It is cloudy where the Impeachment lives

It is a cool, cloudy summer, the summer they approved Brexit, and I don’t know what I am doing in Europe. I could say that it is only fate, something which could happen to anyone by coincidence. As I was under some anesthesia effect, I went to work by train, looking at people’s faces, facing the life going on while thousands of miles under the Tropic of Cancer my people struggle and cry for our first woman president — who was impeached by a handful of white men last night. Against 54 million votes which elected her. Day for me, night for them. I am always 5 hours ahead in Sweden and always start talking with my friends in Brazil by saying ‘Hello from the future’. Today I said nothing. Neither them. I scrolled down my cell phone screen and it was like a drop of blood coming out from each sad or angry post I read. People were attacked by the police in São Paulo after some politic manifestations in the streets, only a few hours after the impeachment was achieved. And I can tell you, my dear friends: it looks like a coup, it stinks like a coup, it was meticulously developed as a coup. What would it be? Yes, a coup.

Dilma Roussef, who was one of the bravest militants against the Brazilian dictatorship in the 70’s, who even along 22 days of torture sessions hasn’t given her comrade’s names to the military force, faced 14 hours of non-proved accusations this week. She answered one by one, non-stop. Her speech was crystal clear, showing her passionate commitment with transparency and her fierce attitude while most of us, in her place, would just cry in fetal position. If there is only thing I could say about Dilma is: she is the bravest person I had seen on a politician chair in my country. I have my own critics about many bad decisions she has taken, of course, but still cannot ignore that she has never countenanced her impeachment as a failure. She leaves with her head held high.

It is a silly feeling when you have this bitter taste in your mouth but you cannot share the hardship with people around you. Physically around you. Lucky me, I will meet my Brazilian friends tonight and I may cry or just laugh because we will have some beers and we will forget for some moments and we will just be a happy immigrant table in a random bar and we will celebrate our friend’s birthday and… It looks like a pain to be forgotten, it smells like a hurt to be healed, and it is carefully made to stay hidden under our semblance. It is a coup.

It is winter in Brazil. Curiously it is the same temperature here and there.

Curiously, politics seems cloudy here and there.

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