alone: many activists
living in conditions of extreme violence and political repression have found
digital spaces to offer new, safer avenues for protest (Mina 2019). However,
156 Activism under Fire

given the many overlapping connections between activists and gangs and the
possibility that even private posts could be shared outside of their immediate
network, online activism had to follow many of the same rules as activism in
the streets. Residents could focus on general demands for peace, or protest
against the police, but never the drug trade. Natalia herself made the most
of her anti-​violence stance through her social media platforms. Figure 4.3
depicts a short but effective poem she wrote after getting stuck in a shootout
on her way to buy bread. She recounted to me afterward how she had lain
on the bakery floor with the workers and other customers waiting for the

Figure 4.3 “Breakfast: Two loaves of bread and eleven bullets”

Poem by Natalia.
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 157

shooting to stop. She collected some of the bullet casings on her way home.
The poem reads “Breakfast: Two loaves of bread and eleven bullets” and
quickly went viral across activist networks in CDD and several other favelas.
Leonardo also used poetry to decry violence. Consider this post on his
Facebook page in 2017, after months of increasingly lethal police invasions:

Armored vehicles/​military police enter

Lots of shots fired.
Schools are closed.
Workers don’t work.
Buses don’t pass by.
Bodies on the ground.
Families in desperation.
Mourning in the streets/​Facebook
This is the weekly, monthly routine in Cidade de Deus
for more than 40 years. Forty years.
Nothing has changed.

The main culprit identified here is the police, although the “shots
fired” were also from gangs. The major disruptions to schools, work, and
transit were similarly provoked by shootouts between police and gangs,
although only one of these parties is mentioned. While this is partly be-
cause, in Leonardo’s worldview, the genocidal police are in fact the main
perpetrators, his framing also enabled him to publicly condemn violence
and the chaos it caused without risking his life. Isabella used a similar
strategy to speak out against violence. Below is a post by Isabella on CDD
Connects in July 2017, after a month of intense shootouts between the po-
lice and gangs:

#Shots =​Something given by someone who holds a gun in their hands.

#Confrontation =​When armed men with or without a uniform engage di-
rectly (batem de frente) and confront each other.
#Operation =​Something “previously” agreed upon by BOPE, Choque,
Core, dogs, helicopters, motorcycles, drones and armed vehicles.4
#Shootout =​Any of the above. Anyone without a weapon in hand in hearing
a gunshot says it’s a shootout. In the dictionary, the word shootout can be
added to synonyms of fear, dread, terror, risk, death, impotence, panic.
158 Activism under Fire

So it doesn’t matter if it’s one shot, a confrontation, or an operation.

Shootouts are always defined by the bad feelings of those who aren’t
shooting.

Isabella’s post clearly rejects the use of weapons in the resolution of con-
flict and, like Leonardo’s, brings attention to the severe psychological damage
caused by shootouts. She is also careful to only mention the state’s security
forces, including the BOPE, Choque, and Core. However, her reference to
“armed men with or without a uniform” implies that she deems the drug
trade at least partially responsible for the terror. She then references their
relational opposite, “anyone without a weapon in hand,” advocating for non-​
armed residents without directly challenging the perpetrators. Through
these discursive twists, Isabella and Leonardo, like other local activists, are
able to publicly condemn armed conflict.
This focus on a more generalized anti-​violence discourse came about not
only because protest against gangs was off limits. It was also motivated by the
recognition among activists that everyone, including members of the drug
trade, was harmed by unrelenting state violence. In early December 2016,
shortly after the police had murdered several boys presumably connected
to the drug trade, I had a conversation with Camilla, a worker at Youth
Promise, over Facebook Messenger. She felt a deep pain out of empathy for
the mothers, though she did not know any of them. According to Camilla,
“The families continue to suffer, independent of who they are. Before God,
we are all brothers [and sisters].” This was a collective trauma, a shared expe-
rience of victimization. Camilla, like many others, believed that even though
the boys may have had some involvement with the drug trade, they did not
deserve to be killed, much less in such an inhumane manner.
In fact, most of the residents I came to know well in Cidade de Deus
disclosed to me that a close relative of theirs—​brother, boyfriend, husband,
uncle, cousin, son—​had participated in the drug trade. Most had been killed,
either by other drug traffickers or by the police. While neither activists nor
other residents rooted for the institution of the drug trade—​all of them
wished it would end—​their own experiences of loss provoked great sympathy
among them for both the families and the individual young men who joined
the gang. They hated the system but empathized with the foot soldiers of the
gang. I knew one young man whom Esther had spent many years trying to
help who, after being harassed and beaten by the police multiple times for
being young, male, Black, and sitting on the wrong street corner, eventually
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 159

joined the gang out of a deep sense of despair and hopelessness that any other
opportunities would come his way. So while activists genuinely wished for
a peaceful resolution to drug conflicts, they also recognized that individual
drug traffickers were mostly young, desperate men with few alternatives. For
them, the real issue was not the drug trade, but the state.
It is therefore not surprising, then, that favela residents have directed their
anti-​violence protests against the police and state violence more generally.
This is common across Rio’s favelas. Marcos Cardoso, for instance, found
that in the favela Pavão-​Pavãozinho and neighboring favela Contagálo,
people routinely criticize the police. In particular, complaints centered
around accusations of corruption, the use of excessive violence and extra-
judicial killings, and violent policing interventions that threaten the safety
of residents. Residents were also angry that, despite all of this show of force,
the police allowed the drug trade to continue (Cardoso 2013). In fact, most
favela-​based protests published in the media focus on street protests against
police invasions, which most closely mirrors the mobilization strategies we
typically associate with social movements. During the time of my fieldwork,
many of the favela-​based protests against the police related to killing of “in-
nocent” residents (i.e., those not involved in drug gangs) by UPP officers or
by BOPE police during a “pacification” operation (FolhaPress 2015; Mattos
2017; Platonow 2015). Often, mothers or wives were centered in these
protests (Vianna and Farias 2011). The Rede de Comunidades e Movimentos
contra a Violência, or Network of Communities and Movements against
Violence, was one such organization of mothers and other family members
of people who had disappeared or been killed by the police. This suggests
that conflict activism directly targets perpetrators of violence who they be-
lieve will not retaliate, while only indirectly protesting against those who are
nearest and hold the greatest power over their lives.

The State is the Problem

“To talk about violence in the favelas is also to talk about a series of violations
of fundamental rights—​human, civil, political, social—​and not only phys-
ical violence, which results in an increasing number of deaths,” write Rachel
Coutinho da Silva and Thaisa Comeli (2018:9). In Cidade de Deus, as in
other favelas, armed conflict is one manifestation of many broader and
deeper forms of inequality and injustice, which I referred to in Chapter 1 as
160 Activism under Fire

structural violence. While anti-​policing protests were one target of activist

mobilization, most favela activists were concerned with addressing struc-
tural violence, which they viewed as the primary cause of their suffering.
By focusing on systemic violence perpetrated by the state and Brazilian so-
ciety more generally, activists were able to avoid censorship (or worse) from
gangs. Consider this Facebook post by Luis Henrique, a local activist who
had worked for several CBOs:

Structural and systemic violence kills bodies, but not only does it not end
at the identified target. The blood spill is sometimes “only” the final stage
of the process that persecutes, marginalizes, dehumanizes and, finally,
murders certain groups of subjects. Today, one more mother passed away
after learning about her son’s murder.

In this post, Luis Henrique is not concerned with protesting against gangs,
but rather in speaking out against the deeper forms of injustice that led both
to the death of a grieving mother and to the murders of favela residents—​
including drug traffickers. Although no one killed the boy’s mother, she died
from violence nonetheless.
In Latin America, where poverty and aggressive policing are so endemic,
the connections between them are many. In her work on urban violence,
Caroline Moser (2004:4) argues that:

The “livelihood security,” of the poor and their ability to access resources to
ensure survival are closely linked, in an interconnected vicious cycle, to vi-
olence. This relates not only to the spatial, economic and social constraints
that the complex layering of endemic violence imposes on their daily lives,
but also to the fact that, as citizens, their insecurity is closely linked to the
failure of the state’s public security systems to protect them.

For Moser, and for many other scholars of urban violence, the state’s ne-
glect in providing social services on the one hand and its tendency to over-​
police poor neighborhoods on the other hand creates a context of chronic
violence wherein no single experience of harm can be understood in isola-
tion from the others (Auyero, Bourgois, and Scheper-​Hughes 2015; Briceño-​
León 2005; Gupta 2012; Pearce, McGee, and Wheeler 2011). For Luis
Henrique, like the many other activists I interviewed, structural violence
created the foundation in which armed conflict could flourish. The deaths
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 161

caused by gangs were a symptom of a much larger problem: a lack of access to

good employment, education, healthcare, and housing left young men with
few viable alternatives (Zaluar 2004). The point was not to excuse the killings
of innocent victims like Lucas, but to recognize that violence by drug gangs
was rooted in systemic, historic, and pervasive forms of inequality. Urban
violence for them was not measured by bodies or bullets but by the daily
experiences of suffering and denial of the full rights of urban citizenship.
Thus, rather than mobilize against drug traffickers, activists have focused
their energy on addressing the root causes of violence, which was both much
safer within their context and also more likely to produce long-​term changes.
Bete, a CDD resident and psychologist who volunteered with several CBOs,
expressed the fight succinctly and poetically on Facebook:

195 years after the proclamation of independence we continue to

choose death.
Death in the favelas.
Death on the asphalt.
Death in the hospitals.
Death in education.
Death in dignity.
Death in citizenship.
Death of the poor.
Death to those who confront the system.
Death to those paid to maintain the system.
The only ones who don’t die are those creating the system.

Below her post was a photograph of a cement wall with a Brazilian flag
painted on it. Nearly a dozen large bullet holes had been torn into the wall.
Her message was clear: the very foundations of national citizenship are under
attack by the destructive powers of an unequal and oppressive system.
These kinds of direct protests against endemic corruption are not only
a feature of favela activism but have become a common complaint across
Brazil. In the massive street protests that took place in Brazil’s largest cities in
2013, the greatest complaints among protestors included heavy-​handed po-
licing, poor public services, and endemic corruption (Ricci 2014). Sparked
by a hike in the bus fare and over-​spending in preparation for the 2014 World
Cup games, the protests attracted one million participants and reflected a
deep and widespread sense of anger across the country over endemic and
162 Activism under Fire

Figure 4.4 “Abandoned by Thieving Politicians.” Graffiti on a wall in Cidade

de Deus
Photo by the author.

systemic issues (Vicino and Fahlberg 2017). Though I met only a few people
in Cidade de Deus who had attended the 2013 protests, the same complaints
echoed in the daily discourses of favela residents. I continued to hear anti-​
state grievances over the years, often posted on Facebook and other public
channels. One of Youth Promise’s workers shared a meme on Facebook that
read: “Dear criminals, please, rob our politicians . . . they have our money.
Thank you.” Around the same time, another resident who was extremely ac-
tive in his labor union, uploaded several photos of areas of CDD that were
flooded, where heaps of garbage had not been collected yet, and then a photo
of a sign with the logo of the Municipal Government. “I already knew this
was going to happen!!” his post reads. “Who is is the culprit??” (Figure 4.5).
Such public protests against the state reflect an important difference be-
tween political repression in favelas and many other conflict zones: Brazil’s
favelas exist within a national context of political democracy. While
Brazil’s democracy has been widely charged with being racist (Nascimento
2016; Perry 2013), disjunctive (Caldeira and Holston 1999), exclusionary
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 163

Figure 4.5 Facebook post of a flood in Cidade de Deus reads “I already knew
this was going to happen!! Who is the culprit??”
Photo by the author.

(Carvalho 2001; Fischer 2008), and unequal (O’Donnell 1993), it does not
impose the same limits on free speech and assembly as more authoritarian
regimes which deny, in both law and practice, the rights to speak out against
the government. In 2018, before the election of Jair Bolsonaro, Freedom
House (2018) categorized Brazil as “free,” explaining that “Brazil is a democ-
racy with competitive elections and a vibrant civil society sector. However,
economic and political crises have challenged the functioning of govern-
ment. Corruption, crime, and economic exclusion of minorities are among
the country’s most serious difficulties” (Freedom House 2018). The country
scored 31/​40 in political rights and 47/​60 in civil liberties. This is not to say
that protesters and social movement leaders in Brazil do not face threats;
they are sometimes killed under suspicious circumstances. The murder of
progressive city councilwoman Marielle Franco in 2018 reflects the dangers
that continue to exist for those who challenge the police or the dominant
regime. However, favela activists and other local residents regularly made
demands on state actors and aired their grievances in public forums without
retaliation from the government. While these demands were often ignored,
activists did not constantly fear imprisonment or retaliatory violence.
By focusing on structural violence as the object of their claims-​making,
rather than targeting the physical violence caused by drug traffickers,
activists are able to fit into the normative discourses of the favela and the
164 Activism under Fire

country. While activists still had to be careful not to accuse specific politicians
or police commanders of corruption, who might retaliate in self-​defense,
these more generalized protests against the state, or even more focused—​
but public—​demands made on specific branches of the municipal govern-
ment, were much less likely to provoke retaliation. Rio’s favela activists thus
benefitted from the political rights guaranteed by the constitution and were
protected (to a point) from state retribution. In this way, favela authoritari-
anism within a national political democracy operates differently than author-
itarian regimes at the national or regional levels. While drug traffickers limit
some forms of free speech and assembly, activists can still articulate demands
on the state, provided they focus on structural or systemic grievances and
do not expose corruption among politicians in cahoots with the local drug
faction.5

Addressing Stigma by “Doing Good”

While many activists took advantage of discursive openings in Cidade de

Deus to protest against the police and systemic inequality, the most common
approach to anti-​violence activism was to focus on “doing good,” by helping
others and refraining from engagement in interpersonal forms of violence.
For most residents, “doing good” meant engaging in activities of mutual aid,
like taking care of other people’s children, donating food baskets to poor
families, cleaning up garbage in public areas, or giving car rides to the eld-
erly or disabled people. It was a widespread practice and one highly valued
in a community with so few public services. “Doing good” was not only an
individual act but also a means of social resilience or collective form of sur-
vival in a context of urban informality and state neglect (Fahlberg et al. 2020;
Seeliger and Turok 2014; Theron and Theron 2013). As I argued in Chapter 3,
even drug traffickers relied on local services and assistance to get care for
their families.
In addition to helping others, residents widely embraced a spirit of non-​
violence. Non-​violence in Cidade de Deus operates along a continuum. On
one end of the spectrum is a commitment to not use physical (or sexual)
violence against others, essentially requiring non-​action. The other end
involves more active (often organized) efforts to dismantle systems of vio-
lent oppression (Nojeim 2004). Most favela residents I met (activist or not)
expressed commitment to the more passive kind, which Gene Sharp (1959)
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 165

refers to as “generic nonviolence.” In favelas, many men emphasize their

commitment to non-​violence by refusing to participate in the drug trade
or perpetrate physical interpersonal violence (Borde, Page, and Moura
2020).6 Activists built upon the moral commitment of favela residents to
help others and to refrain from violence in order to broaden their partici-
pation in non-​violence.
Isabella, for instance, founded CDD Connects in order to counteract
the popular view of favelas as places of violence and criminality by sharing
thousands of stories about the “good things” people were doing. The idea
emerged when Isabella realized that people did not know about the serv-
ices that were offered in Cidade de Deus and would often travel by bus to
far-​away business districts to get things resolved. According to Isabella, “It
made me realize that the bad news circulates, but the good news doesn’t,
understand? That was missing. Then I said: ‘I’m going to make a news
channel, a news channel to talk about the good things that are here in
Cidade de Deus.’ ”
Since 2011, Isabella has not only advertised local services, classes, and re-
sources, she has also written stories about the positive things residents were
doing for the community. One of these stories was about a young woman
teaching children to rollerblade, another was about a famous ballet artist who
performed on the international stage, others about martial artists competing
in televised matches. Every time I visited CDD, Isabella would tell me with
glistening eyes what new story she was working on, barely able to contain
her excitement. For Isabella, the goal of CDD Connects was to resist and re-
verse the popular narrative that favelas are sites of violence and criminality
(Amaral 2019; Zaluar and Alvito 1998). However, it was a choice that came
at a high cost and required a great deal of boundary setting. Isabella had put
much thought into what she would and would not publish. She was regu-
larly contacted by major newspapers looking for details about shootings and
policing operations and largely refused to provide these. She also refused to
post most stories of shootings, the few exceptions being to honor victims like
Lucas. She told me back in 2016:

If I wanted to, the page could have more than 100,000 likes if I talked about
shooting and death. People are just waiting for us to talk about violence, but
I don’t want to talk about it. I created the page to talk about what’s good in
the community. If I go to talk about each shooting, there will be no space
left to talk about everything else.
166 Activism under Fire

In a place where violence is such a consuming narrative, both within the

neighborhood and for people outside the favela looking in, the conscious
act of reversing the narrative is a political act. Isabella was humble about
this, though: “I do nothing more than exercise my citizenship, trying to im-
prove my community,” she told me. By 2018, CDD Connects had reached
the 100,000-​likes mark and was well on its way to even greater popularity.
Perhaps Isabella had misjudged the desire across Cidade de Deus and the city
for more stories about the good things in Rio’s favelas.
Luis Henrique, like Carmen, Leonardo, and many others, espoused their
commitment to organized political activities intended to radically trans-
form their neighborhood and society more broadly, or what Johann Galtung
(1969) refers to as “positive nonviolence.” Consider Luis Henrique’s post
about a meeting he attended in 2017:

Yesterday, I was at the office of Civics in Action. I was with other invited
guests and participants reflecting about “non-​violence” as an agenda and a
practice in a world of violences . . . I am grateful for having learned about,
and now be able to carry in my fight and actions, the history and fight of
some men and women present, who represent an image and similarity to
the true resistance in the margins, the militancy of the base and the possible
revolution; how the lives that feed me every day in our Cidade de Deus. US
FOR US.

For activists in Cidade de Deus, non-​violence was not simply about doing
good without doing harm. They participated in movements, both within and
outside Cidade de Deus, that aimed to systematically address the neglect and
over-​policing of favelas, to resist racism and favela-​based discrimination,
and to promote political and economic reforms that would bring greater
justice and rights to Brazil’s urban poor. Their efforts could best be termed
“nonviolent resistance,” which Erica Chenoweth and Kathleen Gallagher
Cunningham (2013:271) define as:

the application of unarmed civilian power using nonviolent methods such

as protests, strikes, boycotts, and demonstrations, without using or threat-
ening physical harm against the opponent. Civilians challenging the state
through nonviolent struggle employ irregular political tactics, working
outside the defined and accepted channels for political participation de-
fined by the state . . . Ordinary people use nonviolent resistance to pursue
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 167

a wide variety of goals, from challenging entrenched autocrats to seeking

territorial self-​
determination to contesting widespread discriminatory
practices.

This definition helps to situate activism in Cidade de Deus both in rela-

tion to other forms of non-​violent action in favelas as well as the broader
field of social movements. On the one hand, favela activists are more organ-
ized and intentional about social transformation than most favela residents.
On the other hand, they rarely engage in “protests, strikes, boycotts and
demonstrations,” as the definition suggests. While academics and activists
might understand non-​violence as a strategic political process, its less sub-
versive corollary, “doing good things” was not considered political or threat-
ening to gangs. Doing good was not only permitted but widely condoned
across the neighborhood. It provided activists with a moral space in which to
organize political efforts. It also gave activists a discursive opening through
which to advocate for public services and to speak out against domestic vi-
olence, sexual assault, and child and elder abuse. As I discuss in Chapter 5,
a focus on issues that transcend favelas, such as structural violence, racism,
and gender violence, has also allowed favela activists to situate themselves
within broader urban and transnational social movements with similar po-
litical objectives and narratives.

The “Criminal,” the “Worker,” and the “Educator”

It has been widely noted that two oppositional social categories have
emerged in Rio’s urban imaginary to distinguish between “bad” and “good”
favela residents: the bandido and the trabalhador, or in English, the “crim-
inal” and the “worker” (Penglase 2014; Zaluar 1994). “Criminals” are viewed
as those who engage in theft, assault, or work for the drug trade but usually
excludes those committing white collar crimes, such as the sale of pirated
goods, for instance (Cardoso 2013:173). Meanwhile, “workers” constitute
those who receive their income legally, which can include formal employ-
ment (i.e., employment that is documented, taxed, and protected by labor
rights laws) and informal employment, such as doing nails or fixing cars,
with wages paid under the table. Given the difficulties favela residents expe-
rience in finding formal employment, the category of trabalhador has been
broadened. According to Ben Penglase (2014:89), “to fall into this category
168 Activism under Fire

one must be neither a drug dealer nor a viciado (drug addict).” In favelas, the
trabalhador thus includes anyone with an ethic of hard work, regardless of
current employment status (Oliveira and Nuñez 2014).
However, there is a third social category in favelas that has gone
overlooked: the educador, or the “educator.” The educator encompasses not
only formally employed teachers but also volunteers and staff at social service
organizations, community journalists who provide information (education)
to the neighborhood, soccer coaches, ballet teachers, and anyone else pro-
viding guidance, knowledge, and nurturing. Most activists in fact call them-
selves educators and other similar names, such as “community educators”
or “social educators.” Some also go by “community communicators.” While
educators technically are also “workers,” they have a unique role in the com-
munity that is not only accepted but widely embraced.
These three social categories exist in a moral hierarchy. The worker, for
instance, stands morally above the criminal. The worker is considered to be
blameless in the police-​gang wars and to be an urban citizen deserving of
state protection due to their participation as a laborer in the capitalist system.
Criminals are “bad” due to their involvement in illicit activities and armed
conflicts with the police. In the minds of many residents—​both in the fa-
vela and beyond—​drug traffickers deserve to be killed or jailed for breaking
the law and do not deserve the full rights of urban citizenship. The educator,
in turn, is situated at the top of the moral hierarchy of the favela, perceived
as someone who has responsibility over the next generation, to ensure that
children of the favela become workers rather than criminals. The educator
keeps the children under their care safe during shootouts and builds up their
self-​esteem in the face of police brutality and discrimination from society.
The educator helps children gain skills and knowledge needed to be suc-
cessful in the broader urban society as professionals, athletes, or artists. The
educator is also selfless, choosing a profession that is poorly remunerated (if
remunerated at all) for the benefit of the broader community. Perhaps most
importantly, in the eyes of many, the educator is the only hope that the favela
might not be poor forever.
Being an educator is a much safer public persona in Cidade de Deus than
activist, which could be perceived as a more political and trouble-​making
identity. Outsiders who came to Cidade de Deus to teach or care for children
were among the few allowed entry into the neighborhood. One young light-​
skinned woman from outside Cidade de Deus who worked at Youth Promise
told me that the drug traffickers always let her enter Cidade de Deus in her
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 169

car because they knew she was a teacher. “Let the teacher pass!” they would
yell at pedestrians every morning when they recognized her through her car
window. I have no doubt I was also given access to the neighborhood thanks
to my affiliation with Youth Promise and other CBO workers. Being viewed
as an educator in a favela is much safer than being seen as a researcher.7
Notably, the role of educator is not considered political but social: educators
exist solely to help children and other vulnerable populations stand on their
own two feet, not to run for office or sabotage drug operations. Educator as
a social category is therefore not viewed as threatening to gangs. In fact, be-
cause workers—​who make up the vast majority of residents—​highly respect
and rely on educators to help them raise their children, gangs must respect
the moral superiority of the educator if they are to maintain their own le-
gitimacy in the community. The social importance of educators was true
for gang members as well: many CBOs had the children of drug traffickers
enrolled in their organizations. As Maria Rita and many others told me, even
gang lords hoped that their children would receive better opportunities than
they had and be spared the risks of gang involvement.

“To Educate is a Political Act!”

The activists I met in Cidade de Deus have built on this moral structuring to
create a unique location that intersects with both the social and the political
spheres. Their status as educators afforded them a wide berth on how they
raised the next generation and what they taught them. Within the confines
of CBOs or collectives, activist-​educators not only taught their participants
about how to be a good citizen and a hard worker; they also taught them
about racism, structural violence, and the importance of collective action.
Carmen offered a great example of how activists used their role as educators
to produce a political consciousness. Carmen founded and ran a CBO called
the Environment League, which offered literacy classes and various activities
aimed at teaching children and adolescents about preserving and caring for
their environment. Yet Carmen’s approach was explicitly political. She told
me once:

The youth who come to the Environment League, they have to have some
formal education. What does this mean? We say that it’s a political educa-
tion. The methodology and philosophy from Paulo Freire is political. Oh,
170 Activism under Fire

people say, “But is this party politics?” People who say this don’t know what
“politics” means . . . If they come here, they will study about housing, they
will work, they will learn about health, they will learn about gender issues,
they will study about social movements . . . They will understand the history
of education, they will learn about the formation of the favelas, their own
history in this place.

This type of political education bore fruit. I once attended a meeting in

Cidade de Deus hosted by several local activists and public institutions to
discuss the impact of a recent uptick in policing operations on the neigh-
borhood. The police battalion commander had come to defend his opera-
tions to the participants. Carmen attended, along with several adolescents
and young adults from the Environment League wearing matching t-​shirts
with their organization’s logo. When the lieutenant finished speaking, a
19-​year-​old woman from Carmen’s group took the mic and challenged
the lieutenant by noting that the police abuse of power made dialogue
between them and local residents extremely challenging. Carmen’s hard
work raising youth from the favela to make vocal claims for their rights
was paying off. As Carmen noted, she, like several other activists, drew in-
spiration from the work of Paulo Freire, who published his seminal book
“Pedagogy of the Oppressed” in 1968 while in exile from the Brazilian
dictatorship. In it, he laid out a theory of praxis, where he advocated for
literacy courses paired with critical education about oppression and re-
sistance. According to Freire (2000:49–​50), “If what characterizes the op-
pressed is their subordination to the consciousness of the master . . . , true
solidarity with the oppressed means fighting at their side to transform
the objective reality which has made them these ‘beings for another.’ ” By
educating young adults in Cidade de Deus about oppression and resist-
ance, activists were not only teachers but also cultivators of a future gener-
ation of social change makers.
Not all CBO leaders were as political as Carmen, though even CBOs with
less politicized leaders still offered important spaces for a political education.
Solange, the director of Youth Promise, for instance, rarely discussed politics
of any kind. She was not affiliated with a political party and did not actively
adopt the Freirian pedagogical approach. However, many of the teachers at
Youth Promise were more intentional about teaching the children how to
think critically about injustice and inequality. Luis Henrique once invited
me to participate in a course on communication and text production he ran
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 171

twice a week for adolescents and young adults in the computer lab at Youth
Promise. The students took this and three other courses as part of an edu-
cational series, including photography, digital citizenship (taught by Maria
Rita), and social development and citizenship. Luis Henrique had begun the
class talking about theories of communication, which took off after WWII.
He used a variety of examples of popular videos, ads, magazines, and news-
paper articles to reflect on these theories.
The students had been tasked the previous week with each taking a pic-
ture of something in their environment and developing a narrative about
why they took the picture, what it was about, and why it mattered. All the
projects had to be within the area of human rights or, as Luis Henrique
explained, “our constitutional rights, of which we have many!” As I looked
over the students’ shoulders, I saw their themes: cruelty to animals, the en-
vironment, trash collection, the challenges faced by homeless people, lead-
ership roles among black women, public insecurity. Roberto (one of Esther’s
“adopted” teenagers) was doing his project on refugees in Cidade de Deus
with a focus on Haitians. As I scanned the students’ projects, Luis Henrique
commented to me: “We are not just here to spend down the time, we want to
develop the subjectivity of the youth.” He had a particular kind of education
in mind, which taught youth about their potential as political actors capable
of fighting for social change.
I was especially struck by a short essay written by one of the students at
Youth Promise and a photograph he took of his younger brother standing in
the street near one of the main roads that cuts through CDD. The essay offers
a great example of how politics gets produced within Cidade de Deus:

Crooked Future
Every day, at the end of the day, I take this path, which is from my
girlfriend’s house to mine. That is, from the home of my future wife—​the
woman I intend to have a life with—​to the home where my mother and my
brother are—​people with whom I maintain a strong affective bond. And,
along the way, a street sign always gets my attention, which identifies the
name of the street, Avenida Cidade de Deus [City of God Avenue]. My in-
terest may seem strange, but the crooked aspect of it seems to give me cause
to reflect on the reason for why it was that way. What happened to the sign
for it to be that distorted? Perhaps the entrance of the police, in the caveirão,
inside the favela? Maybe the . . . no. I can’t stop thinking about this. The
movement to “save” the community through the process of militarization of
172 Activism under Fire

the favela, justified by the fight against the drug trade, which directly affects
the routine of the residents (working mothers, parents, students, children).
How much is our future and our freedom worth? Is the war against drug
trafficking worth all this daily violence against the dignity of our residents?
The damage is not merely structural, it is human. They hold us account-
able for our obligations (to the law), but they distort our rights. Neglect
is not accidental, it is daily. But why did I tell you about my family in the
beginning? Simply because this street sign makes me think about the fu-
ture, above all, of my relatives; will the future of my brothers be crooked
too? And my children? My mother worked—​and works—​hard to give me
some autonomy and strength to keep fighting. But this sign pounds in my
head all day long: How long until our story falls? Our neighborhood? This
struggle to hold ourselves up is daily and comes from every resident, every
working mother. Every teacher. And as long as we have strength, we will
resist to the end.

In this text, the author connects the constant threat of violence faced by
his family members with the brutality of the police, sponsored by the global
war against drugs. The essay identifies the hypocrisies of state action, the
disconnect between the state’s harsh enforcement of laws and its failure to
uphold favela residents’ civil rights. It also emphasizes the author’s com-
mitment to join in the resistance against injustice. While CBO leaders like
Solange did not always articulate these ideas in public forums, they provided
the spaces in which a critical consciousness could be constructed by teachers
and other staff/​volunteers. Within the boundaries of the educator role, CBOs
and collectives promote a multi-​generational vision of social and political
change.

“Only Art Saves”

Cidade de Deus is not only teeming with bullets, it also abounds with art-
ists. If you ask most people in Cidade de Deus what they think is good about
their neighborhood, they will tell you it’s a place filled with culture. “Culture”
includes everything from athletics and dance to music, poetry, painting, and
sculpting. In fact, Cidade de Deus has gained a reputation as one of the hubs
of cultural vitality among Rio’s favelas. The sounds of singing echo from hole-​
in-​the-​wall churches on most nights and from most blocks, while residents
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 173

gather for parties to play and sing their favorite pagode or samba songs. CDD
was also the birthplace of funk, a type of heavy rap music in which rappers
speak of marginality, violence, and pride in their resilience and unity. In
1994, Cidinho and Doca, two rapper-​DJs from Cidade de Deus, wrote a funk
song that became internationally famous and acclaimed as the “hymn of the
favela.” Cidade de Deus also boasts an impressive roster of world-​renowned
UFC, MMA, Tae Kwon Do, and Jiu Jitsu fighters, professional soccer players,
ballet and contemporary dancers, and hip hop artists. In the 2016 Summer
Olympics, Cidade de Deus native Rafaela Silva took home Brazil’s first gold
medal in Judo. In a neighborhood where inhabitants face so many challenges,
it is little surprise that local residents have so much pride about the breadth
and quantity of famous athletes and artists from Cidade de Deus. Culture is
Cidade de Deus’s second claim to fame, after extreme violence.
Cultural production is thus a popular and normative activity in Cidade de
Deus. At least two-​thirds of the 82 Facebook pages with the words “Cidade
de Deus” or its abbreviation “CDD” in the title that I found were dedicated to
various cultural forms or to publishing news about upcoming cultural events
or stories about local artists.8 Art is also everywhere in Cidade de Deus, as
local artists paint telephone poles, park benches and murals. Some murals list
the names of residents killed in recent years. Even drug traffickers produce or
sponsor the production of art. One can often hear funk music blasting from
the speakers at drug sale points. Particularly popular among drug traffickers
is the proibidão, or the “big prohibition.” The proibidão is a type of funk music
that exalts the drug trade and substance abuse. It had been prohibited during
the height of the UPP; playing it loudly was thus a form of resistance. In a
setting in which many activities or discourses are strictly prohibited, cultural
expression is widely embraced and encouraged.
Art and culture play an important role in social movements and have be-
come especially vital to sustaining activism in areas of political repression
and conflict. In China, for instance, An Xiao Mina (2019) notes how images
of sunflower seeds and memes with the desert animal grass mud horse have
become symbols of anti-​government oppression. Given that it can be difficult
for the government or internet censorship algorithms to distinguish between
the literal meanings of these objects and the more subversive meanings at-
tached to them by anti-​regime activists, they are more difficult to control
than explicitly political images and activities. In Argentina, El Salvador, and
Mexico, the mothers of desaparecidos—​missing men and women—​carried
photographs of their family members in marches as a way to protest against
174 Activism under Fire

state-​sponsored violence. As Cynthia Bejarano (2002:140) notes, the inno-

cence of the young people in the pictures, combined with the intimacy of the
photographs, had an “insuperable” impact. Hundreds of additional examples
of music, cartoons, photographs, posters, and many other art forms can be
found on the Human Rights Foundation (2022) website, showcasing how
art has been deployed by pro-​democracy activists in countries under dicta-
torship to demand greater political and civil rights and mobilize for regime
change.
The production of art is also an important mechanism for representing
and preserving culture. In the context of political repression, art allows
marginalized groups to assert their shared identity and values, thereby
preserving a sense of community and solidarity even while a regime attempts
to silence or fracture it (Duncombe 2007; Park, Burgess, and McKenzie
1984). In other cases, art becomes a form of countercultural production that
aims to reject dominant capitalist and racist value systems (Burawoy 2012;
Elsner 2001; Williamson 2010). In contexts where a regime is determined to
eradicate an ethnic or racial group, cultural preservation itself becomes an
act of resistance.
Rio’s favela residents use art and culture to protest inequality and vio-
lence, while also reaffirming their commitment to their community’s local
experiences and values. In favelas, art has become an expression of subjec-
tivity, or “cultural protagonism” (Meirelles and Athayde 2016:111), a form
of constructing and transforming both oneself and the world within and be-
yond the favela. According to Jorge Barbosa (2017:112),

Despite the stigmas of poverty and violence that still mark favelas, the
richness of their expressions is undeniable, as are their significant ways of
representing and affirming their cultural difference. In this sense, culture
is not lived exclusively through objects or artifacts, but rather as an action,
expressively relational, corporeal and intersubjective, as it expresses paths,
memories, values and life projects.

Cultural production allows favela residents to challenge the status

quo, construct alternate realities, and create community based on shared
vulnerabilities and world views (Barbosa 2017; Meirelles and Athayde 2016).
While favelas have become well known for their artistic creativity, this cul-
tural production has also created a bridge between local values and political
resistance.
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 175

Activists in Cidade de Deus have taken advantage of the symbolic space

they occupy to air political grievances. Whether in bars or public parks,
Art Talk could protest against violence through prose, performances, and
paintings without arousing suspicion. It blended into the cacophony of music
and vibrancy in the background. Additionally, because participation in art
and culture is so prolific in favelas, activist art created an avenue through
which ordinary residents could become more involved in political action.
One woman I got to know at local poetry events joined Art Talk because her
adolescent daughter was a poet. In her efforts to support her daughter, she
had not only begun writing poetry herself but had started to help Natalia
organize more political activities, such as the open mic profiled in the book’s
Introduction and Natalia’s campaign for city council. Cultural activism
offered those residents with few artistic resources or formal training the op-
portunity to join a community united by a shared belief that art could change
the world and their neighborhood.
I also met several painters who used this vehicle to speak out against state
violence. Luz once showed me a painting of her and her family unloading
trash bags of their belongings from a garbage truck. It was one of her earliest
childhood memories. “I remember being so excited to ride in the garbage
truck,” she told me, and had felt inspired to make the painting. Reflecting
on it after the painting was complete, she realized it carried another mes-
sage: “When I painted this, I was remembering how much fun I thought it
was back then to ride in a garbage truck. But then I looked at it afterwards,
and thought, you know, I think this is a message, that even though they
treated me like trash, I’m here surviving, thriving. Their plan to throw me
away didn’t work.” Another of Luz’s paintings depicts a young Black boy
caught in front of an armored vehicle—​reminiscent of the opening image of
the main character in the movie City of God—​caught between the drug trade
and the police in the 1980s. The message of the painting is clear: the police
car is more armored than before, but ordinary residents are still stuck be-
tween the guns of the police and the guns of the drug trade.
Cultural activists also used their skills in more collective and systematic
ways. In 2012, Sonia, Rosangela, and a handful of other residents partnered
with a group of graduate students and faculty at the Federal University of
Rio de Janeiro to found a community-​based newspaper called SpeakCDD!.
While newspapers in themselves may not fit squarely into the category of
art as we usually think of the term, this newspaper was filled with drawings,
poems, pictures, and stories of the cultural endeavors of CDD residents. Most
176 Activism under Fire

of the stories published in the paper were also about artistic events: literary
festivals, field trips to museums, an organized event for children to paint in
the park. It was a site for the making and sharing of cultural activism. There
were also many stories documenting poor infrastructure and unreliable state
services. The introductory message by the editorial board in its first issue
offers a valuable summary:

“A lot of work and one more newspaper is on the street of Cidade de Deus”
One more time we come to the streets with the SpeakCDD! newspaper.
This newspaper is the result of much hard work and dedication by each
of its members, all of whom are residents of Cidade de Deus. [It is for] all
residents interested in exchanging ideas with their neighbors and showing
people outside our neighborhood what happens in our favela beyond
the gaze of the large commercial media (the most common newspapers
accessed in newsstands and on television).
In this edition, the reader will learn about the situation of abandonment
of CIEP Luiz Carlos Prestes, one of the Spaces for Child Development of
the Municipal Government, in the article by Solange. You will also see the
real situation in which residents in areas with construction by the Bairro
Maravilha project are living, based on the perspective of Sonia, reporter for
the newspaper. You will also see how the Community Bank is running after
it was inaugurated in 2011 in Cidade de Deus, by Joana.
Cidade de Deus participated in June in the event by the United Nations
that united diverse countries to discuss issues related to the environment
in Rio+​20. Here, the reader can accompany the event in the pictures by
Angelica. And you will also learn about the House of Culture of Cidade
de Deus, Art Talk, and the participation of our community in FLUPP
(The Literary Congress for Favelas) and FLIP (The International Literary
Congress of Paraty). There are so many things happening in Cidade de
Deus to tell you about!
Follow the newspaper SpeakCDD!. Read it. Distribute it. Collaborate as
a reporter, get to know our group and our independent project. The news-
paper is also on the internet. Just visit us and send us a message. Cidade de
Deus always had a voice, now we have [a place] from which to shout.

I include this lengthy introduction as a way of demonstrating the explicit

connections that residents made between culture and protest. The news-
paper itself was arguably a work of political art: the first edition was 16
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 177

pages long, filled with colorful images and stories about the many events
organized and/​or attended by Cidade de Deus residents and reports of how
government interventions were and were not fulfilling residents’ needs. In
2014, Rosangela published a story about the inauguration of the House of
Rights in Cidade de Deus, the first of its kind in Brazil, which offered a space
in which residents could apply for birth certificates, employment cards,
drivers’ licenses, and a host of other documents. In the article, Rosangela
bemoans the thoughtlessness behind the inauguration proceedings: only
government officials were allowed to participate in the ceremony; there
was no space for local residents. The local press (i.e., Rosangela and other
Cidade de Deus journalists) were not allowed to take pictures, and there
was too much policing. Worst of all was how the event let down a group of
children from Cidade de Deus who had been invited to perform a song and
had practiced several times for it. At the last minute, the event organizers
decided there was not enough time for the children to perform. According
to Rosangela:

At the same time and at a park very close to the location of the inaugu-
ration, the plastic artist Carminho was conducting a workshop with chil-
dren and their families. On one side of the park, children making art and
expressing themselves, and on the other, children leaving an event without
having performed. Since the stage was organized only for the governor, the
authorities closed their eyes to a future president of the nation who was
there playing his drum without being able to get their attention.

This is one example of how the paper offered residents a space to describe
and reject the many ways they were neglected and excluded by the state, while
also emphasizing the protagonism and skills of their community. Over the
following five years, the paper published special interest stories about art and
culture in Cidade de Deus, the many activities organized by local CBOs and
the Residents’ Board, and the neglect of the state. Articles included stories of
famous athletes and artists from Cidade de Deus, information about how to
adopt a child, the winners of a municipal grant for Local Actions (i.e., social
projects in favelas), the Gay Rights Parade in Cidade de Deus, the founding
of a community-​based radio station, and the challenges of securing em-
ployment in the formal market. Many stories praised the virtues of literacy
and the importance of encouraging education and reading among young
children.
178 Activism under Fire

Every issue carried at least one, if not several, stories decrying urban vi-
olence and the consequences of this for local residents. For instance, a 2014
issue included a story by Sonia titled “Where is public security?” that prom-
inently displayed a picture of Natalia and Jefferson speaking to a large audi-
ence at the International Literary Festival. The event was located just across
the street from the Regional Tribunal for the State in the center of Bangú in a
busy commercial area. “The presentations were wonderful,” wrote Sonia, “we
felt like the participants were ingesting culture, leisure, and citizenship.” After
describing some of the presentations, Sonia went on to describe the unfolding
of a shootout between police and a group of men trying to rescue someone
on trial, which resulted in the death of an eight-​year-​old boy walking down
the busy street with his grandmother. The article concludes: “We spent part
of a wonderful day with the beauty of poetry and concluded our program-
ming with much pain and indignation about this tragedy. Governors, where
is public security?” On the next page, a different story juxtaposed protests
against violence. A large picture displayed four residents and three priests
from Cidade de Deus’s Anglican church smiling into the camera holding
yellow brochures. “Cidade de Deus has entered into a fight against do-
mestic violence against women” reads the headline. The comparison of these
stories of violence and non-​violence reflected the possibilities for mobilizing
against violence through art. The final page of the issue offers another car-
toon critiquing the government, this time about its failing public healthcare
system (Figure 4.6). The doctor yells “Next,” but his patient has already died
and decayed, so only his skeleton remains. Importantly, no story or cartoon
in any of the issues I read directly mentioned the drug trade. However, the
newspaper was nonetheless almost entirely dedicated to speaking out against
violence and affirming residents’ continued struggles for peace, safety, and
citizenship.
In addition to articles and paintings, Cidade de Deus’s cultural activists
were prolific performers of spoken word, hip hop, and rap. MC Claudinho
was among Cidade de Deus’s most popular musicians, who founded a slam
hip hop competition in 2014. He explained to me that “It was based on the
idea of a cultural circle, but our idea was a more political intent than for enter-
tainment, because the idea was to make young people reflect on matters that
have to do with their reality, with their daily lives.” According to Claudinho,
the early hip hop battles were initiated to give young men in gangs a place to
battle without killing each other. It was a place in which they could earn re-
spect and express aggression through words, rather than physical violence.
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 179

Figure 4.6 “What about health?” it reads. “Next!” calls the doctor. Cartoon
by CDD artist depicting a patient who has died after having waited too long to
receive services from SUS, the national public healthcare system
Picture taken by the author of a cartoon printed in a SpeakCDD! Newspaper article.

Hip hop battles helped to decrease homicides but, for MC Claudinho, had
little cultural value. Instead, the hip hop battles he organized had a theme,
and participants were required to rap about that specific topic:

We presented themes about politics, like UPP, the Lava Jato,9 fraud by
[former Governor Sérgio] Cabral, discovery of the purchase of votes during
the World Cup in Rio . . . These are issues that affect us directly but we do
not read about it often. The young men competing in the battle already
knew that they had to learn about the subject in order to win, so they would
go and read, and get informed about the issue. And the audience that is
going there is sitting there wondering what the fuck is the mensalão?

The mensalão was a political scandal that broke out in 2005 in which
members of the Worker’s Party were accused of buying votes for favored
legislation with government funds. Claudinho’s centering of this and other
political issues in hip hop battles provided a political education to favela
180 Activism under Fire

Figure 4.7 A local artist giving me a narrated tour of some of CDD’s many
murals. This one documents important events in the neighborhood’s collective
memory
Photo by the author.

youth through music. In addition to the hip hop battles, he invited many
guest speakers, mostly Black people from the favela who had become writers,
poets, athletes, and other professionals. His goal was to give youth an alter-
native set of role models, “because the only role models they have are drug
traffickers,” he explained. He also hoped that by helping young people net-
work with established artists outside the neighborhood, they could find
a way to gain financial rewards for their work. Both CDDSpeaks! and MC
Claudinho’s politically oriented hip hop battles demonstrate how activists
have utilized the normativity of cultural production in favelas to generate a
critical consciousness that publicly condemned state violence, neglect, and
corruption.
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 181

Figure 4.8 “Travel through the world is my home. Every place is my home.” Art
piece designed by a CDD artist, hung in the UPP police precinct
Photo by the author.

Race as a Mechanism of Solidarity

Race politics—​including negotiations of racial identification and anti-​racism

organizing—​was another form of embedded resistance that inserted local
activists within normative values, images, and discourses. In particular, ad-
vocacy against racism positioned activists in solidarity with, rather than
in opposition to, drug traffickers, who are almost entirely dark-​skinned.
182 Activism under Fire

Figure 4.9 “The problems of the favelas we must irradicate.” Mural in CDD
Photo by the author.

Activists deployed many discursive and political tactics in their fight against
the historical legacies and contemporary injustices of racial discrimination.
According to sociologist Aníbal Quijano (2005:107–​8), the concept of
race, in its contemporary sense, did not exist before European colonialism
began in the 1500s. It was during this time that social categories like “Indian,”
“Negro,” “mestizo,” and “white” emerged. The terms not only characterized
phenotypical differences but, more importantly, legitimized unequal
locations of power. Negative connotations were attached to ethno-​racial
groups at the “bottom” of colonial hierarchies in order to justify the subor-
dination and exploitation of these groups by European settlers. Race, writes
Quijano, “revealed itself to be the most effective and durable instrument of
universal social domination . . . The conquered and dominated populations
were placed in a situation of naturalization of their inferiority.” For many fa-
vela activists, there was a close connection between slavery and modern-​day
racism in policing, poverty, and the rise of drug gangs: urban violence, in
their perspective, was a racialized phenomenon. Thus, to fight against vio-
lence also required mobilizing against the symbolic forces of racism.
Among CDD’s activists, race politics has been transformed from a
tool for domination to one of resistance (Nascimento 2016; Paschel
2016; Vargas 2010). Most of the activists I met in Cidade de Deus proudly
identified as Black. While many of these activists had dark skin tones and
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 183

other phenotypical features often attributed to African ancestry, others

who identified as Black had skin tones and hair structures that would have
allowed them to pass as pardo (mixed race) or even white. When I explored
racial identification in interviews with several activists in Cidade de Deus,
they explained to me that the label was as much about skin color as it was
about their understanding of race politics, racism, and racialized resistance.
Activists not only publicly identified as Black, they also taught community
members about colonialism and Black history and inserted anti-​racism
narratives into their fight against state violence and social injustice. By dis-
cursively connecting their fight against violence and oppression to racism,
race was transformed from a social construction to a political construction,
a symbolic device that emphasized solidarity across the favela around shared
ancestry as well as shared vulnerabilities, urban exclusion, and state violence
(Paschel 2016). Keisha-​Kahn Perry similarly found a connection between
race and resistance in activist collectives in Salvador, the capital of Bahia in
northeastern Brazil. According to Perry (2013:xviii), “The complex racial
politics of identification are linked to gender and class consciousness and
identification as blacks, women, and poor people . . . Neighborhood activists
are far from confused about the validity of blackness as a social category.”
In Cidade de Deus, several activists deployed presentations of self that
signaled membership in the African diaspora and participation in Black cul-
ture. These included wearing their hair in corn rows, braids, or dreads, lis-
tening to Black rappers, wearing clothes made by Black artists, and practicing
religions with African roots, such as Candomblé and Umbanda. Even lighter-​
skinned activists found a way to leverage Blackness as a political tool. “I’m
white,” Solange told me once, pointing at the beige-​colored tone of her arm.
“But my soul is Black.” I had raised my eyebrows in curiosity. She continued: “I
don’t know most of my ancestors, but Brazil is entirely descended from Blacks.
I really respect this lineage.” Solange’s Caucasian features made it difficult for
her to legitimately claim Blackness, but she had nonetheless found a way to
align herself with African ancestry and culture, thereby demonstrating the sa-
lience of Blackness as a political construct in favelas’ resistance movements.
Many other lighter-​skinned activists I met similarly pointed to whatever ev-
idence they could find to identify with Blackness, including having dark
thick hair, having children or parents who were Black, or living in a racialized
community. However, this extended beyond an individual commitment to
racial justice. Once, when Luis Henrique and I were discussing how many
favela activists were Black and I mentioned Solange as the exception to the
184 Activism under Fire

rule, he shrugged and defended her Blackness. He referenced Solange’s curly

hair, calling it a “white Afro,” and reminded me that she was a migrant from
Northeastern Brazil, a decidedly non-​White part of the country. Both Solange
and Luis Henrique thus felt compelled to define her as Black in an effort to legit-
imize her leadership within CDD’s sphere of non-​violence. Meanwhile, Maria
Rita had been on a years-​long mission to help her students and neighbors ap-
preciate their African roots and take pride in thinking of themselves as Black.
Favela activism, when understood as a political construct, is Black, regardless
of the skin tones of the individuals within it.
Blackness as a political construct has not only helped to situate injustice
and violence within a postcolonial lens, it also symbolically aligns the plight
of activists with the well-​being of drug traffickers, who are overwhelmingly
darker skinned. Leonardo’s labeling of police-​gang conflicts as a genocide
undergirded by racism—​described in the introduction of the chapter—​was a
discursive device that helped to publicly position activists as allies of the drug
trade, rather than opponents. In this narrative, drug traffickers were viewed
as victims of racist police violence and racialized poverty. By connecting both
oppression and resistance to race, activists constructed a symbolic sphere of
action that identified a shared problem against which to fight (i.e., racism)
and identified gang members as victims and potential allies rather than the
targets of claims-​making. This narrative has allowed many activists in Cidade
de Deus to fight against violence without threats from drug gangs. In 2017,
for instance, MC Claudinho launched an album about race and injustice in
Rio de Janeiro, including the song “A Declaration on CDD.” It illustrates how
an anti-​racist discourse was leveraged to produce internal unity among fa-
vela residents as victims of state violence, while also identifying a common
enemy, the racist state:10

Cidade de Deus only wants peace

Police only kill poor
society does not like Blacks
for us always death penalty
Swallow your cries, kid
pistol in our face because of a joint
Police take bribes, but don’t accept checks
We have no escape, the king of hard knocks
knocks us down . . .
Better days for CDD
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 185

Quilombo of war, rest and leisure

The dream persists only if happy
Police who arrest lawyer is a judge

As this song demonstrates, rap is used as a tool to discursively connect

anti-​Black violence by the police with corruption and neglect by the state.
The constant use of the term “us” suggests a unity between drug traffickers
and other Black favela residents. By emphasizing the ways in which racial
discrimination is so harshly levied against Black favela men, MC Claudinho
connects his fight for justice to the victimization experienced by drug
traffickers. It is not difficult to see why drug traffickers would allow MC
Claudinho and other artists with a similar message to perform their songs
publicly. At the same time, his songs served as a vehicle for making broader
demands for racial justice. MC Claudinho viewed his music as part of a
global Black musical movement spearheaded by artists like James Brown and
Nina Simone. For MC Claudinho, all expressions of Black identity were po-
litical, even if they were not directly confrontational:

Every Black person, he is already a militant from the moment that he is

born . . . Sometimes we emphasize this thing of militancy in the speech, in
the field of knowledge. But if you are born Black, you will have to militate
to survive. If you are a single mother, exhausting yourself to put food on the
table, man, you are militating! If you listen to the lyrics in Nina Simone’s
music, she will not tell you to pick up a gun or participate in a protest, but
she will talk about the difficulties of being a Black woman. And this is al-
ready a militancy. The hair that Black people use is political; if I have sexual
relations with a Black woman, this is political, everything, everything is po-
litical, because it is going against the Eurocentric flow.

When viewed through this lens, Black members of drug gangs are also
part of this militant resistance. Through slam poetry, spoken word, rap, and
hip hop, dark-​skinned youth from favelas have created a platform to air their
grievances, to connect their experiences of racism with state violence and
poverty, and to join a global movement for racial equality (Lopes and Facina
2012; Sousa 2019). What MC Claudinho and other musicians had experi-
enced in Cidade de Deus came to be understood as a symbol of violence and
injustice more broadly; their art, in turn, was intended to address these at the
symbolic level.
186 Activism under Fire

Learning Race

Many activists I spoke with were concerned with the death of education fa-
vela residents received about Black history or their own racial identity. Solange,
for instance, told me about her observations interviewing people for a survey
being organized by the United Nations to track and offer assistance to families
in extreme poverty. Solange noted that most people said they didn’t know
what their race was. Even people with dark skin whom most would clearly
label Black didn’t know their race. “Oh, is there yellow on there?” Solange
repeated what some had asked her; she peered into her outstretched hands,
imitating the participants looking over onto her checklist: “Put pardo.” “People
don’t know what they are,” Solange bemoaned. It was an interesting observa-
tion and one that I had heard many times from other activists concerned with
the fact that so few favela residents had learned about Black history or their
own connections to slavery and to Africa. Maria Rita, who had worked for the
national census a few years earlier, had come across the same situation: even
dark-​skinned Brazilians often struggled to choose a racial category.
For activists, the lack of education about race and Black history in the
home and in schools has limited favela residents’ awareness about structural
violence and their own identities. João Paulo’s story is a case in point. I met
João Paulo at Youth Promise, where he taught courses on photography and
citizenship to children and young adults. He has tan skin, some African facial
features, and thick dark hair he wore in dread locks. When I asked João Paulo
what race he identified as, he responded unequivocally that he was Black.
Later he allowed me to interview him about it. He informed me that he hadn’t
always self-​identified as Black:

[When I was growing up], there wasn’t this thing, this discussion that you
defined yourself, how do you define yourself, you know, at home, nobody
ever talked about it. [No one ever said], “my son, come here, let’s talk . . . so-
ciety is like this, and, like this, due to your skin color, how you identify your-
self,” so this was a construction through my experiences. So I learned, you
know, in the political militancy that I have already participated in, the
Catholic Church, understand? [And] other NGOs. So this was a construc-
tion, you know.

João Paulo’s mother was white and his father was Black, he told me, so
he had been brought up to believe that he was a mixture, a product of the
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 187

miscegenation that presumably characterizes all of Brazil. He connected this

to the lack of discussion about race in Cidade de Deus and the public educa-
tion system:

If we went to walk around Cidade de Deus and do research on [race], many

people will not know what to say, because that still, it’s a lot, you know.
People know that prejudice exists, but they can’t talk about it. Brazil is not
prepared for that, we don’t talk about slavery, we don’t do any work around
how much it created Brazil, and we have a population that has a very large
educational deficit, you know . . . schools didn’t discuss race, they didn’t
have history books, they didn’t talk about Black culture.

For João Paulo, the schools did not fulfill an important social role in
educating children about Black history and culture or encouraging pride
in one’s Black ancestors. Since his own parents had not done this either, it
wasn’t until adulthood that João Paulo was exposed to alternative views of
race, when he began participating in CBOs in Cidade de Deus and other
favelas. Especially critical to his early political formation was the Pastoral
das Favelas, a progressive social service branch of the Catholic Church which
espoused the more radical teachings of liberation theology and called for the
engagement of the Church in resisting oppression and injustice. Civic and
progressive religious organizations in favelas have thus played a central role
in educating poor Brazilians about racial injustice and the power of racial
politics to resist not only racism but all forms of oppression.
João Paulo’s work at Youth Promise and many of the other activities he
engaged in were aimed, in part, at promoting this alternative education,
teaching young favela residents about racial injustice, Black history, and
human rights. Many other local activists inserted racism and colonialism
as a leading component of their educational work. Some organizations, like
the Center for Racial Justice, used their professionalizing courses to cultivate
pride in African hairstyles, dark skin, and the strengths of the Black com-
munity. At Youth Promise, Luis Henrique, Maria Rita, and other staff often
explained to children the harms of more “invisible” forms of racism.
Leonardo took advantage of his acting classes to teach children about
racial pride. He told me once with a mischievous grin how he had tricked
his students into reflecting critically on the contradictory messages they re-
ceived about race and beauty. He had begun the class by asking students if
they believed that God, or whatever power they believed in, was just and
188 Activism under Fire

fair. “Yes,” they’d replied. He then went on to describe how God created one
person with straight, blonde hair, light eyes, white skin, small pointy nose
and sent that person off to be beautiful and happy. Then God created another
person with a large nose, thick lips, curly hair, and dark skin, and ordained
that person to be ugly and unhappy. “Is that fair?” Leonardo had challenged
the children. “Chao! Chaos!” Leonardo yelled smiling as he recounted the
children’s reaction. “What do you mean, teacher??” they’d questioned him.
Leonardo recounted his response to me:

“Is God fair? He made two human beings, there is a human being who has
everything perfect, he has straight hair, he is white. There is another who
[people say], hey, potato nose, I don’t know what else . . . If this same God
created both of them, he is the most incompetent of all of us!” “How can
you say that, teacher?” and another, “It is not that! No, everyone is the same,
everyone is beautiful.” Then I was like: “The same, we aren’t. But we are all
beautiful, I like that one.” “But how can you say everyone is beautiful when
people are like, ‘Gee, so and so is ugly. Are you saying that potato nose is
ugly? Because people are prejudiced.” The kids were starting to get the point
I was making. So I said: “Let me explain, what happens is that we, human
beings, constructed ideas about what is perfect and what is not perfect.
Only this is a construction and we are contaminated by it daily, we see it on
TV, the presenter you like, does he have a nose like yours? And the hair. . . ?!
[implies the answer is “no”]. So we are there all the time internalizing these
ideas about what is beautiful, about what is perfect . . . And then [you walk]
through the company you are going to work in. Until you get to the boss,
you passed a thousand people, but you walk past like four Black people: one
sweeping, one washing, one cleaning . . . You build the idea that their clothes
are ugly. Because of that, everything influences you on a daily basis. So
when you think she’s beautiful and she’s ugly, it’s because it’s built up in your
head. Not because she is really beautiful or in fact she is ugly.” Wow, man.

In the absence of Black history teachings in public schools, CBOs like

Leonardo’s have become the spaces for educating favela residents about ra-
cial discrimination and pride. In his analysis of racial justice activism in Los
Angeles and Rio de Janeiro, João Costa Vargas (2010:xxii) argues that “The
ongoing marginalization and premature, preventable death of dispropor-
tionate numbers of Black persons in the African Diaspora create the very
conditions for the revolutionary transformation of our societies. . . . By
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 189

revolutionary I mean a frontal, unapologetic challenge to the institutional-

ized, cognitive, and cultural sources of oppression, which translates into var-
ious forms of combat against the state, corporations, the elites, and all forms
of bourgeois segments, even those within the left” (2010:xxii). The shared
experiences of victimization because of one’s skin color has the potential
to create communities of collective action against state oppression and the
legacies of colonial rule. In favelas, where racial discrimination is combined
with extreme poverty and lethal police operations, the political construction
of race holds an especially critical power in constructing shared identifies
and political imaginaries about radical social change.
Cidade de Deus is not the only place where consciousness raising about
racism is unfolding. The Black Movement (Moviment Negro) across Brazil
has, for decades, pushed for a re-​education about African ancestry, slavery,
and modern forms of racism and racialized resistance (Gomes 2019). It is
slowly paying off: between 2012 and 2019, there was a 36% increase in people
who declared themselves Black, according to the Brazilian census: in 2019,
9.4% of Brazilians considered themselves Black, up from 7.4% in 2012. The
number of people who view themselves as pardo also increased by 10%
during that time, thereby increasing the proportion—​and influence—​of
Brazil’s darker-​skinned majority.
Scholars have charged Brazil’s Black Movement with being overly fo-
cused on cultural politics without organizing around more concrete po-
litical demands (Hanchard 2006). While there is some truth to this across
Brazil and in Cidade de Deus, there is also an important political change that
occurs when more people identify as Black or pardo. As many activists in
CDD explained to me, this growth signals an expanding community of Black
and brown people who have learned about the violence committed by co-
lonialism against their ancestors. This shared history promotes an identity
tied to shared experiences of racial discrimination, but also racial empower-
ment. This helps to create unity within a severely politically fractured com-
munity and a shared narrative around how violence unfolds and how it can
be resisted.

Race, Gender, and Class: An Intersectional Perspective

Many residents found ways to incorporate racial justice work with demands
for women’s rights, recognizing that racial oppression impacts Black women
190 Activism under Fire

differently than Black men. Jordana, Maria Rita’s 20-​year-​old neighbor, used
her degree in journalism to highlight cultural projects in favelas and to con-
nect these to issues of race, gender, and violence. Jordana identified proudly
as a Black woman. She wore colorful, stylish outfits, often wove strands of red
or blue into her braided hair, and wore bright green lipstick that contrasted
vividly with her dark skin. Jordana had moved to Cidade de Deus one year
earlier to be closer to her university, the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro,
one of the most prestigious public universities in the country. She was one
of the busiest people I knew in Cidade de Deus (and in general), constantly
shuffling between classes, internships, and volunteer work. I often saw
Jordana at midnight as she arrived home, exhausted, after a two-​hour bus
ride from her university. Her constant engagements in Rio’s downtown area
and other favelas in the city meant that she was rarely in Cidade de Deus.
She had won a full scholarship to her university and had opted to major in
Social Communication. In addition to her studies, Jordana was an intern in
a research lab that studied culture in the city of Rio de Janeiro and had joined
the section on “cultural manifestations from the periphery.” Her training as
an undergraduate student involved attending cultural events, interviewing
artists in favelas, producing texts or videos on these, and offering critical
analyses of how these shaped and were shaped by literature and other cul-
tural movements. I asked Jordana how she understood the term “cultural
manifestation.” This was her response:

Cultural manifestation is a protest, right, when you create . . . your reality,

you know. It is a manifestation. A song, for example rap, is a manifestation,
right, you put into words what you live daily and give rhythm to it and dis-
seminate it. So it is a manifestation, a protest made here [in the favela], and
it is seen [by people outside]. It is a production . . . it is a form of authorship,
you know, of those who live that daily, so that is why it is a manifestation,
a protest. It’s cultural because it’s art, right? It is not a mobilization of [po-
litical] protest. It’s also mobilizing, but it’s through another means, right?
A more artistic means.

Though Jordana was commissioned to cover events in many Rio de

Janeiro’s favelas, she had recently done a story on a self-​defense group organ-
ized by young women in Cidade de Deus. The group had termed itself Girl
Power. Jordana explained why she viewed Girl Power as a form of political
resistance:
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 191

Girl Power would not necessarily be considered a political act, right, but
when you think about all the violence that women suffer, especially women
from the periphery [i.e., the favela], and ultimately most of these women
are Black, and, you know, when we recognize the violence they suffer daily,
I think you need to make a form of defense, resistance. Because this is a
form of resistance for women.

As Jordana noted, self-​defense classes were not typically considered to be

political. But for her, offering these for Black women in the favela was not
only a way of arming women with tools to protect their physical and sexual
rights, but also of raising awareness of their constant risk of being assaulted.
In the two years following this first interview, Jordana covered dozens of
stories about similar events.
In January 2018, Jordana started her own YouTube channel dedicated to
telling stories about the favela. In her introductory video, Jordana smiles
into the camera and exclaims “First of all . . . ,” and points at her extremely
large earrings that read: “Out with” on the right ear and “Temer” on the
left. “Out with Temer” had become a popular slogan among leftist political
activists across Brazil since Michel Temer’s takeover of the presidency after
Dilma’s impeachment. Jordana continues: “Secondly, I am here to talk a little
bit about what Favela is. Favela is love, it is art, it is freedom, it is theater, it
is dance. Favela is life,” she proclaims, standing in front of a colorful favela
housing complex. “This project” (i.e., her channel), she explains, “proposes
to debate themes that are not necessarily discussed in traditional big media.
Here we are going to talk about you, your experiences, your lives, your
values, what you do, what you like, what you do not like, for you to see your-
self here on this little screen.” True to her word, the videos on her channel
showcase favela residents describing their everyday lives and explaining
how they express resistance and identity through their artistic expression. In
one video, Jordana reflects on a Samba School that put together a set for the
2018 Carnival parades on slavery in contemporary Brazil. She notes that the
parade “shows the favelas as a current quilombo [i.e., former community of
runaway slaves], as a place of resistance, and as a shelter, since our demands
are not being met by the state.” The parade had been produced by a Black
choreographer from a Rio favela. In both the choreographer’s rendition of
modern-​day racism and Jordana’s journalistic reflections of it, art and cul-
tural production have enabled Rio’s poor to decry their continued racial, po-
litical, and gender subjugation.
192 Activism under Fire

Jordana’s words and activities demonstrate the important relationship

between race and gender in favela activism. While in the previous chapter
I discussed the gendered dynamics of governance, and in this chapter
I have talked about race as a unifying political construct, it is critical to ex-
amine how the experience of being both female and Black intersect in
Rio’s favelas. As many scholars have noted, Black women’s double experi-
ence of marginalization—​plus, as in the case of favela residents, the expe-
rience of poverty—​places them not only in a unique position of being the
“superexploited” but also of having the greatest urgency in making social
change (Perry 2013; Theoharis and Woodard 2009). Writes Brazilian scholar
Valdenice Raimundo (2016:136):

With regard to the struggle for life, understood in the daily resistance it
welcomes . . . it is the anonymous black woman, the economic, affective and
moral support of her family, who plays the most important role. Exactly
because with her strength and courageous capacity to fight for survival, she
transmits to her most fortunate sisters the impetus of not refusing to fight
for our people . . . Black women have always needed to be part of the struggle
for better living conditions and this was done through different forms of or-
ganization, from the slavery period, in the post-​abolition period and up
to the present day, with organizations that have not always accommodated
themselves in formal ways, but that have always been constant.

As this quote suggests, the experience of racial oppression also becomes

the motivator for action. In fact, Jordana was one of many Black women
in Cidade de Deus drawn to favela activism. Isabella, Maria Rita, Carmen,
Clara, Natalia, and many other women I have profiled throughout the book
identified as Black. It was not only their gender, but also their experiences
of racism—​including individual experiences of discrimination as well as
the recognition that their entire neighborhood had been racialized—​that
provoked them to organize against violence and inequality. The sphere of
non-​violence thus enables Black women to gain political power by helping
to mobilize their community, while also creating a symbolic connection to
drug traffickers and other residents harmed by racial discrimination and the
legacies of colonialism.
Researcher Nilza Rogéria Nunes (2021:103) refers to Black female leaders
in Rio’s favelas as “favela women” and argues that it is their location at the in-
tersection of race, class, and gender that informs both their social identities
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 193

and leadership in social mobilization in favelas. These “favela women,” she

finds, are active in a range of activities and spaces, including collectives and
CBOs, social movements, religious institutions, and in some cases political
parties in order to improve social conditions, healthcare, and education in
favelas. Similarly, Anne-​Marie Veillette (2021:90) finds that Black women
from Rio’s favelas have played an active role in organizing against police vi-
olence, driven by a resistance rooted in “Amefricanidade,” a concept that
highlights “the African diaspora’s multiple and intensive traditions of resist-
ance across the Americas.” Notably, these scholars find that “favela women”
were not necessarily motivated by traditional feminism that advocates spe-
cifically for women’s rights, but rather by a kind of “popular feminism” that
focused on improving conditions for their community and for people of all
genders (Nunes and Veillette 2022). This finding reflects my own: CDD’s
Black women leaders organized to address the needs of those around them,
not on the basis of gender, but on the basis of a broader quest for peace and
equality.
While Chapter 3 noted how the feminization of non-​violent politics has
created space for activists to participate in the neighborhood’s governance,
an intersectional perspective allows us to recognize the significance of both
gender and race in constructing this political sphere. Additionally, race
and gender intersect in Cidade de Deus to inspire activism that is not only
racialized and gendered but connects to anti-​colonial and anti-​patriarchal
movements elsewhere and in previous eras. As I discuss in Chapter 5,
connections to Black women in other favelas and across the city and the world
have helped to inspire many of the favela activists in Cidade de Deus. Jordana
once shared a graphic of a Black woman on Facebook. In her Afro-​style hair
is written, “We are the granddaughters of the Black women you couldn’t kill”
(Figure 4.10). Slavery and its legacies have made the survival of Black women
in Brazil an act of resistance and have motivated a commitment to more or-
ganized political action within and beyond the favela.

Conclusion

When examined through the lens of cultural embeddedness, we can see how
non-​violent favela activism has been able to flourish, even in spaces typically
characterized by violence and political repression. Favela activists are not
only political actors; they are also residents raised in and by their community
194 Activism under Fire

Figure 4.10 “We are the granddaughters of the Black women you couldn’t kill”
Photo by the author.

and socialized within shared identities, values, and meanings. While some
of the discursive tactics described in this chapter were strategically and care-
fully negotiated, others were much more natural performances that required
only that favela activists subscribe to the dominant frames they have become
so accustomed to reinforcing in everyday interactions. However, activists
“upcycle” these practices, stretching local meanings to a more political place
than other residents, drawing connections between local narratives and
social movement frames that speak out against state violence, racism, and
structural inequality.
Culturally embedded resistance thus allows activists to connect local value
systems to more radical and transformative social movement discourses,
thereby opposing violence without explicitly resisting the status quo. In
some respects, activists deploy “weapons of the weak” by relying on the
tools and discourses that have been made available to them in an extremely
constrained environment. When examined more closely, however, we see
that these discourses have been reappropriated to resist violence through or-
ganized and non-​violent practices. Through a strategy of political upcycling,
they draw on established discourses to oppose structural violence and armed
 Violent Clientelism and Gendered Governance 195

conflict. They maneuver into existing social categories to create new ones.
They cater to shared pride around cultural creation to construct new political
imaginaries. And they deploy shared racial identities to justify organized ac-
tion against the legacies of colonialism and its more localized and dangerous
consequences.
 5
Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind
Favela Activists in Urban and Transnational Movements

A favela cresce, de cima para baixo, de baixo para cima, elástica,

como serpente viva, social, ondulante. Se uma palavra a define é
“movimento”

The favela grows, from bottom to top, top to bottom, elastic, like a
live serpent, social, undulating. If there is a word that describes it, it
is “movement.”
Renato Meirelles and Celso Athayde, 2016

Introduction

In 2014, Solange founded the Community Coalition, a network of

local community-​ based organizations (CBOs), public employees, and
administrators working on social service provision in CDD along with
researchers from several of Rio’s universities and private citizens who
volunteered in Cidade de Deus. They communicated via a WhatsApp text
messaging group in which they shared information about new courses
and programs, grant applications, job openings, and other local initiatives.
They also met in person monthly. In the meetings I attended, participants
introduced themselves and described their programs so colleagues could
help connect their clients—​primarily CDD residents—​to relevant serv-
ices. Each meeting, a handful of participants whom Solange had identified
ahead of time provided a more detailed presentation or live demonstration
to the group about their organization and what it could offer CDD residents.
Participants also asked questions about these projects, gave each other ad-
vice on where they might get financial support, donations, or volunteers,
and brainstormed potential collaborations between their respective
organizations.

Activism under Fire. Anjuli Fahlberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197519325.003.0006
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 197

The meetings were held in the Youth Center, a building owned and run
by the municipal government in Cidade de Deus, which had one of the
few air-​conditioned meeting spaces in the neighborhood. It was a coveted
space, but Solange’s good relationship with Youth Center staff had enabled
her to secure it for the meetings. Most meetings I attended had between
15 and 25 participants. Those who worked for the government were often
mid-​level administrators, such as the directors of the local welfare clinic or
primary school. Few public servants in attendance had significant control
over the policies governing the distribution of state funds, but they offered
valuable information about which grants had recently been announced and
how to apply for them, and often shared other types of resources, such as
lending space for a CBO in the school gym or providing a social worker to
teach a course on healthy relationships. In a neighborhood where public
policies were implemented in a limited, uneven, and unpredictable capacity,
these street-​level bureaucrats enacted critical gatekeeping roles, becoming
conduits of information, making the state itself more legible and acces-
sible to favela-​based CBOs, and creating productive interpersonal ties with
those typically marginalized by the state. The Community Coalition created
a space where favela activists could meet with people from the state and
from private institutions outside the favela to work together to solve local
problems. Though Solange kept the meetings on task, she welcomed input
from all participants about how frequently to meet, which topics to discuss,
who should be invited to present, and more. After the meetings, participants
mingled casually while nibbling on cookies and sipping coffee, bonding
over their shared struggles of trying to help the neighborhood with so few
resources.
The Community Coalition was one of several networks that connected fa-
vela activists with the world beyond their neighborhood. In fact, although
poverty, violence, and racial exclusion have contributed to making Rio de
Janeiro “divided” and “fragmented” (Fahlberg and Vicino 2015; Rocha 2005;
Ventura 1994), favela activists struggled fiercely against this social isola-
tion. They frequently received visitors from the “outside,” including public
servants from the state’s social service branches (the health clinic, welfare of-
fice, schools, etc.), as well as residents from other favelas, employees from
private NGOs across the city, and middle-​class residents who volunteered
in local CBOs. Favela activists were also constantly on the go. Solange and
Maria Rita regularly attended meetings in large NGOs based in downtown
areas, Carmen founded a sister organization in another favela, Leonardo
198 Activism under Fire

worked on various urban social and political campaigns, and Natalia was
constantly headed to meetings and cultural events across the city. Many
Cidade de Deus activists were also invited to discuss their work at confer-
ences and roundtables in universities and with NGOs located in other states.
Several activists had been offered scholarships to study abroad or to perform
on stages across the world.
Favelas and other poor urban areas are typically characterized by their
social, economic, and political isolation from the rest of the city (Beall,
Crankshaw, and Parnell 2014; Ribeiro and Telles 2011; Rocha 2005).
However, activists exert critical resistance to this inertia. The cultivation of
ties outside the favela has been essential to promoting social change. At a
basic level, these ties resist the marginalization of the favela by strengthening
its connectivity to the broader urban and global society. Activists’ integration
into social and political spaces helps to bridge the favela with other urban
spaces and movements across the city—​and beyond—​thereby positioning
the favela within broader networks of social change. Through these networks,
activists have managed to make demands for social services, development
needs, civil rights, and social inclusion in the urban fabric. This movement
across spaces has been especially critical in a context of local violent gov-
ernance: because political demands cannot be made to neighborhood-​level
corrupt and dangerous leaders, they take their claims to municipal, national,
and global actors who have more resources and fewer dangerous ties to
favela-​based drug traffickers. Their demands are more safely and effectively
articulated outside the favela.
This chapter is concerned with examining the different types of networks
that favela activists cultivate, how they are leveraged to make demands for
resources and rights, and how they help to foster new spaces and channels
for democratic claims-​making. How, it asks, do these networks produce im-
mediate and potential opportunities for social change? At the same time,
these ties present challenges for favela activists, who often occupy subordi-
nate roles in external networks, even within urban and transnational social
justice movements. Favela activists are highly reliant on large and compa-
rably wealthy urban NGOs, their white allies in universities and progressive
political parties, and Black middle-​class intellectuals in Rio de Janeiro and
across the world. This has limited their ability to advocate for favela-​specific
issues in movements that may have political or identity-​based concerns but
do not struggle with segregated poverty. Ironically, the very spaces of urban
and transnational solidarity that help them expand democracy and fight for
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 199

justice also retrench the subordination of favela activists. With few financial
resources and even less political leverage, however, favela activists have little
choice but to align themselves with external allies who may take more than
they give in return. Despite these inequities, the willingness and capacity of
favela activists to cultivate ties with external allies have helped to deepen de-
mocracy and expand resources and rights in a context of armed conflict and
political repression.

Participatory Democracy in the Favela

Democracy in Brazil has gotten a bad rap. Writing in 1993, shortly after Brazil
and other Latin American countries transitioned from dictatorship to de-
mocracy, Guillermo O’Donnell charged Latin America’s nascent democracies
with unevenly distributing citizenship rights and responsibilities across their
territories. According to O’Donnell, in certain “brown zones,” or areas with
high rates of poverty, informality, and “brown” skin, the state did not assert its
full authority, leaving residents with “weak” forms of citizenship, where they
relied on clientelist ties without meaningful political representation to obtain
even the most meager of resources (O’Donnell 1993). Only a few years later,
Theresa Caldeira and James Holston (1999) aptly noted that Brazil had be-
come a “disjunctive democracy,” whereby the enforcement of civil rights was
reserved for white, and usually wealthier citizens, relegating Brazil’s Black
and poor people to contend with police brutality, routine violations of civil
rights, high incarceration rates, and few protections from the legal system.
While the increase in social and political rights under the Worker’s Party
helped to address some forms of inequality, Brazil’s democracy continues
to be extremely violent, racist, and exclusionary even 20 years later (Amaral
2019). From the perspective of many Cidade de Deus residents, Brazil hardly
feels like a democracy at all.
Similar charges have also been levied against other national democracies
with significant subnational forms of violence. In many regions across Africa
and Asia, for instance, violence has become a pervasive tactic to ensure vic-
tory in local elections (Kongkirati 2016; Wahman and Goldring 2020). In
South African cities, the rise of vigilantism not only reflects a violent and in-
effective state control apparatus, but creates extra-​judicial pathways to crime
prevention (Smith 2019). In many cities, the rise of asymmetric urban war-
fare by populations excluded from the political and social benefits of national
200 Activism under Fire

democracy further erodes citizenship rights in targeted populations. Urban

conflict threatens the very stability and strength of the national state in
fragile democracies (Beall, Goodfellow, and Rodgers 2013). While political
violence poses many challenges for free and fair elections and large-​scale so-
cial movements, does urban conflict serve only to erode democracy?
The answer depends on how one defines democracy. While democracy is
often conceived as a national form of government based on fair elections, in-
stitutionalized accountability, and freedom of speech and assembly, among
other elements, the concept of “participatory” democracy emphasizes civic
engagement at the local level. Participatory democracy can be understood as
both a practice and a set of values. In the first case, participatory democracy
creates spaces in which citizens can debate, deliberate, discuss, and provide
input on and influence over local state politicians and bureaucrats (Baiocchi
et al. 2011; Bherer, Dufour, and Montambeault 2016). These dialogues may
be collaborative or conflictual, provided they create opportunities for open
discussion and collective decision-​making (Cornwall and Coelho 2007). In
the second case, participatory democracy is defined by a set of principles that
promote inclusion, meaningful debate, representation of diverse voices, and
collective decision-​making (Young 2000). In theory, spaces of participatory
democracy help strengthen (national) democracies by empowering citizens
to be politically engaged and to hold their leaders accountable (Fung 2009).
Furthermore, radical imaginings of participatory democracy have hoped
that participation “could transform the inegalitarian relationships between
the state and society and that it could help to emancipate and empower cit-
izens in every sphere of their daily lives” (Bherer et al. 2016:226). In these
“intermediary” spaces between the state and society, collaboration and con-
tention unfold to allow debate between heterogeneous actors and views,
thus becoming “crucibles for a new politics of public policy” (Cornwall and
Coelho 2007:2).
Participatory democracy projects—​including those spearheaded by local
governments as well as those led by civic organizations—​became popular
across the United States in the 1960s and 1970s, and in Latin America in the
1980s and 1990s after the fall of dictatorships. Thanks to social movements
that advocated for more horizontality and inclusion in decision-​making,
there has been great concern about how to increase participation of ordinary
citizens in the making of public policies (Montambeault 2015). Some partic-
ularly well-​known examples include participatory budgeting in Porto Alegre
(Baiocchi 2005), landless peasant movements in rural Brazil (Wolford 2010),
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 201

Citizen Power Councils in Nicaragua (Bay-​Meyer 2013), and the communal

councils in the barrios of Venezuela under Hugo Chavez (Wilde 2017).
Studies of these arrangements share a common concern for the extent to
which participatory democracy is able to overcome the clientelist practices
of Latin American regimes and promote meaningful inclusion of citizens in
decision-​making. When we shift our focus away from national elections and
the enforcement of rights toward spaces of collective dialogue and decision-​
making, it becomes apparent that Cidade de Deus activists are building and
strengthening democracy by creating spaces for meaningful conversations
(and arguments) between representatives of various state and non-​state
institutions, who work together to address the needs of favela residents. They
do this in large party by creating ties with allies within the state.

Allies in the State

There are plenty of reasons to argue that the state is unresponsive, or even
antithetical, to the needs and concerns of favela residents. However, the
“state” is a complex concept, and one that must be more closely examined
if we are to fully comprehend its relationship to favelas and, in this case, fa-
vela activism. While we often think of the state as the institutions of govern-
ment, it is also useful to consider the many groups, actors, and individuals
who are part of the bureaucratic apparatus of the state. In Brazil, in addition
to officials elected by popular vote to legislative branches, there are also ap-
pointed officials who oversee various secretarias, or agencies charged with
executing laws and overseeing the implementation of governance. Within
these offices are administrators at various levels, as well as public servants,
such as teachers, doctors and nurses, and garbage collectors, who engage in
the most direct forms of service provision. Favela activists have spearheaded
contentious tactics to pressure state officials, particularly those in positions
of power, to fund new projects in CDD, implement public service programs,
and uphold their citizenship rights. They also cultivate collaborative ties with
many mid-​level administrators and lower-​level public servants. These mid-​
level actors did not often have control over major decisions at the municipal
or state level, but they became invaluable allies as activists sought resources
and worked to implement changes in the local implementation of services.
By strengthening their connections to a range of state actors, they promoted
participatory democracy in Cidade de Deus.
202 Activism under Fire

I got to know several of the state administrators that had become allies to
favela activists. Carlos, for instance, was a tall, smiley, light-​skinned man in
his late 20s who was well liked by local activists. Carlos was hired as the field
coordinator for the UPP Social and was tasked with mapping all the public
institutions and services already existing in the neighborhood. He was also
charged with facilitating dialogue between the municipal government, the
private sector, and civil society (i.e., favela residents and CBO leaders). He
described his work this way:

You have a demand, someone else has an offer, and we make this connection,
that’s what happened here in this “network” [The Community Coalition]
meeting, this is one of the aspects of the Program: creating networks in the
territories so that the tripod will work. What [composes] this tripod? It is
public services, private initiatives and civil society organizations. For some-
thing to work this tripod has to happen. So we make a dialogue between
these three potentialities, in these three Representations, of the civil society
organization, of the private initiative and also of the public services.

Carlos had fostered positive relationships with many CBO leaders, and
several of them commented to me about their fondness for him. He was
born and raised in another favela, which afforded him a certain legitimacy
among favela activists that more affluent state administrators did not have.
According to Carlos, this upbringing also afforded him a useful and more ho-
listic perspective on state-​favela relations than other state actors had. In his
role at the center of this “tripod,” Carlos had set out to promote partnerships
that were in the interest of favela residents. He describes a potential collabo-
ration with the Children’s Institute, a powerful national organization funded
by a public-​private partnership that reigned in millions of reals each year to
support a range of social, educational, and artistic programs for Brazilian
children:

Let me give you an example: The Children’s Institute had a project to train
young people, and then they got in touch with [the UPP Social] saying
the following: “Look, send me the contacts of the partners of institutions,
you know, associations, local leaders there in CDD so that we can make a
partnership there, so that they send the young people for training to the
Program that will happen in Barra.” And we were like, “Wait a minute. Give
you their contact info? I’m not going to give their contacts. We have their
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 203

contact info, but what is your goal, what is the objective, who is behind
this?” “Oh no, you can’t say who the funder is?” I said: “Then we cannot give
their contact, if this is not clear. What we can do is mobilize the whole com-
munity, the leaders, we put them in a room for you to present the project,
then you say what you can give them, that you cannot say who the funder is,
so if they want to do the partnership with you, all right” . . . So you go there
and be clear, because I know how Cidade de Deus is, I know how people
here think, . . . what their ideologies are. You understand? So we have an un-
derstanding of how to proceed . . . Pre-​determined projects will not come
here, they will not work in Cidade de Deus.

As the moderator of these relationships, Carlos saw himself as a kind of

gatekeeper, attempting to protect favela organizations from corrupt private
organizations that might prey on them, while also ensuring that local CBOs
had the opportunity to decide for themselves which organizations they were
willing to work with. Isabella was especially fond of Carlos, who had played
a central role in helping her and other community members work with
COMLURB, the municipal garbage collection company. Through their col-
laboration, Isabella and Carlos had succeeded in increasing trash collection
days and locations. Unfortunately, Carlos lost his job shortly after our inter-
view, when funding for his program was drastically cut. However, he offered
an example of a positive and productive relationship between the state and
favela activists, driven in part by Carlos’s own background as a favela resi-
dent and personal commitment to protecting the interests of CDD’s activist
organizations.
Patricia offered another example. She was the director of the local wel-
fare office, which provided assistance to families in extreme poverty and
crisis in Cidade de Deus. Patricia and her team of three social workers were
responsible for enrolling poor residents in CadÚnico, the government’s
platform for distribution of public benefits, such as the Bolsa Familia cash
transfer program, public housing, and aid for utilities. However, as Patricia
explained to me, she had little control over which families received aid: all
she could do was enroll them in the database and wait for them to make it
through the system. The welfare office was also severely understaffed, with
4 social workers to attend 500 families. Despite this, Patricia had found
ways to make herself useful to local CBOs. I first met Patricia at Youth
Promise, where two of her staff taught a weekly class about citizenship
rights and obligations. Solange and Maria Rita had both spoken fondly of
204 Activism under Fire

their partnership. They met regularly with Patricia to coordinate the distri-
bution of resources to Youth Promise’s families and the provision of various
training programs for its youth and caretakers. I ran into Patricia on several
occasions at various meetings in and with local CBOs, and both she and
Carlos were regular participants at The Community Coalition meetings.
While Carlos and Patricia are only two examples, they showcase the ties
between local-​level state administrators and CBOs, who often worked col-
laboratively to push state resources as far as they could go and to provide
whatever personal assistance and protections they could within the limits
of their roles.
As Françoise Montambeault (2015) notes, participatory democracy often
has different degrees of success. In the case of Cidade de Deus, networks of
local and state service providers helped activists and local government ac-
tors expand resources and improve the practices of state agencies, reflecting
the agency of mid-​level administrators (Baiocchi et al. 2011). However, they
could not single-​handedly reverse national trends, such as the austerity
measures spearheaded by President Temer or endemic corruption in the po-
litical system, nor could they rid Cidade de Deus of armed conflict. While
The Community Coalition has provided favela activists, state administrators,
and other public and private actors across the city spaces in which to dia-
logue and work together to solve local problems, not all meetings between
the favela and the state have been collaborative. As the next section illustrates,
meetings between activists and more powerful urban actors have also been
characterized by contentious forms of claims-​making.

Contentious Collaborations

The Residents’ Board meeting was scheduled for 2 p.m. I had been eager to
attend this particular meeting, as the board was in the process of revising
their charter and restructuring the organization in order to make it more
compliant with federal laws and, thus, more competitive for obtaining fed-
eral funding through the National Bank. I stepped into the building run
by the Residents’ Board where the meeting would be held, greeted some of
the staff on the first floor, and headed upstairs to the “conference room”—​a
small classroom filled with old wooden student chairs, likely donated from
a school. Though the space would be tight for such an important meeting, it
was the only room with an air conditioner.
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 205

Beatriz, a thin woman with brown skin and a small Afro, walked up,
introduced herself to me with a friendly smile, and offered me a thin plastic
cup for coffee. I declined, choosing water instead. It was too hot to drink
the Brazilian cafezinho, a dark, syrupy coffee filled with sugar. We chatted
amiably as the other participants slowly arrived. Beatriz had recently been
hired as one of two paid administrative staff at the Institute for a Better
Neighborhood, a CBO founded by the Residents’ Board a few years earlier
to serve as what they called their “executive branch.” While the Residents’
Board identified the needs and priorities for improving Cidade de Deus, the
institute had been founded to apply for grants that could be used to fulfill the
board’s vision. The institute had recently received a grant from a large, well-​
funded urban NGO called the Association for a Better Tomorrow (ABT),
which received large state and private grants and distributed these to small
CBOs in favelas to provide direct services to residents. ABT also provided
some of their own direct services to favela residents through their main of-
fice closer to Rio’s downtown, including job trainings and assistance with
navigating the job market. Among their recent projects had been helping the
Residents’ Board streamline and formalize their legal status so they could
apply for federal and private grants themselves and be less reliant on ABT
and other urban NGOs to fund their work. ABT had hired two legal experts
to lead the restructuring of the board’s charter and organizational practices.
I recognized many of the people arriving to the meeting, several of
whom I had already interviewed: Clara, Carmen, and Geovana, profiled
in Chapter 3; Rafael, a white middle-​aged man with a scruffy white beard
and oversized clothes who founded a CBO dedicated to helping artists and
clothing designers become financially independent by selling their goods and
training them in commercial sales; Carlina, a frail Black woman who walked
with a slight hunchback and who was at the institute every time I came over,
though I was never clear exactly what she did. Several people I didn’t recog-
nize also arrived and took their seats. Most of the participants in the meeting
were darker skinned. At the front of the room, two 30-​something, light-​
skinned women dressed in business attire had arrived and got to work set-
ting up a projector and computer. Simone, one of the directors of ABT who
had been charged with overseeing the restructuring of the Residents’ Board,
sat off to the side. She was a middle-​aged, light-​skinned woman with short,
light-​brown hair.
Finally, the meeting began. The nicely dressed women in the front
introduced themselves. They were lawyers with expertise in executing land
206 Activism under Fire

policy, particularly around urban and rural settlements on public and pri-
vate land. They had been commissioned by the ABT to revise and help “im-
prove” the board’s legal statute to make it compliant with the National Bank
so they could qualify for large federal grants. The board founders had drafted
the statute themselves nearly a decade earlier and had re-​written it several
times over the years. After finally getting the projector to work, the lawyers
projected the document with their mark-​ups and edits onto the screen. The
document glistened with red underlines. Comments, cross-​outs, deletes, and
edits filled the right column. Few words had been left unmarked. I felt my en-
tire body tense in reaction to the image and could only imagine the stress this
must have provoked in the documents’ authors sitting next to me.
Alessandra, the lawyer who appeared to be in charge, began reading
the top of the document, proceeding line by line and commenting on the
areas she and her colleague found problematic. I did my best to follow their
critiques, which were mired in obscure legal jargon. For instance, the lawyers
were concerned about conflicts of interest in the statute. In particular, they
worried that members of the Residents’ Board—​the institute’s governing
body—​were also among the possible recipients of institute funds. They also
challenged the board’s requirement that all members be “juridical” people—​
representatives of registered CBOs—​rather than “physical” people—​i.e.,
individuals. They claimed that this prevented people with no leadership role
in a CBO from having a say in board decisions. They also noted that many
CBOs struggled to keep their paperwork up to date. What would happen if a
CBO’s registration papers expired? Would they be excluded from the board?
Could they continue to participate at meetings until they could renewed their
registration? The lawyers made their way through the document highlighting
issues and attempting to explain inconsistencies and requirements. “We are
going to suggest we change this to this,” stated Alessandra, pointing at new
text she had written in to replace the institute’s text. “Sound ok?” Participants
squinted at the screen attempting to make sense of her recommendations,
but before they could respond, Alessandra took their silence as approval.
“Ok, onto the next line,” she continued. I looked around the room, which
had fallen silent as people attempted to keep up with the fast-​paced, technical
presentation and Alessandra’s complex logic for changing so much of their
original document.
The silence did not last long, however. Rafael jumped in to explain their
logic behind what the lawyers saw as a legal inconsistency: “We are an associ-
ation of institutions,” he explained, describing the lengthy history of how the
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 207

Residents’ Board had been founded entirely by CBO leaders and why they
had decided to keep that structure. The lawyer interrupted him before he
could finish to explain why this was legally problematic. Jair, a middle-​aged
man who had been active in Cidade de Deus’s social movements for decades
and was hired alongside Beatriz to assist with the restructuring process,
jumped in to propose a possible compromise between Rafael’s point and the
lawyer’s concerns. Before he could finish, Alessandra interrupted him to ex-
plain why his solution would not work. Another participant interrupted her
loudly: “We are a forum of discussion around political decisions!” Another
participant jumped in to explain to the lawyers, with frustration, that the
goal of the institute was to implement the decisions made by the board. “I un-
derstand, but my job here is just to clarify” the lawyer remarked condescend-
ingly, despite her obvious preference for keeping her proposed changes.
All over the room hands were shooting up as people shifted uneasily in
their chairs, eager to lay claim to their history and their own narrative of it.
Somehow Clara managed to get her turn in the rowdy crowd, suggesting
that ultimately “juridical” people were the only ones who had the capacity
to execute whatever decisions the board made and that it would not be fair
for residents with no commitment to social development to make decisions
about the neighborhood if they were not in a position to actually carry
them out. Simone, ABT’s director who had been silent until now, jumped
in animatedly: “Outsiders can still help by being part of the Institute!” she
exclaimed as she pointed vigorously at herself, eager to ensure that her own
role in the improvement of Cidade de Deus was not discounted. After mul-
tiple attempts to be heard, Geovana raised her voice authoritatively and
proclaimed that democracy was not always about expanding decision-​
making power, but abount deepening and affording more substance to the
process. The board, she explained, contributed to democratic engagement
by increasing social development and demanding public policies for Cidade
de Deus rather than by simply including a growing number of voices in the
decision-​making processes. I looked back at Simone, the ABT director, who
by now had retreated from the confrontational debate and was on her phone
scrolling through her Facebook newsfeed.
The lawyer, tired of listening to the increasingly angry dissent among
participants, shifted from the “open floor” model to a hurried explanation
of the remaining comments and edits in the document. To my right, Carlina,
who had been sitting with her hand raised for the last thirty minutes, rubbed
her forehead in anguish and whispered in my direction, “I don’t work for
208 Activism under Fire

them.” Giving up on getting a word in, Carlina got up and began serving us
water, for which we were extremely grateful. Another participant behind me
added loudly, “This is so rude.” By now, the other lawyer was engaged in a
heated debate off to the side of the room with another participant. Finally,
the room erupted into total chaos as Alessandra exclaimed, “You will need
to explain this to me because I’m very confused!” and Rafael began to shout,
“The politics for the fight for Cidade de Deus is the Board and the Institute!”
Finally, Carmen, sitting off to the side, lunged forward with her hand in
the air in a display of control. The room quieted as Carmen took command.
She recounted the history of some of their struggles, what motivated the
decisions outlined in the statute, and why some of Alessandra’s suggestions
had not worked in the past. “They have worked for me,” Alessandra remarked.
“Well then you must be much prettier than me,” Carmen retorted facetiously.
I chuckled to myself as Alessandra shifted uncomfortably. Tensions finally
began to ease as Carmen offered suggestions for how they might recon-
cile some of their differing perspectives and why some parts of the statute
could not be changed. In what appeared like an effort to wrap up the conten-
tious meeting, Carmen extended a peace offering by noting that they were
all benefitting from the knowledge they had gained from the lawyers during
this process. The lawyers agreed to take another look at their edits and in-
corporate more of the board’s demands into the statute. After four hours, the
meeting finally ended, though more because of everyone’s exhaustion than
because much progress had been achieved.

Fighting to be Heard

There are two stories in this anecdote. Perhaps the more obvious one is the
denigration and condescension with which the lawyers criticized the hard
work of the favela activists. The race and class dynamics were difficult to
ignore, as the professionally-​dressed, lighter-​skinned lawyers “educated”
poor, dark-​skinned favela residents about what they saw as the (many)
inadequacies of their plan. While the meeting may have been labeled a col-
laboration, it also revealed some of the negative sentiments held by middle-​
class urban society about the favela—​that they are uneducated, informal,
irrational, culturally “other,” and “inferior” (Perlman 1979). Spaces of par-
ticipatory democracy, like this meeting, embody the power differentials be-
tween state and private actors and favela activists. They create a space for
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 209

the enactment of white saviorism, where more powerful urban actors “as-
sist” and “educate” favela actors about how to do things “the right way.” This
reinforces a classed and racialized hierarchy between the city and the favela
upheld by rigid and hard-​to-​follow bureaucratic practices meant to exclude
those without formal training. It also belittles the local forms of knowledge
and practice developed by favela residents to address challenges and needs
specific to their neighborhood. Participatory democracy may place a diver-
sity of urban actors in the same space to dialogue about an issue of communal
importance, but these actors bring with them their prejudices and stratified
access to resources and bureaucratic knowledge and power.
There is another story here, however: favela activists fought back. They
refused the dominant narrative, and they resisted the lawyers’ forceful
suggestions and demeaning attitude. While the fight had been difficult to
watch, it had been a fight! And it was a collective fight, as board members
banded together to refuse the bureaucratic logic of social change and class
inequality that the lawyers attempted to impose on them. By fighting back,
activists demonstrated the logic behind their actions and the thoughtful
ways in which they deployed local capital. It was based on the belief that
“no one knows more about how to survive poverty than the poor them-
selves” (Appadurai 2001:29). Had the lawyers in fact listened to board
members, rather than seeking to correct them, they might have been able
to appreciate the complex and challenging political landscape within which
the fight for social development unfolds in favelas. While the lawyers may
have been correct that the board’s charter would not meet the standards of
the National Bank, the favela activists’ locally embedded approach to their
organizational policies and practices was equally valid and rational within
the local context.
The more I got to know board members, the more I was able to fully un-
derstand the logic of the practices they had developed and why they did not
match the demands of the National Bank (or the lawyers). In particular,
I came to appreciate the challenge of maintaining democratic spaces for
decision-​making in a neighborhood governed by drug traffickers and cor-
rupt politicians. Although the role of violent politics had not been fully ar-
ticulated during that one meeting just described—​in part, I suspect, because
these issues could not be safely discussed in such a large forum—​it became
increasingly visible through my conversations and interactions with local
activists. As it turns out, democracy must be closely guarded—​and therefore,
exclusionary—​in a context of violent clientelism.
210 Activism under Fire

Democratic Exclusions in Spaces of Violence

Both the Community Coalition and the Residents’ Board meeting demon-
strate the benefits that spaces of participatory democracy provide in enabling
collaborative and contentious relationships between favelas, private actors,
and the state. However, it is also important to recognize the distinctions be-
tween democratic spaces in areas under threat by violent political actors
and in more peaceful spaces, where residents can attend meetings with the
state and the private sector without the overwhelming fear of being struck
by a stray bullet or being spied on by those involved in violent clientelism. In
Cidade de Deus, the simple act of traveling to meetings involved significant
risk due to frequent police operations in the streets. Meetings of both the
Community Coalition and the Residents’ Board were often cancelled at the
last minute when a shootout broke out, and occasionally participants were
caught in a shootout on their way to or from the meetings. This created stress
for both CDD residents as well as outsiders less accustomed to facing these
risks in their everyday lives. Often, this meant that only those state and pri-
vate actors most committed to direct engagement with favela activists were
willing to attend meetings, thereby excluding other potential allies.
Activists themselves were forced to navigate a tension between their
partnerships with social service branches of the state and the constant risk
of violence created by the state’s security branch. In order to sustain their
partnerships with allies in the state, activists also had to overlook the per-
verse, albeit indirect, ties between their allies and the police. In conflict zones,
participatory democracy requires participants to be willing to face personal
risks, continually adapt to challenges, and accept the violence undergirding
the power of state officials. Favela activists nearly always held the short end of
the stick in these participatory spaces, which, for many people I got to know,
created significant psychological burdens from both constant fear and the
moral dilemmas they had to continually navigate.
Additionally, few studies of participatory democracy discuss the fear
among activists of the strong possibility of co-​optation by local armed actors.
In conflict zones, where violent governance is pervasive, activists struggle to
keep these spaces safe for actual debate. In these cases, participatory democ-
racy hinges on a tight policing of borders and the exclusion of outsiders who
could potentially be embedded in dangerous and corrupt political networks.
The Residents’ Board adopted a number of strategies to protect their space
from the influence of violent politics. For one, they were cautious about
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 211

which politicians they associated with and avoided affiliation with party pol-
itics. They also repeated over and over that they were not representatives of
Cidade de Deus. Isis, one of the board members, explained this logic to me:

You have to include in your research project that the Board doesn’t repre-
sent the entire Cidade de Deus. We are a piece of Cidade de Deus . . . and
by virtue of this the Institute also only represents a piece . . . Because here
[in Cidade de Deus] we have associations and organizations that don’t
share our methodology, the proposition of the Board, because we are non-​
partisan. We don’t talk about party politics, we don’t represent a political
party. We are an open forum that goes after public policies. Here we don’t
speak in the name of Secretary this-​and-​such. He [the Secretary] can even
be our friend, our partner at different moments, but we aren’t going to say,
“Oh, [we are with] so-​and-​so.” We leave that really clear, it’s in our statute.
We are non-​partisan, [in case] some of the Residents’ Associations wear the
shirt of a political party, and then it gets difficult, you know? And that’s why
we say that we aren’t Cidade de Deus, we only represent a piece of Cidade
de Deus.

As Isis’s description suggests, the board’s eagerness to reject any claim to

representation of the neighborhood was strategic: they did not want to be
confused with local political groups party politics, or Residents’ Associations.
While board members made many direct claims on the mayor, city council
members, state deputies, and secretaries at the state and federal levels, they
refused to engage in local politics or to campaign for specific political parties.
Engagement with government actors at the local level would not only have
brought board members into close contact with violent actors and likely
required they engage in dangerous partnerships with them, it would also
have eroded their legitimacy. Despite their best efforts to steer clear of these
networks, the board was not entirely immune from these issues. Geovana
explained to me the risk of infiltration by the gang:

The Board doesn’t have the ability to prevent anyone from attending [the
meetings]. But a meeting is completely different when you have someone
like that [i.e., widely known to have ties to the drug trade] . . . If there is
something more serious [to discuss], you aren’t going to talk about it, un-
derstand? And a resident goes to a meeting like that, and there’s a guy that
has ties to the drug trade, the resident enters mute and leaves in silence, he
212 Activism under Fire

doesn’t speak, he doesn’t say anything. And besides that, he looks at all of us
and says . . . “What do these people (i.e., the Board) want? They are talking
about rights and healthcare and they are sitting down with people who rep-
resent the interests of the drug trade.” That hurts us . . . He looks at us and
says, “It’s all flour from the same bag, they must not want any real change if
they are sitting with the drug trade.”

The constant threat of being co-​opted by the gang—​or being perceived by

other CDD residents in this way—​required that the board safeguard entry
to their meetings as closely as possible. One strategy had been to only allow
“juridical” people—​those who represented formal CBOs—​to be voting
members. This allowed the board to thoroughly vet people for potential ties
to gangs or corrupt politicians before they were afforded a seat at the table.
There was a technocratic logic to this approach as well: those with “exper-
tise” in managing the social development of the neighborhood were deemed
most adept at representing the neighborhood’s interests with municipal and
state organs and private investors. The board’s decision to only allow “jurid-
ical” people helped to prevent members of the drug trade from co-​opting
meetings and delegitimizing their work, although it also limited broader par-
ticipation and inclusion among other residents.
Solange also kept close tabs on who she invited to the Community
Coalition. She had begun by inviting those people and organizations she al-
ready knew and trusted, and gradually the group had expanded to include
those trusted by her colleagues. It was a growing, but nonetheless closed
circle of friends and friends of friends. While there was always the possi-
bility that someone affiliated with the drug trade might join the group, the
members kept close watch on who they invited and who participated. By
keeping the meetings private, rather than publicizing them to the neighbor-
hood, the Community Coalition managed to keep out unwanted participants
and perhaps some potential allies as well. Ironically, the democratic spaces
that activists helped to construct were also zones of exclusion. They relied
on a tight control over who could enter. In a context of corrupt and violent
governance, participatory democracy could only be maintained through re-
strictive gatekeeping and exclusionary decision-​making. Ultimately, both
the Residents’ Board and the Community Coalition sacrificed resources and
representativeness for security and legitimacy. Actually existing democracies
are never without internal contradictions, and the politics of non-​violence in
Cidade de Deus is no exception.
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 213

These closures help us think differently about what democracy looks like
in favelas and other areas of extreme violence. Within the tightly guarded
spaces of participatory democracy, residents could make demands for so-
cial services and civil rights directly to government administrators and
elected officials. In this case, political democracy was replaced by “strong
democracy,” characterized by active engagement by ordinary citizens in dis-
cussion and organizing around local, everyday issues in dialogue with the
state (Barber 2003). Thus, democracy has not disappeared in conflict zones;
it has instead been reconfigured to adapt to the constraints of entrenched
clientelism and dangerous politics within the neighborhood. Within the fa-
vela, this manifests in controlled spaces for dialogue and claims-​making.
As I show in the next section, strong democracy has also transcended fa-
vela boundaries, inserting Cidade de Deus—​and its social and political
concerns—​into the city’s urban political arena.

Transcending Boundaries

As I briefly mentioned in the conclusion of Chapter 3, Natalia announced

her candidacy for city council at the end of Art Talk’s crowded monthly Open
Mic in April 2016, six months before the municipal election in October. It
had been a fun, energizing event. Between 40 and 50 people had been in at-
tendance, including many local artists as well as poets and songwriters from
neighboring middle-​class areas and other favelas who had become regular
participants in CDD’s cultural scene. After the last poet had spoken, Natalia
took the mic and declared her plan to run for office. Although more than 20
CDD residents decided to run for city council that year, most of the activists
I knew were fearful of electoral politics and its capacity to create undesired
connections to dangerous networks. Natalia was fearless and determined,
however, and was willing to take the risk for the reward of having what she
perceived as a legitimate voice in government. Natalia smiled at her audi-
ence awkwardly, defending her decision to run: Democracy needed to be
strengthened. The favela needed to be represented in government. It was
critical for women to have a voice in the political system. As she spoke, the
bar transitioned from a site of cultural production to one of political action.
And Natalia transformed from a poet into a candidate. It would be the be-
ginning of a long, arduous, and ultimately unsuccessful bid for public office.
Yet, Natalia’s campaign also played an important role in inserting the favela
214 Activism under Fire

into the city’s mainstream political spaces and bringing the center to the
periphery.
A few months after her announcement, I became a volunteer on Natalia’s
campaign. It was a bare-​bones operation. Her campaign headquarters were
on the main avenue that cut through Cidade de Deus, in an açaí store that
the owner shut down for a month for Natalia’s campaign. The leftist political
party under which she was running1 had provided her with a few volunteers
who appeared to be in their late 20s, and many of her colleagues from Art
Talk—​some from CDD and some from outside—​also pitched in. Among her
most dedicated volunteers was Catalina, one of Natalia’s close friends from
her time at a prestigious private university, which Natalia had attended a few
years earlier on a full scholarship.
While many candidates opt to campaign across multiple neighborhoods
to expand their support base, Natalia decided to focus on Cidade de Deus,
where she thought she had a better chance of gaining support. Natalia con-
vinced a friend to drive his van around the neighborhood carrying a large
sound speaker that replayed an announcement and some songs informing
residents of Natalia’s candidacy and asking for their vote. Meanwhile, a
handful of volunteers and I walked around the neighborhood handing out
flyers and speaking to passersby. We did the best we could with the few re-
sources we had, but Natalia was frustrated with the political party under
which she was running and the little support it had provided her. Their
volunteers spent more time sleeping than campaigning, she told me, and the
flyers printed by the party with Natalia’s name and photo only arrived three
days before the election.
Natalia did not win. While several residents I spoke with about the cam-
paign blamed her loss on her lack of charisma, there were much larger
structural issues at play. For one, her own party had failed to properly sup-
port her campaign. An even larger obstacle was the electoral system itself,
which has been antagonistic to the election of favela residents. In Rio de
Janeiros, candidates are elected based on representational voting by polit-
ical party, rather than by neighborhood or district, meaning that candidates
must gain votes from residents from the same political party across mul-
tiple neighborhoods in order to be competitive (Gelape 2018). Given how
few favela residents have the resources or visibility to obtain support outside
their neighborhood, few are successful. The only favela resident elected to
city council that year was Marielle Franco, a Black sociologist and human
rights activist from the large Maré favela complex. Favela activists across Rio
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 215

de Janeiro viewed her election as a victory for favelas—​and it was. In order

to win, however, Marielle had secured votes from dozens of neighborhoods
in the wealthy Zona Sul and downtown areas as well. In an interview with
newspaper O Globo, Marielle explained: “I didn’t want to be a candidate only
of Maré. The problems of Maré are reproduced across the entire city. For
this reason, I traveled across all of Rio” (Soares 2016). Thus, even when fa-
vela residents do win a seat, they must advocate for issues that transcend the
favela.
While Natalia was disappointed that she did not win, she had es-
tablished herself as a fierce and eloquent candidate. She strengthened
relationships with members of her party and other left-​leaning political
parties in power at City Hall and positioned herself as an important po-
litical figure in Cidade de Deus. Her legitimacy and connections to the
city’s progressive political parties became vital networks of mobilization
six weeks after the election, when a police helicopter went down in Cidade
de Deus during an operation. All four military police officers in the heli-
copter died. Immediately, rumors spread that CDD’s drug traffickers had
shot down the helicopter. Police operations in CDD continued throughout
the night. The following morning, seven young, dark-​skinned men were
found assassinated, their bodies tossed into the swamp, presumably killed
by the police as payback for the downed helicopter. Several were naked,
and some had limbs or organs cut off. According to the human rights
newspaper The New Democracy, police posted a selfie a few days later on
a police-​focused Facebook page celebrating the execution. The photo fea-
tured eight police officers standing in what appeared to be a swamp with a
young man held between them on his knees, later recognized as one of the
victims (Antônio 2016).
The day after the crash, State Secretary for Public Security Roberto Sá re-
ported that no bullet holes had been found in the helicopter. Later reports
would confirm that the helicopter crashed due to mechanical malfunc-
tion. State neglect, not CDD’s drug traffickers, had killed the police officers.
Nevertheless, a state judge proceeded to order a “collective search warrant,”
allowing the police to search any house in CDD deemed to be “of interest”
in the investigation. She justified it by claiming that “In exceptional times,
exceptional measures are also required in order to restore public order”
(OABRJ 2016). Soon after, residents began sharing pictures across social
media groups of their doors broken down and furniture destroyed by the
police.
216 Activism under Fire

Natalia and other local activists organized a street protest, in which hun-
dreds of residents took to the streets, holding signs demanding their right
to peace and security and decrying the mandate by the judge. Natalia also
spoke with several leaders in the city’s progressive political parties, the press,
and various human rights networks with which she was involved, providing
them with information about the killings and home invasions. In response,
the State of Rio de Janeiro’s Public Defender’s Office took on the case. Within
two days, they succeeded in annulling the collective search and seizure order
due to its violation of habeas corpus. Finally, the police stopped their searches
and left the neighborhood, after days of terrorizing residents. Schools and
business were able to reopen. The Public Defender’s Office issued a statement
about the case, noting how the nullification of the warrant would help to set
a precedent against similar warrants in the future. According to the Justice
Forum, which offers analysis of legal cases, “In addition to the practical and
concrete effect that the declaration of nullity in the process will produce, the
decision has an important symbolic effect to establish a precedent tending
to form jurisprudence contrary to this invasive and generalized measure
against residences in marginalized territories” (Fórum Justiça 2016).
The connections that Natalia and other local activists established with
powerful urban political actors and social justice organizations have thus
played an important role in fighting for the civil rights of CDD residents and
in advocating for justice against state violence more generally.
Activists also build these ties through wide-​reaching coalitions. In 2017,
for instance, Leonardo helped to launch a new initiative that aimed to in-
clude favela youth in urban and national debates around drug policy. The
initiative was a partnership between a research center in Rio de Janeiro
State University and a group of young people from several favelas in Rio de
Janeiro. Leonardo had played a key role in organizing the group, identifying
its objectives, bringing in new members, and speaking about the initiative
at events across the city. I attended the official launch in August 2017, at an
arts center in the Maré complex, one of the city’s largest favelas. There were at
least 300 people at the event, mostly young and dark skinned. Leonardo was
the MC, leading the audience through hip hop and poetry performances, a
discussion about drugs, security, and favelas in Rio among Black academics
and activists, and a reception. The event was recorded and streamed to an ad-
ditional 1,000 viewers across Brazil.
While people mingled after the event, Leonardo beamed as he handed me
the group’s shiny new booklet. It contained information about the history
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 217

of drug use and drug control across the globe, the types of drugs used and
those most common in Brazil—​highlighting that 50% of Brazilians reported
using alcohol in the last 12 months—​and explained the transformation of
drug use into a social problem with criminal penalties. “In Brazil, between
2006 and 2008,” it reads, “8 thousand people died per year due to drug use.
But 96% of these deaths were caused by legal drugs, like alcohol and to-
bacco.” Skipping ahead two pages, the brochure notes that “The majority of
individuals incarcerated and killed in the war on drugs are young, Black, and
residents of favelas and the periphery, demonstrating that this policy is se-
lective.” The brochure concludes by suggesting that this situation can only
change with the decriminalization and regulation of drugs. Favela residents,
it claims, “suffer from daily violence, our rights are restricted, and we lose
opportunities. It is time for us to be included in the debate about drug policy
in order to make our perspective heard.”
The organization expanded in the following years. They have since organ-
ized national conferences, slam poetry events, a podcast, and a residency pro-
gram for favela youth to debate and learn about drugs and violence in favelas.
Although their organization is by and for favela youth, they have established
partnerships with organizations in São Paulo and Bogotá, Colombia, and
several universities across Rio de Janeiro. Through his participation in this
organization and many other social and political campaigns before that,
Leonardo was engaged in networks across the city and beyond.
Like Leonardo, other Cidade de Deus activists routinely crossed neighbor-
hood boundaries to establish connections with urban actors in an attempt
to gain resources, social capital, and knowledge they could use to help their
neighborhood and promote favela rights more broadly. Maria Rita, Solange,
Carmen, and many other CBO leaders regularly traveled to other favelas and
to downtown business areas to meet with NGOs and public agencies who
funded their projects. MC Claudinho, Luz, and other artists showcased their
work in public venues, including art festivals, theaters, and other perfor-
mance spaces. Many played organizing roles in the Literary Festival of the
Urban Periphery (FLUPP), an annual event started in 2012 that brought to-
gether writers and artists from across Rio’s favelas. The newspaper Rio on
Watch (2016) describes FLUPP this way: “The idea of the ‘periphery’ in this
festival extends beyond the geographical sense to include communities and
identities that are marginalized in society. The themes of the activities varied
from racism, homophobia and sexism, and legacies of colonialism, to self-​
empowerment and self-​determination.”
218 Activism under Fire

FLUPP festivals and planning meetings provided an important space for

cultural activists in CDD to meet with other favela activists, discuss issues of
urban inequality and rights, and construct collective identities around shared
experiences of discrimination, violence, and poverty. Activists were engaged
in other urban social and political networks as well. Leonardo, for instance,
helped to campaign for Eduardão, a progressive city councilman from the
Manguinhos favela running for re-​election in 2016. Fernanda, a local social
worker, had established connections to multiple large businesses across the
city to establish school-​to-​work programs in order to help favela residents
obtain employment. Carmen established a satellite CBO in another favela,
using a similar model of ecological development and environmental justice
as the CBO in Cidade de Deus. Most other activists I knew were similarly
integrated in a diversity of groups, political parties, and social movements
across the urban landscape.
As these examples demonstrate, favela activists are engaged in a wide
variety of social and political organizations, movements, and spaces
throughout the city. These include the formal political arena, where some
activists have volunteered on campaigns for progressive candidates or, in
the case of Natalia, have run for city council themselves. Many activists are
affiliated with, or declare allegiance to, left-​leaning political parties. Some
activists work for the state as public employees, including as social workers,
teachers and garbage collectors and in other professions, and many of them
are members of labor unions. Activists also engage in an array of urban social
movements, some of which were specific to favela interests (such as FLUPP)
while others addressed broader issues related to racism, poverty, and urban
inequality that affect favelas as well as other urban residents. Activists also
have relationships with well-​ established urban NGOs and universities,
which offer financial resources, staff or intern support, and capacity-​building
trainings to favela-​based CBOs. All of these connections have embedded
Cidade de Deus in the social and political fabric of the city and helped to
channel resources, tactics, and tools into the favela.
Favelas and other poor urban neighborhoods are often defined by their
material and symbolic exclusion from the city (Cardoso 2013; Fahlberg and
Vicino 2015; Gonçalves 2013; Ventura 1994). Not only are the urban poor
pushed out of desirable urban spaces and denied access to high-​quality urban
services, they are also barred from effective political participation. While fa-
vela activists have not been able to completely rewrite this process of exclu-
sion, they push forcefully against it. By cultivating ties to powerful political
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 219

arenas and movements across the city, favela activists combat isolation and
invisibility. As Bautès, Dupont, and Landy (2013) have suggested, slum
dweller movements have become increasingly complex, targeting a range of
state and private actors across the city and often working with civil society
organizations that mediate between the state and slums. This diversification
of alliances facilitates movement by favela residents outward and movement
of urban actors into the favela.
Notably, this movement between the favela and the city has an important
effect: it allows activists to bypass local political institutions that have been
co-​opted by drug traffickers and go directly to city-​wide political spaces to
make demands for resources and rights. By taking political action outside
the favela, activists can avoid making claims on neighborhood associations
or the regional administration, both of which are widely perceived to be cor-
rupt and ineffective. Instead, they organize through urban networks that
fall outside the reach (or interests) of drug traffickers and where they have a
greater likelihood of making change, however incremental, without signifi-
cant threat to their lives or the integrity of their work.

From the Favela to the World

Cidade de Deus residents move not only around the city but across the
country and the world. Cultural activists in particular are highly mobile,
traveling to other states in Brazil to perform their poems and music or to
attend conferences and seminars through various universities, collectives,
and NGOs. Several artists I met had been invited to perform in Europe, and
Natalia had spent one semester as an exchange student in North Carolina.
Members of the Residents’ Board had also taken a few trips outside the state
of Rio de Janeiro, often to give invited talks about their successes in bringing
new social development projects to Cidade de Deus. In one particularly im-
portant trip, for instance, the board lobbied a federal legislator to fund air-
fare for two board members to fly to Brasilia, the country’s capital, shortly
after Lula’s election. According to Geovana, they then met with various fed-
eral ministries, including the ministries of health, housing and sports, and
the Federal Bank (Caixa Econômica Federal) to ask that federal resources
be invested in Cidade de Deus. They requested that the Ministry for Sports
(Secretaria do Esporte) invest in a factory to make soccer balls in CDD in
preparation for the 2007 Pan American games. They asked the Ministry for
220 Activism under Fire

Education (Secretaria da Educação) to build a secondary school in CDD

and requested that the Federal Bank fund the construction of more public
housing. As Geovana explained to me, board members had viewed this trip
as essential when their many efforts to engage then-​mayor Cesar Maia had
been ignored. In an effort to improve their neighborhood, national, as well as
international, travel has become a core strategy of favela activism.
In addition to demanding specific resources, activists also used these
trips to strengthen the connections between favelas and transnational so-
cial movements. Rosangela’s embeddedness in a global network of female
activists provides a useful example. Rosangela was an avid poet and writer
and often engaged with other writers on a range of websites. Through these
connections, she had been invited to serve as a reporter for World Alive,
a global social media platform that aims to “unite and empower women
everywhere” through storytelling and facilitating connections between
female change-​makers across countries. Many of her stories were about
community journalism and cultural events in Cidade de Deus. Her arti-
cles were often liked or commented on by women in Africa, Europe, and
Latin America, and Rosangela had embraced these virtual relationships.
In 2016, World Alive asked Rosangela to attend and write a story about
the 13th International Forum of AWID (The Association for Women’s
Rights in Development), a four-​day conference of over 2,000 women
from across Latin America. The theme for the conference was “Feminist
Futures: Constructing Collective Power in Promotion of Rights and
Justice.” The forum took place in Bahia, in northeastern Brazil. Rosangela
animatedly reported her experiences to me after she returned. She had es-
tablished several relationships with feminists at the conference, including
the president of AWID, the founder of World Alive, a Capoeira Master who
had founded capoeira schools in six other countries,2 a labor rights organ-
izer from São Paulo, and many feminist activists from Africa and other
Latin American countries. When I asked Rosangela what she had taken
from the event, she replied:

I realized that I was born to be a reporter, that I like communication and

that there is nothing in the world better than listening to people. And that
World Alive values me and supports me in actions. Everything I learn with
my friends and sisters from World Alive makes me realize how much we
can contribute to the development of people. I feel embraced by the women
of the world in the World Alive network.
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 221

Rosangela spoke about World Alive during most, if not all, of my visits to
her home. According to the World Alive website, Rosangela has 167 followers
and has impacted 1,804 readers since she joined in 2011. She wrote her ar-
ticles in Portuguese and then posted them in English after running them
through Google Translate, sometimes asking me to review the translations
first. Her posts were about art and culture, urban violence, and resistance
in Cidade de Deus. In 2018, she shared a post about her participation in the
World Social Forum in Bahia, Brazil, where she had met activists from across
the world advocating for anti-​capitalist practices. The World Social Forum
first met in 2001, in Porto Alegre, Brazil as a response—​and resistance—​to
neoliberal globalization (De Sousa Santos 2008). It has since become a yearly,
multi-​day conference that brings together thousands of progressive activists
from across the world. According to its charter:

The World Social Forum is an open meeting place for reflective thinking,
democratic debate of ideas, formulation of proposals, free exchange of
experiences and interlinking for effective action, by groups and movements
of civil society that are opposed to neo-​liberalism and to domination of
the world by capital and any form of imperialism, and are committed to
building a planetary society directed towards fruitful relationships among
humankind and between it and the Earth.

The World Social Forum enables activists from hundreds of countries to

meet, exchange ideas, and form relationships and partnerships. While at the
conference, Rosangela spoke on a panel on community-​based communi-
cation platforms, sharing her own experiences helping to run CDDSpeaks!
While Rosangela was at the forum, news of Marielle Franco’s death was
released. Below is an excerpt from Rosangela’s post about the forum:

I leave this encounter stirred in the streets against the picture of inequality
painted in colors of misery because of the lack of public policies. It falls at
night and my eyes see a waterfall when I learn that Marielle Franco, a coun-
cilwoman from Rio de Janeiro had been executed. She was a person who
defended people, who fought for the guarantee of human rights . . .
I spoke [at the Forum] about my indignation with the execution of
Marielle Franco; the importance of giving visibility to the people of [Cidade
de Deus]; the importance of [our partnership with a local university] in
our learning; the importance of World Alive in my life and the respect with
222 Activism under Fire

which they deal in the capacity of each of the participants, I spoke of the
pride and that I had been among the 20 women leaders of the world. That
I was now a Changemaker, I did not know how to pronounce correctly, but
that I am a Changemaker and that I am really just a woman who does, talks
and wishes to be happy having protected the happy people around [me].
Now we are building a Communication Web in Brazil, just as we have
our International World Alive Network. We are artisans in time, we are
embroiderers of life and I love to be part of this movement.

Five women from four different countries—​Spain, Canada, the United

States, and Nigeria—​replied to Rosangela’s post with words of encourage-
ment and solidarity. Many of her other posts also elicited responses and
support from women across the world. Rosangela’s participation in World
Alive and the World Social Forum enabled her to remain connected to global
networks of action “from below,” wherein activists from both the Global
North and the Global South could meet, dialogue, share information, and
develop shared frames about human rights (Della Porta 2006). Rosangela
brought these ideas back into CDD, sharing similar concepts and stories in
the newspaper CDDSpeaks! and in her volunteer work at several CBOs.
Notably, despite the globality of Rosangela’s networks, her post also
demonstrates that her identity as a member of the Cidade de Deus com-
munity remained salient in these interactions. This was true of other favela
activists, who made frequent reference to CDD and favelas more generally
in their conversations, art, and speeches with activists from transnational
movements. When an actor from CDD took a trip to multiple states, his
photos on Facebook were followed by the caption #TheFavelaintheWorld,
suggesting the salience of his identity as a favela resident during his
interactions outside his community. Leonardo, Natalia, MC Claudinho,
and many others similarly reaffirmed their status as favela residents by per-
forming plays, songs, and poems about the favela, even when they were
in other spaces. This emphasis on being da favela (from the favela) helped
locate the favela as a political object. João Paulo, for instance, posted on
Facebook: “Are you from the Left, the Right, or the Center? I am from and in
the favela.” In this way, the favela became parallel to, but distinct from, party
politics and mainstream political ideologies, worthy of its own identity and
set of demands.
The participation of favela activists in urban and transnational movements
provided favela activists an opportunity to be part of national and global
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 223

organizations and movements, while also allowing them to reaffirm the

importance of their favela identity within these spaces. When Natalia was
invited to attend a conference on human rights in Brussels in 2017, she
posted the following caption below a photo of herself with a progressive rep-
resentative from the British Parliament: “Conversation about the coup in
Brazil, the organization of youth in favelas and fight for rights, connection
in the perspective of cultural movements.” She may have been in Europe, but
she was there to defend her neighborhood.

Transnational Resistance

The relationship between the local and the global has become an object of great
scholarly interest in recent years, in particular the relationship between indig-
enous and regional movements and transnational movements (Basu 2000;
Guilherme 2019). As noted in Chapter 2, the rise of global communication
networks have enabled a diversity of actors across the world to exchange ideas
and views, thereby constructing an international public sphere that transcends
national structures and identities (Castells 2008). Connections to international
organizations and global movements serve multiple functions in strengthening
favela activism. In addition to material contributions in the form of donations
and payment for travel and work, they bolster favela activists’ legitimacy and
symbolic inclusion in the global public sphere. Scholarship on intellectual im-
perialism has shed light on the hierarchy of ideas and knowledge that is rein-
forced when certain ways of seeing and knowing are privileged over others
(Connell 2007; Go 2016; Yuval-​Davis 2012). Favela residents, particularly Black
residents and those who have not obtained higher education degrees, are fre-
quently positioned at the bottom of this hierarchy, as their views of the world
are considered lacking or “backwards” by urban society (Alatas 2000). The soli-
darity and praise that favela activists receive from allies in other countries helps
to combat this subordination of ideologies. By co-​producing knowledge—​
through plays, films, research papers, and news articles—​international actors
lend legitimacy to activists’ beliefs and experiences. These partnerships also
render favela activists legible to the outside world, as affiliation with well-​known
organizations, especially those in Europe and the United States, provides fa-
vela activists legitimacy in the eyes of international and local actors who may
be quick to dismiss favela activists—​especially those without college degrees or
lengthy resumés—​as unworthy of funding or other types of support.
224 Activism under Fire

The globalization of favela activism is also symbolically constitutive of a

transnational movement against the drug trade and the global War on Drugs.
While CDD activists have not, on their own, organized in sufficient force to
make a significant impact on militarized policing in poor, gang-​controlled
neighborhoods across North, Central, and South America, they are part of
multiple movements that are taking on these issues either directly or indi-
rectly. The Black Lives Matter movement and many other transnational
racial justice movements expanding across the Americas have become pow-
erful advocates against police violence in Black neighborhoods, and most
CDD activists were either affiliated with racial justice movements or spoke
out against police violence in their own organizations. They also participated
in transnational feminist movements like World Alive. Many of these organ-
izations speak out against archaic beliefs about violent hyper-​masculinity,
which gives meaning to the territorial battles between the police and drug
traffickers. By fighting for gender equality, non-​violence, and transform-
ative masculinities (Borde, Page, and Moura 2020), feminist organizations
provide symbolic resistance to the gendered power of armed conflict. While
much work remains ahead for these groups before significant changes will
take place in the policing of poor Black neighborhoods, favela activists’ ties
to transnational social movements provide them entry into organized resist-
ance against urban violence without requiring that they directly confront the
drug traffickers in their own neighborhood. These ties have proved crucial to
resisting the socio-​political isolation of the favela and to providing activists
with essential financial resources, human capital through outside volunteers,
political leverage, and training on activist discourses and repertoires of ac-
tion. Through their engagement, favela activists also become producers
of global social movements. As Millie Thayer (2009:6) has argued, “Social
movements do not have relationships, they are relationships: a set of al-
ways shifting interactions with a variety of allies and interlocutors, whether
individuals, organizations, discourses or other social structures.” Favela
activists have become global political actors creating and transforming trans-
national social movements.

Unequal Collaborations

Despite the importance of favela activists’ ties to urban and transna-

tional networks, Cidade de Deus activists occupy a subordinate social and
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 225

economic location relative to many urban and transnational allies that they
can neither escape nor reverse. These inequities operate along a number of
lines, including race, class, gender, language, education, and national origin.
They also operate at the neighborhood level, in that the practices necessary
to remain operational within a favela context also retrench their marginaliza-
tion in mainstream urban institutions.
One of the most persistent reproducers of inequality between the city and
the favela has been national funding practices, some of which became visible
in the Residents’ Board meeting, but that impact all CBOs in the neighbor-
hood. For instance, there was often a mismatch between the types of grants
and private funding that CBOs could access and what they needed to main-
tain a well-​functioning organization. Eloise, a professor at one of Rio’s public
universities who was helping the Residents’ Board through the restructuring
process, described some of these problems to me:

The profile [of Cidade de Deus organizations] is sometimes technically

good for organizing and popular mobilization, but not necessarily for grant
applications, or for accounting, for managing resources . . . You have to be
trained in this, you know . . . What happened in this agency gets repeated
in most organizations. They have some money, like LAMSA3 offers to fund
a project, like a sporting activity for youth, or Capoeira. And the funding is
for one year. Sometimes it gets renewed, great. But if at the end of the year
it’s not renewed, who is going to pay the teacher? Who is going to pay for
the snacks? The physical space? Maintenance?

The grants provided to favelas were often small and temporary. They rarely
covered salaries for staff members or costs for overhead expenses, such as
rent or electricity, although these were the most essential costs for keeping
operations running. Solange and Maria Rita were constantly worried about
how they would fund their activities when their six-​month or one-​year
grants ran out. On many occasions I stayed up late at night with Maria Rita
as she puzzled over the exact wording of a grant Youth Promise had received,
trying to figure out how to redistribute funds to cover the costs of their basic
necessities. Maria Rita was often exasperated at being forced to spend, for
instance, R$1,000 (approximately USD$300) on backpacks for the children
when what she really needed was to give the cook her monthly stipend. In
their quest to avoid any illegal practices, Maria Rita and Solange toiled over
ways to abide by what often felt like arbitrary clauses of their agreements
226 Activism under Fire

with funders. Following these rules came at great cost to their volunteers
and to their own mental well-​being. Solange and Maria Rita both had col-
lege degrees, however, and exceptional skills in organizational management.
They knew how to balance complex budgets and apply for more substantial
private and state grants. However, as our community-​wide survey found,
one-​third of CDD adults have not completed primary school and only 7%
have taken college courses. Most CBO leaders I met did not have a high level
of formal training, and their organizations did not have the internal infra-
structure needed to get even small, short-​term grants, much less the larger
federal grants that could cover overhead expenses. Many operated entirely
with volunteers and donated space and materials.
The challenges of obtaining funding have made CBOs heavily reliant on
external NGOs, most of which are based in Rio’s downtown area. I visited sev-
eral of these and interviewed their directors and staff members. These NGOs
were often well-​funded, at times receiving grants worth several million reals
from the federal or municipal government or international institutions, such
as Oxfam International, the Ford Foundation, Open Society, USAID, and
various branches of the United Nations. They also were funded by private
for-​profit companies and received individual donations from citizens in the
United States or Europe. In contrast to favela CBOs, which were largely run
by Black women, many of the urban NGOs I visited had lighter-​skinned men
in main leadership positions. Urban NGOs sometimes provide their own
services in favelas or for favela residents, including job training, youth activ-
ities, and dance and martial arts classes. They also frequently outsource this
labor to favela-​based CBOs, providing them small grants to offer services in
the most dangerous areas of the city.
In his research on India’s slums, Arjun Appadurai (2001:29–​30) has argued
that demands for urban resources are often “entangled in an immensely com-
plicated web of slum rehabilitation projects, financing procedures, legisla-
tive precedents and administrative codes which are interpreted differently,
enforced unevenly and whose actual delivery is almost always attended by
an element of corruption.” These webs of bureaucracy and sometimes tinged
with corruption, have created challenges for favela-​based CBOs, who must
engage in constant decision-​making about which resources and partnerships
to accept and which to decline. In Cidade de Deus, activists struggled with
these decisions and did not always agree on which partnerships to embrace.
Solange tended toward a more collaborative approach, accepting most offers
for funding from outsiders, provided they did not come from a political actor
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 227

believed to have ties to gangs. She often bemoaned the emotional labor that
was required to preserve these ties, thanking her volunteers and donors vo-
ciferously both in person and on social media, and silently putting up with
incompetence in their execution of their duties and (sometimes unreason-
able) demands for how she spend the funds they had donated.
Youth Promise was heavily dependent on these external “partners,”
though Solange was often frustrated by her powerlessness to challenge her
funders or sever ties with some of these organizations. For example, in 2015
I accompanied Solange and a group of children and Youth Promise staff to
the Communications Hub, a well-​established NGO that had given Youth
Promise over a dozen computers and funded some of their computer classes
and Maria Rita’s salary. It was the celebration of Communications Hub’s 20-​
year anniversary and was held in one of their sites, a large open gymnasium
in another favela. They had bused in participants from CBOs in other favelas
as well who had received donations and funding from them. We sat in the
gymnasium for over an hour before we were finally served snacks. Claudette,
the lawyer who volunteered regularly at Youth Promise, called it “the snack
of the poor,” as it consisted of coffee and crackers with ham and cheese rather
than more substantial food.
An hour later, Gilmar, the founder and president of Communications Hub
came on stage, a tall, light-​skinned, middle-​aged man. After showing us a
professionally made (and likely very costly) video of his organization’s many
accomplishments, he spent the next 20 minutes detailing his life story, the
moments of inspiration that had led him to create Communications Hub,
and all of the awards and accolades he had received for his work at the organ-
ization. Thanks to the success of his organization, Gilmar had been hired at a
prominent international NGO based in the United States and had moved to
the United States for the new job. As he concluded his speech, he noted that
all this success was owed to “us,” (i.e., the people in the audience from the
many CBOs that had received Communications Hub funds), though he said
little about how these CBOs had contributed to his success. I was bemused
by his ability to use the celebration an opportunity for barely disguised self-​
glorification. After the event, I watched as Gilmar came over to greet Solange.
She had shaken his hand and given him a large smile as she thanked him for
the organization’s continued support.
In the car ride home, Solange rolled her eyes and complained that Gilmar
had ridden to success on the coattails of her hard work and the work of
many other favela organizations, though he took all the credit and received
228 Activism under Fire

all the awards. I wondered how many other large NGOs I had toured had
similarly benefited from the low-​cost partnerships they had with informal
organizations in favelas. Despite Solange’s antipathy toward Gilmar, she
had little choice but to maintain a good relationship with him and the other
staff at Communications Hub. The little money she received was critical to
her ability to continue to offer services and to pay Maria Rita’s stipend. In
many respects, Solange’s relationship to Gilmar reflects “the multiple and
hybrid cultures of action followed by social actors, [where] slum dwellers
often play a very restricted role or are underrepresented, including in wider
political stakes” (Bautès et al. 2013:370–​71). Their partnership allowed
for a greater diversity of actors and funding streams in their shared efforts
to promote the interests of favela residents, but continued to hold Youth
Promise hostage to a collaboration that overwhelmingly benefited non-​
slum dwellers.
Large, urban-​based NGOs that fund favela-​based CBOs are often the in-
ternational face of the favela. The leaders of these NGOs have college degrees
and formal education in business or non-​profit management. The NGO
leaders I met tended to be lighter skinned and often male. They had similar
class, race, and gender profiles as politicians, CEOs, and leaders of interna-
tional NGOs, which has surely facilitated relationships between these organ-
izations and paved the way for large donations to these NGOs. Thanks to
this funding, these organizations have been able to invest substantial funds
into professional videos, websites, and flyers that make them more legible to
international funders and the broader English-​speaking population. For in-
stance, one of the first urban NGOs I visited was VivaRio, a large organization
that refers to itself as a “social enterprise.” It was founded in 1993 to address
urban violence through a host of development projects in various favelas
across the city. I was welcomed by several staff members and handed a large
magazine-​sized booklet of their services and successes, with colorful profes-
sional photos of favela residents scattered throughout the thick pages. It must
have cost them quite a bit to produce the booklet, and I have no doubt that it
enabled them to better communicate and forge ties with their international
donors. Their website is also professionally designed and available in English
and Portuguese. VivaRio has been incredibly successful in securing large na-
tional and international grants. When I met with them, they were working
on a partnership with the UPP program to provide trainings to the police on
how to properly interact with favela residents, along with many other projects
on healthcare, education, employment, and more. While urban-​based NGOs
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 229

do share much-​needed funding with favela-​based CBOs, relations between

them remains radically imbalanced. Meanwhile, favela activists continue to
do the challenging, dangerous, and intensive work on the ground, remaining
invisible to the international funding community and dependent on external
allies who reap many rewards from their work.
These tensions sometimes became manifest in relationships with global
movements as well. Leonardo, for instance, was frequently frustrated with
the broader Black movement. Leonardo’s racial justice work often connected
him—​both in person and through social media—​with activists from Black
Lives Matter and other global racial justice movements. However, he some-
times felt frustrated by the focus of his colleagues’ demands and discourses,
particularly among those in international academic circles. According to
Leonardo:

I was tired of the young Black movement, because I was a little disen-
chanted, because I did not recognize myself there . . . I think the fact that
I heard a lot of these racial issues talked about in and about the favela, I got
tired of hearing these questions spoken by the [Black] academics. They
do not talk about favela issues, they talk about racial issues, but not about
the favela. Sometimes they talk about racial issues that people in the fa-
vela have already solved. We’ve already learned how to get along with white
people . . . sometimes my own brother is white, my mother is white, the
woman on whose breast I nursed was white, so we realize that we need to
work together in the favela; I can’t be excluding people just because they are
lighter skinned. So the favela has solved some of the issues that academics
talk about.

While Leonardo understood the role of race in promoting social exclu-

sion, he was primarily concerned with its impact on segregated poverty and
the practical solutions he embraced that required unity within the favela,
rather than antagonism based on racial difference. It was also a reminder that
favela residents occupy a unique and subordinate location within the global
racial justice movement, as well as in feminist and other movements.
Favela activists did not always submit to these unequal ties, however. The
Residents’ Board was notorious for turning down offers of funding and re-
sources from politicians and even NGOs if they would not benefit the fa-
vela sufficiently. Carmen, the founder of the Environment League, explained
some of the reasons she might turn down offers for partnerships:
230 Activism under Fire

We’re always thinking about who these partners are. Is this partner going to
use Environment League logo? In the T-​shirts, in everything they publish?
Are they? . . . People say: “Ah, but you work with the environment, can’t you
partner with anyone?” No, we cannot. We will partner with those who do
not harm the environment . . . Because being big is very easy, the problem
is keeping with our ethics and values, so we prefer to stay small, staying
within our ethics and values. Sometimes we don’t have the money to buy
sugar, or a snack, but that’s not the idea. Our goal is to be an institution
that strengthens human values in young people and in the people who pass
through here . . . If someone comes here and I know that he is not a nice guy
to be able to partner, I will not partner with him so he can use me, use my
name, use the name of the institution and use Cidade de Deus.

As Carmen explains, she selected partners whose practices fit within the
values of the Environment League and who would not take advantage of
their partnership for their own personal gain. Carmen was willing to say no,
even if it meant having little or no money with which to sustain her move-
ment, in order to protect her organization from ties with unethical and pred-
atory institutions. Carmen and other board members had become strict
gatekeepers, trying to keep out preying NGOs whenever possible. They sim-
ilarly held me to a high standard. Several members of the Residents’ Board
interrogated my motives when I asked them for interviews and for permis-
sion to observe their meetings: “What are you going to do with our stories?
How is this going to help the community?” they asked. I explained that I was
using a Participatory Action Research approach and would involve residents
in making decisions about the project and create data to support the needs of
the community. They remained distrustful. “How do we know you will keep
your word?” Even after acquiescing to interviews, Carmen and Geovana
continued to question my motives and commitment to participatory re-
search. Finally, several years into the project I felt I had earned their trust
after consulting with them on the project numerous times and co-​leading the
community-​wide, PAR-​based survey project.
While I found their questioning to be incredibly effective at holding me ac-
countable to promoting participation and action in my research, many other
partners found it exhausting and eventually gave up their collaborations. For
instance, Simone, the director of ABT who had funded the board’s restruc-
turing process, eventually pulled their funding, leaving the two new staff
without jobs. Off and on, the electricity was shut off at the Residents’ Board
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 231

for lack of funds to pay even its most basic costs. Sadly, the board provided
a cautionary tale to other activists: they would be left with no funds and no
means to support their families if they refused the crumbs their allies sent
their way.
These inequities were not limited to the relationship between CBOs and
NGOs. Natalia and Jordana had both felt sidelined by the progressive polit-
ical movements with which they were involved. Natalia, as noted earlier, had
felt abandoned by her party when they did so little to support her candidacy.
Jordana, a student who had started a Vlog on favelas, often complained that
progressive student groups and other young leftist activists overlooked their
privileged position as white middle-​class urban residents. A frequent com-
plaint was that these young activists claimed to be progressive but refused
to set foot in a favela, out of a combination of fear and thinly veiled racism.
While collaborations based on shared racial and political identities enabled
favela activists to engage in urban and transnational movements, they were
unable to escape the unique dynamics of poverty and segregated violence
that distinguished them from their allies and positioned them in a highly un-
equal and more vulnerable location.
Elizabeth Friedman (1999:358) refers to the unequal relations between
transnational networks and national women’s movements as “transna-
tionalism reversed,” wherein “domestic conditions combine with global
opportunities in ways that may be detrimental as well as productive for na-
tional women’s movements.” This has been especially pervasive in countries
like Bangladesh, where the heavy reliance of indigenous women’s groups
on international western NGOs has forced local organizations to construct
a “victim-​to-​survivor-​to-​activist trajectory,” which does not always fit with
what individual women desire of their own lives (Chowdhury 2011). In
Rio de Janeiro, where national and urban resources are more robust, favela
activists have become enmeshed in multiple layers of dependency with both
urban and transnational NGOs. Thus, inequities operate not only along the
global axis (i.e., between the Global North and the Global South) but also
along more local networks differentiated based on geography, class, and race.
These inequities were pronounced in my own engagement in CDD. When
I co-​founded the Building Together Research Collective, a partnership be-
tween CDD residents and formally trained researchers, our main objective
was to level the playing field between researchers and favela residents in the
production of knowledge. Despite my best efforts to send funds to the fa-
vela by paying residents for their participation in the project, to provide safe
232 Activism under Fire

spaces for “dialogical reflexivity” (Yuval-​Davis 2012), and to democratize

each step of the project, the benefits were not evenly distributed. My status
as a white professor in an American university differentially positioned me
and the rest of the team. Funding for residents’ work was reliant on my grant-​
writing skills, institutional access, and professional timeline. There were
many months in which I did not have the time or bandwidth to search for
more funds or lead a new project, and our team dispersed to engage in our
own (unequally paid) activities. The visibility of the project was also bolstered
by my access to a well-​resourced English-​speaking community. When favela
activists and their allies occupy different social locations and operate within
unequal social forces, inequities will continue to permeate these groups, even
when external allies have good intentions.
This does not mean that favela activists are powerless. Writing about the
position of rural Brazilian women within transnational feminist movements,
Milly Thayer (2009:7) contends that this feminist counter-​public was a “hy-
brid space in which participants were linked both by relations of power and
bonds of solidarity.” Brazilian women could decide which discourses, re-
sources, and allies to embrace and which to resist. Similarly, Cidade de Deus
activists do not enter these ties blindly or without their own resources. The
“favela” has become such a potent symbol across the world that international
NGOs gain much status and respect from the global community when they
partner with favelas. After the release of the movie City of God in 2002, Cidade
de Deus became a particularly coveted site of engagement, as NGOs located
in the United States and Europe desired to portray themselves as permeating
the “dangerous” urban frontier. Isabella, Solange, Carmen, and many others
were sought out because CDD was known for violence, and these offers
increased dramatically after the release of the movie. Recognizing the cul-
tural capital their partners could derive from marketing these partnerships,
they leveraged this to obtain more resources and set clear expectations about
their boundaries and needs.

Conclusion

Arjun Appadurai (2001) argues that India’s grassroots movements help to

create “deep democracy” by working with transnational movements to co-​
construct new ideas and practices that not only reinvigorate and reshape the
local environment but engender new forms of resistance and regulation of
 Ties that Strengthen, Ties that Bind 233

everyday life. Similarly, favela activists have become active members of urban
and transnational networks, which not only helps to bring outside resources
and knowledge into the favela but also allows favela-​based knowledge and
actors to travel outside of these segregated spaces and into Rio de Janeiro
and the world. Through this work, favela activists resist the segregation of
poor urban neighborhoods and join forces with myriad social movements
fighting for gender and urban equality, racial justice, and non-​violence.
Partnerships beyond the neighborhood are an essential strategy in this
conflict activism, as they allow activists to find allies and resources outside
the domain of violent governance. In CDD, municipal and national state ac-
tors who do not have close ties to drug traffickers in Cidade de Deus, as well
as political parties and urban and transnational social movements, provide
political and social spaces in which activists can make demands and create
connective threads to groups without a high risk of becoming embroiled in
local corruption schemes. By constructing participatory democratic spaces
within Cidade de Deus and political ties outside the neighborhood, activists
mobilize under and above violent governance, thereby resisting violence
without directly challenging its perpetrators.
These partnerships have enabled favela activists to channel valuable re-
sources into favelas while also inserting Cidade de Deus into urban and
transnational political spaces. However, their location in these communities
is not without its problems and has often resulted in favela activists occupying
a subordinate role relative to their allies. Membership in identity politics
offers favela activists an avenue for connection with movements across the
globe, though segregated poverty remains central to their struggle for rights,
belonging, and power even within the very movements that claim to speak
for them.
 Conclusion
Seek and Ye Shall Find
Looking for Non-​Violence in Conflict Zones

Sonia, Not the Cross

On October 19, 2016, Sonia—​the co-​founder of the community-​based news-

paper CDDSpeaks!—​died. She had been one of Cidade de Deus’s fiercest and
most well-​loved activists. Her death was as tragic as it was symbolic. She was
only 50 years old. She died of a heart attack after being caught in a shootout on
her way to a meeting for CDDSpeaks!. Rosangela had found her on the side-
walk leaning against the door at Youth Promise, too paralyzed by the gun fire
around her to get her key into the lock. Miraculously, Rosangela got Sonia to
the local emergency room, but after two days of anxiety-​driven heart attacks
and poor medical care, her heart finally gave out. It had taken her family two
more days to find space to bury her at the local cemetery, two miles outside
of Cidade de Deus. I learned of her death alongside dozens of other activists
shortly after I finished presenting some of my research findings to the group.
For two hours that morning, I had met with an attentive and engaged group
I had invited to hear and offer feedback on my analyses of their activism.
I had wondered why Sonia and Rosangela had not been there, since they had
both RSVP’d. After my presentation, we huddled in a circle and started an an-
imated discussion about the many challenges of activism under fire. An hour
into the conversation, my participants’ phones began beeping with messages
from Rosangela and family members announcing Sonia’s death. Someone fi-
nally broke the news aloud. We sat in silence trying to process what we had
just heard as tears streamed down our faces.
Two days later, the crowd of mourners gathered at the entrance to the cem-
etery. Standing next to Maria Rita and many others who were familiar to me,
I looked up the steep hill we would need to climb, past hundreds of crypts
and white crosses, to arrive at Sonia’s burial site. In the sweltering heat, it
seemed unbearable. We began to hike up the central walkway behind Sonia’s
son and other male family members who were carrying her coffin. Over 100

Activism under Fire. Anjuli Fahlberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197519325.003.0007
 Conclusion 235

of her friends, family members, and fellow activists had come from across
the city. What Sonia had lacked for in wealth she made up for in community.
As Maria Rita and I panted our way to the top, we examined the tombstones
around us. There was a distinctive class dynamic to the layout of the cem-
etery: large, colorful marble crypts adorned the bottom near the entrance,
while plain white crosses with numbers haphazardly drawn on them were
laid in rows nearer the top. “Even in death there is inequality between the
rich and the poor,” Maria Rita commented as I pointed out the landscape.
“The rich get the vaults, and the poor have to compete for space all the way at
the top.” Not knowing which burial site awaited Sonia, I said a silent prayer
that she would not be buried beneath one of the plain white crosses: she de-
served to be remembered for her effervescence, not her poverty. My prayer
was not answered. As we reached the very top of the hill, her family lowered
her coffin next to a grave in the poor people’s section, between hundreds of
other white crosses.
Once everyone had gathered around Sonia’s coffin, people began to shout
out words that represented Sonia’s mark in the world. “Happiness!” someone
shouted. “Present!” we all replied. “Poetry!” shouted another. “Present!”
we chimed. The descriptions continued: “Large smile!” “Present!” “Fight!”
“Present!” “Family!” “Present!” “Warrior!” “Present!” We recited a prayer
and sung as we watched the cemetery staff lay her body in the ground and
cover it in dirt. Once the grave was filled, people laid enormous wreaths of
flowers over the earth, as well as a sash with the words CDDSpeaks!. A ce-
ment cross was tucked into the soil. One of the cemetery staff read the four-​
digit number on her cross for her family to write down so they could locate
her burial site. It was the only thing distinguishing her from the thousands
of other people buried there. In death, Sonia had become a number. To be
rendered nameless and dateless in death was the final act of violence against
Rio’s poor (Figure C.1).
Shortly after we returned home from the funeral, Rio’s police forces
descended onto Cidade de Deus by the dozen in search of a peniten-
tiary officer who had disappeared that morning. Presumably, he had been
kidnapped and was being held hostage by drug traffickers in Cidade de Deus.
We huddled at home listening to the shootouts, watching videos of tires and
garbage cans burning that residents were sharing on social media. Reports
circulated that the police had set some shacks ablaze and were breaking
down doors searching for the missing officer. When a street vendor was
shot by the police, residents began barricading and looting streets in protest.
236 Activism under Fire

Figure C.1 The cemetery where Sonia is buried

Photo by the author.

By the afternoon, news spread that the officer had been rescued. The major
news channel Record sent a reporter to the scene. The four-​minute report
is captioned: “Director is freed after kidnapping from Cidade de Deus.” It
shows images of the barricades and burning tires, of shirtless dark-​skinned
men the reporter referred to as “suspects” running from the police, and of
dozens of armored vehicles preparing to enter the neighborhood—​all of this
after the officer had been found and brought to safety. A substantial portion
of the newscast focused on the impact of the commotion on traffic flow of the
main rotary nearby, offering viewers tips on which roads to avoid.1 Needless
to say, no one was interested in reporting Sonia’s death, much less her life.
There is no shortage of news reports or studies about violence, but
these make little space for people like Sonia and other activists in areas
known to us as “dangerous.” Yet Sonia’s story is the one that must be told,
lest she and other activists become invisibile or forgotten. They cannot
be known merely as victims of violence in life or numbers on a cross in
death. As reporters and filmmakers display burning tires, police raids, and
Black suspects, we must mobilize to tell another story, of the non-​violent
organizing that occurs in Rio’s peripheries and in other areas of conflict.
We must balance the narrative. Nay, we must shift the narrative. As long
as poor militarized neighborhoods are viewed only, or primarily, as spaces
of violence, they will continue to be treated as such: society will fear them,
 Conclusion 237

and this fear will continue to motivate aggressive policing, mass incarcera-
tion, and the criminalization of poverty.
This does not mean we pretend there is no violence in these spaces, but
that we focus our attention on the other things, on the “good things” that
enable residents to survive, to keep the neighborhood afloat, and to help the
world move in the direction of peace and justice even in the face of danger.
To do this, we must start with a new set of questions other than those usually
asked of these neighborhoods. The first of these is to ask residents themselves
what stories they wish to be told about them. While some may respond that
they wish the world knew more about the tragedies they suffer, I suspect most
residents in dangerous neighborhoods recognize that there is no shortage
of reports about violence. They know what the media—​and researchers—​
say about them and what is missing from these reports. They know which
narratives are still waiting to be told, and they know these narratives better
than any outsider, however well read, ever will.
The second question we must focus on is what else people are doing, be-
sides perpetrating or being victimized by violence. We must ask not only how
people are surviving, but how they are doing this collectively. Which tactics
are people using to build and support their community? What external re-
sources exist to support these efforts, and how are people capitalizing on
them? What are the gendered dynamics of local governance, and what roles
have women taken up? How do racial or ethnic dynamics bring people to-
gether and promote collective action, even across armed and non-​armed
residents? And finally, what is the role of researchers as allies in this fight?
How can we support activists while minimizing inequities within the social
movements and academic discussions we are a part of? Surely there are many
other important questions waiting to be asked. Yet they all begin with a basic
assumption: that there is much more to areas of conflict than what we have
been told.

***
One year later, I attended another Art Talk Open Mic event and sparked up a
conversation with Sonia’s two sisters, whom I had only briefly met at Sonia’s
wake. Neither of them had been especially engaged in social mobilization
before then. “That was always Sonia’s thing,” they told me. I mentioned how
much I missed Sonia’s bright, welcoming smile. “You know,” one of her sis-
ters said, “we never saw that side of Sonia. But after she died, everyone from
all these movements she was part of started telling us about this bright smile
238 Activism under Fire

of hers. We had no idea how happy it made her to be part of all of this, and
how much she mattered to these groups.” For the next hour, the three of us
huddled in a corner sipping caipirinhas as we exchanged stories of Sonia.
They told me they had started a small CBO a few months earlier in honor
of their sister to “transform our sadness into culture.” Since then, they had
turned their street into a “cultural corridor,” bringing artists and poets to
perform, showing movies, and welcoming discussion about culture among
local residents and neighborhood children on Sunday afternoons. They had
also organized field trips to take children and their parents to museums in
Rio’s downtown area. “Many people feel like they aren’t good enough to go
to these places,” they had explained. “They worry that they don’t have the
right clothes, that they will be discriminated against, that they’ll say or do the
wrong thing. We wanted to show them that they have just as much right to
be in these spaces as anyone else, and that they could do it!” The two sisters
beamed, proud that they had found a way to make their sister’s death mean-
ingful. In a neighborhood frequently charged with reproducing the cycle of
violence between generations, activists were reproducing what I think of as
the cycle of non-​violence, or the inter-​generational transmission of values and
practices committed to decreasing violence and promoting social justice.
Sonia’s death took a heavy toll on CDD’s activists, who not only mourned
the loss of their friend for many years but were regularly reminded of the
constant risks they faced by living and working in such a dangerous envi-
ronment. Despite this, the fight for equality and justice endures in Cidade de
Deus. The possibility of death and the certainty of suffering pose challenges
to mobilization efforts and the individual well-​being of local activists, but
these are also the very elements that inspire their struggle. Favela activists
fight along multiple fronts, not only for residents’ everyday needs but also
against much larger historical and global forces that hurt favelas and other
poor communities across the world. Racism, colonialism, militarized po-
licing, the war on drugs, urban inequality, harmful economic policies, and
gang violence are but a few of the forces that conspire to keep favela residents
in subordinate social locations. Long-​term change will require radical global
transformations that favela activists cannot enact on their own. In the mean-
time, they make do with what little they have. “The strategy now is to resist,”
Geovana told me in our last interview. “We must continue to do small things,
but not abandon it. Do small things to keep the flame alive.”
Conflict activism in CDD is not big and bold. It does not seek public
attention or the international spotlight. It is humble, small, and easily
 Conclusion 239

misrecognized as apolitical, as survival, or as women doing women’s work. If

we are to locate activism in areas of extreme violence, we must think differ-
ently. While the literature on the politics of urban violence has contributed
important insights into the negotiations of power between armed, corrupt,
masculinized political groups, this is only half of the story. We must now
start telling the other half. To do this, we must look beyond the dynamics of
violent governance we’ve spent decades studying. Politics, in these studies,
is composed of webs of dangerous and illicit ties between drug traffickers,
police officers, paramilitary troops, politicians, and businessmen. This book
demonstrates, however, that these are not the networks or spaces that favela
activists inhabit. Those who wish to find non-​violent activism must look
under, beyond, and around violent governance. And they must begin with
the women. In other words, we will not find non-​violent politics in the spaces
we think of as political, for these are the very spaces that armed actors co-​opt
first. Non-​violence in conflict zones must be creative, innovative, and diffuse;
scholars of non-​violence will need to be the same.
Those of us accustomed to studying social movements will need a new lens
as well. Favela activists rarely protest in the streets or start trendy hashtags,
and when they do, these are small groups that are often ignored by the
press. We will not hear about them on the BBC or read about them in the
Washington Post. They are not organized into powerful, visible NGOs, and
they do not mobilize to take down regimes or transnational corporations.
To survive, they must disperse. CBO leaders must remain inconspicuous
and poor to avoid the suspicion of residents or co-​optation by violent actors.
However, favela activists are nonetheless embedded in local governance,
urban politics, and transnational movements. They distribute resources and
advocate for community needs. They are members of political parties and
partners with urban actors. And they are spokespeople against racism and
for gender equality, among many other issues. To find them, we must look,
sadly, to the very bottom layers of the movements we study and support, to
those who often lack the resources to afford regular internet access, a fancy
website, bus fare to join downtown street protests or airfare to participate in
international conferences.
This does not mean activists in areas of conflict should be overlooked in
social movement studies. To the contrary: conflict activism has learned the
skills to survive in the most hostile of terrains. They are the experts in keeping
movements alive. As national democracy continues to dwindle across the
globe and urbanized political violence threatens to undo democratic spaces,
240 Activism under Fire

conflict activism may become more the rule than the exception. We should
not be surprised if people increasingly turn to a patchwork approach that
emphasizes participation without structure, claims-​making without visi-
bility, politics without leadership. This strategy may not topple regimes or
change national policies on its own, but it stands a solid chance of improving
the lives of the communities most hit by violence and inequality, preserving a
seat in urban governance, and contributing people and ideas to broader and
bigger movements.
Conflict activism can also offer important lessons about the limits of “ac-
ademic” knowledge. The subordination of favela activists in broader spheres
of political claims-​making affords them a unique and valuable lens into not
only the experiences of marginalization but also the construction of knowl-
edge and practice about how to make change. They are the “outsiders within”
social movements, contributing perspectives that can challenge and en-
rich the theories and concepts being developed in progressive ivory towers.
If I have learned anything from my years of research and relationships in
Cidade de Deus, it is that the best ideas emerge when we all work together,
when each individual—​Maria Rita, Leonardo, Natalia, Sonia, me, and so
many others with their own unique positionalities—​work collectively to co-​
create knowledge. If we truly desire to understand non-​violence in areas of
conflict, our first step must be to ask residents not only for their stories but
also for their perspectives, theories, and analyses. And then we must invite
them to the table, to co-​collect data, co-​analyze and co-​publish research, and
we must encourage, support, and fund those who wish to become published
authors in their own right.

Cidade de Deus in Context

Although Cidade de Deus has been the focus of this book, favela activism is
widespread in other large and medium-​sized favelas. The Complexo da Maré
and the Complexo do Alemão, which house several favelas each, have dozens,
if not hundreds, of community-​based organizations, artists’ collectives, com-
munity newspapers, and much more. Favela activism extends across the city,
and many activists are connected to each other. Leonardo and Natalia spent
as much time traveling between favelas and across urban spaces as they did
in Cidade de Deus. There are now dozens of organizations, conferences,
events, and forums related to favela rights and racial justice, which help bring
 Conclusion 241

activists from across favelas together. Catalytic Communities, and its offshoot
Rede Favela Sustentável, play important roles in organizing service providers
across favelas. Meanwhile, the newspaper Rio on Watch and the favela-​based
digital newspaper Voz das Comunidades (Voices from the Communities)
provides critical journalism that shares many stories about service, cultural,
and mobilization work in favelas. Many organizations have also emerged in
response to the killing of former city councilwoman and racial justice ac-
tivist Marielle Franco, including the Instituto Marielle Franco, which was
created by Marielle’s family with the mission of “inspiring, connecting and
empowering black women, LGBTQIA +​and peripheral women to continue
moving the structures of society toward a more just and egalitarian world.”2
The online Dicionário das Favelas Marielle Franco (the Favela Dictionary
Marielle Franco) is another great example of how favela activists and their
allies are collaborating to create spaces for the sharing, institutionalization,
and valuing of knowledge from favelas. Many other collectives, initiatives
and organizations could be cited here as well.
However, opportunities for such visible forms of activism may be more
constrained in territories governed by more dominant and centrally organ-
ized drug lords or vigilante groups. Since dynamics of “armed territorial
control” vary across neighborhoods and cities (Moncada 2016:3), the spaces
for non-​violent activism will vary along with these. As the work of Enrique
Desmond Arias (2017) demonstrates, in many of Latin America’s dangerous
neighborhoods local drug lords play a central role in the provision of social
services. In neighborhoods governed by the milicia, there appear to be fewer
opportunities for autonomous political organization. Dozens of politicians,
including Rio de Janeiro’s former Governor Pezão, have been arrested and
imprisoned for bribery schemes connected to the milicia. While further re-
search is required, it would not be a stretch to assume that leadership in local
governance may be more dangerous for activists in territories controlled by
paramilitary groups than those controlled by drug traffickers.
This book has provided a “deep dive” into the lifeworld of Cidade de Deus’s
activist efforts. More studies are needed to examine the extent to which the
strategies of survival and resistance of conflict activism in CDD operate in
other favelas, in gang territories across the Americas, and in conflict zones
throughout the world. As Arias (2017) has argued in the case of Latin
America’s gang territories, the possibilities for an autonomous civil sphere
depend in large part on the political ambitions of local violent actors. Surely
there will be differences between neighborhoods and across countries, and
242 Activism under Fire

even in the same location, adaptations will need to be made as the dynamics
of politics, violence, and resources shift.

The Future of Favela Activism

On January 1, 2019, far-​right president Jair Bolsonaro took office after win-
ning the popular vote by a wide margin against Worker’s Party candidate
Fernando Haddad. Bolsonaro rose to power on a platform of hate against
the LBGTQ community, indigenous groups, the “ideological left,” and
“criminals in favelas.” A rock settled in my stomach and in the stomachs of my
colleagues in Cidade de Deus, who feared the persecutions that might come
next. Brazil’s 20-​year dictatorship was a recent memory, and one that many
conservative Brazilians still remember with nostalgia. Dozens of progressive
politicians and activists began to flee the country, while others courageously
issued public statements condemning Bolsonaro and his new policies. The
rest of us waited to see what would happen next.
On the same day, Bolsonaro’s political ally Wilson Witzel became the
new governor of Rio de Janeiro. In the first year of his tenure, more favela
residents were killed by the police than in the 20 previous years. I received
near-​daily messages and videos from my friends in Cidade de Deus of police
raids down their streets, including a particularly horrific video of a father
whose baby had died because a police blockade prevented him from driving
his son to the emergency room after he had fallen gravely ill. Meanwhile,
Governor Witzel issued a not-​so-​subtle threat of sending missiles into CDD
to deal with what he termed the “no-​good criminals” living there. These
changes sparked many difficult questions: Would these politicians usher in a
new era of political repression and force activism to reconfigure once again?
Would activists need to worry not only about local drug traffickers and cor-
rupt police and politicians but also new, dictatorial laws and official state
persecutions? Would activists be persecuted? Should I even move forward
with this book?
I returned to Cidade de Deus in 2019 and again in 2020—​just before the
start of the pandemic—​to find out the answers to these questions, and to ask
my main participants if they wanted me to continue with the book. They did.
While police violence had persisted and Bolsonaro’s rhetoric had remained
antagonistic to the left, the regime had not directly targeted favela activists.
And activists wanted their story told. In any event, they had spent years, if
 Conclusion 243

not decades, learning how to organize under political repression. If anyone

was equipped to survive in this new era, it was them. For the most part, their
work continued under Bolsonaro’s rule, though under conditions of more
shootouts and less funding. However, I made a decision to stop collecting
data on specific examples of activism under Bolsonaro to minimize any
threats to their safety under the new and unpredictable regime. And, as I de-
tail in the Appendix, I have meticulously excluded any details that might put
activists at risk. Some stories are best left untold.
The broader questions remained: What does the future hold? How will ac-
tivism in Cidade de Deus change to adapt to new political waves? Will it ever
become a larger, more robust and well-​organized social movement in its own
right? While I cannot definitively answer these questions, my participants
gave me their takes in our book workshops. According to Geovana, ac-
tivism in Cidade de Deus has gone through many phases. When local
drug traffickers assert greater control over local political institutions, she
explained, the “collective forces” of activism withdraw and instead focus on
partnerships outside of Cidade de Deus, with universities and urban social
movements. For Geovana, this centrifugal movement was not a bad thing:

This is a way of survival; it is a wise way of survival. Because it is fueling itself

and taking the concrete base of [knowledge] it has learned in the commu-
nity to the outside. But still the base is the territory (i.e., the neighborhood).
So the institutions exist, even if they don’t have a collective connection, it’s a
very important form of resistance because it’s a means of survival.

In other words, by cultivating local forms of knowledge and organizing

practices, as well as allies outside the neighborhood, activists can alter-
nate between a focus on the neighborhood or more participation in external
movements as political opportunities shift. Political realities and violent
alliances are never static: built into the very foundations of conflict activism
is the ability to adapt. Activism that is directly connected to the needs of a
neighborhood may be, in many respects, more sustainable than large-​scale
political or social movements that are more easily subdued by shifting global
and national forces. Leonardo echoed this sentiment: “I am in three-​hundred
thousand favelas, and even when I’m there, I’m there as Cidade de Deus.” His
hyperbolic point suggests at once that he was malleable and movable—​his ac-
tivism was not confined to CDD—​but that his identity and loyalty were firmly
rooted in CDD and could be activated to make change wherever he went.
244 Activism under Fire

Many social movement studies suggest that movements become more

powerful when they are large, united, and well organized, when they can co-
here around a shared set of frames and identities and work toward a clear set
of demands. In our workshops, I asked my participants if they thought that
someday Cidade de Deus’s collectives might unite with each other and with
other favela-​based collectives to form a cohesive favela movement. No one
thought this would happen. Maria Rita offered a poignant analysis, which
captured the spirit of what many others noted as well.

[Technology] left us much more connected, but I don’t see these

movements, with so many different nuances and some that are more polit-
ical than the others, I don’t see a unification, you know, I see a connection.
Maybe in our work [we can have] an intersectoral collaboration. But one
unified movement, I find that kind of difficult.

As Maria Rita explains, there are too many differences between collectives
for there to be unity between them. As I described in Chapter 2, it is this
diversity that makes them effective at obtaining resources from across the
spectrum of political opportunities and cultivating ties to a range of urban
and international movements. This fragmentation allows activists to mobi-
lize without threatening drug lords. But these differences are also what make
it so difficult to merge with other collectives. As Rosangela put it, “I think
this union for me is unattainable . . . because each place has its individuality,
has its independence, has its culture, has its history, it was formed in a [par-
ticular] way.” Diversity and dispersion are critical to the survival of conflict
activism while at the same time limiting their unification.
This was not a bad thing, however. As Maria Rita noted, many connections
are created across favelas and movements that aid in the sharing of knowledge
and resources. Leonardo referred to this as “social technology,” or teaching
collectives in other places how to engage in activism—​in theater, journalism,
service provision, grassroots organizing—​to promote urban equality and
social justice. Leonardo continued: “We can’t erase [our differences] to be
just one thing, because erasing doesn’t make sense to unify anything. But it
makes sense for us to respect each part, to integrate and promote integration
between them.” Through partnerships, collectives could remain independent
and autonomous, subvert the watchful eye of drug lords, and continue to
fight for a variety of needs and rights, even while learning from each other
and sharing resources, people, and knowledge.
 Conclusion 245

This is not to say that all favela activists will keep away from more tra-
ditional, formal political tactics. Some favela residents have followed in the
footsteps of Marielle Franco, taking enormous risks to their personal safety
in order to run for city council or state legislature on a human rights plat-
form. Tainá de Paula, an urban activist, architect, and Black woman from
the Loteamento favela in Rio’s West Zone, was elected to Rio de Janeiro’s city
council in 2020 as a representative of the Worker’s Party. On the same day,
another Black woman, Thais Ferreira, was also elected to city council. In
Niterói, a city just next door to Rio de Janeiro, Verônica Lima, another Black
woman, was elected to city council. Running on a platform of racial, gender,
and economic justice, they will be champions for many of the issues that
impact favelas. It remains to be seen whether they will find enough allies in
government to pass progressive legislation. There is another important ques-
tion we must also consider: “Who is going to look after each of the women
elected in each state of this country?” asked Anielle Franco, Marielle’s sister,
in an interview a few days after these women were elected (Cícero and Pina
2020). As human rights activists dare to insert themselves into Brazil’s polit-
ical institutions, will favela activists be able to make demands for meaningful
urban change without being threatened or killed? And will they find enough
support to pass meaningful legislation?
Regardless of what happens in city halls and political parties, I have little
doubt that Maria Rita and Solange will continue to get up each day and
struggle to keep Youth Promise afloat. Carmen will continue speaking out for
social development in Cidade de Deus, Leonardo will continue organizing
for Black rights, and Natalia will continue planning cultural events across the
city. This is the trabalho de formiguinha, or the “work of ants” that constitutes
the backbone of favela activism. It is structured to persist, even when govern-
ment offices are unsafe and ineffective for addressing urban inequality and
insecurity. Whatever direction national politics moves in, I believe the eve-
ryday, ordinary work of favela activism will remain.
In the meantime, the rest of us have work to do: we must re-​write our col-
lective imaginaries about favelas and other conflict zones. From time to time,
my work has brought me into conversation with reporters seeking data for
their articles about shootouts and violence in Cidade de Deus. In one par-
ticular conversation, I asked a reporter if he would be willing to write a
story about non-​violent activism instead of the shootouts. He replied: “I’d
love to, Anjuli. But since our magazine works with a dynamic of covering
hot topics, it’s difficult to go in that direction. On the flip side, if you know of
246 Activism under Fire

any interesting news there or in other communities, let me know and I’ll do
my best to take advantage of that. I’d love to talk about the good things too.”
Violence is hot; activism is not. Even well-​meaning reporters are unable to
write about the good things because there is so much demand for stories of
brutality.
What we choose to talk about and how we choose to talk about people in
conditions of extreme violence has a direct and powerful effect on the stories
the media shares. These, in turn, impact favela residents’ opportunities to se-
cure employment, walk through shopping malls without being followed, be
treated with civility by police officers, make friends or romantic ties outside
the favela, and, ultimately, be treated as urban citizens rather than criminals.
While the forms and consequences of violence do need to be understood
and discussed, we ultimately do the urban poor a disservice by becoming
consumers of violence. We may have little direct control over Brazil’s broken
political system or the global issues sparked by the War on Drugs, but a good
place to start is by rethinking the way we talk, read, study, and write about
conflict zones. Let us focus less on violence and more on non-​violence. Let us
remember Sonia’s activism, not her cross.
 APPENDIX

Ethnographic Reflections
Participatory Action Research in Areas of Violence

“This book is a book where Cidade de Deus has the chance to have a relationship with the
academy in a much more horizontal way,” noted Leonardo in our book workshop after
reading a first draft of the manuscript. I had invited Leonardo and nine of my other core
participants to read a translated draft of the book and offer their feedback. It is common
in academia for scholars to invite fellow professors to read the draft of a book and provide
suggestions on how to strengthen it. It is far less common to invite research participants
to read and comment on the book written about them while it is still in the making. For
this book I did both, hosting one workshop with five formal scholars in the field and two
additional workshops with Cidade de Deus residents. All ideas were treated as valuable,
and many were incorporated into the final draft. This was one of several strategies I em-
ployed to create a more equal and reciprocal relationship between the academy and a
neighborhood harmed by not only physical and structural violence but also by epistemic
violence, or the subordination of favela residents’ perspectives based on the belief that
their knowledge is inferior to that constructed by formally trained scholars (Alatas 2000;
Castro Gomez 2019).
While this book has helped situate conflict activism in urban and transnational
hierarchies of power, this Appendix discusses how I have tried to reduce the unequal rela-
tionship between the academy and some of its most marginalized research participants by
using Participatory Action Research, or PAR. PAR is not a method per se, but an approach
to how researchers engage with and think about our research participants, particularly
those in less powerful social locations. PAR advocates for leveling the playing field be-
tween formal researchers and participants through more collaborative research practices.
It is based on three overarching principles: (1) the inclusion of research participants
in each stage of the research process, from forming questions, and collecting data to
analyzing and publishing findings; (2) intentional dialogues that aim at co-​learning and
the co-​production of ideas; and (3) social or political actions intended to improve the
well-​being of the research community (Fine and Torre 2021; Wallerstein et al. 2017).
I attempted to implement a PAR model alongside a complex terrain of violent governance,
which at times made PAR more challenging but also more necessary. I hope this reflec-
tion is helpful to people who study conflict zones and other marginalized populations,
who may also be wondering how to co-​create knowledge with participants and level an
epistemic playing field that is so skewed against those we study. As I discovered, collecting
data in a conflict zone is hard; trying to do this through a more democratic approach is
even harder. No single scholar can entirely evade power hierarchies or external pressures
imposed by a Western academic system, nor fully ensure the safety of ourselves or our
participants. But in small, thoughtful, and collaborative ways we can help level relations,
248 Appendix

promote inclusion and safety, advocate for change, and creatively move beyond old
assumptions about what constitutes “good” research in areas of violence and conflict.

Ethical Moments
In my first interview with Sonia, she subtly reminded me of my social location as an out-
side researcher studying a marginalized neighborhood. I had arrived at her house in
search of an interview, and she had graciously agreed and invited me to sit on the couch
next to her. On the wall behind us hung a black and white photograph of her deceased
mother, adorned in a white baiana dress with a white turban wrapped around her head,
the type worn by priestesses in the Afro-​Brazilian Umbanda religion. Sonia answered my
questions with precision and thoughtfulness, while also inserting a critique of academics.
Sonia recounted an exchange she’d recently had with a Brazilian academic who had
wanted to conduct a study on Cidade de Deus with his team of students. “Why is it,” she
had confronted him, “that in most cases we are seen only as objects of study, and not as its
protagonists? . . . Look, we’re tired of doing interviews. People do a monograph, they do
a master’s thesis, they do a doctoral thesis, and then we do not see anything about it. We
don’t know if it worked out, if it didn’t . . . ‘No, but with me it’s going to be different,’ [they
say], and we’re like, ‘Is it really going to be different?’ ” Sonia’s comments pointed to a sig-
nificant problem in academia: outside researchers often turn marginalized groups into
data, rarely share their findings with participants or involve them in the analysis, and do
little to help participants or their communities. I promised her I would do better: I would
share my findings with her, and I would find ways to help the community. Behind her po-
lite smile was a tired disbelief.
Sonia’s pointed comments were a reminder that my research would be filled with
what Marilys Guillemin and Lynn Gillam (2004:262) refer to as “ethically important
moments,” those that alert us to the potential impact of our research and our presence on
our participants. Try as we might, it is not possible for an ethnographer to be a “fly on the
wall”: our presence is known and felt, even after we are gone. As our participants allow
us into their lives, tell us their stories, introduce us to their friends and family members,
and ultimately give us permission to tell the world about who they are and what they do,
ethnography opens a Pandora’s box of practical and ethical challenges. In neighborhoods
like Cidade de Deus, where poverty and racial discrimination intersect with the constant
threat of violence, the likelihood of doing harm is even further exacerbated.
I left our interview a bit shaken by her candor, but grateful for what I took as a chal-
lenge. I would find a way to include my participants in the research and make my presence
beneficial in some way. But along the way, I also stumbled on dozens of dilemmas around
my research, writing, and attempts to do something to help the community. Some of these
dilemmas are common among ethnographers of conflict zones, and others emerged from
my attempt to apply the principles of PAR as much as possible. They emerged in tandem,
and I describe several here.

Entering the Field

When I first entered Cidade de Deus in 2014—​when most of it was still “pacified” by the
UPP police—​the serene streets belied my internal anxiety, induced almost entirely from
 Ethnographic Reflections 249

what I had heard, read, and watched about Cidade de Deus. While the roots of urban eth-
nography place great value on “unbiased” observations by external researchers who, pre-
sumably, come into a new community with an open mind, I had already been tainted by
Cidade de Deus’s reputation. Frankly, it was that reputation that had drawn me to it: there
is an allure to researching areas well known for violence. I had prepared for my trip by
reading news reports, studies, some local history, and many ethnographies about other
“ghettos” and “slums,” which informed me about what types of questions and theories
were deemed interesting to my field. This required scholarly preparation did exactly the
opposite of cleaning my slate: it filled me with pre-​determined images, questions, and
beliefs about what was “worth” my attention. On top of that, I had applied for and re-
ceived a small stipend from my department to cover the costs of the trip. In the applica-
tion, I had proposed a set of theories and questions I would study. An academic narrative,
constructed by courses, colleagues, assumptions, and scholars I had never met, had begun
to emerge before I’d even set foot in CDD. This was my first lesson about fieldwork: there is
no unbiased scholar. These biases are perhaps even more pronounced in areas of conflict,
where journalists, filmmakers, tourists, and others help construct particular narratives
and perspectives about these sites that often emphasize violence over other elements.
In order to gain a more holistic understanding of CDD and make my presence useful
to the community, I began fieldwork as a volunteer at Youth Promise. I had done some
simple work for Solange, the director of Youth Promise, over email in the months before
my trip. Once I arrived, I did whatever was needed, from teaching a class when a teacher
was absent to helping write a grant to sweeping the floors. It wasn’t much, but it felt like
something. I gave what I had to give. Volunteering in these various capacities was also my
attempt at trying to level power relations with residents, to demonstrate that I was willing
to take a backseat, not be the leader, and to resist whatever urge I had to be a “white savior”
in this community.
I hadn’t realized this at the time, but being a member of Youth Promise became crit-
ical to my research in two ways. For one, it gave me a home base. Since I did not know
other residents and it would have been unsafe to approach strangers on the street, Youth
Promise gave me a place where I could go every day and still be in the community. At the
time, I was staying with a childhood friend in a neighborhood nearby, so having a reason
to enter CDD every day was crucial in my early days. I quickly got to know the other staff
and volunteers, and many of them graced me with my first interviews. Youth Promise
was a hub of activity. Solange was constantly meeting with staff from various CBOs, pri-
vate funders, state administrators, and many others. Rosangela, a family friend from CDD
with whom I had first entered the neighborhood, introduced me to another CBO, the
Center for Dona Otávia, and convinced her ex-​husband, a lifelong Cidade de Deus res-
ident, to introduce me to some of his friends and work colleagues, who allowed me to
interview them. Through a multi-​entry snowball sampling, these participants introduced
me to others, invited me to church, parties, meetings, and their homes. Soon, my net-
work began to grow. It helped that I was fluent in Portuguese, had lived in Rio de Janeiro
during my childhood, and loved Brazilian food and culture. My enthusiasm for their lives
and desire to get to know them surely helped too, as did the sociability and friendliness
for which Brazilians are well known. I also suspect that my status as a white American
both evoked prestige and applied pressure on people to treat me well. While I’m sure my
early participants withheld many important details about their stories, they were kind,
welcoming, and helpful. Over the following years, I gradually built up trust and rapport
with my key participants and was welcomed into their more private lives and thoughts.
250 Appendix

My affiliation with Youth Promise also allowed me to enter the neighborhood without
provoking any notable suspicion from local gang leaders. Although drug traffickers had
not yet returned to the streets in 2014, it was widely believed that they had eyes and ears
everywhere. Surely they knew of my presence and would have sent someone to question
me if they suspected I was a journalist or undercover police agent. But these same eyes and
ears would have seen me walking in and out of Youth Promise, helping to herd children
onto buses for our field trips and chatting with Maria Rita in the streets about computer
programs for kids. Thanks to Youth Promise, I arrived as a “teacher” and received de facto
protection from this status. I was never questioned by drug gangs or the police.
It was also at Youth Promise that I became close friends with Maria Rita, who invited
me to live with her, her sister Esther, and Esther’s sons on my third trip, and every visit
thereafter. Fieldwork became much easier and more interesting then. Esther took me an-
ywhere I wanted to go and introduced me to everyone she knew. She helped me under-
stand the everyday workings of the neighborhood and the impact of urban exclusion on
its residents. Maria Rita, who was well connected to the activist community, put me in
touch with other activists and groups, got me invited to meetings, and connected me to
Facebook pages and WhatsApp groups. Many other participants introduced me to new
people and graciously answered my barrage of questions. Whenever I was back in the
United States, I maintained regular contact with them, and they often sent me videos
or news stories of relevant events and their take on them. As I watched meetings being
streamed live on Facebook or followed lengthy discussions unfolding about security or
funding issues on WhatsApp groups, I often had the feeling of being in the “spaces of
flows,” both present and absent at the same time.

New Project, Same Goal

As I became more embedded in the neighborhood, I looked for additional ways to pro-
mote the values of PAR. Volunteering at Youth Promise enabled me to do many of these
informally. However, by my third year in the field, I was so busy conducting interviews
and attending events that I had less time to volunteer at Youth Promise. This created an
ethical dilemma: should I prioritize research or action? As I discovered, one of the main
challenges of PAR is time. There are only 24 hours in a day, and fieldwork on its own
is incredibly time-​consuming and exhausting, making it hard to engage in more action-​
oriented activities.
I resolved this challenge by transitioning to a different way to “give” to the commu-
nity: by collecting data that activists and other residents could use to in grant applications
and advocacy campaigns. I decided to put my research skills to good use, gathering data
through a PAR approach that could become a resource for local activists. I was fortunate
enough to have access to a generous seed grant from Northeastern University—​under the
supervision of (and with great support from) two faculty, Thomas Vicino and Dietmar
Offenhuber—​to fund the project. As it turns out, PAR is also expensive. Funding is essen-
tial to pay local participants for their labor.
Every element of the project was based on the principles of PAR. First, I asked a well-​
known and well-​liked resident to serve as co-​leader of the project, and we met regularly
to determine what data to collect and how to ensure the process was as democratic and
participatory as possible. The last census had been conducted in 2010, but this data was
limited and often did not reflect what residents believed was most relevant or important.
 Ethnographic Reflections 251

A few organizations had collected some data in some areas near the main avenue, but
the neighborhood had become increasingly hostile and dangerous to outside scholars,
making it difficult for outsiders to do research deeper inside the neighborhood, where
people tended to be worse off. We asked residents what they wanted us to study. Through
several focus groups, residents told us what issues were most urgent and relevant to them.
My co-​leader and I used this information to construct a survey that was subsequently re-
vised by dozens of residents. Residents also helped collect the data. We aimed to collect
data that would promote broader social change, giving activists data they could use to
apply for grants or to lobby for more resources.
We hired and trained a team of residents to interview participants. Their knowledge
of the neighborhood was essential to revising the final questionnaire and determining
the best ways to approach residents who might think we worked for the government and
responding to inquiries from drug traffickers about what we were doing. Our team’s local
knowledge helped us connect with residents as safely as possible, allowing us to interview
a sample numbering 989 participants. Once the data was collected, we hired a graphic de-
signer from Cidade de Deus to make a simple, colorful brochure with some of the main
findings. Our team handed out 3,000 of these brochures to residents in the streets in an
effort to “give back” the data. It was the first time, to our knowledge, that any researcher
had shared their findings with the neighborhood. The data analysis was also collective: we
presented our findings in several meetings so residents could offer explanations for the
results and suggest dissemination strategies. I partnered with another local resident to
help write up the report, and then published a co-​authored journal article with my part-
ners from CDD (see Fahlberg et al. 2020). In 2019, we created a website, established a team
of local resident-​scholars, and began planning new projects. Shortly after the pandemic
hit Cidade de Deus, our team organized and led two additional research projects through
a PAR model.1 Each project incorporated the ideas of dozens of residents throughout and
has allowed team members to gain first-​hand training and experience on how to collect
data by and for their neighborhood.2

Negotiating Safety
Safety was a significant concern while I was in the field. There are several things one must
worry about in a gang territory. One was the risk of being threatened or killed by drug
traffickers if they perceived me as a threat to them. I believe my success at avoiding them
was due partly to strategy, partly to luck, and partly to the help of a lot of people who
taught me the social norms of the neighborhood. In addition to volunteering at Youth
Promise, I decided early on not to interview drug traffickers or police officers, which
may have limited the breadth of perspectives on conflict activism but also helped keep
my project out of their watchful gaze and avoided unnecessary exposure. I also heeded
every bit of advice offered by Maria Rita, Esther, and other participants. They told me
which streets to go down at which times, recruited people to walk with me to parts of the
neighborhood where I was not known to drug traffickers, and helped me figure out what
questions I could ask safely. Ironically, they worried more about my safety when ventured
into Rio’s bustling downtown, where I was almost guaranteed to be pick-​pocketed, than
in my forays around Cidade de Deus. In fact, the only “crime” I ever suffered during my
fieldwork was when my watch was stolen right off my wrist in the packed all-​women’s
metro wagon.
252 Appendix

Not all risks were avoidable, however. Walking anywhere in Cidade de Deus meant
constantly passing right next to heavily armed drug traffickers and being far from the
doors of Esther’s home, where we could more easily hide from shootouts. I had learned
to keep my eyes down, to never look drug traffickers in the eye, and to not scroll or take
pictures on my cell phone while in sight of a gang member, in case they might suspect
I was snitching to the police. There had been many close calls, however. On one occasion,
I was nearly run over by a drug trafficker on a motorcycle who stopped only inches away
from me as a cross the street. On another occasion, I barely made it out of CDD and to the
airport in time for a flight when a massive policing operation shut down the neighbor-
hood. It was also common for armored police vehicles to drive by on my walks around the
neighborhood, often slowly and so close I could have reached out my arm and touched
these vehicles of war. Each time, the experience sent chills down my spine as I anticipated
a shootout. Whenever I was near police officers, I avoided their gaze and crossed the road.
Beyond a few cat calls, the police never interacted with me or stopped to question me.
And I, like all residents, had learned to duck or run the other way whenever I heard shots
being fired. While I was always doing my best to avoid risks, no resident or ethnographer
could avoid a stray bullet. I was lucky, but every year, many were not.
Given the possibility that I might be accosted and questioned, I remained fearful and
vigilant about what I wrote down in any notes I carried with me. I wrote only minimal
notes of any meetings or conversations that bordered on discussions about the drug trade,
fearing that a drug trafficker might pull me over on my walk home and ask to read my
notebooks. I wrote most of my notes at night, in the safety of Esther’s living room, on my
computer, which I kept stored safely at her home. I was also careful about asking questions
on my recorder, which drug traffickers might confiscate and listen to. If some of the details
in some stories are sparse, it is because I deemed it unsafe to write them down or record
them, though I tried my best to recreate them later.
In my everyday work, however, I was often just as worried about how to manage my
relationships with non-​armed men. As an ethnographer, I exuded friendly curiosity about
the lives of everyone I met. This was sometimes misread as romantic interest by men, even
men many years (or decades) older than me. Some asked me out, and a few became angry
when I politely declined. I often worried about accepting a car ride, going for a walk, or
going into homes with male participants alone, both for my personal safety and for the
possibility that others might interpret this as an inappropriate relationship. On one night,
when I had stayed late at Camilla’s house, her neighbor offered me a ride home on his
motorcycle. It seemed safer than making the 10-​minute walk back to Esther’s house by
myself, but only slightly. The motorcycle ride home had felt like a scene from The Fast and
the Furious as we flew past pedestrians, between moving cars, and through parties in the
street. He got me home safely, though in the following days he started to follow me on so-
cial media and asked me several times to go out on a date. Fortunately, he never retaliated
when I refused, but I began to keep my distance from him—​and from my friend’s home—​
after that.
On another occasion, a male activist, well liked by many of my participants and whom
I had met on several occasions, offered to give me a tour of his neighborhood, a favela
on the other side of the city. I journeyed out there alone, meeting him on the beach near
the entrance to his community, only to spend the first hour watching him bathe in the
ocean in his speedo, followed by an interview he insisted we hold at a bar on the beach,
while he remained nearly naked. We then walked to his home, into a windy favela where
I knew no one and had no idea how to get out. Once in his house, he proceeded to undress,
 Ethnographic Reflections 253

shower, and stretch slowly and provocatively in his underwear in the small living room
while I stared out a window, petrified of what he might try to do next. Finally, he got
dressed and gave me the tour of his neighborhood, but it was among the more terrifying
experiences I had in the field. If he had decided to hurt me, there was little I could have
done. I later found out that he had placed other women in similarly uncomfortable
situations. Unfortunately, female ethnographers often deal with these overlapping forms
of insecurity and violence (Hanson and Richards 2019). I share these experiences in part
to remind my readers that, although there is much focus on the violence perpetuated by
gangs and police in conflict zones, ordinary men, and even activists, can also pose a threat
to women’s safety.
While I was often concerned about my own safety in the field, I became increasingly
concerned with my participants’ safety when I started writing up my findings. I worried
about whether the contents of this book might create tensions with drug traffickers or
corrupt politicians, particularly since favela activism survives partly by not drawing atten-
tion to itself. How might exposing it impact my participants and other activists? I was also
concerned that, in the process of constructing my own analysis of their lives and actions,
I might erase or misrepresent their own understanding of themselves. Could I tell their
story without erasing their narrative? I turn to these questions next.

Creating Knowledge: A Negotiated Narrative

Writing is said to be a lonely process: the lone author sits for months or years at home or
in their office analyzing the data, diagramming their ideas, writing and rewriting their
theories until they become a coherent whole. In reality, however, no idea emerges in a
vacuum. All ideas are produced from and in relation to other ideas. Reading scholarly lit-
erature, participating in courses and conversations with peers, seeking mentorship from
advisors, and struggling through the critique of anonymous reviewers give us the concep-
tual tools to figure out what we want to say. As we write, there are hundreds of cooks in
our mental kitchen. In the spirit of PAR, I decided to add a few more cooks to mine: my
participants. My writing has become a product of what I call a negotiated narrative, an ac-
count constructed in conversation with not only academic mentors and the scholarly lit-
erature but my participants as well. As I describe in this section, I have developed myriad
ways to include my participants’ perspectives, concerns, and questions in my thinking
and writing process. While ultimately this book was written by me, it was enriched by a
collective and inclusive process.
Not all will take well to the inclusion of participants in the construction of theory and
revision of the manuscript. The social sciences were founded on the premise that data
is only “good” or accurate if it is collected systematically and objectively—​if it is devoid
of the subjects’ perspectives (Comte 1868). Presumably, the unbiased external observer
can see things the subjects themselves cannot. There is certainly merit to this: we are all
a bit blind to our own patterns and behaviors, especially the less savory ones we’d rather
pretend did not exist. Outsiders, especially those trained with a sociological imagination,
may be better positioned to see certain attributes of a community than insiders com-
mitted to a more normative view of themselves. Furthermore, those with training in the
social sciences, who have read many other studies and theories, have possession of a great
toolkit of concepts and theories they can employ to make sense of the phenomena they
are studying.
254 Appendix

While there is value to this epistemological approach, this perspective has also created
systemic inequities in the production of knowledge, thanks to our colonial history and its
current manifestations. In the hands of early anthropologists, ethnography emerged as a
product of empire, a practice that often reified stereotypes about the “primitive Other”
and provided useful information to more easily conquer, colonize, and, in some cases,
annihilate indigenous tribes (Go 2016). While sociological research may no longer be
conducted with the aim of conquering all objects of ethnographic study,3 most well-​
funded universities and researchers remain in the Global North and are populated by
scholars trained in Western theories and policies. Thanks to inequalities that give some
groups more access to higher education than others, many of these scholars are white
and from middle-​and upper-​class backgrounds. Meanwhile, ethnography, and urban
ethnography in particular, continues to be fascinated with poor communities of color in
and outside the United States. This helps to create epistemic disequilibrium, with many
more books written about the cycles of poverty and violence in these neighborhoods
than accounts of the good things people do there. This in turn reinforces the view of poor
neighborhoods as sites of racialized criminality. When race and class inequities in aca-
demia merge with the objectification of participants, social science ultimately reproduces
colonial narratives and practices.
Recognizing these challenges, many critical scholars have called for reflexivity,
or a critical assessment of the impact of one’s race, class, gender, etc., on subjects.
“There . . . should be feminist research that is rigorously self-​aware and therefore
humble about the partiality of its ethnographic vision and its capacity to represent
self and other,” writes Judith Stacey in her seminal reflection on feminist ethnography
(1988:26). Meanwhile, Victor Rios (2015) calls for reflexivity in the ethnographer’s
social location and the impacts of “white space” on our participants and data. While
there is certainly a moral imperative in the practice of self-​reflexivity in ethnographic
research, I found the actual practice of it quite challenging. I knew I was white and priv-
ileged in many ways, but I did not know how this affected my participants without a
lot of guesswork and reliance on assumptions. Perhaps more importantly, I wondered
if identifying the impact of my positionality on my participants was sufficient. Does
awareness of one’s role in the reproduction of epistemic violence do enough to address
it? Frankly, I do not think it does.
In my experience, PAR does a much better job of this: it seeks to reverse these dynamics
by transforming participants from objects to subjects, making them producers of knowl-
edge rather than just its data points. While I cannot change my whiteness or alter most
of my other identity markers, I can invite those who are more distant from the centers of
power to create knowledge with me. I can learn from them, and I can incorporate their
ideas into my research and writing. I can ask them how my positionality has affected
them and what I can do to address it, transforming self-​reflexivity into dialogical reflex-
ivity (Yuval-​Davis 2012). And this was what I did. It took years of building relationships
and trust and finding many opportunities to invite favela residents to critique and con-
tribute to my research. As I mentioned in the Introduction, I asked participants what
stories they wanted told, and I turned my research in that direction. Throughout my
years of data collection and analysis, I presented my findings to my participants multiple
times, both formally and informally, soliciting their feedback and ideas. I presented sev-
eral conference-​style presentations to groups of anywhere from 15 to 25 CDD residents,
which were followed by collective discussion and analysis. I also shared my ideas with sev-
eral participants over coffee or while sitting in the back of an Uber, giving them a chance
 Ethnographic Reflections 255

to engage in the same types of conversations about my work I might have with an aca-
demic colleague.
Once I completed a first draft of my manuscript, I shared a translated copy with my key
participants and asked them to respond with their opinions, critiques, and comments.
I then held two book workshops with my participants from Cidade de Deus. I did not au-
tomatically incorporate every suggestion, but I took the comments of my participants as
seriously as I did those of my academic advisors. Each had their own unique perspectives
based on their differing social locations, training, and lived experiences. Each had some-
thing valuable to contribute. Like all scholarship, it was a team effort, but my team in-
cluded marginalized research subjects, not just formal scholars.
The workshops with my participants were an overwhelmingly positive experience for
me and, I believe, for the participants. Each lasted two hours and were held on Zoom—​in
the middle of the global pandemic. Activists were excited that my book told their story,
which they believed had been largely ignored by scholars more interested in violence
and suffering. They appreciated how I had tied all the pieces together, connecting local
experiences of mistreatment and resistance to global and national forms of structural in-
equality and racism. Maria Rita reported: “I was very excited about the connection you
made between politics, economics and the historical basis of building the favelas and
going to Brazil itself, it was very interesting . . . It was one of the best books about favelas
that I’ve read.” Activists were also interested in how I theorized the tactics they deployed to
remain safe, alive, and distant from the drug trade. According to Geovana, “what I found
interesting [in the book] was to observe that even without us sitting down, agreeing to
have a meeting and a strategy, most of the institutions, groups or collectives of Cidade de
Deus have a great concern in keeping the distance between both the police and the drug
trade, and have a very big concern about implications of this approach.”
Activists also appreciated that my writing style was accessible, that the book was written
in a manner that favela residents would be able to read and understand. For Rosangela,
who had a post-​graduate degree and had read many academic texts, one of her main
observations was that “It will be a book that anyone can read and understand.” Others
talked about what they had learned from reading the book. Jefferson noted that he hadn’t
fully appreciated the role that non-​activists like Esther played in supporting activists and
creating a supportive environment in which activism was possible. Geovana was inter-
ested in the diversity of clusters of social change the book documented. According to
Rosangela, she could see this diversity but also noticed how even activists with different
approaches to politics were just as dedicated to Cidade de Deus as she was: “I saw myself
in the other; how other people were also working for the emotional interests [of the com-
munity], for the interests of local development.”
Participants also had several recommendations for how to improve the first draft of
the manuscript, which I have since incorporated into the book. Leonardo noted that a
more explicit explanation of race and colorism in Brazil would be important to contextu-
alize Brazilian racial identities to a US audience. Geovana, Jefferson, and Carmen felt that
Chapter 1 needed more content on the history of activism. They had spent years collecting
documents about their work, but these were burned in a fire several years ago and there
are now few official records of their work. I believe they viewed this book as a place to
document and protect this history. Several activists were also upset about references to
assistencialismo in Chapter 2, which they viewed as a pejorative term that did not reflect
their emphasis on social justice and structural change. Geovana felt that my argument
about the gendered division of governing labor needed a bit more nuance, given the
256 Appendix

leadership of men in non-​violent activism before the consolidation of power under drug
gangs. The final draft of the book includes many of these changes, as well as the excellent
suggestions provided by my academic reviewers.
I asked my participants if any of them worried about whether the book could en-
danger them in any way. Participants believed that what I chose to share would not
jeopardize their well-​being, even if their identities were discovered. Jefferson, how-
ever, worried about the long-​term consequences of exposing what he called the “cen-
tral nervous system” of favela activism to the public, and specifically to Brazilian and
US policymakers who might use this information to more severely police favelas. I ac-
knowledged that historically ethnographic research had been used by states to dom-
inate indigenous communities and that it was difficult to predict who might read the
book and how this information might be used. Given this, I asked my participants if
they wanted me to move forward with publishing the book. Jefferson himself believed it
was worth the risk, stating that “I believe that this [book] can serve as a reference for us
to be able to advance further in the fight to improve the quality of life of the poor pop-
ulation of the whole world.” Jefferson and others hoped that this detailed narrative of
their work could serve as a guidebook to activists in other countries also trying to mobi-
lize under conditions of extreme violence. Ultimately, they did not see the “exposure” of
their work as a major risk. Rosangela noted:

Only those who are there [in Cidade de Deus] will truly know [how it’s done], so no
matter how much you explain it, it will give people a sense of what is experienced,
but you are not giving the recipe of how to do it, right? To truly know how to do this
work, you have to ally with Carmen, with Dona Otávia, even if she’s dead it’s impor-
tant, right? And with Sonia and Jefferson. So it is these personalities all together that
can move a pebble out of the way. That stuff you only learn in the everyday, only by
living it.

While none of us can predict how this book will impact favela activists, I take com-
fort in knowing that this publication was based on an informed and collective decision-​
making process. Those most affected by it were offered multiple opportunities to revise or
veto the project; I share it with you with their consent, approval, and hope that it might,
as my participants suggest, be helpful to people organizing in other areas of conflict and
violence.

The Benefits of PAR

The democratic approach of PAR has both a justice logic and a scholarly logic. According
to Colombian sociologist Orland Fals Borda (1991:3), “This experiential methodology
implies the acquisition of serious and reliable knowledge upon which to construct power,
or countervailing power, for the poor, oppressed and exploited groups and social classes—​
the grassroots—​and for their authentic organizations and movements.” By prioritizing the
views and perspectives of marginalized participants, PAR helps to promote the epistemic
subjectivity of those typically excluded from knowledge production in the academy. It
also emphasizes the production of data and theories that address social inequality and
that promote the needs of the research community. It helps to balance the scales so se-
verely distorted by neocolonialism.
 Ethnographic Reflections 257

This approach also contributes to theory by adding a diversity of ideas from different
viewpoints. The very people who lack the financial resources and social networks needed
to get into a graduate program and become the formal producers of knowledge have,
by virtue of this exclusion, an ability to see things that the academic cannot. Their dis-
tance from the epistemic centers of power, the places where formal knowledge is made,
provides them a view unfiltered and unmolded by canons and mentors (Narayan 1998).
This is not to say their views are in fact free of constraint. In the same way social scientists
produce knowledge that will help us get jobs, grants, and the praise of our colleagues,
marginalized populations produce knowledge that might help bring more government
aid, more allies, more empathy from the broader society, and more justice. Since it is not
possible to produce objective knowledge, I have based my arguments on a dialogue be-
tween diverse perspectives.
In truth, every story is a negotiated narrative between the things we have been raised to
believe, our subjective interpretations of reality, our colleagues and mentors, and the many
possible outcomes we hope to achieve or avoid. By inviting marginalized participants to
the negotiating table, we allow them to sit side by side with, to talk about and to challenge,
the things we have learned from decades of pre-​conceived beliefs, the news, our books,
our advisors, and our future (or current) employers. For both ethical and epistemolog-
ical purposes, our research subjects deserve to be part of constructing the narrative, to
participate in making the questions and analyzing the findings. They should also share
in the benefits of the story, whether by being allowed (and trained) to use the data them-
selves, receive dividends from book royalties, share in the acclaim or status, or be invited
to give talks in universities. They must be both producers and beneficiaries of knowledge.
Otherwise, we risk reproducing some of the racist and neocolonial forces many of us seek
to dismantle.

Maneuvering Common Dilemmas

Practically, I also faced a number of dilemmas as I decided what to write. The first was
whether to disclose the real name of my field site or give it a pseudonym. I consulted with
several other favela scholars faced with this decision, and all of them told me I had no
choice: Cidade de Deus has so many specificities, it would be impossible to provide any
real history without making it immediately clear which favela I was writing about. My
colleagues believed it would be unethical to hide these contextual details, or to present
Cidade de Deus as if it were similar to other favelas. In fact, each favela has a unique his-
tory and political logic. To give it a pseudonym and hide its constitutive details would be
to falsely attempt to claim that my findings could be generalized to other favelas. While
I do believe many of my findings around conflict activism can and do carry to other sites,
this must be empirically investigated.
Naming Cidade de Deus was not a decision made lightly, however, for it has removed
many layers of anonymity between my readers and my participants. This was another
reason I asked my participants to read and approve the manuscript. That I was writing
about non-​criminal, non-​violent activism has helped to minimize some risks from the
state’s security apparatus, but not all threats. I was also strategic about what to share and
what to leave out. I witnessed or heard many stories about violence, corruption, and
conflicts between activists that would have provided compelling evidence to support my
arguments and make this a more dramatic book. Some stories I decided not to tell in order
258 Appendix

to avoid perpetuating the “pornography of violence,” or the tendency for writers to whet
their audience’s appetite by enticing them with gory stories of brutality (Bourgois 2001).
Others I left out because I feared that armed actors might retaliate against a participant
(or me) if they read the account and discovered the person’s identity. I also did not re-
count all of the conflicts I witnessed between activists because they were not central to my
arguments and could have exacerbated tensions between participants. While some may
view these choices as “watering down” or over-​simplifying the narrative, I think of it as a
strategic choice to include the evidence needed to back up my claims, but no more than
necessary. Even with my participants’ consent, these stories were never truly mine to tell.
Rigorous scholarship is important but, so are my participants’ rights to privacy, safety, and
dignity. I believe that, with careful reflection and open dialogue, both can be honored.
While there is much we can learn from my participants’ stories, their fate is to co-​exist
with this book. Their legacy lives on through it, even if in pseudonyms. I hope it is a legacy
that brings them reflection, interest, pride, and new ways to think about their work, not
shame or fear.

Thinking Back, Looking Forward

In my second visit to Cidade de Deus, I presented my preliminary findings about residents’
perceptions of the UPP police, a topic I originally planned to be the subject of this book,
but which I decided to publish as an article so I could focus more of my time researching
activism instead. I invited the participants I had interviewed in my first year, along with
several others I had formed relationships with, including Sonia, to the presentation. She
was unable to make it, so the following day I went to her house with my computer, sat in
her living room, and walked through the presentation with her. We talked for over two
hours, pausing in between slides so she could add comments and information. I left with
more ideas, a better understanding of the situation, and a feeling that Sonia was beginning
to trust me. A year later, while I sat at an Art Talk open mic listening to the speaker, Sonia
snuck up behind me and enveloped me in a bear hug. I had not seen her in several months,
and it was a joyful reunion. I hoped it meant that she saw me as an ally doing my best to
keep my promises to her.
Sonia died before she could review the manuscript for this book. I am left now
wondering what she would have made of it all, what questions she would have asked,
what critiques she would have offered, and what she would have added. Her absence is a
warning: for those of us working with vulnerable populations, there is an urgency to ask
our participants what they want and what they think before it is too late. These questions
must be asked when we are first starting our projects, when we are in the throes of
constructing our ideas, and when we are adding to, fixing, amending, and improving our
arguments. There is a whole other layer of knowledge we can learn from them, and there
is much we can do to support the needs of vulnerable populations. If we can put aside the
imperial project of positivist, detached, and “unbiased” research, great partnerships are
possible. We may not be able to change our social locations, but there is much we can do to
honor different ways of knowing and to give our participants something in return. These
are small steps, but I believe they move us in the right direction.
 Notes

Introduction

1. Although the term favela is often used pejoratively due to the many negative stereotypes
attached to these areas, in recent years it has been reclaimed as a political word by
activists and other residents who point to the shared experiences of poverty, urban ex-
clusion, racism, and other forms of discrimination people in these spaces must endure
and combat. In this book, I use favela in the spirit of the latter definition and in line
with how my participants use it.
2. Throughout the book, the racial category “Black” is capitalized to recognize the shared
identity, community, and experiences of marginalization faced by those perceived as
belonging to this racial identity. “White” is presented in lower-​case given that in Brazil
and many other countries whites remain the majority and are not necessarily a com-
munity united by shared experiences of discrimination.
3. There are many other useful definitions of activism, some of which consider
movements that include violence in their toolkit.
4. Cidade de Deus is recognized by the municipal government as a neighborhood, or
“bairro” while also qualifying as a “favela” or, what are legally termed “subnormal
agglomerations.” According to IBGE, subnormal agglomerations are those that pos-
sess “a set consisting of at least fifty-​one housing units (shacks, houses . . .) lacking most
essential public services, occupying or having occupied, until recently, land owned by
others (public or private) and being arranged, in general, in a disorderly and dense
way.” However, as Jaílson de Souza e Silva (2012) notes, “favelas” are also defined by
their relation to the city, including a lack of formal investments by the state, sociospatial
stigma and racism, the auto-​construction of homes, high rates of poverty and infor-
mality, low rates of education and employment, and low state sovereignty over the area.
5. Participants were remunerated for their work in reviewing the book manuscript.
6. The possibility of a united favela-​based social movement is a question I explore in the
book’s conclusion.
7. This space is also shared with religious leaders and institutions, in particular
Evangelical Christian and Catholic churches that have a strong presence in Rio’s favelas
and across Brazil.

Chapter 1

1. Zona Sul is Rio de Janeiro’s wealthiest area.

260 Notes

2. The boundary from the community was drawn by my team of 16 residents from
across the neighborhood in preparation for conducting our community-​based survey
in 2017. We also consulted with other residents about any boundaries around which
my team felt ambivalent, demonstrating that even among residents there is disagree-
ment about exactly where Cidade de Deus begins and ends.
3. Our team decided to survey this region, but only those who considered themselves
CDD residents were asked to participate in the study.
4. Cidade de Deus’s residents hold a variety of attitudes toward homosexuality and non-​
traditional gender presentations. In the city of Rio de Janeiro, it is illegal to discrim-
inate against a person based on their sexual orientation, and a number of resources
exist to promote the well-​being of the LGBTQ community. However, many people
in Cidade de Deus and across Brazil, particularly the country’s growing Evangelical
Christian community, continue to view homosexuality and gender nonconformity as
a sin. Bullying and violence against members of the LGBTQ community remain per-
vasive in CDD and throughout the country.
5. Those who do move out of Cidade de Deus often end up in other favelas due to the
high cost of living in safer neighborhoods. One woman I met, who managed to move
out of CDD with her mother, told me she considered herself a refugee, having been
forcibly displaced from CDD due to the violence there.
6. Rates of poverty and unemployment swelled in 2020 thanks to the COVID-​19 pan-
demic and the ensuing lockdown and economic recession.
7. One hundred and two people did not answer this question, possibly because they
were too embarrassed to report that they did not complete primary school. Given
this, the actual rate may be closer to 45% of adults who had not completed primary
school.
8. Rates of unemployment and poverty were even more staggering during the pan-
demic. See Fahlberg et al. (2021) for more recent data.
9. In the late 1800s, the Canudos community, under the leadership of radical Christian
leader Antônio Conselheiro, began attracting thousands of peasants seeking to es-
cape the tyranny of rural oligarchs. In 1893, the community declared its refusal to pay
taxes, and the government began a massive media campaign to (mis)label Canudos
residents as fanatical monarchists threatening to overthrow the new Brazilian re-
public. With widespread support, the state launched several failed attempts to kill
Conselheiro and take over the community. On the fourth attempt, the state sent
in 8,000 troops, who murdered 15,000 Canudos residents, including thousands of
women and children, and set the town on fire.
10. Add note about this program.

Chapter 2

1. Here the term “communities” refers to other favelas.

 Notes 261

2. LAMSA operates the Yellow Line, one of the city’s largest expressways that cuts di-
rectly through Cidade de Deus.
3. It was located only a few doors down from the UPP headquarters, and the robbery
became yet another symbol of the UPP’s weakening power in the territory.
4. In Rio, the municipal government oversees the implementation and administration
of preschools and elementary schools, while the state government oversees secondary
education.
5. Ironically, the main branch of Farmanguinhos was situated on the outskirts of Cidade
de Deus and directly in front of one of the area’s most precarious informal settlements.
This location, however, also prompted its staff to take special interest in the develop-
ment of Cidade de Deus.
6. In the original quote, Carmen uses the term ele, literally translated as “he.” However,
in Portuguese, ele is often intended to designate a third party (without emphasis on
male gender). To honor this sentiment, I have translated this as “we” instead.
7. Approximately USD$15,000 in 2011.

Chapter 3

1. In contrast to the United States and Central America, where gangs frequently op-
erate like “brotherhoods,” in which there is an initiation and a promise of loyalty to
the group, gang membership in Rio de Janeiro is based on a looser structure and
motivated primarily by economic gain, rather than allegiance to a “family.” In Cidade
de Deus, all drug traffickers were members of the Comando Vermelho, or CV, drug
faction.
2. “Tia” and “Tio” mean “Aunt” and “Uncle” respectively and are terms of endearment
and respect used by children when speaking to adults.
3. The ear lobes get smoothed from being rubbed on the tatami by opponents. Marial
arts is a very common activity among Cidade de Deus’s residents, and several were
sponsored to live and compete in Europe and the United States.

Chapter 4

1. Police also were killed in these operations, but at one-​twentieth the rate of civilians.
In 2016, 925 civilians were killed by the police (Mello 2017). In the same year, 146 po-
lice were killed, though over 100 of them were not on duty at the time of their death
(AFP 2017).
2. Innocence is a label attached to people widely known by friends and family, and the
broader community, to have no direct involvement with drug gangs.
3. This is the main refrain of a famous funk song written by Cidade de Deus residents
MC Cidinho & Doca in the 1990s and which has become the “anthem” for favelas
across Brazil ever since.
262 Notes

4. The BOPE is the Battallion for Special Ops, similar to a SWAT team. It is housed
within the state’s military police forces. The Choque, also run by the military po-
lice, is a unit “specially instructed and trained for urban and rural counterguerrilla
missions,” according to the BPChoque’s Facebook page. The CORE is the tactical po-
licing unit for the state’s civil police force.
5. As the reader might notice, I have adopted a similar strategy in the narrative of
this book.
6. Note that I did not collect data on perpetration of interpersonal violence, so it is not
possible to identify how many of those who professed commitment to not harming
others in fact followed this edict. In fact, it is possible that some of the men and
women I met may have at some point engaged in intimate partner violence, sexual
assault, or child abuse, among other violent actions.
7. Even more dangerous than being labeled a researcher in a favela is being viewed as a
journalist. I was warned dozens of times to make it clear that I was not a journalist to
any stranger or drug trafficker who might question my reason for being there.
8. The remaining pages contained a mix of religious institutions and commercial
entitites (i.e., pizza shops, car washes, etc.).
9. Lava Jato, or Car Wash, was the largest money laundering scheme in Brazilian his-
tory ever to be prosecuted, which resulted in the arrest of former President Lula and
dozens of other politicians and businessmen, many from the leftist Worker’s Party.
10. Translation by author. Given the poetic nature of the original song and its references
to metaphors and slang whose literal translation would not reflect its intention, the
translation attempted to reflect the meaning of the song.

Chapter 5

1. The name of the party is not listed in an effort to maintain Natalia’s confidentiality.
2. Capoeira is a popular activity that combines dance and martial arts and is derived
from African cultures.
3. LAMSA is a private dealership contracted by the city of Rio de Janeiro to maintain
the Yellow Line, a 17.4km highway that cuts directly through Cidade de Deus and
connects dozens of neighborhoods to the city center. LAMSA has provided a number
of grants to local CBOs to promote social development.

Chapter 6

1. https://​recor​dtv.r7.com/​cid​ade-​ale​rta-​rj/​vid​eos/​dire​tor-​e-​liber​ato-​apos-​seques​tro-​
na-​cid​ade-​de-​deus-​18022​020.
2. https://​www.inst​itut​omar​iell​efra​nco.org/​.
 Notes 263

Appendix

1. For more details, visit our website www.constr​uind​ojun​tos.com.

2. All team members were fully remunerated for their labor.
3. There has also been extensive scholarship into the role of contemporary research in
perpetuating state control over vulnerable populations.
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 Index

For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–​53) may, on
occasion, appear on only one of those pages.

Figures are indicated by f following the page number

Action Aid, 124 Barbosa, Valéria, 33, 61–​62

Alliance for Progress, 59 Barnes, Nicholas, 136–​37
Amaral, Fernanda, 17 Battalion for Special Policing Operations
Amefricanidade, 192–​93 (BOPE), 73, 119–​20, 157–​59
AP da PM neighborhood (Cidade de Bayat, Asef, 11–​12
Deus), 38 Bejarano, Cynthia, 173–​74
Appadurai, Arjun, 226–​27, 232–​33 Beltrame, Mariano, 71–​72
Argentina, 133, 173–​74 Berry, Marie, 134–​35, 138
Arias, Enrique Desmond, 118–​19, Blackness. See also racism
137, 241–​42 Amefricanidade and, 192–​93
Art in the Park events, 125–​26 Black Lives Matter movement and,
Art Talk 224, 229
anti-​racism and, 104 Black Movement and, 189, 229
grants won by, 107–​8 Black women’s role in feminized
LGBTQ rights and, 104 nonviolent politics and, 26–​27, 131–​
meetings following Rouseff 32, 189–​93
impeachment (2016) organized by, Brazilian racial categories and, 31–​
2–​4, 102–​4 32, 189
open mic format at meetings of, 2, 77 education and, 186–​89
space for protest against violence at, 175 intersectional perspectives on, 189–​
visual art showcased at, 104 90, 192–​93
assistencialismo (charity), 64–​65, 92–​93, nonviolent collective organizing and the
95, 255–​56 culture of, 182–​86
Association for a Better Tomorrow Bolsa Familia (Family Purse) welfare
(ABT), 205–​7 program, 83–​85, 203–​4
Association for Women’s Rights in Bolsonaro, Jair, 20, 242–​43
Development (AWID), 220 Bosnia, 138
Athayde, Celso, 17, 196 Bourgois, Philippe, 62–​63
Brasilia (Brazil), 58
Badolato, Giuseppe, 59–​60 Brazilian Development Bank, 90
Baird, Adam, 120 Brito, Rosalina, 59–​60
bandido social category Brizola, Leonel, 69–​70, 78, 83
(criminals), 167–​68 Business Forum of Rio, 95–​96, 97–​98
Bank of Brazil, 90
Barbosa, Jorge, 174 Cabral, Sérgio, 14–​15, 71–​72, 100, 179
284 Index

Caldeira, Theresa, 199 “favelization” of, 58–​62

Canudos War (1896-​97), 54, 260n.9 flood (1996) in, 70, 100, 123
Canuto, Lucas, 152–​53 gang territories in, 45–​46, 48–​50, 62–​65,
Cardoso, Henrique, 81, 83, 89, 106–​7 67–​68, 121–​22, 138
Cardoso, Marcos, 159 healthcare in, 20–​21, 47–​48, 47f, 51–​52,
Castells, Manuel, 86, 99 64–​65, 84, 234
Castelo Branco, Humberto, 58–​59 infrastructure conditions in, 39, 44, 50,
Catalytic Communities, 240–​41 51f, 59–​62, 70, 84, 117–​18, 124–​25,
Catholic Church, 57, 61–​62, 79–​ 138, 146
80, 186–​87 local economy of, 42, 44–​45
CDD Connects Facebook page maps of, 14f, 15f, 36f, 37f
community-​based organization naming of, 58–​59
networks and, 88, 113, 165 neighborhood associations in, 64–​65,
crime stories on, 152, 165 67–​68, 76, 120–​21
cultural opportunities and resources neoliberal proposals outsourcing of
publicized by, 125–​26 public services in, 91
“doing good” stories on, 165–​66 patchwork politics and, 7–​8, 28–​29
organizing for political change on, 124–​ photos of, 13f, 40f, 41f, 42f, 43f, 45f, 51f
25, 157 police in, 35–​36, 45–​46, 48–​50, 67,
political campaign information barred 71–​74, 119–​20, 215–​16, 235–​36,
from, 113–​14 242, 252
searches for missing people and, 125 population growth in, 60–​61
Center Dona Otávia, 87, 91–​92, 249 poverty levels in, 13–​14, 42
Center for Racial Justice, 87, 187 public works projects in, 71, 74, 84,
Centros Integrados de Educação Pública 123, 219–​20
(CIEPS, Integrated Centers of Public racial demographics of, 13–​14, 39
Education), 69–​70 Regional Administration in, 36–​37, 121
Chenoweth, Erica, 166–​67 religious practices in, 39
Children’s Institute, 202–​3 schools in, 42–​43, 48–​50, 71,
China, 6–​7, 173–​74 146, 219–​20
Chua, Lynette, 7 self-​made shacks in, 39–​41, 41f, 59–​
Cidade de Deus (CDD) 60, 61
AP da PM neighborhood in, 38 sexual violence and gender-​based
City of God movie and, 13–​14, 70–​71, violence in, 62, 63–​64
175, 232 soccer in, 16, 61–​62, 118, 122
clientelism in, 61–​62, 118–​19 Social Development Plan (2010) of,
communal ties in, 43–​44, 46–​47, 59–​60 97, 99–​100
community-​based newspapers social service agencies in, 42–​43, 61–​
in, 175–​79 62, 87–​88
conflict activism and, 23–​30, 68 social welfare programs in, 84
cultural production in, 173–​80, 180f, strategies to avoid co-​optation by drug
181f, 182f gangs in, 136–​40
drug trade in, 3, 15–​16, 18–​19, 33–​34, structural violence and, 50–​52
35–​36, 37–​38, 46, 62, 65–​67, 71–​74, sub-​neighborhoods of, 37f, 39
116–​17, 118–​19, 121–​22, 149–​51, Cidinho, 172–​73
243, 250, 252 CIEP Luiz Carlos Prestes, 176
education levels in, 225–​26 City Council elections (Rio de Janeiro,
epistemic disequilibrium in, 16–​17 2016), 113, 147–​48, 213–​15, 218, 231
 Index 285

City Council elections (Rio de Janeiro, Comeli, Thaisa, 25–​26, 159–​60

2020), 245 Communications Hub, 227–​28
City of God (movie), 13–​14, 70–​71, Communist Party, 57, 64–​65
175, 232 community-​based organizations
civil rights (CBOs). See also nongovernmental
constitution of 1988 and, 81–​82 organizations (NGOs); specific
gang neighborhoods and, 9–​10 organizations
police searches and, 215–​16 anti-​racism and, 35, 187–​89,
racism in the denial of, 81–​82 238, 240–​41
structural violence and, 52, 70 assistencialismo (charity) approach
Vargas era and, 56 rejected at, 95
clientelism clientelism rejected by, 126
in Cidade de Deus, 61–​62, 118–​19 community militancy and, 95–​102
democracy eroded through, 11, 81–​82, conflicts within, 111–​12, 127
118, 120–​21 corruption at, 127
drug gangs’ role in, 10, 23–​24, 118–​19 cultural politics and, 78, 102–​9, 130–​31
masculine politics of violence and, 118–​ drug traffickers’ interactions with, 128–​
19, 120, 134–​35 29, 135, 138
politicagem and, 113–​14 feminized nonviolent politics model
soccer and, 118, 119, 122 and, 122–​23, 130–​31, 134–​35
Vargas era and, 56–​57 formal registration process for, 91–​92
women’s role as political brokers fragmented sovereignty as an
and, 120 opportunity for, 137–​39
Cloward, Richard, 29 neoliberal proposals regarding
Cockburn, Cynthia, 131–​32 outsourcing of public services and, 90
Cold War, 66 participatory democracy cultivated by,
Coletivo de Pesquisa Construindo 199–​209
Juntos (Building Together Research police meetings with, 170
Collective), 22–​23, 231–​32 resource challenges at, 91, 142–​44
Collor, Fernando, 81 state allies of, 201–​4
Colombia, 120, 133–​34 strategies to avoid co-​optation by drug
colorism, 31, 255–​56 gangs at, 114–​15, 126, 141–​46, 239
Comando Vermelho (CV, “Red transformative assistance and, 87–​95
Command” drug gang) transnational networks and, 219–​33
community-​based organizations’ Community Coalition, 196–​98, 202, 203–​
coexistence with, 138 4, 210, 212
favelas as operating bases of, 65–​ Complexo da Maré (Rio de
67, 73–​74 Janeiro), 240–​41
former prisoners as members of, 65–​66 Complexo do Alemão (Rio de
informal community rules enforced Janeiro), 240–​41
by, 139 conflict activism. See also nonviolent
local officials’ relations with, 136–​37 collective organizing
neighborhood associations and local in Cidade de Deus, 23–​30, 68
politicians co-​opted by, 67, 120–​21 consent and support of local residents
origins of, 65–​66 for, 27
police conflict with, 66–​67 definition of, 6
rival gangs of, 65–​66 disguised forms of protest and, 6–​7,
War on Drug policies and, 66 173–​74
286 Index

conflict activism (cont.) political activism under dictatorship

exile movements and, 6–​7 by, 79–​80
feminization of, 7–​8, 26–​27 social welfare programs supported
high-​risk oppositional politics and, 6 by, 83–​85
infrapolitics and, 12 Workers’ Party and, 79–​80
limits of academic knowledge and, 240 Davis, Diane, 137
nongovernmental organizations democracy. See also elections;
and, 29–​30 participatory democracy
patchwork politics and, 7–​8, 28–​30 Brazil’s expansion after 1985 of, 67,
pragamatic resistance and, 7 80–​81, 199
sphere of nonviolent politics clientelism as a threat to, 11, 81–​82,
established by, 24 118, 120–​21
violent activism and, 6 constitution (1988) and, 81, 163–​64
Constitution of Brazil (1988), 72–​73, 81–​ corruption as a threat to, 162–​63
82, 163–​64 decentralization of power in Brazil
corruption under, 107
artwork addressing, 179–​80 disjunctive democracy and, 81–​82,
Collor Administration and, 81–​82 162–​63, 199
community-​based organizations free speech and assembly rights
and, 127 under, 162–​64
da Silva administration and, 81–​82 global declines in, 239–​40
democracy threatened by, 162–​63 Latin America’s expansion after 1980 of,
Lava Jato investigation and, 108–​9, 8–​9, 80, 199
179, 262n.9 racial democracy ideology and, 53–​54
masculine politics of violence and, 120 urban violence as a threat to, 199–​
mensalão political scandal (2005) 200, 239–​40
and, 179–​80 desaparecidos (“the
neighborhood-​level forms of, 5 disappeared”), 173–​74
one-​party systems and, 5 Diani, Mario, 23
police engagement in, 15–​16, 26, 73, Dicionário das Favelas Marielle Franco
116, 119, 163–​64 (The Favela Dictionary Marielle
politicians’ engagement in, 26, 81–​82, Franco), 240–​41
142–​43, 161–​62, 163f Dilma. See Rousseff, Dilma
protests against, 161–​62 Disque Denuncia, 222
public works projects and, 71 Doca, 172–​73
Regional Administration and, 121 Dona Iracema, 147
Council of Residents of Cidade de Deus dos Santos, João Paulo, 92–​93
(COMOCID), 64–​65, 67–​68 drug trade. See also gangs
Coutinho da Silva, Rachel, 25–​26, 159–​60 Black drug traffickers and, 27
Cunningham, Kathleen Gallagher, 166–​67 in Cidade de Deus, 3, 15–​16, 18–​19,
33–​34, 35–​36, 37–​38, 46, 62, 65–​67,
da Silva, Luiz Inácio (“Lula”) 71–​74, 116–​17, 118–​19, 121–​22, 149–​
election to presidency (2002) of, 51, 243, 250, 252
81, 83–​84 City of God movie and, 13–​14, 70–​71
government investment in cultural Comando Vermelho and, 65–​67, 69,
programs under, 106–​7 73–​74, 120–​21, 136–​39
imprisonment for fraud (2017) community-​based organizations’
of, 81–​82 coexitsence with, 128–​29, 135, 138
 Index 287

drug legalization proposals and, Federal Bank (Caixa Econômica Federal),

150, 216–​17 84–​85, 219–​20
masculine politics of violence and, Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, 108
7–​8, 115–​16, 119, 120, 121–​22, feminized nonviolent politics
126, 131–​32 art collectives and, 130–​31
oppositional culture in, 12, 62–​63 Black women and, 26–​27, 131–​
performative violence against 32, 189–​93
community leaders and, 9–​10, 67–​68 community-​based organizations and,
politicians’ ties to, 113–​14 122–​23, 130–​31, 134–​35
sympathy for murdered members coordination of citizens’ relationshp
of, 158–​59 with the state and, 126, 138–​39, 139f
Unidade de Policia Pacifcadora’s emotional toll of, 135
“pacification” campaigns and, 71–​72, feminist organizing and, 148, 224, 232
159, 248–​49 fragmented sovereignty as opportunity
War on Drugs policies and, 2–​3, 9, 66–​ for, 137–​39
67, 150, 224, 238, 246 masculine politics of violence’s
women’s involvement in, 115 hegemony over, 115, 135
men’s participation in community-​
educador (educator) social category, 23–​ based organizations and,
24, 168–​69, 172 131, 135–​36
elections protests against police and, 159
gangs and decreased levels of self-​defense classes and, 190–​91
participation in, 10–​11 “the superexploited” and, 26–​27
municipal elections (2016) and, 113, transnational networks and, 220–​22
147–​48, 213–​15, 218, 231 women’s role as caretakers in violent
municipal elections (2020) and, 245 conflicts and, 133
presidential elections (1985) women’s social role as mothers
and, 80–​81 and, 132–​34
state government elections (1982) and, Fernandes, Sujatha, 132–​33
69–​70, 80–​81, 83 Ferreira, Thais, 245
Vargas era and, 56–​57 First of May Rendezvous (Encontro), 68
El Salvador, 173–​74 Fischer, Brodwyn, 47–​48, 55
embedded resistance, 151, 180–​81, 194–​95 França, Wellington, 91
Entrepreneurial Forum of Rio, 71 Franco, Anielle, 245
Environment League, 96, 169–​70, 229–​30 Franco, Marielle
epistemic disequilibrium, 16–​17, 254 community-​based organization
Escóssia, Fernanda da, 89–​90 established in honor of, 240–​41
Espaço Urbano Seguro (Safe Urban election to City Council (2016) of, 147–​
Spaces), 84 48, 214–​15
murder of, 17, 147–​48, 162–​63, 221–​22
Facebook. See also CDD Connects progressive policies promoted
Facebook page by, 147–​48
artistic and cultural networks on, 109 Freire, Paulo, 169–​71
cultural production showcased on, 173 Friedman, Elizabeth, 231
global civil society networks on, 86 Fuji, Lee Ann, 127
virtual ethnography practiced on, 19–​ Fundação Leão XIII, 57, 65, 76
20, 38, 250
Fals Borda, Orlando, 256 Galtung, Johan, 50–​51, 166
288 Index

gangs. See also drug trade; gang territories Guillemin, Marilys, 248
activists’ strategies to resist co-​optation
by, 114–​15, 126, 141–​46, 239 Haddad, Fernando, 242
clientelism and, 10, 23–​24, 118–​19 Hamilton Land Municipal Health
electoral participation suppressed Center, 64–​65
by, 10–​11 Harvey, David, 89
informal community rules enforced Holston, James, 199
by, 139 House of Rights, 176
oppositional culture in, 12 Hufty, Mark, 122–​23
police’s violent conflict with, 1, 9, 15–​16,
26, 34, 35–​36, 45–​46, 66–​67, 72–​74, information communication technologies
116, 119, 136–​37, 138, 149–​50, (ICTs), 78, 86, 109
154, 215–​16 infrapolitics, 12
politicians’ alliances with, 114–​ Institute for a Better Neighborhood, 205
15, 118–​19 Instituto Marielle Franco, 240–​41
services provided to communities by, Inter-​American Development
63, 116–​17, 121–​22, 139–​40, 241 Bank, 83, 90
structural violence as factor influencing, International Literary Congress of Paraty
25, 157, 160–​61 (FLIP), 176
symbolic violence by, 63 International Literary Festival, 178
gang territories Isin, Engin, 52
in Cidade de Deus, 45–​46, 48–​50, 62–​
65, 67–​68, 121–​22, 138 Jacarepaguá region (Brazil), 59
civil rights eroded in, 9–​10
fragmented sovereignty in, 10, 136–​40 Karatê neighborhood, 37, 39–​41, 116, 152
infrapolitics in, 12 Kennedy, John F., 59
neighborhood associations co-​opted in, Kinzo, Mary, 80–​81
10–​11, 30, 67–​68, 120–​21 Kubitschek, Juscelino, 58
performative violence against
community leaders in, 9–​10, 67–​68 Lacerda, Carlos, 59
political activism suppressed in, 67–​68 LAN Houses (internet cafés), 85–​86
politics of survival in, 11–​12 Lava Jato corruption investigation, 108–​9,
sexual violence and gender-​based 179, 262n.9
violence in, 62, 63–​64, 67–​68 Law of Social Quotas (2012), 108
Gay, Robert, 11 Lawson, Erica, 133
gender-​based violence, 25, 26–​27, 63–​ LGBTQ populations
64, 133–​34 Bolsonaro’s campaigns against, 242
gendered division of governing labor. Brazilian attitudes regarding, 260n.4
See feminized nonviolent politics; cultural and artistic activism and, 76,
masculine politics of violence 103–​4, 106–​7
Gillam, Lynn, 248 democracy’s expansion in Latin
Girl Power group, 190–​91 America and, 8–​9
Global South, 17, 69, 222, 231 Instituto Marielle Franco and, 240–​41
Gohn, Gloria, 88–​89 municipal elections (2016) and, 147
Gonzalez, Lélia, 53 transgender men and, 136
Goulart, João, 58 Lima, Verônica, 245
Grotten, Julio, 61–​62 Lins, Paulo, 70–​71
Growth Acceleration Program (PAC), 84 literacy, 29, 53–​54, 56–​57, 97–​98, 169
 Index 289

Literary Congress for Favelas (FLUPP), Moser, Caroline, 160–​61

176, 217–​18 Municipal Secretariat for the Development
Lourenço, Natália, 92–​93 of Economic Solidarity, 97–​98, 124
Lula. See da Silva, Luiz Inácio (“Lula”) murals, 125–​26, 173, 180f, 182f

Machado da Silva, Luiz Antonio, 11 National Bank, 204, 209

Madres de la Plaza de Mayo National Foundation for the Arts
(Argentina), 133 (Funarte), 106–​7
Maia, Cesar, 70–​71, 89–​90, 95–​96, 219–​20 National Housing Bank (BNH), 58–​59, 60
masculine politics of violence neoliberalism, 83, 89–​91, 92–​93, 99, 106–​7
clientelism and, 118–​19, 120, 134–​35 Neves, Tancredo, 80–​81
coordination of citizens’ relationshp nongovernmental organizations
with the state and, 126, 138–​39, 139f (NGOs). See also community-​based
drug trade and, 7–​8, 115–​16, 119, 120, organizations (CBOs); specific
121–​22, 126, 131–​32 organizations
hegemony over feminized nonviolence assistencialismo (charity) approach
organizing of, 115, 135 at, 92–​93
the military and, 53 conflict activism and, 29–​30
office-​holding politicans and, 3, feminized nonviolent politics model
120, 131–​32 and, 134–​35
police and, 7–​8, 53, 119–​20 foundation grants for, 91, 226
race and, 120 funding to community-​based
reward structure in, 116, 135 organizations from, 227–​29, 230–​31
vulnerability of participants in, 135 increased opportunities following
McCann, Bryan, 69–​70 democratization of Brazil for, 88–​89
MC Claudinho, 178–​80, 184–​85, 217, 222 neighborhood association partnerships
McFarlane, Colin, 92 with, 64–​65
Meirelles, Fernando, 70–​71 neoliberal proposals regarding
Meirelles, Renato, 196 outsourcing of public services and, 90
Mello, Edir Figueiredo de, 60–​61 Nonprofit Law of 1999 and, 88–​89
Mendes, João de, 144–​45 online networks among, 85–​86
mensalão political scandal (2005), 179–​80 Worker’s Party initiatives
Mexico, 5, 64, 133–​34, 173–​74 funding, 86–​87
milicia. See police Nonprofit Law of 1999, 88–​89
Mina, An Xiao, 6–​7, 173–​74 nonviolent collective organizing. See also
Minha Casa Minha Vida (My Home My conflict activism
Life, public housing program), 85 anti-​racism and, 151–​52, 180–​89
Ministério das Cidades (Ministry of art’s role in, 173–​75
Cities), 84–​85 Bolsonaro regime as threat to,
Ministry for Education (Secretaria da 20, 242–​43
Educação), 219–​20 community-​based newspapers
Ministry for Sports (Secretaria do and, 175–​79
Esporte), 219–​20 community militancy and, 78, 95–​102
miscegenation, 31 consent and support of local
Moncada, Eduardo, 9–​10 communities and, 27
Montambeault, Françoise, 204 cultural politics and, 78, 102–​9
Morro da Providência (Providence educador social category and, 168–​69
Hill), 54 mutual aid activities and, 164, 167
290 Index

nonviolent collective organizing (cont) Piven, Frances Fox, 29

online activism and, 155–​58, 156f, police. See also Unidade de Policia
161, 162f Pacificadora
peaceful marches following killings brutality by, 5, 25, 28–​29, 104,
and, 152–​53 172, 215–​16
protests and, 153–​55, 155f, 159, 161–​63 in Cidade de Deus, 35–​36, 45–​46,
resource matrix “milking” and, 79 48–​50, 67, 71–​74, 119–​20, 215–​16,
structural violence as a focus of, 159–​60, 235–​36, 242, 252
161, 163–​64 community meetings with, 170
transformative assistance and, 78, 87–​95 corruption among, 15–​16, 26, 73, 116,
Nunes, Nilza Rogéria, 192–​93 119, 163–​64
gangs’ violent conflicts with, 1, 9, 15–​16,
Observatório das Favelas, 107 26, 34, 35–​36, 45–​46, 66–​67, 72–​74,
O’Donnell, Guillermo, 199 116, 119, 136–​37, 138, 149–​50,
Oliveiras, Pablo, 149 154, 215–​16
Olympic Games (2016), 71–​72, 100, 108–​ helicopter crash in Cidade de Deus
9, 172–​73 (2016) and, 215
masculine politics of violence and, 7–​8,
Paley, Dawn, 66 53, 119–​20
pardo (mixed-​race), 31–​32, 39, 182–​83, national police force in nineteenth
186, 189 century and, 53
Participatory Action Research (PAR) protests against, 153–​55, 155f, 159
in areas of violence, 247–​48 racism of, 2–​3, 9, 45–​46, 53–​54, 57, 72–​
dialogical reflexivity and, 23, 231–​32 73, 81–​82, 181–​82, 184–​85, 199, 224
origins of, 21–​22 undercover police and, 46, 118
participants’ involvement in decisions political upcycling, 27, 151–​52, 193–​95
about research in, 21–​22, 230, 247–​ Porta, Donatella della, 18–​19
48, 250–​51, 253–​57 Program Favela-​Bairro, 83
safety issues and, 251–​53 proibidão funk music, 173
participatory democracy projetos (informal collectives), 87, 95, 110
community-​based organizations and, PRONASCI prison reform, 84
199–​209 Public Interest Civil Organizations
definition of, 200 (OSCIPS), 88–​89
personal risks involved in, 210, 238, 245
stategies to avoid co-​optation by violent Quijano, Aníbal, 181–​82
actors and, 210–​13 quilombos (runaway slave communities),
Pastoral das Favelas, 187 53, 191
patchwork politics, 7–​8, 28–​30, 109–​12
Paula, Tainá de, 245 racism
Pavão-​Pavãozinho favela, 159 colonial era in Brazil and, 53–​54, 188–​
Pechincha neighborhood, 38 89, 194–​95
Penglase, Ben, 65–​66, 167–​68 community-​based organizations’ efforts
Pereira Passos, Francisco, 55 to combat, 35, 187–​89, 238, 240–​41
Perlman, Janice, 11, 55–​56, 208–​9, 223 constitution of 1988’s addressing of, 81
Perry, Keisha-​Kahn, 26–​27, 131–​ definition of, 31
32, 182–​83 favelas in Brazilian political culture
Petrobras, 107–​9 and, 38, 57
Pezão, Luiz Fernando, 241 intellectual imperialism and, 223
 Index 291

police and, 2–​3, 9, 45–​46, 53–​54, 57, 72–​ Rio de Janeiro. See also specific
73, 81–​82, 181–​82, 184–​85, 199, 224 neighborhoods
racial categories in Brazil and, 30–​32, capital of Brazil moved (1960) from, 58
182–​83, 186, 255–​56 drug trade’s overall impact on,
in Rio’s mainstream urban spaces, 44, 11, 65–​66
50–​51, 62–​63 elections (1982) in, 83
segregation and, 1, 25, 59 elections (2016) in, 113, 147–​48, 213–​
sexual violence and, 64 15, 218, 231
slavery’s legacies and, 59, 181–​82 elections (2020) in, 245
structural violence and, 27, 31, 50–​ history of informal settlements in and
51, 52, 59 around, 54–​56
symbolic violence and, 25 map of, 15f
in the United States, 31 Master Plan (1992) of, 83
voting rights and, 53–​54 neoliberal proposals regarding
Raimundo, Valdenice, 192 outsourcing of public services
Reagan, Ronald, 66, 150 in, 89–​90
Rede de Comunidades e Movimentos Olympic Games (2016) in, 71–​72, 100
contra a Violência (Network of party-​based political system in, 214–​15
Communities and Movements racial demographics of, 57
against Violence), 159 recession (2015-​16) in, 73, 85, 108–​9
Rede Favela Sustentável, 240–​41 rural migration to, 54
Regional Administration (submunicipal slavery’s legacy in, 53
branch of government), 36–​37, 121, social benefits for low-​income families
124–​25, 219 in, 83–​84
Residents’ Board urban planning and investment in, 55,
community bank opened by, 124 59, 69, 71, 83
community meetings organized by, 101 World Cup tournament (2014) in, 71–​
community militancy model of 72, 100
organizing and, 99–​100 Rio Estado Digital program, 85–​86
feminized nonviolent politics model Rio on Watch newspaper, 240–​41
and, 122–​23, 130–​31, 134 Rios, Victor, 254
grants awarded to, 97–​98, 124, 205 Rocinha favela, 137
lobbying and advocacy for delivery of Rodrigues, Thiago, 66
services by, 101–​2, 123–​25, 134 Rousseff, Dilma
origins of, 95–​98 impeachment of, 2–​4, 74, 82, 85, 103,
participatory democracy at, 204–​9 106–​7, 191
partnerships of, 124 social welfare programs supported by,
secondary education opportunities 2, 84–​85
organized by, 98 Rwanda, 127, 138
Social Development Plan of Cidade de
Deus and, 97, 99–​100 Sá, Roberto, 215
strategies to avoid co-​optation at, 144, Salvador (Brazil), 182–​83
210–​12, 230 Sarney, José, 80–​81
transnational networks and, 219–​20 Scott, James, 12, 51–​52
resource matrix, 79 Secretariat for Identity and Cultural
Restaurante Cidadão, 43f Diversity (SID), 107
Ribeiro, Darcy, 69–​70 Secretariat for Public Security, 222
Rio+​20 forum, 176 Senior Center (Cidade de Deus), 87
292 Index

SESI Cidadania, 87–​88 segregation and, 25, 59

sexual violence, 62, 63–​64, 67–​68, 164–​65 unequal life changes and, 50–​51
Sharp, Gene, 164–​65 Stuart, Forest, 19–​20
shootouts the superexploited, 26–​27, 192
buildings damaged in, 39, 45f, 146 symbolic violence, 12, 25, 50–​52, 63
bystanders threatened by, 1, 34, 45–​46,
152–​53, 155–​57, 156f, 234 Tarrow, Sydney, 23
ceasefires and, 73–​74, 116 Teen Connection, 87–​88
civil society disrupted by, 116–​17, Temer, Michel, 82, 85, 108–​9, 191
137, 210 Território da Paz (Territory of Peace), 84
deaths in, 152–​53 Thayer, Milly, 224, 232
educational opportunities disrupted by, trabalhador social category
48–​50, 146, 157 (workers), 167–​69
peaceful marches following, 152–​53
psychological damage from, 157–​58 Unidade de Policia Pacificadora (UPP;
Sierra Leone, 133–​34 Pacifying Policing Units)
Silva, Gerardo, 61 anti-​drug “pacification” campaigns of,
Silva, Rafaela, 172–​73 71–​72, 159, 248–​49
Simone, Nina, 185 corruption among, 73
slavery Disque Denuncia and, 222
Brazil’s abolition (1888) of, 54 funding cuts for, 73–​74
education regarding, 186–​87, 189 killings by, 159
historical legacies of, 15–​16, 59, 193 popular opinion regarding, 72–​73
miscegenation and sexual precincts established by, 71–​72, 141f
violence in, 31 racism of, 72–​73
quilombos and, 53, 191 UPP Social programs and, 72–​74, 87–​
slave trade before 1866 and, 53 88, 100–​1, 202–​3
Soares, Luiz Eduardo, 71, 95–​96 Unidade de Pronto Atendimento (UPA,
soccer, 16, 61–​62, 118, 119, 122 emergency rooms), 47–​48, 84
South Africa, 106, 199–​200 United Nations, 95–​96, 176, 186, 226
Souza, Renata, 17 United Nations Educational, Scientific,
SpeakCDD! community newspaper, and Cultural Organization
22, 175–​76 (UNESCO), 97–​98, 124
Stacey, Judith, 254 United States
State Company for Housing Alliance for Progress program and, 59
(COHAB), 58–​59 anti-​Communist political and military
structural violence interventions in Latin America by, 58
civil rights denied in, 52, 70 Mexico’s border with, 64
drug laws and, 25 neocolonialism and, 25
economic inequality and, 25, 160–​61 racism in, 31
gang violence as symptom of, 25, War on Drugs and, 9, 66, 150
157, 160–​61 Urban Social Center (Centros Sociais
healthcare and, 51–​52 Urbanos), 65
natural disasters and, 70
nonviolent collective organizing Valladares, Licia, 55–​56
against, 159–​60, 161, 163–​64 Vargas, Getúlio, 56–​58
overpolicing and, 160–​61 Veillette, Anne-​Marie, 192–​93
racism and, 27, 31, 50–​51, 52, 59 Venezuela, 132–​34, 200–​1
 Index 293

Vila Kennedy housing complex, 59 World Pulse social media platform, 220–​
VivaRio, 228–​29 22, 224
Vogt, Wendy, 64 World Social Forum, 221–​22
Voz das Comunidades newspapers, 240–​41
Yanitsky, Oleg, 6–​7
Wade, Peter, 53 Yellow Line highway, 68
War on Drugs, 9, 66–​67, 150, 224, 238, 246 Youth Promise
Weinstein, Liza, 38 anti-​racism and, 187–​89
West Zone (Rio de Janeiro), 44, 59 author’s research and volunteer work
WhatsApp message groups, 19–​20, 86, at, 18–​19, 22, 46, 129–​30, 203–​
109, 196, 250 4, 249–​50
Witzel, Wilson, 14–​15, 242 educational programing at, 87, 170–​72
Worker’s Party feminized nonviolent organizing model
emergence during Brazilian and, 130–​31
dictatorship of, 64–​65, 79–​81 fundraising and resource challenges at,
expansion of social and political rights 91, 142–​44
under, 199 nongovernmental organizations’
Lava Jato corruption investigation relationships with, 227–​28
and, 108–​9 radio station organized by, 123
mensalão political scandal (2005), 179–​80 social media presence of, 130
nongovernmental organizations funded space for alternative forms of
via initiatives by, 86–​87 masculinity at, 136
Rouseff impeachment and, 2 Youth Recreation Center, 100
state elections (1982) and, 80–​81
World Bank, 71, 90 Zaluar, Alba, 61–​63
World Cup tournament (2014), 71–​72, Zona Sul district (Rio de Janeiro), 33, 105,
100, 161–​62 214–​15