By PAULO CAPEL NARVAI*
Hostages of Bolsonaro supporters, we passengers were observed with curiosity, like animals in a zoo.
To vote in the second round for Fernando Haddad, candidate for governor of São Paulo, I boarded a bus from Brasília to São Paulo late in the afternoon of Friday, October 28, 2022. That was the beginning of an episode that would leave me hostage, for about five hours, of a pro-Bolsonaro command that blocked Via Anhanguera, in Limeira.
As events unfolded, I found myself in the departure lounge at Goiânia airport on the evening of Tuesday, November 1st, alongside the elite leaders who were politically leading – and economically supporting – the chaos on the highways throughout Brazil, following Lula's victory as president of the Republic.
The outward journey was smooth. Voting in São Paulo was smooth too. But the return journey, which was supposed to start at 10am on Monday, only started in the evening.
Those were two tense days; the nights, of infamy.
Just after leaving São Paulo, the bus was traveling in the darkness of the night and everything seemed fine. Until, suddenly, the speed slowed down a lot, the highway was left behind and there were successive changes in direction. I realized that something was strange, because the lights coming from the houses and streetlights were shining through the cloth curtains on the bus windows. We were in a city, which I imagined to be Campinas, assuming that passengers would still be boarding. But the bus continued winding through the streets and there was no bus station. Without understanding what was happening, but lost in good thoughts, I put the strangeness aside, certain that everything would soon return to normal.
The good thoughts were about my father, who had been dead for over thirty years. Through these unfathomable mysteries of the mind, I remembered, at that moment, the day he stepped onto the grass of the soccer field where Mané Garrincha was also playing, already retired from professional soccer and performing in exhibitions in the interior of Brazil. My father and Garrincha played for a short time, no more than thirty minutes each.
But those few minutes were enough for the subject to stay with us for the rest of my father’s life. “The day we played against Garrincha’s team…” he would say, jokingly – and acknowledging that he had always been “a bit of a limp” when it came to playing soccer. But he would make fun of his friends, talking about the game against Garrincha. One time, a friend of his said that he had played against Pelé, when he was still a boy, in Bauru. So, as you can imagine, the conversation got very lively. I remembered these stories, which eased my longing for him, and I seemed to float in the bus seat. Memories that did me good.
I was thinking about this, peacefully and almost fainting from sleep when, suddenly, the light coming from outside to inside increased and the bus stopped. We were about 100 meters from Via Anhanguera – as I realized minutes later.
The passenger cabin door opened and the driver announced: “We had to stop because the Via Anhanguera is blocked. No one can get through. I was told on my cell phone that several trucks had crossed the road. We are in Limeira. Wait a moment while I go see what is happening and I will be right back.”
The door remained open and several passengers got out behind the driver, including me. I got out and began to observe the others who were outside and those who were getting out. There were several elderly people, children being held by their parents, and a pregnant woman with a huge belly. Soon the passengers formed a circle around the driver and three people approached from this circle and separated from a larger group that was gathered on the side of the Anhanguera Road.
When he saw the men approaching, the driver asked something I couldn’t understand. A short man, who seemed to be leading the group maintaining the blockade, announced: “You can’t go any further than this. Do you see those up ahead?” he asked, pointing to a line of trucks and cars parked on both sides of the avenue. “They also tried to break through the blockade in the city, but they were caught here. Now, they’re going to stay here. You’re not going to leave here either.”
When I got off the bus I realized that we were stopped on an avenue that connects the city to the highway and I deduced that the driver, noticing or having been informed of the various roadblocks that closed Via Anhanguera, tried to take a detour through the central area of Limeira. But his strategy didn't work.
Those accompanying the short, thin man didn't say a word. Their function seemed to be simply to protect the guy leading the action.
The driver sought dialogue and, faced with his insistence, made another announcement, demonstrating strength: “No, no. Neither forward nor backward – he said in response to the driver who asked if he could turn the bus around and go back – It is blocked and no one is leaving from here”.
Upon hearing this, several passengers spoke up at the same time, creating a sense of confusion.
“I already said that you won’t leave. You won’t leave today or tomorrow. You’ll only leave here in less than 72 hours, if the commander authorizes it. We are defending freedom, our rights and the future of our children!” he said, almost shouting.
– Commander? Which commander?
“The PR is our commander. We only accept orders that come from him.”
When I heard “PR”, from “President of the Republic”, I immediately realized that we were in the hands of a Bolsonarist command, willing to do whatever it took to reject the results of the polls, announced the night before by the Electoral Court.
The short, thin and aggressive man, apparently, was speaking on behalf of the coup command that was blocking the highway.
A passenger pointed to the pregnant woman who, standing there in astonishment, seemed in disbelief at what was happening to her and asked what to do if something happened to her. Someone else commented, trying to make the “PR man” more aware: “This bus is going to Brasília. But from there, she and her husband will still catch another bus to the interior of Tocantins.” Another said that there were people on the bus who needed to take medication and that, for this, there was a specific time.
– And if someone gets sick or dies, who will be held responsible? – I asked.
The short, thin, aggressive and authoritarian man gave me a threatening glare: “Are you a PT supporter? Are you a Lula supporter? Because if there are any PT supporters on this bus…”
“Calm down, calm down, sir,” a passenger said. “There are no PT supporters here. We are passengers and we just want to know what to do if someone gets sick. We have been on this trip since 10 a.m. Many of us haven’t even had lunch, we only have a snack, and the bus hasn’t stopped for dinner yet. So there are people here who are hungry. And we don’t have any water.”
The short, thin, aggressive, authoritarian man, with no experience in dealing with situations like the one he had helped create, was confused by the questions, but assured them that he would send snacks and soft drinks right away. He turned his back on the group of passengers and disappeared among the cars, trucks, motorcycles and onlookers who had come to see what was happening. Among the onlookers, riding their motorcycles with green and yellow flags and Jair Bolsonaro stickers, were many residents of nearby neighborhoods who, wearing Brazilian national team shirts and the campaign shirts of the defeated candidate in the second round, joined the road blockers.
Hostages of Bolsonaro supporters, we passengers were observed with curiosity, like animals in a zoo.
Resigned, several passengers returned to the bus. I remained outside, took some photos and started recording a video on my cell phone. When they noticed the recording, some passengers asked me to stop, because “they might not like it. And they might even take away their cell phones.” They were right. I stopped.
The warning had the same meaning as others I had heard so many times when I was a university student in Curitiba in the 1970s, when I attended student movement meetings. “No taking photos. And don’t let anyone take your picture.” The suffocating feeling of being in an environment deprived of freedom was exactly the same. The imminent threat that something bad could happen at any moment was identical. The perception that someone had control over you, and that your room to react was small, was equally frightening. More than four decades later, I was once again immersed in a situation similar to the one I had found myself in several times under the damned dictatorship.
I was afraid and, once again, I felt afraid. The short, thin, aggressive, authoritarian, inexperienced and ignorant man was ready to resolve the electoral defeat of “the PR”, the only one from whom he accepted orders. There was no possibility of dialogue, of argument. If I “were Lula’s”, I should have been prepared for the worst.
It seemed to me that the inside of the bus was a better place to wait the 72 hours, or until the moment when “the commander authorizes” the unblocking of the road. I settled into my seat, thinking about the clashes that have taken place in the fight for democracy. It was unbelievable to me that this short, thin, aggressive, authoritarian, inexperienced, ignorant and fanatical man would argue to the passengers of that bus that what he and his cronies were doing there, at that moment, blocking that and dozens of other important highways throughout the country, was the “defense of freedom”, “rights” and “the future of our children!”
It hurt me to see that, among the passengers, some were mumbling words of agreement, such as “that’s right”, “very good” – there were, among the passengers, cretins as infamous as the fundamentalist in the service of “the PR” and his accomplices.
Half an hour later, sandwiches arrived on sliced bread, with slices of cheese and mortadella. And little bottles of water.
Almost three hours later, the driver was authorized to maneuver the bus and head to a gas station where there was a restaurant, on the banks of Via Anhanguera, so that passengers could have dinner. He was ordered to remain there, “until further notice.”
At the station, several passengers gave up on the trip, as they managed to find accommodation in hotels in Limeira, or had the help of friends who lived in the city.
It was past midnight when the driver announced that he would continue the journey, as Via Anhanguera had been opened to some buses and ours was one of them.
This story began for me in Brasília, on the evening of Sunday, October 2, 2022, when the Superior Electoral Court announced that there would be a second round in São Paulo. Since I retired from the University of São Paulo, I practically moved to Brasília. However, while I still have many activities in São Paulo, including at USP, where I continue to collaborate as a senior professor, I maintained my electoral domicile in Butantã, the neighborhood where my daughter lives.
In the 2022 elections, I had two hopes that were frustrated: that Lula would be elected in the first round and that there would be no second round in São Paulo. In the first round, I voted “in transit” in the Federal District and thought that my role as a voter in that election would end there. I was wrong. Resigned, I decided to go to São Paulo to vote for my candidates.
On the evening of Sunday, October 30, I celebrated Lula's victory and lamented the unfortunate decision of the voters of São Paulo regarding the president of Palácio dos Bandeirantes. On the morning of Monday, October 31, I took the bus back home, still stewing in my sadness over Fernando Haddad.
However, I never reached the final destination of that trip by bus.
After several stops between Limeira and Goiânia, where passengers were leaving the bus, less than a dozen of us arrived at the Goiânia bus terminal, around noon on Tuesday, November 1st. I believed that the trip would continue, but the company employee was adamant: “You have to get off. The trip ends here. Do you have any luggage?”
I replied that I only had my backpack, but that my ticket was to Brasília.
“I’m sorry, but the bus won’t be able to continue. There are about 15 blockades in Anápolis and the company’s order is to hold the bus here in Goiânia. You have to get off and see what to do.”
I waited for my cell phone battery to charge and called home. My family hadn't heard from me since Limeira. I did the math, bought a plane ticket and went to the airport. The plane would leave early in the evening.
In the departure lounge, I was immediately struck by the number of groups of men, chattering and smiling, some with unmistakable expressions of celebration. Suspicious of what was causing the almost festive atmosphere, which contrasted with the tension on the roads and avenues near the airport, with noisy groups of Jair Bolsonaro supporters invading part of the lanes and disrupting traffic, I approached one of those groups.
Without bothering anyone around him, probably certain that everyone there shared his opinion, a man was beaming about the situation of the road closures in some states. “We’re getting there,” he celebrated. The conversation continued with the other speakers reporting on the closures of other highways in several states. I reacted with disgust and walked away.
I finally arrived home around 23pm.
In the days that followed, I tried to find out about the blockades and wanted to forget that trip and the troubles. When I learned about the indifference of several military commanders to the camps in front of barracks in various parts of Brazil, about the support of others for the chaos to try to prevent the inauguration of the president-elect, and about the terrorist attack that aimed to explode bombs in the departure area of Brasília airport, I understood that the short, fanatical man from Limeira was not one, but thousands throughout Brazil. And they were capable of everything that fanaticism is capable of.
Then came January 8, 2023, and the most serious non-military aggression against the Brazilian Republic, its symbols and the Democratic Rule of Law. Two months before, I felt on my face the horrible breath of the fascist monster that created and attacked it.
*Paulo Capel Narvai is senior professor of Public Health at USP. Author, among other books, of SUS: a revolutionary reform (authentic). [https://amzn.to/46jNCjR]
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