Brazil just won its first Oscar, and the timing couldn’t have been better. It was Carnaval, a perfect moment for nationwide celebration. On social media, there was an extensive campaign endorsing the film I’m Still Here and its lead actress, Fernanda Torres (who had already won a Golden Globe for Best Actress), showing the passion with which Brazilians root for their own. Perhaps this enthusiasm can be traced back to the days when Brazil dominated world football, or maybe it’s a deeper desire to redefine how the world sees us, proving that we are far more than the enduring stereotype of a joyful yet struggling poor nation.[1] Both joy and struggle are indeed part of Brazil’s identity, but they are far more than mere traits.
I’m Still Here, which is based on a true story, won the Academy Award for Best International Feature Film. Directed by Walter Salles, it stars Fernanda Torres—an actress best known in Brazil for her comedic roles—as Eunice Paiva. Eunice was one of many Brazilians whose families were torn apart by the military dictatorship that ruled the country for two decades. In 1971, her husband, former congressman Rubens Paiva, was tortured and murdered by the regime. His body was never found.
Brazilians are celebrating the success of a film that tells the story of both personal and national tragedy. In his acceptance speech at the awards ceremony on March 2nd, 2025, director Walter Salles dedicated the award to Eunice, “a woman who, after a loss suffered during an authoritarian regime, decided not to bend and resist.”[2] In one poignant scene, Eunice and her children pose for a magazine photo after her husband’s disappearance. The photographer asks them to keep a stern expression, but she tells her children to smile.[3] For Fernanda Torres, “the smile is a kind of resistance.”[4] They were not simply living happily (after all, how could they?), they were resisting.
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The military dictatorship in Brazil lasted for 21 years, from 1964 to 1985. It was established following a coup led by the Brazilian Armed Forces, with support from certain sectors of society.[5] The coup was carried out during the Cold War, a few years after the Cuban Revolution. While it was officially justified as protecting the country from a supposed communist threat, in reality, the dictatorship undermined democracy. It dismantled democratic rights under the pretense of defending the nation. There are persistent historiographic debates regarding the periodization of the dictatorship and the characterization of armed resistance in Brazil during this time. However, there is no doubt that the dictatorship was marked by widespread censorship and severe human rights violations, including institutionalized torture, extrajudicial killings, and forced disappearances.[6]
The disappearance of victims and their bodies remains one of the most pressing unresolved issues of post-dictatorial societies—not only in Brazil, but across all of Latin America. It stands as a stark example of the authoritarian brutality of dictatorships. There have been numerous attempts to artistically express the trauma of not knowing the fate of those who fell victim to state violence. A powerful example that served as a reference for director Walter Salles is Patricio Guzmán’s Nostalgia de la Luz (2010), a documentary set in Chile’s Atacama Desert. Here, astronomers scan the skies for galaxies and stars while women sift through the desert soil for the remains of their loved ones murdered by Pinochet’s dictatorial regime.
Brazilian literature has also addressed the legacy of the dictatorship, with one of the most notable examples being Bernardo Kucinski’s K. Relato de uma busca (K. Account of a search). In a somewhat ironic use of the term “invention,”[7] the author turns to fiction to fill the gaps left by the disappearance of his sister, Ana Rosa Kucinski, in 1974. The “K.” in the title not only refers to the surname of the main character but also alludes to Kafka’s Josef K. in Der Process (The Trial). In the context of disappearances in Latin America, references to The Trial can be analyzed in two ways: from the perspective of the tortured victims, often unaware of the accusations against them, and from the perspective of their family members who were left to navigate a deliberately fragmented and incomplete reality, not knowing if their loved ones were alive or dead, and often trapped in an unending quest for closure that never arrives.
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In their search for justice, Paiva’s family followed this very path. The film is based on the book of the same name by Marcelo Rubens Paiva, the son of Eunice and Rubens Paiva. Published in 2015, the book tells the story of his family’s tragedy, the murder of his father, and his mother’s subsequent journey. After her husband’s death, Eunice Paiva pursued a law degree and became a lawyer. She built a distinguished career as a leading advocate for human rights and the rights of Indigenous peoples. Brazil’s National Truth Commission estimates that at least 8,350 Indigenous people were killed during the dictatorship, either directly by government agents or as a result of official negligence.[8] According to Marcelo Rubens Paiva,[9] Eunice saw the fight for the disappeared and the fight for Indigenous rights under the dictatorship as one and the same.
Eunice passed away in 2018 at the age of 89. Like the film, her son’s book also focusses on her life story. It opens with a reflection on memory—a theme deeply tied to her struggle with advanced Alzheimer’s at the time of writing. In the book, memory is figured as inherently connected to the present. While we may not recall our earliest years of life, this does not mean memory operates as a straightforward accumulation of moments rigidly layered atop another. Instead, memories often form in parallel, with new experiences neither erasing nor excluding earlier ones but rather intertwining and influencing one another in not strictly linear ways.[10] Eunice’s struggle with Alzheimer’s serves as a starting point to examine how memory functions more broadly: not as a straightforward, chronological record, but as a dynamic process where recollections are shaped by time, perspective, and the interplay of overlapping or even competing narratives. Just as personal memory can fade, distort, or persist in unexpected ways, collective memory also transforms itself under the influence of present political and social forces.
As comparative analyses of the politics of memory surrounding Brazil’s dictatorial past and those of other Latin American countries show, this complexity becomes evident in the ways in which different nations remember their dictatorial pasts. Argentina stands out as an example of a more decisive break with its dictatorship: the trial and conviction of military personnel, the establishment of numerous memory centers throughout the country, and, in addition to institutional policies, a significant mobilization of grassroot organizations for human rights. The Argentinian Asociación Madres de Plaza de Mayo[11] remains the most powerful symbol of civil resistance in the struggle for memory. In Brazil, however, although the historical facts are well-documented, interpretations of the dictatorship remain conflicting. These opposing views—about what the dictatorship meant, its legacy, and how it should be remembered—result in a fragmented collective memory. The demonstrations for the impeachment of President Dilma Rousseff in 2015 made groups advocating for the return of the dictatorship and military intervention even more visible, highlighting the ongoing polarization over Brazil’s authoritarian past.
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Rubens Paiva disappeared on January 20, 1971. Investigations indicate that he likely died the following day. His corpse was concealed and a false escape was staged. According to the regime’s official account, he had been kidnapped by terrorists (the term used to describe left-wing militants) days after his arrest. It was only in 1996—25 years after his disappearance—that Eunice Paiva was able to obtain a death certificate for her husband, who, until then, had remained officially listed as missing.[12] In 2014, the National Truth Commission confirmed that Rubens Paiva was killed during an interrogation conducted by the military. However, it was only in December 2024 that his death certificate was officially corrected. It now states that the cause of death was “unnatural, violent, and caused by the Brazilian State in the context of the systematic persecution of individuals identified as political dissidents of the dictatorial regime established in 1964.”[13] No one was ever convicted for the crime.
Brazil is a model case of an agreed political transition in which the military hierarchy controlled and negotiated its exit and amnesty, thereby retaining a strong influence on subsequent political decisions. The National Truth Commission only started its work in 2012, yet there was no legal punishment for crimes committed during the dictatorship. There are significant gaps in the regime’s official records, and many victims still wait for their stories to be acknowledged and clarified. Meanwhile, some perpetrators of torture have been reframed as heroes by parts of Brazil’s far right.
For Brazilian scholar Márcio Seligmann-Silva, artists have the power to foster empathy with the disappeared, the victims of the dictatorship.[14] They can construct narratives and rescue forgotten or unrecorded stories that have yet to be heard. However, not only can art be a means of working through the trauma, but it can also inspire political action. I’m Still Here prompted the Supreme Federal Court (STF) to reopen the debate on the validity of the amnesty law passed during the military regime’s final years. The judge who reported on the proposal, Minister Flávio Dino, cited the case of Rubens Paiva as an example of missing persons’ families being denied their rights.[15]
In his book, Marcelo Rubens Paiva explains that his family was often labeled as “the family victim of the dictatorship,” implying that their suffering was merely a private matter—an unfortunate yet unusual event. It was thus not recognized as part of a broader political reality. For this reason, they preferred to be seen rather as “one of the many families victimized by one of the many dictatorships.” In this sense, the crime was not just committed against Rubens Paiva—it was a crime against humanity. As he writes, “The Rubens Paiva family is not the victim of the dictatorship; the country is.”[16] This idea is reflected in Walter Salles’s observation that the Brazilian public co-authored the film as millions embraced it and identified with its story.[17]
Fernanda Torres urged the country not to fall into a “World Cup mood” as they cheer for the film. And yet, that was precisely what happened. Numerous videos shared on social media show the public celebrating in bars, Carnaval blocos, and even at Marquês de Sapucaí, Rio de Janeiro’s iconic venue for the samba school parades where the Oscar triumph was announced over loudspeakers in the middle of the festivities. In a recent YouTube video by Al Jazeera English, the interviewer is struck by short reels of Brazilians joyfully reacting to Fernanda Torres’ Golden Globe win. He asks a Brazilian reporter how a nation can erupt in celebration over a film that portrays such a dark chapter of its history—a national trauma. While social media dynamics certainly play a role in this reaction, it also reflects the previously mentioned duality of Brazilian identity and our unique methods of resistance. Following the tone set by Eunice, people chose to smile. Through this not so quiet gesture of defiance, the Brazilian people made a statement: no matter how much the dictatorship took from us, we would not shatter.
We will smile.
Sabrina Costa Braga is a historian from Goiânia, Brazil. She currently holds a Walter Benjamin position at the ZfL, funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG), with the project “Multidirectional Memory: Brazilian Fictional Literature on the Holocaust and the Military Dictatorship.”
[1] These outdated preconceptions persist in a recent incident involving the Embassy of Brazil in Berlin, which was compelled to publicly repudiate the depiction of a fictional Brazilian character in the German school book ABC der Tiere – Sprachbuch 4 (Offenburg 2021). In the book, a child is shown saying: “Ich lebe in Rio de Janeiro, Brasilien. Ich gehe nicht in die Schule. Morgens suche ich Essensreste in Mülltonnen. Ich möchte Fußballprofi werden. (Translation: “I live in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. I do not go to school. In the morning, I rummage through trash cans for food scraps. I want to become a professional football player.”)
[2] Jonathan Landrum jr.: “‘I’m Still Here’ Wins Best International Film Oscar, a First for a Brazilian Movie,” in: AP News, March 3, 2025.
[3] The scene figures in the official movie trailer.
[4] Jonathan Landrum jr.: “‘I’m Still Here’ Wins Best International Film Oscar, a First for a Brazilian Movie,” in: AP News, March 3, 2025.
[5] The 1964 military coup in Brazil was supported by significant civilian participation, including conservative popular movements, some members of Congress, and, most prominently, segments of the Brazilian upper class. The latter group included urban and rural business elites, religious leaders, parliamentarians, and bureaucratic elites, particularly within the judiciary. For further analysis, see: Rodrigo Patto Sá Motta: Passados Presentes: o Golpe de 1964 e a Ditadura Militar, Rio de Janeiro 2021.
[6] Cf. Comissão Nacional da Verdade: Relatório da Comissão Nacional da Verdade, vol. I, Brasília 2014.
[7] At the beginning of his book, Bernardo Kucinski (K. Relato de uma busca, São Paulo 2016, p. 3) warns us that “everything in this book is an invention, but almost everything happened.”
[8] Cf. Comissão Nacional da Verdade: Relatório Final da Comissão Nacional da Verdade, vol. II, Brasília 2014.
[9] Marcelo Rubens Paiva: Ainda estou aqui, Rio de Janeiro 2015, p. 175.
[10] Ibid., p. 12-15.
[11] The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo (Asociación Madres de la Plaza de Mayo) is an Argentine association of mothers whose children were murdered or disappeared during the military dictatorship that ruled the country from 1976 to 1983. They organized themselves in an effort to uncover the fate of their children. In 1977, they started publicly challenging the regime by organizing marches at Plaza de Mayo in Buenos Aires, in front of the Casa Rosada, the seat of the Argentine government.
[12] In a photo by Eduardo Knapp, Eunice smiles as she shows Rubens Paiva’s death certificate in 1996, 25 years after his disappearance. In the background, her son Marcelo Rubens Paiva.
[13] Carlos Henrique Dias: “Certidão de óbito de Rubens Paiva é corrigida em SP; documento informa que morte foi violenta e causada pelo Estado Brasileiro”, in: G1, January 23, 2025.
[14] Soraia Vilela: “‘Die Geschichte Brasiliens ist eine Geschichte des Ausblendens von Gewalt’: Ein Interview mit dem Literaturtheoretiker Márcio Seligmann-Silva über die Bedeutung von Kunst als Instrument der Konstruktion von Erinnerung an düstere Zeiten,” in Humboldt, January 23, 2025.
[15] Fernanda Vivas: “STF tem maioria para criar entendimento geral sobre anistia a crimes permanentes da ditadura,” in: G1, February 11, 2025.
[16] Marcelo Rubens Paiva: Ainda estou aqui, Rio de Janeiro 2015, p. 33.
[17] Jornal Nacional: “‘Apresenta ao mundo o melhor que o Brasil tem: afetividade e calor humano,’ diz Fernanda Torres sobre ‘Ainda Estou Aqui’,” in: G1, March 3, 2025.
VORGESCHLAGENE ZITIERWEISE: Sabrina Costa Braga: What’s There to Laugh About? A Reflection on Memory, Art, and Resistance in “I’m Still Here,” in: ZfL Blog, 27.3.2025, [https://www.zflprojekte.de/zfl-blog/2025/03/27/sabrina-costa-braga-whats-there-to-laugh-about-a-reflection-on-memory-art-and-resistance-in-im-still-here/].
DOI: https://doi.org/10.13151/zfl-blog/20250327-01
