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Silva, D. Complex Territories, Complex Circulations - The Pacification' of The Complexo Do Alemão in Rio de Janeiro PDF
Silva, D. Complex Territories, Complex Circulations - The Pacification' of The Complexo Do Alemão in Rio de Janeiro PDF
Silva, D. Complex Territories, Complex Circulations - The Pacification' of The Complexo Do Alemão in Rio de Janeiro PDF
1. Introduction
If we accept the linguistic anthropological principle that all speech involves me-
ta-speech, or that all pragmatics presupposes meta-pragmatics, then it is the case
that comprehending any pragmatic phenomenon requires a simultaneous uptake
of the metapragmatic surround (see Silverstein 1993). For instance, Gricean im-
plicatures – a pragmatic phenomenon – function only to the extent that speakers
are supposed to adhere to the Cooperation Principle, a metapragmatic axiom that
is ultimately lodged in human rationality (Grice 1989: 30). The circulation of dis-
courses spreads out across this hybrid pragmatic-metapragmatic terrain.
In this paper, we intend to move beyond the individualistic-intentional
metapragmatic model of communication by entertaining the hypothesis that
meaning emerges as it circulates across different sites, temporalities and scales
of social life. To borrow Briggs’ (2007a, 2007b) metadiscursive notion of com-
municability, texts simultaneously project (pragmatically) and model (metaprag-
matically) trajectories of uptake, agency, and affect in their quasi-microbial
infectiousness in society. Rather than being simply intentional, this process is it-
erative (Derrida 1977) and therefore social. We shall look particularly at different
and often competing communicable models that have emerged regarding recent
modernizing efforts to make Rio de Janeiro “safe” for the 2014 World Cup and the
2016 Olympics. We will draw our attention to the multiple recontextualizations
of pacificação, or ‘pacification’, a set of police practices aimed to “seize back” the
control of spaces that are both the headquarters of drug factions and home to
thousands of honest workers.
As the Introduction to the current Special Issue claims (Silva, this volume),
Western ideologies of language and communication – some of which are embed-
ded in powerful pragmatic theories – portray communication as the linear flow
of information from one carefully bounded intentional individual to another. In
what follows, the subjects involved in our fieldwork in the Complexo do Alemão
(a group of favelas that is home to some 100,000 people, located in the region of
lowest Human Development Index in Rio de Janeiro) will be seen as being im-
pacted by massive Western individualistic ideologies of language and society – an
impact they do not have the resources to sustain. Thus, the Complexo do Alemão
has been a prototypical battlefield in Rio de Janeiro’s efforts to become modern
and “safe” for large-scale events.
This paper is based on the authors’ collective fieldwork in the Complexo do
Alemão. Since January 2012, we have worked together with the Instituto Raízes
em Movimento, a local NGO that fosters initiatives in the fields of revenue gen-
eration, community participation, and human rights. Instituto Raízes em Mo-
vimento promotes several events in which residents, researchers, human rights
activists, and State agents gather to discuss ‘pacification’, infrastructure, public
policies, health care, gender, sexuality, and race relations. The fieldwork comprises
participant observation in the events, interviews with residents and activists, and
close involvement with the NGO members in applying for funds and planning
activities. We have also been conversing with people beyond the Alemão – the
police, other favela residents, journalists, State officials, urban planners, and so-
cial scientists – in order to query different framings of urban and security changes
in the city.
To understand the complex circulations of discourses across the ‘pacification’
of the Complexo do Alemão, this paper first places the territory within the recent
changes in urbanization and security measures in Rio de Janeiro. Next, it moves
to the rather conflicting circulations of signs about the ‘pacification’ of the Com-
plexo do Alemão as a highly publicized event in the Brazilian and international
media. We then revisit Charles Briggs’ notion of communicability, a textual and
ethnographic concept that will help us understand the overlapping and multi-di-
rectional trajectories of signs regarding both the event itself and the changes it
brought to the favela. We finish by claiming that recontextualizations that accrue
to circulations go beyond power and manipulation; while traveling through mul-
tiple dimensions of social life, they ultimately enact affect.
2. A complex territory
1. The number of favelas changes depending on the source. We based our number on
Oliveira’s (2011) fieldwork on the Growth Acceleration Program (PAC) in Alemão. The fave-
las are: Morro da Baiana, Morro do Alemão, Itararé/Alvorada, Morro do Adeus, Morro da
Esperança, Matinha, Morro dos Mineiros, Nova Brasília, Palmeiras, Fazendinha, Grota, and
Reservatório de Ramos.
for all things Rio: carioca) were iconically and indexically related to each other.2
Iconically, both ‘strips’, Gaza and Carioca, resembled one another as being near
the flow of wealth: respectively affluent Israel and the road leading from Rio Inter-
national Airport to the city’s wealthy areas; indexically, both ‘strips’ found them-
selves to be in the very epicenter of violence. Academic studies, media accounts,
and police reports, in spite of their evidently different pragmatic modes of using
signs and non-identical metapragmatic ideological purposes, have all converged
in considering the Complexo do Alemão one of the most violent places in Brazil
(Barbassa 2010; Oliveira 2011; Barcellos 2013). The Complexo do Alemão is also
known for being the headquarters of the Comando Vermelho or ‘Red Commando’,
one of Rio’s most established armed drug factions.
The community has not been exposed only to risks associated with violence.
The long-standing absence of housing policies for the poor had led to unplanned
occupation of land and the consequent emergence of dangers to the population.
Rio’s rainy seasons are accompanied by the risks of mudslides on hills covered
with irregularly built houses. Autoconstructed houses don’t have proper ventila-
tion and usually have no sewage systems, which, added to inadequate treatment
of garbage, creates the risk of proliferating diseases. Educational, health, and cul-
tural policies are few and far between, if not completely inexistent, and presage
the perils of under-development. Official data from Brazil’s latest census place
the Alemão’s administrative region lowest of all the 32 regions in the city (0.709)
on the Human Development Index (IBGE 2010). The same census estimates that
32% of the region’s inhabitants are jobless. Of the 40.8% of the people who de-
clared they do have a job, almost all work in the service sector and hold positions
for which educational requirements are low, working conditions are bad, and
wages are worse.
Economic growth, however, has brought some changes to the scenario of pre-
cariousness, and made discourses circulate in even more complex directions. In
2007, then President Lula da Silva announced the creation of a giant national
program of investments in infrastructure and human development, known as the
Growth Acceleration Program, or PAC. “I am convinced that in this year we will
turn our big cities into construction sites,” said Lula in 2008 on the weekly radio
show Breakfast with the President. And indeed, in 2008, the Complexo do Alemão
became a construction site for the PAC, with a program that initially invested
US$ 250,000 in the Alemão and promised to build a cable car, linking five of the
2. In Peirce’s classification of signs with respect to their objects, an ‘icon’ is a sign that resem-
bles its object, whereas an ‘index’ is a sign that is affected by its object. A diagram in physics,
for instance, is an icon of the movement of car; a footprint on the sand is caused by a foot and
therefore stands as an index of the foot (Peirce 1932).
In O livreiro do Alemão [‘The bookman from the Alemão’], Otavio Jr. (2011)
narrates his growing up in the Complexo do Alemão and his project of fostering
literacy in the community. His book ends with an Epilogue, A libertação (‘The
liberation’):
I was at home thinking about the project of this book when I heard the first shots.
At first, the noise came from far away, but the rising pitch revealed that the bullets
were getting closer. I could no longer concentrate on my work. It was Thursday,
November 25, 2010. I was watching everything on TV, and the sensation I had
was that some crazy director of programming had decided to show a 3-D version
of Tropa de Elite [more or less like ‘The Green Berets’; our insert] instead of the
afternoon soap opera. Dream? Delirium? No, the purest reality. Everything was
happening outside the door of my house. Weapons, soldiers, war tanks coming
up the street, everything within my eyeshot. The news on TV recommended that
no one go outside. And I listened. Two days of anguish. Two days of fear. Two
days without setting foot in the street, rationing the food in the fridge. (…) It was
hard to sleep.
(…) It may seem an exaggeration for those who only saw the news, but I
felt that I was inside the war in Iraq for those two long days. Only someone who
endures war knows what it is. On TV I also saw the Navy’s bulletproof tanks
arriving at the favela. This was the surprise factor that both astonished and intim-
idated the criminals. (Otavio Jr 2011, 76–77; our translation).
Sociologists Rodrigues and Siqueira (2012) point out that this type of policing
the favelas isn’t actually a model for public security. It is rather an “experiment,” or
a “set of policing experiences” that would be better understood if one looks at con-
crete practices instead of official documents alone. Rio’s public decree n. 42,787 of
January 6, 2011 – a law that is supposed to define and regulate the UPPs, but was
only published after 13 units had been deployed – stipulates the three stages of
deployment of an UPP. The three steps are: “tactical intervention,” “stabilization”,
and “deployment.” Tactical intervention is conceived “not as confrontation but as
the arresting of criminals and the removal of weapons” (ibid.: 11). The narratives
of Otavio Jr. and Duarte, however, suggest heavy confrontations taking place be-
tween the Police and the Comando Vermelho. The confrontations are enmeshed
in complex connections with the media, public discourses, rumors, and the arts;
thus, Otavio Jr.’s feeling was “was that some crazy director of programming had
decided to show a 3-D version of Tropa de Elite instead of the afternoon soap op-
era.” Moreover, signs dealing with confrontation went far beyond the ‘cease-fire’
imposed by decree of the UPPs, and were then recontextualized as signs of war:
“I felt I was in the Iraq War,” tells the Bookman of the Alemão; “a war was ap-
proaching [therefore we needed] war tanks,” narrates Colonel Duarte (2012: 67–
69); and sociologist Vera Mallaguti (2011: 6) elaborates: “the pacification and
occupation of some favelas in Rio has taken place as a form of war, supported by
the Army, thus imposing police management on the everyday life of the poor.”
The “tactical intervention” in the Alemão did not take place until the 28th of
November, a Sunday morning, when most families could follow the action on TV.
The coverage of Rede Globo, Brazil’s leading TV channel and the owner of the O
Globo newspaper, followed the lines of modern war reports. A Globo journalist,
Priscila, rode into the scene inside one of the tanks, walking a narrow line be-
tween flaunting journalistic standards and exercising the power attributed to the
media in Brazil. Colonel Duarte narrates his astonishment:
I was shocked when I saw Priscila (…) inside the bulletproof tank that would take
me to the top of Morro do Adeus, my command post during the battle.
“What are you doing here, you sneaky rat?” I asked her, between disbelief and
anguish.
“I am going with you, sir”
“Who told you so?”
“Oh, Commander! You wouldn’t leave me out of this, would you?”
(Duarte 2012: 143; our translation)
The news of the war in Rio spread across multiple sites, like microbes (Briggs
2007a). This pragmatics of circulation turned the wording of the conflict into icons
of transnational similarity to regular battles as well as into indexes of a proximal
war. Renata Malkes (2010), writing for O Globo, hastened to compare the occupa-
tion of the Complexo do Alemão to the military interventions in the Middle East,
iterating and expanding the formula “Alemão is the Brazilian Gaza strip” that we
encountered earlier: “If the topography of the Carioca favelas resembles the Shiite
villages in the South of Lebanon, the overpopulation and disorder compare them
to the Gaza Strip” (Malkes 2010). The journalist also interviewed Hanan Grinberg,
a military analyst from Israel, and recirculated his words in a wider context:
Islamic militants such as the Hamas used to break into the houses of civilians in
search of shelter. Many family members ended up dying in this situation. (…) For
the Army, it is hard to distinguish between civilians and armed criminals.
(Malkes 2010)
Through their recirculation into Malkes’ news article, Grinberg’s words place the
Comando Vermelho and the Alemão dwellers in an iconic resemblance to Hamas
and the Palestinians.
Furthermore, the “hardship” that the (Israeli?) army, according to Grinberg
had in differentiating between civilians and criminals would be iterated in the
Alemão composer Raphael Calazans’ narrative to which we return in our conclu-
sion. Iterability, according to Derrida (1977) repeats signs, but at the same time
implies a break with past contexts; below we shall listen to the polyphonic voices
of O Globo and Calazans as they construe different, and indeed competing, com-
municable models of military blindness.
A month later, Farah and Azevedo (2010) would recirculate (by actually lift-
ing them out of Wikileaks) the words of US Consul General Dennis Hearne, a for-
mer political adviser to the commanding US general in Afghanistan. According
to Hearne, “the Favela Pacification Program deploys counter-insurgency strate-
gies similar to Iraq and Afghanistan.” The authors sealed the newspaper’s ‘politics
of truth’ by adding, to Hearne’s stretch of discourse: “O Globo will be one out of
seven newspapers in the world to publish exclusive content from the ‘Cablegate’”
(Farah & Azevedo 2010). Not only the economy of sports in Rio had become
transnational, but also its “war” against armed drug dealers.
Whereas for the Alemão residents, the deployment of the UPP either “was
the change from one owner [the dealers] to another [the police]” (as noted by
Christina, a 23-year old from the Grota favela), or “the rearrangement of forces in
the favela” (according to Alemão activist Alan Brum Pinheiro), in the media and
state epic narratives, the military occupation represented an icon of nationality.
O Globo labeled the images of black men being expelled from the Alemão to the
nearby Vila Cruzeiro as “expulsion of criminals,” and (in its pragmatics of circula-
tion) had them pictured together with images of policemen arriving carrying the
Brazilian flag, accompany its headline: “The Redemption of Alemão”.
In the same group, we learned about the formation of the Chapa Azul (‘Blue
List’)4 movement among young residents who gathered to demand their civic
rights during the Brazilian dictatorship period [1964–1985]:
Sergio We were all young, 13 to 14 years old, when the Chapa Azul was creat-
ed. The people from Chapa Azul were against one Orico, from Morro
do Alemão, who exploited people’s access to electricity. He had a wire
from Light,5 and he would exploit the whole favela, together with his
brother. He also took advantage of water distribution. He had a pump
and sold water to a few people. Then the Chapa Azul was formed as the
opposition to those who were exploiting the community [‘comunidade’],
just so everyone in the community could have water and light. Chapa
Azul ended up gathering some 60 people, who requested water from
CEDAE,6 and electricity from Light. After the end of the dictatorship
and the return of the political exiles, Leonel Brizola won the election for
governor and we got water.
[He lists the name of some members; people in the group add other names]
Sergio And it was a lot of people, and we got water right into our homes. And
then/
Marize /But then did you get water everyday? Were there any problems with
the distribution?
Sergio Yeah, but the very fact that we had some water was wonderful
Marize No, no I didn’t mean/
Sergio /Just to conclude what happened. We ended up get-
ting water and light into our homes, but before that (…), although we
were young and there was no school, there were these university stu-
dents from other areas. The dictators persecuted them, but they came
to teach us. Even though we were young, and weak and hungry, these
people helped us learn.
Marize Oh, they came here.
Sergio Yes, they came, they were persecuted, some were jailed, and others were
killed.
Marize Were they part of an institution, or they came on their own?
Sergio They came on their own, as volunteers. They taught us how to think,
how to organize ourselves. From their teaching we formed Chapa Azul,
and we could fight for water, for electricity.
Sergio and other participants had been asked to respond to the question, “How was
the infrastructure when you arrived here?” To use Silverstein’s terms (1993: 38),
Sergio is projecting the “indexical here-and-now” – or better, the “here-and-
then,” namely water and electricity distribution in the past – into a communicable
model that maps out the fight for human rights, and the asymmetry of forces in
the favela, Brazil’s former military dictatorship, the critical acquisition of literacy,
and community work (a point we shall return to below).
This interaction was between individuals from different backgrounds, as was
the very formation of Chapa Azul and the forging of the term ‘comunidade’ or
community, which we will also discuss below. The above excerpt, entextualized
here as an interactional text, unfolds in Sergio’s dialogue with Marize, a researcher
from Fiocruz Research Foundation. His metapragmatic delineation of how the
text should be received is briefly put on hold by the first question that Marize
asks – “did you get water everyday?” – which seems to convey a middle class
inference that Sergio immediately rejects: “the very fact that we had some wa-
ter was wonderful.” Marize then tries to project the propositional content of her
question (e.g. she didn’t mean to imply that there was not enough water) in an-
other direction, whereupon Sergio jumps straight to his conclusion, elaborating
on the intercultural exchange with the university students. Marize’s subsequent
interactional moves serve to help him describe the young university students who
fostered critical literacy in the Alemão.
Debora The laje is extremely important for life in the favela. I was born in the
Favela da Rocinha. There the laje is a space of economic value. You can
build yourself another floor and rent it. You can also throw a party, sun-
bathe.
Mauricio It’s a space for community [espaço comunitário].
Fabiana It’s a space for community. The laje is a space for community, where you
can fly a kite, you can gossip with your neighbor.
Mauricio When you put people in apartments, you make bubbles.
Fabiana Right
Mauricio You confine people inside bubbles and give no access to that communal
place, to that community involvement.
Calazans and other favela residents have thus devised communicable cartogra-
phies that compete with mainstream ones. We will now discuss how a journalist
who worked for a major newspaper during the pacification of the Alemão re-
sponded to the dominant communicable constructions of pacification.
7. Funk Carioca, or Rio de Janeiro Funk, is a popular music style in Brazil. It is produced and
consumed mainly by the youth of the favelas. Different from funk music elsewhere in the world,
Funk Carioca is the result of intense processes of appropriation, transformation and national-
ization of the rhythms of Black-Soul Culture, one of the most transnational youth expressions
of the African Diaspora.
As we saw in the preceding section, mainstream media have sold their depiction
of ‘pacification’ in the Alemão as the factual replication of its very reality. When
the army and the police invaded the community, inhabitants were portrayed as
“applauding” the operation and happy that they would no longer be in the hands
of drug dealers. “Freedom, freedom, spread your wings over us all” are the samba
lyrics that O Globo cited from an anonymous note that a reporter supposedly
received from a local (G1 2010). In the note, an anonymous dweller thanks “the
heroes who came to free us.” The TV news presented a facsimile of the folded
note, in a politically shaped voice that travels from Vila Cruzeiro (“Comunidade
Vila Cruzeiro” signs the note) to the whole nation (“this nation blessed by God”).
While presenting the note as the thing in itself, O Globo resorts to a metaphysics
of presence (Derrida 2001 [1967]), thereby portraying its recontextualizations of
text and talk as truth itself.
We have shown this piece of news to some of the local inhabitants. Gilmar,
who is from Vila Cruzeiro, commented: “We actually hung white flags out of our
homes. But we didn’t mean freedom. We meant ‘please, stop the killing’”. Teresa,8
who covered the ‘pacification’ for a major Brazilian newspaper, told us that she
was puzzled about the way the media depicted the occupation:
After a day of work in the field, I would come home and watch TV. While watch-
ing the news I thought I wasn’t in the same place those journalists were. But we
were together. The media decide how to approach the subject. There’s no neutral-
ity. I mean, you choose your focus, right?
Being in a different place than the other journalists probably suggests having an
altogether different communicable model. Teresa drew our attention to how me-
diatization – that is, the entanglement of mediation and commoditization (Agha
2011) – worked in this particular event. In Teresa’s terms, the media is part of a
“market”. During her undergraduate studies, she used to think that newspapers
“were above suspicion,” but in her later life as a professional, “the myth was de-
stroyed.” After working in different mass media companies and in different power
centers – like Brasília, São Paulo and Rio – Teresa “changed [her] point of view.
It’s an industry like any other. [She] used to place a halo around it. The media have
to be lucrative.”
As for the headlines “society thanks the police” and “the population applauds,”
she responded:
8. We changed the name of some subjects in order to avoid institutional or political risks.
I honestly didn’t see any joy. While talking to the locals, I realized they were
worried about being bothered by the police. Some people were concerned that
the police would enter their houses and steal things or mess with everything. The
police’s logic was not ‘you are innocent until proven guilty,’ but ‘you are guilty
until proven innocent.’ I saw only one person applauding the police, and he in-
trigued me. I think I’ve just seen the same guy in a different context, when that
cameraman died while filming a shooting.
Teresa fills in some gaps between the recontextualizations of mass mediation. She
questions the scalar jump, from one person applauding to the “population ap-
plauding.” She further doubts whether the applauder was really a local or some-
one “who likes attention.” It appears that the same person was crying elsewhere
at a journalist’s funeral. Indeed, Teresa complicated the seemingly natural flow
of information in O Globo’s and other corporate media accounts of pacification
in the Alemão. As she told us elsewhere, “O Globo loves the UPP.” The legitima-
tion of the police state in the favelas is therefore supported by mediatized forms
that turn the entangled interests of the economy, of the police, and of those who
want changes in politics into a linear and transparent trajectory of “truth” and
“objectivity.”
This music composer, who has had the chance to join other regimes of entextu-
alization such as the university (“a space I don’t like,” he confesses), recontextual-
izes the very experience of living in a zone of abandonment as a “revolution.” On
the very day we interviewed him, outside the Morro de Adeus cable car station,
first, two drug dealers on a motorcycle and then the police came to watch us. The
dealers filmed us with a cell phone, and then called someone, saying “tá limpo”
[‘they’re clean’]. The police were less discreet than the dealers, and drove by us
many times. It took us some time to recover from our fear and bewilderment. Our
circulation – or rather our lack of circulation insofar as we were standing still,
having a meeting within the police state – conflicted with the models, acceptable
to both the criminals and the police, of how words and people should circulate in
times of ‘pacification’, when the forces in the favela have been rearranged.
Returning to the interview, we inquired about Calazans’ art. “How can my
art spring from the abstract?” he asked himself and our communicable models,
pointing out the very tangible experiences that inform his work. Living in the
favela, he said, you could meet death just around the corner. Before UPP, during
the occasional police raids, there were high chances that the police would shoot
young men they found in the street, particularly if they were black. The Rio po-
lice’s ideological constructions of race – likened to those current in Israel, as we
have seen above – construe discerning between criminals and regular residents
as “impossible”. At one time, Calazans was walking down the hilly alleyways of
the Alemão, when firecrackers signaled to the dealers and other inhabitants that a
caveirão, or heavily fortified military grade police tank, was coming up the slope.
“I was dead”, he said. “When you look up, you see the fireworks and the boys
running away; when you look down, you see the caveirão approaching.” Calazans
hastened to add, “living and dying in the favela are not very far apart”. He went on
to ask how his music could “spring from thin air if I live here?”
This poignant narrative, like many others that we’ve been listening to and
recirculating here and elsewhere, is a life story that complicates the intricate re-
lationships that subjects maintain using signs. In portraying his lyrics and mili-
tancy as stemming from a long chain of multiple (and often violent) limits to the
circulation of signs and people in the Alemão, Calazans offers an account that is
at once a story of political commitment and a meta-story of how people attach
to – or are affected by – the other and the other’s stories.
To bring this paper to a close, we would like to emphasize the following.
While traveling through the multiple dimensions of social life, meaning enacts
affect. Subjects bind to one another and to signs based on the social process of
adhering to certain constructions of the circulation of discourse. Circulation,
therefore, goes beyond manipulation and power; circulation ultimately tells us
something about our fundamental attachment to signs and to people.
Acknowledgments
We would like to thank Elizabeth Lewis, Juliana Barbassa, and Viviane Veras for
their insightful comments on earlier drafts of this paper. Any remaining mistakes
are our own. This study was partially funded by a Rio de Janeiro Research Foun-
dation (FAPERJ) grant for human sciences research.
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