Why did José Dirceu smile for the second time?

Genoino and Dirceu's raised fists, as they presented themselves to the Federal Police on Republic Day, infuriated the sycophants of the national right. The hired columnists of conservatism did not hide their frustration. They longed to see the PT leaders handcuffed, bent over, and humiliated. But they were forced to swallow the image of two men willing to face, with dignity and courage, the price imposed upon them.

Not even Genoino's frail health, the first to surrender, robbed him of the integrity that, in such moments, makes the difference between men and rats. He was soon followed by Dirceu. The same gesture, hours later, without any prior arrangement. Both silently proclaimed their willingness to fight against the vultures of the nation, no matter the conditions to which they are subjected.

The image fueled the reactionary mob's indecent hatred, but warmed the hearts of those who disheartenedly accepted the exceptional trial of the so-called "mensalão" scandal. It encouraged solidarity among progressive forces. It laid bare the historical and moral chasm between the defendants and their executioners. It emotionally paved the long road to the restoration of truth and justice.

In the following hours it was already clear that the president of the Supreme Court had chosen the path of illegality and arbitrariness, trampling on decisions of the Supreme Court itself and violating the legal rights of prisoners. Perhaps he imagined that his attitude would be supported by the passivity of those who could resist. The firmness of Genoino and Dirceu, however, served as an example for thousands and thousands who are saying enough to judicial arbitrariness. After all, they surrendered without giving in and set the bar high for the behavior of their peers.

Besides the raised fist, however, there was a smile. The same smile from almost 45 years ago, when the student leader of '68 showed the handcuffs in the photo of the class released in exchange for the American ambassador.

The first time, Dirceu was released from prison, but eternally banished. The second time, he began serving his sentence. Neither of these moments likely showed a smile of happiness, but possibly both had the same historical significance.

The fact is that Dirceu seems to be reaching the autumn of his life – for better or for worse, some will say – with the same survivor's spirit he carried in his youth. As if he were imbued with the mission of telling history that his cause, the cause of his generation, is invincible. 

The protests in Rio de Janeiro in recent months, when violently repressed by the military police, jokingly repeat two mantras. When they start moving, they sing at the top of their lungs: "Look, I'm here again!" When retreating, even under beatings, they don't lose their humor and shout: "Tomorrow will be bigger!"
Imprisoned and speechless, on both occasions Dirceu was left with only his fist and mute lips. As if he were singing, while smiling, the same songs that today's children sing. "Look, I'm here again! Tomorrow will be bigger!"