I sat down at my computer today to tell you how I walked around a favela, one of those notoriously impoverished, crime-ridden communities huddled on the hills of Rio de Janeiro. But I’ve changed my mind. Instead I’m going to tell you a story about a land far away – 5,800 miles to be exact.
It was 7.30pm on Good Friday when my news editor wandered past my desk. “You know what darlin’,” she said (she really talks like that) “There’s a 13-year-old girl who’s been missing two days now. She might just have run away but, you know, it’s a quiet night. Why don’t you go and have a chat with her mum and see what happened?”
Forty minutes later, I pulled onto a street in which mine was the only car. I parked, I knocked and the girl’s mother let me in. Her house was bare, save for a few chairs on the carpet-free floor and a sofa that had seen better days. There was a puppy and several kids though, including an eight-year-old who had his nose pressed against the window.
“Is that your car?” he asked me excitedly. “What is it?”
“It’s a Vauxhall Corsa,” I replied, trying not to smile.
Four years have passed since that night but I remember it perfectly. It either altered the way I see the world or it confirmed simmering doubts I didn’t know I had. The girl’s mother was vague. Her kid was a runner – always disappearing somewhere. Maybe she was being bullied at school but, then again, maybe she wasn’t even going to school. Her mother had no idea.
“I think she might be in Kirkby,” she sighed finally, handing me another cup of tea and trying to pull the puppy from my knee, saving my notebook in the process.
“People have seen her there. Sometimes I think she sleeps on the streets.”
“Have you been to look for her?” I said, amazed. Kirkby was 20 minutes on the bus.
“Go to Kirkby?” the women replied, equally dumbfounded.
“How would I get all the way there?”
I’m not asking you to judge this woman. She wasn’t an addict (trust me, I know the signs) She didn’t work, she had lots of children, a gorgeous dog – I don’t know if there was a father on the scene. She probably wanted the kids to go to school, she just wasn’t sure how to go about it. Any of it.
Once I picked up the phone to a woman who sounded exactly like my grandmother. “Hello lovely,” she sang. “I’m calling because I want you to come to my house. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just the kids in the street, they keep shooting at my windows for a laugh and I’m sick of it.”
Half an hour later we stood together, eating chocolate biscuits and inspecting the gaping bullet holes in her bedroom window. “I can’t believe this, I don’t know if putting something in the paper will help, but I’m sure we can,” I said, pulling on my coat and preparing to leave.
She gave me a hug. “Don’t worry about it queen,” she said. “Just give my love to your grandmother.”
Another day, another phone call. This time it was a man and it probably was the final straw.
“You have to come and see how I live,” he said, bluntly.
“I’m sick of it.”
And so I drove to see the man. Mr Final Straw. He lived on a ridiculous council estate – indeed he was the dregs of a ridiculous council estate. It was due for extinction but then the council ran out of money to build new houses, so there he was. A straggler stuck in hell.
He was the only person still living in his terrace. The other houses were derelict and burnt out, you could see the caved roofs and blackened beams. The previous night, 10 youths had tried to break into his home. He’d saved it – for what it was worth – by barricading himself against the door.
I couldn’t forget that man and, when two lovely friends visited from down south the following weekend, I ditched the usual ‘Docks and Beatles’ Whirlwind Tour (yes, we’re talking about Liverpool, my favourite place in England) and decided to drive them out there instead. We ‘toured’ the deserted terraced streets and admired the effects of arson and other pointless crimes.
“The trouble is Vick,” one of my friends remarked afterwards.
“There are still people living like that in London too.”
They say Che Guevara was radicalised in Guatamala. I actually don’t believe that, but I like to joke I was radicalised in Liverpool. I became so left wing I once ruined a week of my life seething, because someone in a pub told me he believed the National Health Service should come with an opt out.
Because, the fact is, Liverpool changed me. I used to think I had a first class degree because I was cleverer than other people. I actually have a first class degree because my parents took me to school at five-years-old and for a good many years afterwards. They believed in education. I’ve heard parents in forgotten parts of Merseyside tell their kids not to bother with school because “I didn’t and I’m alright… now just get down the road and buy me some fags.” But hey, we’re all in charge of our own destiny. If you’re not a success, it’s because you’re lazy and that’s a fact. Listen up, five-year-olds.
When we first started to wander around Rio’s dreaded favela, I started to daydream about quitting my cosy life in Bogotá and coming here to volunteer. “You should,” said our guide, Zezinho, who only wanted what was best for the people living in his community. “I can help you.”
But then we walked more. Favelas, if you didn’t already know, sprung up in the late 19th century when disaffected poor folk (including swathes of newly freed slaves) needed somewhere to live. They were pointed towards Rio’s hills. The favela was actually the resilient flower that grew where the people settled (“No matter what you did, you couldn’t bash it down,” Zezinho laughs) When the government failed to help, the people did everything themselves. That’s still the way it is.
The drainage is terrible, families ration their water and the power cuts whenever it feels like it. There are problems with gangsters and narco traffickers. Shootings are not uncommon. Whilst there are marked differences between the favela and what I’ve seen in England, there are similarities too.
“I bet you don’t see this in England,” Zezinho smiled grimly, telling us how the leader of the residents’ association was shot dead after falling in with the drug gangs.
“No, not at all,” responded the three young professionals also on the tour. I wish I could tell you I aired my opposing view in a tactful, dispassionate manner. They looked at me like I was loco.
I enjoyed walking around the favela; it’s amazing how they managed to build the houses on such a slope, connecting all those snaking alleyways and figuring out the jumble of electrical wiring. People in favelas suffer a lot of stigma – unlike those living on council estates in England – and one thing they hate most is that they don’t have proper addresses. They have to use the ones they know, which means hundreds of people listing their address as the same barber’s shop. The barber dutifully puts the mail outside in a huge basket for them to collect.
I admired the community spirit, the resourcefulness, the work ethic. There are great initiatives; the art workshops, Zezinho’s DJ-ing course, the surf school. But we discussed the Government’s errors too. Armed police, for example, were installed in the favela in the wake of the Olympic bid. Unfortunately, the police are more interested in catching drug dealers than protecting local people and, even more unfortunately, the drug dealers were the ones who protected local people with their codes of honour. “Now it’s like we’re living without laws,” Zezinho told us sadly. “The dealers were the ones who meted out the punishments and now they’re all underground.”
And so the day came to an end. “If you want to come back here, contact me and I will help you,” Zezinho told me seriously, shaking my hand.
I thanked him and then I told him the truth. That visiting his favela had made me feel guilty. I’d seen some new problems, for sure, but some familiar old ones too. How can I come here when I know there are poor people in England; lost in the cracks, screwed before they’ve even left the womb and I choose to do absolutely nothing to help them?
“But that’s not true,” he insisted in surprise.
“You have the welfare state. Anyone in England can be a doctor. Sure it’s hard, but it’s possible.”
Really? Is it that easy to break out of the cycle of poverty? Well, don’t tell me. Tell the eight-year-old with his face pressed against the window. That’s if you can find him. His mother doesn’t even know if he goes to school.
Banana Skin Flip Flops 
There are probably bad situations everwhere, but the Favelas are probably worse off than England.
Interesting article. Whilst there are certainly similarities, I’d perhaps argue that the opportunity for education in the UK is the qualitative difference that makes the poverty cycle easier to break in the UK. The social problems may well be similar but the material infrastructure available and the opportunity to access this infrastructure-i.e. the education system, the health system, is greater in the UK. I’m only on limited info but I’d guess the poverty cycle was harder to break in Brazil because the gap between poor and rich is greater between favella and Brazilian mansion(?!) than it is between slum and countryhouse/British mansion.
Definitely, the only trouble with education is that for a large part of it you are a child – so by the time it dawns on you that maybe it would have been a good idea, it is already too late. Obviously this piece deals with a minority (I hope) but for that minority, how easy is it to say: “Stuff you mum, this school thing matters, I’m going anyway.” The Labour government were pretty firm though, e.g introducing imprisonment for parents whose kids were absent too often. But this happened to very few and was arguably not tackling the problem. In Liverpool I learned to say “Does your child go to school?” in certain areas before I asked where said child was enrolled.
Sucks.
Forget petrol and all the other rubbish that wars are fought over, education should be compulsory everywhere for everyone. After the entire population is educated, *then* we can discuss the rest of the political stuff. I think the biggest culture shock I’ve had so far in Latin America is that education is not compulsory (yet military service still is?!?).
Love,
Little Miss Privileged
Really interesting read, and one of the reasons I gave up journalism and am doing a social work MA. I can’t save the world but I can certainly try and help where possible. Bleeding heart liberal? Yep and proud!
Vikki, I admire your point of view. You’ve been trying to run away from truisms and stereotypes.Unfortunately, that “new conception of police” we were talking about is sadly still far from the tough reality. The police tyranny is an enemy to be beaten. My dream is to see free and happy favelas.I know there’s a long way, but things are slowly getting better. At least, I hope so…
“Because, the fact is, Liverpool changed me. I used to think I had a first class degree because I was cleverer than other people. I actually have a first class degree because my parents took me to school at five-years-old and for a good many years afterwards. They believed in education. I’ve heard parents in forgotten parts of Merseyside tell their kids not to bother with school because “I didn’t and I’m alright… now just get down the road and buy me some fags.” But hey, we’re all in charge of our own destiny.”
The problem is the parents not the state.
If anything – right thing solutions are probably the solution don’t give these wasters child benefit if their children go to school.
BTW I did come from a nice middle class family, but my Gran and Grandad didn’t but they brought up my mum to bother about school despite the fact that they didn’t get a very good education.
“Really? Is it that easy to break out of the cycle of poverty? Well, don’t tell me.”
Of course isn’t – although a bit more tough love would help. As would terms like deserving and undesrving poor.
“I’m not asking you to judge this woman. She wasn’t an addict (trust me, I know the signs) She didn’t work, she had lots of children, a gorgeous dog – I don’t know if there was a father on the scene. She probably wanted the kids to go to school, she just wasn’t sure how to go about it. Any of it.”
IMHO she is pathetic. I have met a Colombian called Mary in Cali who didn’t speak Spanish until she was 13 with more get up and go. Of course the important question is, the difference because or despite of the welfare state?
That’s interesting, but could you explain what you mean by ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor?
Funnily enough, I believe in two kinds of poverty too: ‘Cash poverty’ and ‘Value poverty’. You can grow up with no money and holes in your shoes, but if someone raising you has the right values – i.e enough belief in education to ensure you get to school – you’ll probably be alright. At least you’ll be able to read and write and after that, well, you’re on your own. There’s a big capitalist world out there, waiting for you and you’ll make of it what you can.
But if you grow up in value poverty – with people telling you not to bother with school, that the state will provide, well, you’ll probably end up with no idea how to live. Maybe you can’t read, maybe you can’t write, you’ve certainly never had anyone set an example for you. You will probably end up perpetuating this cycle.
We have the schools, we just need to get the kids there and get the parents’ support – maybe giving the child somewhere quiet to work, encouraging them to do their homework. That’s the only way we’re going to break people out. It takes someone really, really special to break this cycle on their own and frankly history is proving that, without intervention, it is just not happening.
p.s. I read this blog – http://1oneday.wordpress.com/2012/04/14/charities-act-to-feed-starving-in-britain/ which talks about people in Britain starving! I guess the other important thing is that the kids have enough food – they can hardly concentrate without food in their bellies. I know what I am like when I am hungry!
I grew up in a childrens home in London in the 50’s and 60’s … so have witnessed the downfall of Britains poor … Good article my friend!
This was such a wonderful post.
I grew up in a working-class down in Wales and when I went to university I was gobsmacked by the amount of people I met who just didn’t understand that not “everyone” could “better” themselves and improve their situations. People who do work in the local factories can’t just give up their jobs when they have families to support – plus they have zero qualifications so the idea of them going back to school is terrifying.
And then there’s the kids who do grow up in non-working, welfare families. People don’t realise that these kids have no encouragement to do well in school from their families and the state school system is ridiculous. I witnessed teachers at my school not bother making an effort with kids who found school too difficult or show no interest. These kids genuinely had no encouragement from any place in their lives and, is it any wonder then that they end up not working or getting involved with gangs? They’re almost raised to believe that they can’t do well in life and that they’re no good.
I couldn’t agree more. I think it’s an arrogance thing. We all like to believe ‘we are where we are’ because of our own talents and abilities and don’t like to think some roll of the dice, that happened before we were born, had anything to do with it. While I agree that we are to some extent in control of our own destinies, it’s hard to take control of that destiny when you have yet to hit double figures. I have a lot of sympathy with teachers though, while some will have their lazy moments, the kids need to be in the school and have some home support to actually learn anything.
why do you say the “dreaded favela”? i like living here..its not perfect but its still my home. Zezinho
Hey! How are you?? I guess I was being ironic… ‘dreaded’ because it is a place people dread going, has a bad reputation etc but when you go, it is just a lively community where people are getting on with their lives. But how is everything going? Send me an email!