‘We are many’: Indigenous candidates aim to transform Brazil politics

Clad in a feathered collar, Romancil Gentil Kretã took to a small stage in Brazil’s capital earlier this year as thousands of Indigenous people watched on. Mr. Kretã has dedicated his life to advocating for Indigenous rights, and by launching a bid for political office he said he now hoped to bring that fight to the halls of power.

“For me, it’s a new moment, it’s a new challenge,” said Mr. Kretã, a member of the Kaingang people, announcing his plans to run for Paraná state legislature. “I have a commitment to the Indigenous cause.”

Mr. Kretã’s father was Brazil’s first Indigenous city councilor, killed in 1980 for defending Indigenous lands. Violence against Indigenous people hasn’t let up since, but observers say it has intensified over the past four years under far-right populist President Jair Bolsonaro, who is up for reelection on Oct. 2.

Mr. Kretã believes Brazil is now on the brink of a new dawn. His political bid is part of a record number of Indigenous people running in this weekend’s elections – 180 candidates competing for seats at the federal and state level – in response to assaults on Indigenous rights in recent years and in an effort to transform Indigenous representation in politics. In 2020, some 182 Indigenous activists were killed here, the highest toll on record, according to figures from the Missionary Council for Indigenous Peoples.

“We have seen attacks on Indigenous communities intensify since 2018,” when Mr. Bolsonaro took office, says Luisa Molina, an anthropologist and consultant at the Instituto Socioambiental who investigates illegal mining on Indigenous lands.

But, we’re also seeing “the Indigenous movement gaining force,” she says. “These candidacies are an expression of this new strength.”

The “headdress lobby”

Mr. Bolsonaro is an enthusiastic supporter of developing the Amazon rainforest, pushing to open Indigenous reserves to mining, ranching, and agriculture during his time in office. He gutted agencies tasked with protecting Indigenous people, while vowing not to shield “another centimeter” of Indigenous land from development.

“Before, the rural man would wake up horrified to find his property … included in a new Indigenous reserve,” Mr. Bolsonaro said earlier this year. “We put an end to that.”

Lawmakers allied with Mr. Bolsonaro have introduced a series of state and federal bills aimed at easing environmental licensing laws and unwinding protections on forests, making it easier for people to illegally stake claim on Indigenous lands.

Advocates say it’s emboldened invaders to encroach on those lands. In 2019, for example, an estimated 20,000 illegal miners descended on the Yanomami Indigenous Territory in search of gold, polluting water with mercury and gunning down Indigenous people.

“The rhetoric from the top has repercussions,” Ms. Molina says, referring to Mr. Bolsonaro’s comments. “Invaders feel protected, and it gives rise to violence in Indigenous lands.” More than 1,200 Indigenous people have been killed for their activism in Brazil since 1985.

Now, Indigenous organizations have put forward a well-organized group of federal and state candidates that they call the “headdress lobby.” They believe that by electing Indigenous representatives, these communities can better resist attacks on their rights – and usher in a transformation that involves giving Indigenous people a louder voice in politics.

“Indigenous people also have a right to these spaces,” says Marcio Kókoj, a Kaingang activist who runs an Indigenous news portal, referring to elected office. “So we can fight for policies that help Indigenous communities, instead of harming them.”

A seat at the table

There are some 818,000 Indigenous people in Brazil, roughly 0.4% of the population, according to the country’s last census. But leaders estimate a new count currently underway may put the population closer to 1 million, as more Brazilians with Indigenous roots embrace their ancestry.

To date, only two Indigenous people have ever held seats in Brazil’s Congress: Mário Juruna was elected in 1982, and Joênia Wapichana won a seat in 2018. Indigenous representation is scarce in state politics, too. 

“We are many, but we have so few representing us,” says Bia Kokama, an Indigenous leader who is running for a deputy seat in Amazonas state.

In local elections two years ago, there were signs of a changing tide: 197 Indigenous candidates were elected as councilors, mayors, and vice mayors at local levels across Brazil.

This election, Indigenous candidates have their sights set on higher office – and some of their campaigns are causing a stir. Sônia Guajajara, who is running for Congress, landed a spot on Time magazine’s list of most influential people for her Indigenous rights activism.

In Minas Gerais, another congressional candidate, Célia Xakriabá, has won the backing of Brazilian stars: Famed film director Wagner Moura urged his Instagram followers to support her, while legendary singer-songwriter Caetano Veloso invited her on stage at a show in August.

And a congressional bid by Vanda Witoto, a nurse who became a symbol of resistance as she fought to bring care to Indigenous communities during the pandemic, has drawn financial backing from the main shareholders of one of Brazil’s largest banks.

Most of these candidates have proudly displayed their Indigenous ancestry on the campaign trail, often appearing in red-and-black face paint and traditional headdress. Some have used the internet to reach a wider audience, launching polished, media-savvy messages on platforms like TikTok and Instagram.

“Today, we use our phones as an instrument of resistance,” says Mr. Kókoj, who believes social media has helped make the struggle of Indigenous people more visible.

Still, without big budgets, donor support, or political machines behind them, getting elected is an uphill battle for many of these candidates

Ms. Kokama says reaching potential supporters in far-flung Indigenous territories has proved tough on a shoestring budget. Her hometown of São Paulo de Olivença, for example, is a three-day journey by boat from the state capital of Manaus.

“We don’t have the resources that other candidates have,” she says. Instead, Ms. Kokama does much of her campaigning online, although internet access can be limited in remote territories.

Still, she is optimistic that she – and other Indigenous candidates – can draw votes. “I’m part of a dream,” she says of fighting for more representation in politics. “And I see a better future for our grandchildren.”

Challenges ahead

Many Indigenous candidates are battling for support in states that overwhelmingly voted to elect Mr. Bolsonaro in 2018 – and, in some cases, continue to share his views on Indigenous land and the environment. In the Amazon state of Roraima, where Ms. Wapichana is running for reelection, 62% of people say they plan to vote for Mr. Bolsonaro, recent polls show.

Some candidates have experienced hostility. Mr. Kretã says his team was approached by an armed man while distributing flyers in Curitiba, his state’s capital. Last week, he received a barrage of racist comments during a Facebook livestream, prompting Brazil’s electoral court to order the social network to take down the messages.

“There are those who believe the Indigenous belong in the forest, not in political spaces,” says Mr. Kókoj. “The world of politics is still a battleground for us.”

Even if Indigenous candidates are elected, they still face barriers. For one, a group of legislators aligned with agricultural interests looks poised to gain more support in the Oct. 2 vote. This could make it difficult for Indigenous candidates to resist measures attacking their communities’ rights, says Ms. Molina.

“Even as we have this inspiring rise of Indigenous candidacies, we also have a constant proliferation of representatives linked to agriculture and mining,” she says.

For Chermie Ferreira, a graffiti artist and member of the Kokama people, having Indigenous candidates on the ballot is a game changer. If elected, they would fight for issues she cares about, she says, like access to health care in remote territories and decent housing for Indigenous communities in urban centers.

“They represent me; they represent my interests,” says Ms. Ferreira, who lives on the outskirts of Manaus, the state capital of Amazonas. “We have to keep fighting – but it’s not enough to march on the street anymore,” she says.

“We need our own people on the inside.”