Two Brazils: Transphobia and Transgender Politicians
The city councilor with the most votes in the city of Belo Horizonte's history. Photo courtesy of Duda Salabert.
Suits everywhere. One after another, the newly elected politicians strictly follow the stereotype: white men fill the hall of the city council with their calculated speeches. Suddenly, the noise of a woman's high heels steals the show: Duda Salabert entered the room.
2020 brought Salabert and 29 other transgender people into various government positions across Brazil. However, the country has a long history of exclusion that has discouraged many from becoming a part of these powerful institutions. For those minority outsiders who dare to run for office, Brazil’s democracy charges an expensive price. Political violence towards politicians who do not fit the societal norm is taken for granted.
In 2018, polarization and hate speech violated the core of Brazilian democracy. Bolsonarismo, the popular conservative ideology starring Jair Bolsonaro, resonated with voters nationwide and propelled Bolsonaro to the presidency. His platform, which did not include a plan for education or healthcare, represented a Brazil many tried to deny. Bolsonaro and his political allies openly embrace claims of fake news and scientific denialism. From sexual education to secularism, bolsonaristas fueled an intense backlash against key legislation and social improvements. Racism, misogyny, homophobia, and transphobia are alive in Brazil—despite what many citizens may believe—and these forces now have a powerful spokesperson.
Even in such an unfair playing field, some believe that it is possible to make politics a pedagogical tool able to mobilize and deliver hope. Amid a global pandemic, environmental crisis, and economic decline, a record number of transgender women ran under their chosen names for the first time. Only in 2018, the Supreme Court of Brazil ruled that the government can no longer require medical procedures or a judicial review for transgender people who want to change their name and gender marker on identification documents.
Duda Salbert, a literature teacher and transgender woman, embodies this historic time for the Brazilian LGBTQ+ community. Receiving more votes than any city councilor in the history of her city, Salabert is an environmental activist and strong proponent of social justice. When elected, diversity in her own cabinet was a priority which led her to invite other remarkable transwomen for her team. "For the majority of people, we are an aberration. They stoned us, quartered us," stated Amanda Rodrigues, Salabert's parliamentary advisor in an interview with the Columbia Political Review. A Black transgender woman, Rodrigues describes pervasive transphobia during her first months working in the city council.
Staff members in the noble hall of the council chamber. From left to right: Luciana Vasconcellos, Stefany Perret, Duda Salabert, and Amanda Rodrigues. Photo courtesy of Duda Salabert.
Brazil's most recent elections revealed significant support for marginalized communities. In both left-wing and right-wing parties, 2020 brought more descriptive representation (the degree to which policymakers resemble citizens) to legislative houses. Last year, 25 transgender people were elected to city councils—a 212% increase when compared to Brazil’s last municipal election. They not only won these seats but also received an overwhelming percentage of the vote. How can Bolsonarismo and mass electoral support for transgender people coexist in the same country? Are there two different Brazils?
According to Salabert, this contradiction is a mirror of Brazil. Her campaign was able to engage over 500 volunteers and garner 37,613 votes. The great electoral victory, however, came with hate messages and death threats. In one email, the attacker also swore to invade a private school that Salabert had worked at for 12 years: "I will wait for classes to come back and I will kill every student. Then, I will kill you."
Brazilian transphobia is not simply a harmful form of prejudice. It is synonymous with extreme violence. According to the Trans Murder Monitoring Project, Brazil is, by far, the country that kills the most transgender people worldwide. The stories behind this statistic are even worse. Alex, an 8-year-old trans girl, was beaten to death by her own father because he wanted to "teach her how to act like a man" after she started to wear female-clothing. Erica, a 14-year-old trans girl who entered prostitution, was shot to death. Vanessa, another 14-year-old, received threats and fled to her grandmother's house. She was found strangled in March of 2014.
Violence and discrimination against transgender people starts in childhood and compounds with age. Trans Brazilians are deprived of economic opportunities. They are unable to access quality public healthcare. They even have to fight for the right to use the bathroom. Without any financial support or prospective job, many become homeless. They frequently do not have access to opportunities and, to survive, often turn to sex work. The Brazilian Association of Transvestites and Transsexuals estimates that 90% of transgender people in Brazil work in the sex industry at some point. "Those who consume our bodies are the same ones who kill us," Rodrigues said during our interview. A sex worker herself, Rodrigues explained how some of her friends were killed by their clients. "They felt guilty—killing us serves as a form of exoneration," she added. The cycle of exclusion, poverty, and sexual assault or homicide is a tragic and familiar story.
A global map of reported murders of transgender individuals. Photo courtesy of the Trans Murder Monitoring Project.
2020 became historic not only due to the COVID-19 crisis but also because sectors of Brazil's civil society might have started to recognize transphobia as another profound humanitarian crisis. For the first time, many saw how transgender people suffer violent attacks on a daily basis. Transgender candidates were, in the public eye, fighting for their right to live. Citizens around the country were willing to vote for trans people. These candidates across Brazil won elections despite suffering political violence during campaigns and, for a huge majority, lacking financial resources to mobilize voters. "For me, the candidacy was never a goal, but the culmination of daily struggles and battles," Salabert stated. These campaigns have led Brazilians to demand gender diversity and intersectionality in institutional politics. When your existence is a rebellion against systems of oppression and exclusion, your life is a political act.
Although last year was an important step towards transgender representation, Bolsonarismo and transphobia are certainly still present. In 2011, Bolsonaro declared that he would prefer to have a dead son than a gay one. For Bianca Biancardi, a transgender woman who ran unsuccessfully for mayor and identifies as a bolsonarista, there is no contradiction in her political narrative. The former candidate believes that Bolsonaro's transphobic comments and legislation no longer represent the president. Conversely, as reported by research published at Folha de S. Paulo, 76% of transgender people considered that the violence against them increased significantly after Bolsonaro's presidential election. The president, through his discriminatory comments, both explicitly and implicitly encourages violent behavior. Now, his electorate can blindly justify their actions as never before.
Biancardi's example is indicative of prejudice deeply ingrained into Brazilian politics—even transgender people are susceptible. Transphobia is so naturalized that it goes unnoticed and denied by many, sometimes even to those who suffer from it. "We live with transphobia so much that we start to emanate it," confessed Rodrigues when advocating for the need for trans-awareness. "I did not love myself because no one gave me affection." Transphobia and trans politicians can only co-exist if people ignore the brutal reality trans people live in. Everyone, no matter their identities, is prone to hateful and populist ideologies such as Bolsonarismo.
Duda Salabert views her historic election as a cry of resistance and an answer to Bolsonarismo. "It is about resignifying transsexuality," Salabert stated. She sees her time in office as a tool to change the harsh reality trans people experience in Brazil. From creating legislation to hiring transwomen for her own team, Salabert is working towards a more equitable employment landscape for the trans community. Nonetheless, the impact of diversity in politics is more surprising than one might expect. These transgender elected officials are only a first step to ensure that others will have a chance to occupy the same spaces. Still, these election results show progress in the journey of making the Brazilian congress a reflection of its people, with all backgrounds, identities, and demographics represented.
Salabert’s staff sits for a meeting, Photo courtesy of Duda Salabert.
Spaces of power across Brazil informally segregate those who work cleaning or maintaining these facilities. In a country known for its hospitality and warmth, people in janitorial roles are taught to be invisible. "They need to go in mute and leave quietly. Otherwise, they lose their jobs," said Rodrigues. After Salabert's election, the city council saw a significant change in its cultural norms. As women who hold an innate understanding of marginalization, the elected official and her team make a point of greeting and talking to everyone who works at the council. At first, she says that there was a certain strangeness but in a short time the atmosphere changed. The true “Brazilian spirit” appeared, maintained Salabert. One day, Rodrigues mentioned, a member of the cleaning staff expressed apprehension in asking if the books on display in the cabinet could be borrowed. "She wanted to read but she could not afford to buy books. So, we arranged random books in the first library of the City Council."
Local politics have a direct impact on everyone's lives, sometimes more immediate than expected. This office provides the need to make spaces of power increasingly inclusive and participatory. By merely occupying a space of political power, Salabert and her team represent a possibility—an entirely trans staff is no longer an unimaginable feat. "We send a message that this is a place for everyone. We change the deeply rooted idea that being transgender is a disease. We transform the narrative," concluded Salabert.
Luiza Vilanova is a freshman at Columbia College studying Political Science and Public Health. When she is not talking about Brazilian politics or social entrepreneurship, Luiza can be found roller skating on College Walk.