The films of Cinema Lula

Marcius Cortez (*)

"Things are not in space, reader, things are in time." ("The Clerk Belmiro", Cyro dos Anjos, 1937).

Attention, dear reader: Fernando Morais embodies strong emotions. Excuse the expression, but this man from Minas Gerais is a spiritual baker, a shrewd researcher who uncovers concrete evidence and, in his writing, seasons the dish with that touch that blew the mind of filmmaker Stanley Kubrick right after watching Quentin Tarantino's "Pulp Fiction." Still reeling from the impact, he could only utter one word to screenwriter Frederic Raphael ("Eyes Wide Shut," 1999): "Look at the rhythm, the rhythm!" Indeed, this young man from Mariana has built a literary continuity that has won over readers and sells like hotcakes. Author of twelve books, his favorite subject is Brazil. Going back to the origins of our literary formation, Professor Antônio Cândido would call him a nativist. (Only recently, in an interview with Juca Kfouri, did I learn that the author of "Olga" declares himself a Brazilianist). 

Let it be clear from the outset that his intention is not erudition. His writing opts for polished interpretation, courage, and a refined narrative style, employing a characteristic of his own: Fernando Morais is guided by documentary fidelity. It would be wrong to attribute his success to his journalistic background and the fact that he has won three Esso awards. The fact is, this award-winning journalist doesn't back down and throws himself headlong into the pursuit of a scoop. He has even brought to light high-profile national security secrets, such as the famous lowering of dictator Ernesto Geisel's trousers before the Pentagon's eagles. We will return to this subject later; for now, I want to draw attention to Fernando Morais's evolution in stylistic maneuvers, and here is "Lula 1," stamping his mastery of rhythm.

I don't know if it's appropriate to label his literature as engagedDedicated, committed. The author does not belong to any political party because he values ​​the freedom to say whatever he pleases. (It is at least disconcerting when he publicly states that he considers Toninho Malvadeza a fascinating being). His trajectory is far from policing and proselytizing. Suddenly he ventures into the lion's den of Cannes or the Swiss castle of alchemy where he lived for a time to write about Paulo Coelho ("The Magician", 2008) and then he set off for the land of Cold War soldiers, celebrating the Cuban agents infiltrated in the United States security services ("The Last Soldiers of the Cold War", 2011).

I can also call him heterodox, as he has his own voice. Orthodoxies aside, what must be taken into account is that the writer includes himself in the project of working for a free country. He writes for everyone to understand, remaining faithful to his literary incarnation of national spirit. I appreciate the craftsman who is adept at clarity and the distinctive way of interpreting man and the homeland, bearing witness to an exalted critical nationalism and his affective mission of dissecting famous figures such as Chatô, Olga, Marshal Montenegro, Paulo Coelho, and former President Lula.  

Fernando Morais, like other biographers, incorporated subjectivities into the narrative of memory. His characters are people immersed in the brutality of real life. When he describes the hardship of Lula's childhood, it seems as if an oracle gifted him with a talisman capable of hypnotizing readers, leading them through short, long, and detailed paragraphs. At times, he dwells on commonplace things that later reveal themselves to be fundamental. The author, to use an old term, provides us with inside information. Thus, admirably, he serves us the true version of Lava Jato, dissected by the biased judge. Another gift of the magician Fernando is transforming laughter into guffaws, and suddenly, overwhelming tears follow. 

Reading Fernando Morais's work is like a map to understanding our country. Throughout his work, he outlines some certainties. We will be a free nation, respected abroad, democratic, emancipated, without the shameful distribution of income, without the plague of prejudice, without physical hunger, without cultural hunger, without our riches in the hands of the planet's plunderers, and especially without the mafia of the Law at the service of the rotten State.

Every time we read it, we are surprised by dramatic close-ups, wide shots, and dreamlike-dialectical fusions. I highlight the text about the incidents at the Metalworkers' Union in São Bernardo, in the first week of April 2018, before the Federal Police came to take Lula to Curitiba. The author is an expert at uncovering previously unpublished information. For example, the names of the police officers who were the former president's security guards. Or when he details the "war" between supporters and opponents from the point of view of those fighting in the trenches. I admire his ability to choose special facts and to assemble an electrifying text that makes me say: "look, there's Fernando, the passenger of agony, because it's all suspense." Suspense filled with attentive details when, for example, he confirms that the Federal Police, with just one shot from the HK417 rifle, would kill half a dozen "PT supporters" who were gathered in front of the union promising to die, but never to betray their leader.

Clarice Lispector states that to create is to take the risk of reaching reality. Fernando Morais had the opportunity to put this challenge into practice. The fame and respect he has earned are the result of his humanist and liberating vision. It is impossible to separate the individual timbre of his style from his status as a record-breaking bestseller (more than 5 million copies sold in forty countries, translated into dozens of languages). I once again invoke the giant Cyro dos Anjos, who asserted that writing is a hard thing that transforms into an affirmation of life. The author of "One Hundred Kilos of Gold" (2003) does not consider himself a sociologist, politician, or psychoanalyst. So what does he want? The grandfather of the Bolivarian movement wants to overcome stages, because we still live in a country lacking urgent needs and inhabited by a people manipulated by capitalist slavery.

At the heart of life

If you were to ask me what Fernando Morais does, I would say that he researches life. His work is characterized by political struggle and achievable dreams. The son of "Seu" Morais will be remembered for the eloquence of his feelings and for dedicating himself to the daily practice of writing, from his days as a "cub reporter" typing away on those old, enormous typewriters to the present day, holed up in his digital igloo. "Lula 1" seems to me the most hopeful of his books. Its pages pulsate with faith in the improvement of society. In my view, the book is the pinnacle of his style. It overflows with logic, colloquialism, high-level political discussion, and information, lots of information. I heard someone comment that they immersed themselves in the book and devoured 447 pages in one go. I wasn't surprised. The rhythm flows smoothly. But one observation is in order: the author owes a great deal to Lula, one of the most intelligent men in Brazil, according to economist Antônio Delfim Netto, who also praised the former president for never having attended USP (University of São Paulo). 

I believe that Fernando Morais's work is an extension of the very essence of life. His books are erudite in their conception, for it is not easy to decipher our ever-changing "realpolitik." I would say that it is a sentimental work. The author owes much to his brother, Carlos Wagner Gomes de Morais, the best writer I have ever known and my greatest friend, with whom I shared the best of life. It makes sense to mention the cultured man that Wagner was because, in addition to writing speeches for a certain State Deputy and Secretary of Culture of São Paulo, Carlinhos was a consummate cinephile. In Fernando Gomes de Morais's "films," radical scenes often occur, including some of extreme violence perpetrated by law and crime. The reference that comes to mind is the most action-packed sequence in modern cinema. The reader can see it in "Reservoir Dogs," Quentin Tarantino's first film (1992). This is a brutal torture session where one of the robbers is arrested by a policeman who brutally beats him, but the bandit manages to escape and, by a stroke of luck, arrests the torturer. Then the game is reversed: the criminal, with refined cruelty, beats the uniformed rat. I see Lava Jato like that. In my imagination, suddenly, Marisa, Lula's second wife, a victim of a repulsive hate campaign, crosses paths with the torturer and she is the one who begins to interrogate him. Scenes identical to the film follow. She dances while getting her revenge: slaps in the face, pulling his hair until she feels avenged. In the flames of hell, human irrationality is banal; before leaving the nightmare, Lula's wife hears her husband telling her: “What Marisa suffered wasn't easy. And I want to say that the hastening of Marisa's death was because of the wickedness and dirty tricks that the press and the Public Prosecutor's Office played on her.” There is no possible understanding when dealing with the fury of Evil. Or do you think that the heinous defamation committed against Marisa Letícia Lula da Silva would be resolved with a good conversation? Surely Lava Jato was one of the greatest crimes in our history, an eternal shame. I am proud to have written this ordeal for Marisa. The culprit of this horror is the unjust country in which we live. Therefore, may Padre Cícero bless my knife-wielding knapsack, I am furious because all this vile villainy was orchestrated and executed by a gang of uniformed and robed men financed by the national elite and international imperialism.

For 581 days I followed the steps of these people who came from all corners of the Brazilian map. They greeted the prisoner three times a day, at 9 am, 14:30 pm, and 19 pm. “Good morning, President. Good afternoon, President. Good evening, President.” Lula didn't see his voters because he occupied a 25-meter kennel that the 'authorities' called the General Staff of Curitiba. Barred windows and opaque glass high on the walls. It's fortunate that they are a minority, but how cynical and vile certain judges, ministers, delegates, and military officers are.

There are two moments when Luiz Inácio embraced the idea of ​​becoming president of Brazil. This decision is represented by Hélio de Almeida, author of the graphic design for “Lula 1,” who didn't hesitate to reproduce the gigantic double-page photo of Luiz Inácio standing in the foreground, leading the general assembly of the 1970 strike before a crowd of workers at the Euclidão stadium in São Bernardo. There you have it, the birth of the greatest leader of the Brazilian people and the end of the military dictatorship duly documented. There were several packed Euclidão stadiums. I had the pleasure of being at most of them. I was happy there, and I knew why. I witnessed Lula burying the redeemer in the dustbin of history. I saw when the Military Police helicopters began to fly low, circling the stadium with weapons pointed at the crowd assembling at the Euclidão. I witnessed Lula reciting a Hail Mary to quell the panic. The other moment when the bearded toad decided to launch his candidacy is the one we are witnessing now. The decision was made in the silence of prison. I think the isolation was useful for Lula. Today, the wave of hope he leads is visible. 

The medieval pigsty is national.

Suddenly the letters disappeared and the pages of "Lula 1" transformed into a movie screen. To sell as many books as he does, it's obvious that Fernando Morais has his secrets. I say that the author of "Chatô, the King of Brazil" borrowed a piece of the recipe from other successful writers. The author prioritizes interest and respect. I notice in "Lula 1" passages imbued with sweetness. Not only in the content, but he understands the importance of "warming up" the edition. I'm referring to the photos that illustrate the book: the letters and notes written by Lula, old photos, recent photos, the complete menu that shows Lula's way of being Lula. Certainly, the cinematic photo of Lula and Janja's kiss occupies a prominent place. I draw attention to the moment when Lula says goodbye to the jailers and police officers, one of those passages where tears well up in the eyes.

The photos illustrating the pages of “Lula 1” are worthy of inclusion in an anthology of good journalism. The archive of Lula receiving illustrious people while imprisoned in Curitiba is remarkable. There are several photos of Lula speaking in public, including my favorite: during the 1979 strike, “Lula improvised a platform with plastic tables and delivered a speech phrase by phrase (the police had cut the sound), which were repeated by those closest to him and relayed by the crowd until it reached the packed edges of the Vila Euclides stadium in São Bernardo do Campo.” Among the photos are some of terrible memory. The one of Lula at his grandson Arthur's funeral stands out for its cruelty. In the caption, Fernando comments on the former president surrounded by police officers carrying heavy weapons, as if they were supporting an international drug trafficker. The author quotes prosecutor Januário Paludo, mocking Lula's grief: “The scoundrel just wants to go for a stroll.” And here are another dozen photos of authorities, governors, generals, politicians, ministers. A whole bunch of social photos: weddings, honeymoons, Lula and Marisa, Lula and his famous friends, young Lula, Lula playing football with Chico Buarque, Lula with Boulos, Haddad, Ana Estela, FHC, João Pedro Stédile, Frei Betto, Petrônio Portela, that one of him in a meeting with Commander Fidel. There's also Lula at Dona Lindu's funeral, the photo of João Ferrador and his creator, Laerte Coutinho, a photo of Henfil, newspaper clippings, Lula kissing, Lula's personal documents, and what a marvelous thing there's only one little photo of federal judge Sergio Moro, in a black suit, black shirt, black tie, the appropriate plumage for fraudulent ducks. I ask permission to leave a little message for Fernando, a photo of you on a motorcycle; just in case, it's better to talk to Polé Lafer de Jesus, Polezinho, first. Finally, I'll leave my comment on the most outrageous photo, the responsibility of which lies with the despicable Governor of Paraná, Ratinho Júnior, son of Ratão. The photo shows a platoon of the State Military Police who had come to evacuate the land that the Lula Livre Vigil had rented near the Federal Police building where Lula was imprisoned. It was then that a man with a beard and gray hair asked if they had a court order authorizing the eviction. The officer in charge of the operation replied that they didn't need an order, "I am an officer of the Paraná Military Police." Incredible, but this happened. The photo is definitive proof. We are definitely a medieval pigsty. (In "Lula 2" I would like to see the photo of Olaf Scholsz who traveled from Germany to visit Lula in prison in Curitiba. Soon after being released, the former president met with the same Mr. Olaf Scholsz who today is simply the Prime Minister, the Chancellor of powerful Germany).

A friend of mine says that our good fortune is that our adversaries are unscrupulous. He gave me a formidable version of the Rogério Favreto case from the TRF4 in Porto Alegre. The judge's action was premeditated. He granted habeas corpus to Lula when federal judge Sergio Moro had just gone on vacation, traveling abroad. Amazingly, the crook signed a receipt. The next day, he landed in Brazil and, in quick contacts with his close associates, annulled Favreto's sentence, which is considered by experts to be a high-level legal piece when compared to Moro's text when ordering Lula's arrest. Good heavens, the former judge begins the text with a "Relatively"... In this episode, the masterstroke was the work of the discreet Favreto, who showed Brazil that the former judge is biased. Dear reader, the flag was so large that the ailing Supreme Court, even after letting eight months pass, ended up recognizing that Sergio Moro is biased. In other words, the wife's husband had his voice silenced according to the law. I conclude with a question: are we a medieval pigsty or are we an idiotic country that allows itself to be deceived by a biased four-legged judge?

When the author talks about the boy Lula, I am a character.

I am a Northeasterner at heart. I was born in João Pessoa, raised in Natal, and educated in Recife. Thanks to the rhythmic sway of the ciranda and the street singers, I became a hopeful seventy-something. I come from where Lindu's boy appeared. From the jungles of the mandacaru cacti, the sun-kissed plains, the dawn with the sun already biting at the nape of the neck. There's no way around it, dear reader, I declare that my guide is the Northeastern imagination. We laugh even when we need to wield a knife. (There's no funnier Brazilian than my friend Ariano Suassuna, from Paraíba). I appreciate the tales of Virgulino, a bandit as bad as carrion, but who earned a doctorate in the Northeast and received the honorable title of captain in the Brazilian Army from the Duke of Caxias's men just to arrest the communist and see if this Prestes fellow was any good. Brazil is for those with their heads in the fire. The difference is that I was a rich kid and Lula lived in abject poverty in Caetés, next to Garanhuns, where Master Vitalino sculpted my brothers, the migrants, the peasants, the beings of nature, the lizard, the coral snake, the dog Baleia, and the birds. Northeasterners are a storytelling people, and if a fellow doesn't know how to tell stories to amuse himself, he's even more screwed. Aside from a few exceptions, it's our way to live life with high spirits, because you need to be tough to not lose your head dealing with the degrading mix of the drought-stricken region and the wickedness of those despicable landowners. And speaking of Pernambucans, there's no people who love Carnival as much. If any authority decides to ban the frevo, I guarantee you, there will be a revolution the next day. 

I'm bothered by Brazil's prim and proper attire, dressed ridiculously and masquerading as a madman. From the military, who have had many opportunities but have excelled in governments of absolute disregard for the homeland, I expect their usual cynicism. This isn't about encouraging disobedience, it's about warning that the opportunistic battalion owes explanations to civil society. Now, by the cursed hooks of infertility, I hope that the medal winners of past carnivals listen to the voice of history and move on, because today's communism is really just about doing business, sir! In the 64 coup, the coup plotters imprisoned people who were studying Russian. Much has already been written about the hatred that fascism harbors for knowledge and culture. Reading and writing is like love, a heavy drug. What has kept me alive all these years is my agony and my hope. Fortunately, the number one spot of "Lula 1" in the list of best-selling releases of 2021 cleansed my soul. So, hail, hail to Bébé, the spiritual leader who appeared to my mother assuring her that the duck would pay the price. 

When I decide to reminisce about the place I came from, I recite the verses of a former mayor of Poço Redondo, Sergipe, where the soldiers sent Lampião, Maria Bonita, and the gang of bandits to the fifth circle of hell. In Piranhas, Alagoas, on the banks of the São Francisco River, I spoke with an old man who claimed to have participated in the hunt. He assured me that they captured Maria Bonita and then strangled her, cutting her neck with a razor-sharp machete. In the Northeast, the tune is different; the common people aren't afraid of the police. This is immediately apparent in "Vidas Secas" by Nelson Pereira dos Santos and Graciliano Ramos. The migrant Fabiano could have killed the yellow-skinned man, but he took pity on him and facilitated the soldier's escape, who soiled himself in the undergrowth. So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to recite: "My name is Virgulino Ferreira Lampião. Gentle as a lamb. Brave as a lion. I bring the world to turmoil. My head is in the thunder."

Just a minute for a story I heard from one of the admirers of the "king of the cangaço" (bandits). They say that one day, in a bad mood, Virgulino invaded a farm and immediately forced everyone to take off their clothes. My God, that bunch of naked people dying of shame. Then Lampião yelled for everyone to start dancing. Poor guys immediately started dragging their sandals. Not satisfied, the Captain ordered everyone to stick their finger up their ass and suck it. One guy complained: "Damn it!". Then Virgulino showed his dagger and, red with rage, lunged: Damn what? Damn good, corrected the countryman, hurrying up in the xaxado (a type of dance). 

Geisel, who would have guessed, was the leader of the gang.

We begin with a cry of revolt stuck in our throats. Go to page 291; there, in my view, lies the most precious information in the book. Researcher Matias Spektor, from the Getúlio Vargas Foundation, sifting through material from the United States Central Intelligence Agency, found a report dated 1974 stating that former dictator Ernesto Geisel had told his successor, General João Batista Figueiredo, that "politics must continue, but great care must be taken to ensure that only dangerous subversives are executed." In other words, don't criticize Ivan Lessa for calling Brazil a banana republic. Geisel was our viceroy, loyal to the king of the United States who viewed us as if we were a banana republic.

Fernando Morais knows the secret to creating works that are loved. The author excels at the positive action of taking a stand in the process of transformation and renewal of Brazil. This Brazilianist has forged a unique linguistic tradition that expresses his disobedience and active political participation. I recognize his merit in obtaining destabilizing information. He speaks to diverse audiences. He is read and respected by the cream of opinion leaders. Certainly, the pearl that Matias Spektor unearthed is gold for grounding criticism and theses.

On each page, the author breaks with the prevailing currency of hypocrisy. Frame by frame, writer Fernando Morais bursts forth with sharp attacks, portraying Lula's greatness and wisdom. I say this based on a decision Lula made in the face of the avalanche of immoralities from the mainstream media: "I will govern without watching Globo, without reading Folha, Estadão, or Veja magazine." A glorious prediction: Lula left office with 87% approval.

I recall a statement attributed to Roberto Marinho, owner of Globo, who supposedly said that there are news stories that shouldn't be released to avoid panic, after all, there are crimes that Official History needs to conceal. I inject a first dose of this and transport myself to Recife to embrace the infamous philosopher and filmmaker Jomard Muniz de Britto who, in 2000 when Brazil was celebrating 500 years since its discovery, invented a delightful motto: "Brazil: 500 years of cover-up".

As I progressed through the printed feature film, I laughed so much that I'll take a short break to talk about the humor that permeates the book's 447 pages. My favorite is when Fernando Morais describes the indefatigable José Dilermando, "Ratinho," a milling machine operator at Ford. Ratinho was known for his bravery. Short, skinny, and a troublemaker. In one of his many arrests, Ratinho refused to be led to the police van by a military police officer. "To arrest me, a corporal has to come!" he shouted. "I'm not a vagrant to be arrested by a soldier!"

Personally, I believe in the crab test. They say that one day, a researcher placed several pairs of crabs from Bahia, Paraíba, Ceará, Pernambuco, Sergipe, Alagoas, Rio Grande do Norte, and Piauí in a basket. The crustaceans were to remain trapped in the basket for twenty-four hours. At the end of the day, they opened the basket. The first pair to emerge was from Ceará. Then the pair from Sergipe, and so on. The last to emerge, late at night, was the pair of crabs from Pernambuco because they had been fighting amongst themselves for a long time. Now, dear reader, tell me where the milling machine originated? Bingo! The pest is from Pernambuco, yes sir. And Ratinho's slogan was angry: "Brazil will only fix itself when the blood is hitting our shins."

This land is more mine than theirs.

In 2010, I decided to wander through small towns in the Brazilian Northeast to see my beloved old ladies crammed into those rickety buses carrying a bunch of chickens that the lovely women sold at the market. The trip lasted all year. I went to see firsthand what the Lula government had done for the people of my land. Of course, I also went to check out the forró music, the canjica (a type of sweet corn pudding), the quentão (a hot mulled wine), the joy of the people. I traveled by bus, in the back of trucks, on the backs of mules, in rented cars, in oxcarts, and took hundreds of motorcycle taxis – thank goodness to the motorcyclists crazy for a chat with the lively people of São Paulo. I have a tearful heart; poverty weighs heavily on my chest. In Canudos, I broke down, but not because of the poverty, but because of the great soul of the people there. As soon as I arrived, I went to the center and parked in the main square where I saw what I was looking for. My experience as a curious traveler pushed me towards the first beauty salon I came across. The hall was full, what a marvel! I chatted with the smiling, talkative people. The pretty girl said that the next day there would be a procession of the descendants of the dead from Belo Monte, Antônio Conselheiro's village. They fill the city streets singing Conselheiro's prayers and even his war cries. What a beautiful Brazil exists in Canudos. I stayed, more than a week. One day I will return to Canudos. A forward-thinking people. In the last presidential election, Haddad received 6.890 votes, Jair only 954. Canudos has a population of 16. On the day of my departure, I received a list of places where there was great abundance and celebration in heaven. I continued on my way. on the road A country bumpkin. Besides Canudos, I passed through Piranhas, Paulo Afonso, Serra Talhada, Areia, Buíque, Sapé, Canindé de São Francisco, Poço Redondo, São Cristóvão, Nova Cruz, Arcoverde, Caruaru, Bezerros, Angicos, Baía Formosa, Caicó, Lajes do Cabugi (Good morning, Professor Canindé!), Ceará Mirim, Floresta, Igarassu, Petrolina, and Juazeiro do Norte. For me, those were such festive days that, at every moment, my heart pounded, exclaiming that seeing my people happy made my passage through this dangerous, flawed world worthwhile.

In Poço Redondo, I conjugated the verb "to bandit" (cangaço). I took a motorcycle, rode along the São Francisco River, and soon arrived at the quarry where Lampião and his gang ambushed him. What a place to talk about Virgulino! Half speak ill of him, half, somewhat discreetly, sing praises to the king of the cangaço. The cordel beautifully portrays the celebration that took place in the heavens of these small places, where the people gathered in abundance and forró music, opening their arms and raising their voices: Lula, long live Lula, hail Lula!

Angicos was an exception. Charming people, but they looked at me with embarrassment. The ruling elite, the Alves family, were being humiliated. The assassination of Expedito Alves, the mayor of Angicos, a rooster breeder, a friend of the people back home, had shattered the local power structures. So I mingled with the young university students, the beauty of the sunsets, the pride of having hosted the first adult literacy courses using the Paulo Freire method, but soon the time came to move on. Compared to most small towns, instead of festivities, the people of Angicos were living on dimly. 

Fernando Morais and Lula had a plan. After turning the last page of the book, I was left with the joy of seeing biographer and subject heading towards the station of hope. Strictly speaking, it's Brazil that doesn't change stations. We remain a country of dependency and backwardness, retreating into the clogged drain of colonialism. I write these lines in agreement with the diagnosis presented in the book. Lula's idea is to free himself from the tutelage of imperialism. I looked to the horizon and saw a ray of sovereignty shining on the waters of the São Francisco River. For me, the author captured the best Lula there is: the Lula with the cooler on his head during a picnic with his wife, daughters-in-law, sons and daughters. My esteemed José Roberto Filippelli, former international director of Rede Globo, had a giant enlargement made and enthroned the poster on one of the walls of his apartment in São Paulo.

Fernando Morais provided shelter and food for the man from Pernambuco who became President twice. Within those 477 pages resides the greatest leader in the country's history. The author captures moments that demonstrate that, amidst the people, Lula's greatness grows immensely. I'll cite a special moment. On the day Lula was leaving prison, he was saying goodbye to everyone. “Hey Paranaguá, take that crap off your face, man! I want to see your face! Hey Polaco, thank you for everything! Goodbye, so-and-so, thank you very much! Bye, so-and-so, God be with you and give your wife a hug.” Well, dear reader, the prison guards and police officers tried, but couldn't hide their tears.

Living is indeed very dangerous. But “when everything is dark/ and nothing illuminates/ when everything is uncertain/ and you only doubt.../ It's time to start again/ start to BELIEVE again”. I bring here the young Bráulio Bessa, poet and cordel writer from Alto Santo, Ceará. The Northeasterner is above all a strong person, this truth was stated by Euclides da Cunha in the masterpiece called “Os Sertões”. May the Brazil aspired to by the sympathizers of the oneiric-dialectical ideology also be strong, isn't that right, dear Fernando?

To conclude this chapter of testing Lula's popularity, I experienced an artistic episode in the land of Padre Cícero, Juazeiro do Norte, Ceará. I had the address of a studio where a group of people had painted posters depicting Padre Cícero and Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva. By the grace of my white beard, it was as if I were in the Vatican Museum in an aesthetic trance. It was as if Lula and the miracle-working priest of Cariri were mass-producing happiness for the forró dancers.

Paulo Freire read Lula's palm.

I once wrote about the patron of Brazilian education: “Paulo Freire was a warm personality, tempered by the value of the truest emotions, a sensitive and good-humored guy. He was the undisputed leader of the Cultural Education Service team at the University of Recife – the SEC – of which I was a part at the age of seventeen, from 1961 until March 1964” (“The Blow to the Soul”, pg. 13, Pé-de-Chinelo Editorial, São Paulo, 2008).

I once read about the importance of the union in the life of former president Lula: “This was my school. Here I learned sociology, I learned economics, I learned physics, chemistry. And here I learned how to do a lot of politics, because when I was president of this union, the factories had 140 teachers who taught me how to do things.” (“Lula 1” pg. 58, Companhia das Letras, 2021). 

What impressed me most about Paulo Freire was his engagement with the future and his hope for the application of his adult education system. Paulo dreamed that one day he would live in a country where everyone read books and poems. In 1961, the professor was 40 years old. The first image that comes to mind is a photo of Paulo taken by photographer Ajax Pereira: the cigarette in his hand and that thoughtful expression of his that conveyed kind empathy. I share the value that the giant Cyro dos Anjos placed on time. I feel comfortable nurturing the illusion that Paulo is among us. And I say more: I extend this dream by adding another Pernambucan to the scene. Certainly, Lula would agree when Paulo proclaimed his credo: “Life in its totality has taught me as a great lesson that it is impossible to embrace it without risk. And that is how I live.”

I was fortunate enough to conduct Paulo's last interview before he went into exile. It was for the "Literacy Campaign" program, which I wrote and presented on University Radio, one of the arms of the Cultural Extension Service, whose director was Professor Paulo Freire, as the administrative assistant Plácido Mendes de Lima, a unique figure in Paulo Freire's achievements, used to say. Of course, I am influenced by my heart, but with each passing day, the mirage that Paulo Freire and Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva are the same person grows stronger within me.

I write this text with great nostalgia. Today is January 19, 2022, the birthday of one of my grandsons. I have no idea what might happen. Predicting is foolishness; the man from Minas Gerais, Tancredo Neves, used to say that politics is like a baby's bottom. The interview with Paulo was shortly before March 31, 1964, in the SEC auditorium, on Rua Gervásio Pires, very close to the IV Army barracks where he was humiliated, since the coup plotters' tactic consisted of arresting and releasing, arresting and releasing. This nightmare was so disturbing that Elza Freire swore to me that her husband would go into exile even if he had to dress as a Bahian woman. During the interview, Paulo smoked a lot. The coup was already blatant. When the recording ended, he asked Hugo Martins, the sound technician, to play the tape again. While smoking, he listened attentively to his answers. Paulo hugged us and asked for our opinion. We hugged him too. He waved to us and left abruptly. The professor preferred that Hugo and I not see him crying.

I can't separate myself from Recife. I used to travel there relatively frequently, but during the pandemic I preferred to retreat to the isolation of my waterfall property. Once, on a certain trip to my hometown, the plane made a stopover in Brasília where a dozen politicians boarded, among them, former Vice-President Marco Maciel. As the aircraft approached Recife, I stood up from my seat in the back and, pretending to speak into the microphone, shouted: "Marco Maciel is from ARENA, Marco Maciel is from ARENA!" Dear reader, the plane erupted in endless laughter. Of course, since Brazil is a medieval pigsty, I was assaulted on the ground. Marco Maciel's aides immediately took off my glasses and one of them threw a punch. But luckily, some people intervened to calm things down. On that same trip, I met a friend from old struggles. She had worked in the Popular Culture Movement and at the time was known for her radicalism. I remember we got drunk drinking pots of delicious malted milk in Old Recife. (They say the recipe is from Dutch Pernambuco). At the time of parting, she gave a hearty laugh and whispered in my ear: “Marcius, little has changed, little has changed.” In part, she is right. Letting my imagination run wild, I see Paulo reading Lula's palm. That was a vision, of course. But it was also a new lesson from the patron of Brazilian education. Paulo told us that the most important thing is to know this reality which is, simply, life. 

Sítio das Cachoeiras, SP. January, 2022.

(*) Marcius Cortez is a writer