Brazil’s President Downplays Coronavirus, yet “Hunger is not Bogus”

RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL – At the entrance to the unplastered brick house, protective masks made of cloth are drying on a clothesline. Several of them have holes. The picture symbolizes how the Rio family living here is coping with the pandemic: they are doing what they can with what they have. Adilson de Paula, his wife Ana Maria, and their 18-year-old son receive a monthly aid of R$600 (US$120).

At the end of August, state aid for casual workers in the coronavirus crisis will come to an end. “After that our fate is in God’s hands,” the 57-year-old man repeats several times. He tilts his head up as if hoping to be heard by Him.

“The poor share with the poor”

The de Paulas are happy for the coronavirus aid money from the government. But as Ana Maria says, “It’s not enough.” For weeks, the Afro-Brazilian family has lived on rice and beans. Fruit, vegetables, milk, cheese, yogurt, are all things of the past. Because of the virus, Adilson de Paula has lost his temporary job as a security guard. Ana Maria de Paula, who worked as a cleaner, suffered the same fate.

The 59-year-old describes how they have been muddling through ever since: Her eldest son shares the contents of the food basket he receives once a month from his children’s school. The day before yesterday, a friend brought the leftover fried chicken that her children had not eaten. Nothing is wasted. “The poor share with the poor.”

Then she steps into the living room and points to an old sewing machine. An acquaintance gave her scraps of cloth and rubber bands to make protective masks, which in turn this lady exchanges for food on the street: “One mask for a kilo of rice.” Ana Maria de Paula was paid for her sewing with fruit or rice, and an electricity bill was also paid once. But now that she has run out of thread and rubber bands, this is over.

She is obviously more concerned about finding food than she is about contracting the coronavirus. “I’m protecting myself,” she answers instantly. Now that she is unemployed, she hardly leaves her home anyway. They are on the outskirts of Rio; not in a favela, but in a neighborhood of the lower middle class in the north side of the city.

The de Paula family suffers particularly from the economic consequences of the virus, having lost all their income after the outbreak. Such cases are of particular concern to Daniel Balaban, director of the UN World Food Programme in Brasília. He refers to a study by the World Bank, according to which 5.4 million Brazilians will fall into extreme poverty as a direct result of the pandemic. Ana Maria de Paula’s family could be among them.

Enrichment with ventilators

Given her plight, she received an aid basket from the Mulheres em Movimentos da Zona Norte (Women in Northern Zone Movements – MMZN) on Monday. It contains rice, oil, sugar, and beans, as well as soap and disinfectant. Ana Maria de Paula is happy about it and thanks Tania Mota and Ana Claudia Dias. They founded the organization two years ago to support women from the impoverished periphery through counseling, courses, and food donations.

The friends, both around fifty years old, come from destitute backgrounds themselves, but have been able to improve their situation: Mota now owns a beauty salon for Afro-Brazilian women, Dias works as a night guard for the city and tops off her income as a food courier. She runs the MMZN in addition to her regular jobs. It is a matter of the heart for her, it is clear. Mota complains about politics, in particular about the governor of Rio, who is said to be involved in a corruption scandal concerning the purchase of ventilators for coronavirus patients. “A dirty business!”

With the outbreak of the pandemic, the MMZN has temporarily focused on food distribution and food aid. Every week it reorganizes itself: Sometimes a supermarket donates goods, sometimes other organizations. Friends, acquaintances, or neighbors help with money, food or material donations, but also with logistical support. For instance, the food basket that Ana Maria de Paula’s family received was picked up the same day by Mota and Dias at the camp of the NGO Ação da Cidadania (Citizenship Action) in downtown Rio.

“Hunger is not bogus”

In their impressive brick building, dozens of cardboard boxes with the inscription “Hunger is not bogus” stand on wooden pallets. The message is a jab at President Bolsonaro, who downplays the virus and likes to dismiss unpleasant facts as fake news. The boxes contain bags of basic foodstuffs and hygiene products financed by donations. Water bottles, rice bags, and soaps donated by companies in large quantities are placed next to them.

According to the organizers of the Ação da Cidadania, a load of 40 to 50 tons of goods is delivered every fortnight. This is collected and distributed by smaller charity initiatives like the MMZN. A waiting list determines whose turn it is and when.

Shortly after ten o’clock in the morning, the first vehicles roll through the gate – including the truck borrowed by the MMZN. The loading area is opened, Mota and Dias load the goods into the truck. “Do you want rice too?”, a coordinator asks. “Absolutely”, Mota yells through her mask and nods. They then drive the supplies to their headquarters in the north of the city. Some parcels are stored there temporarily, others are picked up directly or distributed to recipients, as was the case with the de Paulas.

According to Daniel Balaban of the UN Food Programme, non-governmental aid in the form of food ensures that families “do not die of hunger”. While he praises the monthly R$600 emergency aid, which 65 million Brazilians currently receive, he believes it has a palliative effect. Balaban quotes the director of the International Monetary Fund, who advocates a guaranteed minimum income in the fight against social inequality. Longer-term state support is required to prevent poverty from increasing further, he says. “The economic impact of Covid-19 will be tremendous.”

Brazil has long been considered a shining example in the fight against poverty. Thanks to strong economic growth and extensive social programs, the country was able to reduce extreme poverty by two-thirds between 2004 and 2014. According to the UN standard, this means people who have to live on less than US$1.90 a day. A new lower-middle-class has emerged. This included Brazilians like Ana Maria and Adilson de Paula.

Their lives had improved, recalls Adilson de Paula. He had a stable job and a good salary. At times, he earned around five times more money than the family currently has available. His wife’s earnings were added to this. But Brazil subsequently fell into a severe economic crisis, unemployment increased, social programs were undermined, and many people fell back into poverty. This trend is now intensifying with the pandemic. A whole network around the MMZN tries to mitigate this.

No more parties

This includes black activist Sandra Aleixo. The 62-year-old has many years of experience in civil self-organization. She heads a Black Power cultural association and speaks and acts like a leader. She supports the new MMZN initiative in an advisory capacity. Since the coronavirus broke out, she and her sisters have been cooking meals for homeless people twice a week in the outskirts of their residential complex, using donated ingredients.

The MMZN has donated several packs of the rice they picked up from the Ação da Cidadania. In the afternoon, the rice is cooking in a large pot next to beans and chicken. Some 118 meals are in the making.

At 7:30 PM the food is packed in polystyrene and ready to be picked up. It doesn’t take long, a white VW van with the inscription “I love the missions” drives up. A Protestant pastor is at the wheel, accompanied by three helpers. They thank God for the meals, load them up and drive to the city center. For logistical issues, neither Aleixo nor the MMZN are able to handle the distribution alone.

This is why the Protestant Church, which belongs to the Afro-Brazilian Candomble religion, is in charge, explains Aleixo. “We join forces so that the food reaches those who are hungry,” she clarifies, pulls down her mask, and draws on a cigarette.

No sooner does the bus stop in a street than many homeless people approach in a drizzle. Only a few are wearing the obligatory protective mask; some are wrapped in blankets because of the relatively cool temperatures in the evening in Rio. The pastor and his assistants step out of the vehicle and say a prayer lasting several minutes. Some homeless people stretch out their arms to heaven and join in the prayer. Others wait listlessly for the food to be distributed.

A young woman with four little girls – two her own daughters and two orphans she cares for – is given several meals. One of them spoons it up right away. She says that before the pandemic she sold caipirinhas and beer on the street in Lapa.

Since the parties in Rio’s nightlife district have come to a halt, she is now on the street. But the 31-year-old is confident that she will soon be able to sell drinks again.