Priberam Dictionary of Portuguese Language:
Livre
(L. liber, -‐era, -‐erum)
adj.
1. Que goza de liberdade. / That enjoys freedom. 2. Independente. / Independent.
3. Que não tem peias. / Without ties.
4. Que pode dispor de si. / That can make use of itself. 5. Que está em liberdade. / That is in freedom.
6. Salvo (do perigo). / Saved (from danger). 7. Isento. / Immune.
8. Desimpedido, desobstruído. / Unimpeded, unblocked. 9. Desembaraçado. / Free of complication.
10. Que não está ocupado. / That is not busy.
11. Não comprometido ou obrigado. / Not compulsory or obligatory.
12. Que não está ligado por vínculos matrimoniais. / Not tied by matrimonial links. 13. Não proibido. / Not forbidden.
14. Não monopolizado. / Not monopolized. 15. Espontâneo. / Spontaneous.
16. Licencioso. / Libertine.
17. Descomedido. / Without limits. adv.
18. Com liberdade. / With freedom. s. m. / subj. masc.
19. [Desporto] Punição que consiste na passagem da bola à equipe que sofreu falta. / [Sport] Punishment that gives the ball to the team that suffered a fault.
The samba of Livre/Freeness:
Quem está livre? / Who is free? Eu sou livre! / I am free!
Você é livre, meu filho! / You are free, my son!
Bandidos não são completamente livres / Bandits are not completely free Livre da justiça / Free from the Justice
Livres da Rocinha / Free from Rocinha Solteiro, ainda livre! / Single, still free!
De livre e espontânea vontade / Out of free and spontaneous will Deus me livre! / God free me!
Livre de todo mal / Free from all evil Livre para pedir / Free to ask
Gosto de gastar livre / I like to spend freely Livre do preceito / Free from precept Consciência livre / Free conscience Ao ar livre / Al fresco
Correndo livre / Running free Tempo livre / Free time Sentir-‐se Livre / To feel free
Livre mas totalmente dominado / Free but totally dominated Mais livre / Freer
Verdadeiramente livre / Truly free Livre para escolher / Free to choose Mente livre / Free mind
Tão livre / So free, as free
Este país é livre / This country is free
The parade of Livre/Freeness:
Quem está livre? / Who is free?
On the bus to Complexo do Alemão, we were telling jokes and laughing for most of the journey. I really liked to spend time with the students of this state initiative, although at that time I had only known them for a few weeks. They were mostly teenagers from Rocinha with an interest in photography. The educational project aimed to teach residents of four favelas – Rocinha, Pavão-‐Pavãozinho-‐ Cantagalo, Manguinhos and Complexo do Alemão – how to use professional cameras as a way of registering the changes that the PAC (Programa de Aceleração do Crescimento / Growth Acceleration Project) was promoting in these four “communities”. Lula had launched PAC during his second mandate as the Brazilian president (2006-‐2010). Lilica was on board the bus with us too. She was unemployed at the time. Lilica had been born and raised in Rocinha and worked very hard in order to get a university degree in journalism. She was unemployed and disappointed. Although, later in the year she did find different jobs, not all of them were related to journalism. Lilica had told me that she felt that the word “comunidade” (community) was an interesting, appropriate, way to talk about a favela because for her there was indeed a sense of unity around people living “como-‐unidade” (as-‐unity) in Rocinha. The focus on the word community brought to my mind Turner’s (1969) concept of “communitas” as the experience of togetherness. Lilica often told me about the stigma and also the joy of being a “favelada”, a favela dweller. Many years earlier, I had read a book by Carolina Maria de Jesus (1994) called “Child of the Dark” that was a groundbreaking piece published in the 1960s and supposed to be the first book ever published by a favela dweller in Brazil. In a form of a diary, the book described the “realities” of life in a favela. Her comments reminded me of this book. I told Lilica that I felt safe
with these young guys, that it was weird for me because security had been such a major concern preceding my research and perhaps I had never felt so safe in Rio de Janeiro as when with them. She smiled and said: “I understand you. Actually, when you look at the way some people that I know live in condomínios (gated communities) in Barra da Tijuca, it makes me think of that song by O Rappa called “Minha Alma (My Soul)”. Do you know this song?” She concluded: “Cara, quem está livre? (Dude, who is free?)”
Minha Alma / My Soul (Autor/Author: Marcelo Yuka)
A minha alma tá armada e apontada / My soul is armed and pointed para cara do sossego! / to tranquillity’s face!
Pois paz sem voz, paz sem voz / Because peace without voice Não é paz, é medo! / Is not peace, it is fear!
As vezes eu falo com a vida, / Sometimes I talk to life, As vezes é ela quem diz: / Sometimes it is life that says:
"Qual a paz que eu não quero conservar / “What is the peace that I don’t want to keep
Prá tentar ser feliz?" / To try to be happy”
As grades do condomínio / The bars of the gated communities São prá trazer proteção / Are meant to bring protection Mas também trazem a dúvida / But they also bring the doubt
Se é você que tá nessa prisão / Whether it is you who is in the prison (...)
I continued attending the PAC photography course with their meetings every Tuesday and some Thursdays in the afternoon in Rocinha. Some days we would also take busses and go to different favelas. On the 17th of March 2009, one
of the guys in the course got a bit sad and blue in the afternoon. We tried to talk to him about his sadness and he told us that a friend of his had just died in Rocinha
hit by a stray bullet, calibre 0.30. The other guys got quiet too. Eduardo said: “We have to hold on to God!” And the others kept quiet. He proceeded: “Ninguém está livre dessas coisas, né, cara? Quem está livre? Ninguém está livre! (No-‐one is free from these things, right dude? Who is free? Nobody is free!)” And I remembered my fears, my friends, and my family back in Goiânia, in the central region of Brazil. They would always say how dangerous Rio de Janeiro was, that stray bullets were killing people everywhere, bullets everywhere, bullets coming from the constant conflicts between the police and traffickers. They said that just to visit Rio was such a big risk, let alone go into a favela! It was as if stray bullets were the rule rather than exception. Menem broke the silence that day in March and said: “Não tem bala perdida, tem bala achada! É raro, cara! (There is no such thing as stray bullets, there are found bullets! They are rare, dude!)” And people in the room burst out laughing.
Eu sou livre! / I am free!
On the 23rd of January 2010, I was about 2,100Km away from the city of Rio
de Janeiro. Amélia, Maria Beatriz, and I had gone to spend a few weeks in Guaraciaba do Norte in Ceará State, in northeast Brazil. There, while walking around town I saw a woman wearing an old blue t-‐shirt, with a few holes in it. It said in capital white letters: “EU SOU LIVRE PARA AMAR A DEUS! (I AM FREE TO LOVE GOD!)” And that made me miss my friend Francielle back in Rocinha who once told me that her pastor asked them to repeat this very same message during their Sunday services. Francielle’s parents were both migrants from Ceará too.
I used to be a volunteer at the Many Friends Institute (MFI), teaching Basic English to some young adults from Rocinha. Months before I left for Ceará, Francielle told me during one of our conversations at the MFI: “I remembered you last night, Moises!” Francielle, Armando, and I lived on the same alleyway. She continued: “Did you hear it during the night? Did you hear it?” Armando said: “I
think I know what it is! I also heard it!!!” – and he smiled. “What is it?” – I said. Francielle then looked at me and put on a different voice, one of an angry woman: “Eu não sou sua escrava! Tá ouvindo? Eu sou livre! Livre!!! (I am not your slave! Do you hear me? I am free! Free!!!)” And for a second I was not sure what was going on. Had I done something wrong? Armando laughed. He said: “Yes, this woman was out of control last night! She was walking down our alleyway and shouting at this drunken guy walking behind her! She was really mad at him!!! How come you did not hear them fighting? You better take notes about this woman because she kept shouting: Eu sou livreeeeeee! (I am freeeeeee!) Sure you didn’t hear it?”
Another day at MFI, Auro said: “Sometimes I think I shock the gringo volunteers, don’t you think, Moises? Especially that Canadian guy, Ian! Acho que ele fica chocado de ver como eu sou livre! (I think he is shocked to see how free I am!)” And then Auro started moving his body as a very sensual woman would do and walked around until he walked out of MFI. Auro had told me before that he was about to become a travesti when he was younger but now the idea no longer appealed to him. He liked to be a “bicha-‐boy”. And I knew what he meant because Priscilla had once explained to me that “bicha-‐boy é um viado que veste roupa de homem (bicha-‐boy is a gay guy that wears male clothing)”.
A couple of weeks later, Auro invited me for a coffee at this Portuguese bakery in Rocinha. On our way up to the place, he was making me laugh putting on funny faces and different voices to call the attention of people on the streets. At one point he paused for a moment near a foul-‐smelling rubbish dump on Boiadeiro Street. He lifted his white tight fitted t-‐shirt and showed me both of his brown nipples. Meanwhile, he put on an even thinner voice and said: “Eu sou livre, meu bem! (I am free, darling!)” And walked away ahead of me towards the bakery. A few months later I heard Auro calling me outside the window of my house. He said he would have to come back later on to talk to me. He complained that he was tired, he had worked too much last night at the Ferrington Hotel as a waiter: “Bicha, isso é escravidão! Pelo menos eu sou extra e sendo extra eu sou livre para reclamar com o gerente! (Fairy, this is slavery! At least I am just temporary at the
hotel and being temporary staff I am free to complain to the manager!) And I do complain!”
Mazinho’s mother also liked to complain about life sometimes. She was in her fifties and had come to Rio de Janeiro from Sergipe State in the northeastern part of Brazil. She moved to Rocinha to be able to live with Mazinho’s father without a “proper” marriage. “The first time I put my feet in a favela was because of my love for that man!” – she used to say. The couple separated the day she found out that Mazinho’s father was keeping a second family. On that day she got so angry at him that she tried to beat him up. She was furious. But she managed to live without him and he ended up having many other women. Recently, he ended up having two other children with yet another woman. Mazinho invited me to have lunch at his place, a two-‐storey house much further up the hill than my own. What a beautiful view of Rocinha, and the sea, they had from their rooftop! Mazinho and his mother lived alone. Mazinho was complaining about his bad luck with men over lunch. His mother then said: “Eat more rice, Moises!” And soon after, she also said: “You know what? I don’t cheat on anyone! I hate betrayal”. Mazinho smiled somewhat awkwardly as she continued saying with a semi-‐naughty face: “Se tiver solteira eu pego uns por aí porque sou livre, né? Mas não traio! (If I am single I mess around because I am free, right? But I don’t cheat!)” And Mazinho turned to me: “É verdade, ela não trai! (It is true, she doesn’t cheat!)”
From my house I had no view of the sea. The easiest way to get to the sea was to walk down my alleyway, turn right, then left and walk down the length of Valão Street. Then I had to turn right and walk down all the way up to the corner of the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God (UCKG). Then I had to turn left, go underneath a viaduct and turn right at FIAT, the big car shop. Walking for another few blocks past the big buildings in the neighbourhood of São Conrado I would soon reach Hotel International. After that, while crossing the road I could already start smelling the ocean and soon I would feel the sand under my feet. As we got to the beach one August afternoon, we met Larinha, a red haired travesti that I knew but was not really friends with. My neighbours who were with me joined Larinha
and her other friends. As we sunbathed, Larinha told us stories about her time as a prostitute in Quinta da Boa Vista, the same area where Museu Nacional is located in Rio de Janeiro. She told us about the rush of blood she used to feel every time she took that bus towards Quinta da Boa Vista, the pleasure of not knowing what would happen throughout the night. Being a prostitute was tough, she said. But sometimes tough was good. I asked her if her family did not mind it, if they were not worried about her. She replied: “Minha mãe sabe de tudo que eu faço! Não tenho podres, sou livre, meu bem! (My mother knows everything that I do! I have no dirty secrets, I am free, my darling!)” Larinha was working as a hairdresser at a salon in Rocinha when I met her. She told me that she was not making enough money “batalhando” (working as a prostitute) in Quinta da Boa Vista. At the beach, Larinha’s body in the bikini showed no signs of her penis, something that all my neighbours remarked on after we left the beach.
Você é livre, meu filho! / You are free, my son!
Dona Ninha was the matriarch of a strict evangelical family. On her face one would almost always find a loving smile, although she was also an angry woman and she liked to cry. One day we were talking by the doorsteps of her house, just Dona Ninha and myself. She was telling me about her childhood and about this one friend of hers that she cannot forget. Just like her husband, this friend was also called José. “But his nickname was Zé da Boneca (Doll Ze)” – she said. “Oh, how I miss him, Moises! Zé da Boneca… always with his doll under his right arm. He would come to see me in my house in Ceará everyday. When my mother would let me play a bit it was with him that I liked to be. I liked him even more than playing with other girls. Zé da Boneca was very sweet and he loved his doll just like a mother loves a daughter. He used to make dresses for his doll and would often give me some doll clothes too. He was very good at making doll dresses. Beautiful colourful dresses! He was very sweet but had a very tough life, you know? His
family didn’t like him, they never did. They never accepted his love for the dolls. One day Zé left his home and never returned. I remember that day so well. I cried so much. My friend was gone! I only heard from Zé again many years later, he had been working as a professional dressmaker in São Paulo and was able to make a living by himself. Because of his high-‐quality work, years later he was invited to work abroad. Zé moved to Paris and once in a while he would still call me and we would talk for a long time on the phone. Oh, my friend Zé da Boneca! I will never forget him. One day by surprise he showed up in Rocinha. He told me his family never accepted his love for the dolls. Zé died some years ago. And I still remember our dolls holding hands and wearing those beautiful dresses. Why? Why did they hate him? Moises, listen to me, my son: Você é livre para ser o que quiser, tá, meu filho! (You are free to be whatever you want, ok, my son!)” And she warmly hugged me, smiled and her eyes filled up with tears.
Bandidos não são completamente livres / Bandits are not completely free
To get to the classroom that was used for the PAC photography course in Rocinha, we had to go a long way uphill through some very narrow alleyways. As we passed a narrow open air sewer and climbed up some more twisted cement staircases we came to the entrance of a white building that was also used as a venue for other state funded educational projects in Rocinha. Everyday before the PAC course instructor arrived, the group members used to sit and talk about many things. On the 5th of March 2009, one of the topics was trafficking. Eduardo said
that for him “to deal drugs was simply wrong because it was against both God’s law and human law”. He said that the work itself was probably very unpleasant as a trafficker anyway. And he kept talking at me and to the other students while we waited in the sun-‐boiling room: “Look, you have money as a bandit but you cannot enjoy life! What is the point? Traffickers have to be constantly worried about being