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    The Spectacular Favela: Violence in Modern Brazil
    The Spectacular Favela: Violence in Modern Brazil
    The Spectacular Favela: Violence in Modern Brazil
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    The Spectacular Favela: Violence in Modern Brazil

    By Erika Mary Robb Larkins

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    In Rio de Janeiro’s favelas, traffickers assert power through conspicuous displays of wealth and force, brandishing high-powered guns, gold jewelry, and piles of cash and narcotics. Police, for their part, conduct raids reminiscent of action films or video games, wearing masks and riding in enormous armored cars called "big skulls." Images of these spectacles circulate constantly in local, national, and global media, masking everyday forms of violence, prejudice, and inequality. The Spectacular Favela offers a rich ethnographic examination of the political economy of spectacular violence in Rocinha, Rio’s largest favela. Based on more than two years of residence in the community, the book explores how entangled forms of violence shape everyday life and how that violence is, in turn, connected to the market economy.

    Erika Robb Larkins shows how favela violence is produced as a marketable global brand. While this violence is projected in disembodied form through media, the favela is also sold as an embodied experience through the popular practice of favela tourism. The commodification of the favela becomes a form of violence itself; favela violence is transformed into a commercially viable byproduct of a profit-driven war on drugs, which serves to keep the poor marginalized. This book tells the story of how traffickers, police, cameras, tourists, and even anthropologists come together to create what the author calls the "spectacular favela."
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUniversity of California Press
    Release dateMay 1, 2015
    ISBN9780520958692
    The Spectacular Favela: Violence in Modern Brazil
    Author

    Erika Mary Robb Larkins

    Erika Robb Larkins is an Assistant Professor in the Department of International and Area Studies at the University of Oklahoma.  

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      The Spectacular Favela - Erika Mary Robb Larkins

      The Spectacular Favela

      CALIFORNIA SERIES IN PUBLIC ANTHROPOLOGY

      The California Series in Public Anthropology emphasizes the anthropologist’s role as an engaged intellectual. It continues anthropology’s commitment to being an ethnographic witness, to describing, in human terms, how life is lived beyond the borders of many readers’ experiences. But it also adds a commitment, through ethnography, to reframing the terms of public debate—transforming received, accepted understandings of social issues with new insights, new framings.

      Series Editor: Robert Borofsky (Hawaii Pacific University)

      Contributing Editors: Philippe Bourgois (University of Pennsylvania), Paul Farmer (Partners In Health), Alex Hinton (Rutgers University), Carolyn Nordstrom (University of Notre Dame), and Nancy Scheper-Hughes (UC Berkeley)

      University of California Press Editor: Naomi Schneider

      1. Twice Dead: Organ Transplants and the Reinvention of Death, by Margaret Lock

      2. Birthing the Nation: Strategies of Palestinian Women in Israel, by Rhoda Ann Kanaaneh (with a foreword by Hanan Ashrawi)

      3. Annihilating Difference: The Anthropology of Genocide , edited by Alexander Laban Hinton (with a foreword by Kenneth Roth)

      4. Pathologies of Power: Health, Human Rights, and the New War on the Poor, by Paul Farmer (with a foreword by Amartya Sen)

      5. Buddha Is Hiding: Refugees, Citizenship, the New America, by Aihwa Ong

      6. Chechnya: Life in a War-Torn Society, by Valery Tishkov (with a foreword by Mikhail S. Gorbachev)

      7. Total Confinement: Madness and Reason in the Maximum Security Prison, by Lorna A. Rhodes

      8. Paradise in Ashes: A Guatemalan Journey of Courage, Terror, and Hope, by Beatriz Manz (with a foreword by Aryeh Neier)

      9. Laughter Out of Place: Race, Class, Violence, and Sexuality in a Rio Shantytown, by Donna M. Goldstein

      10. Shadows of War: Violence, Power, and International Profiteering in the Twenty-First Century, by Carolyn Nordstrom

      11. Why Did They Kill? Cambodia in the Shadow of Genocide, by Alexander Laban Hinton (with a foreword by Robert Jay Lifton)

      12. Yanomami: The Fierce Controversy and What We Can Learn from It , by Robert Borofsky

      13. Why America’s Top Pundits Are Wrong: Anthropologists Talk Back , edited by Catherine Besteman and Hugh Gusterson

      14. Prisoners of Freedom: Human Rights and the African Poor , by Harri Englund

      15. When Bodies Remember: Experiences and Politics of AIDS in South Africa , by Didier Fassin

      16. Global Outlaws: Crime, Money, and Power in the Contemporary World , by Carolyn Nordstrom

      17. Archaeology as Political Action, by Randall H. McGuire

      18. Counting the Dead: The Culture and Politics of Human Rights Activism in Colombia , by Winifred Tate

      19. Transforming Cape Town, by Catherine Besteman

      20. Unimagined Community: Sex, Networks, and AIDS in Uganda and South Africa, by Robert J. Thornton

      21. Righteous Dopefiend, by Philippe Bourgois and Jeff Schonberg

      22. Democratic Insecurities: Violence, Trauma, and Intervention in Haiti, by Erica Caple James

      23. Partner to the Poor: A Paul Farmer Reader, by Paul Farmer, edited by Haun Saussy (with a foreword by Tracy Kidder)

      24. I Did It to Save My Life: Love and Survival in Sierra Leone, by Catherine E. Bolten

      25. My Name Is Jody Williams: A Vermont Girl’s Winding Path to the Nobel Peace Prize, by Jody Williams

      26. Reimagining Global Health: An Introduction, by Paul Farmer, Jim Yong Kim, Arthur Kleinman, and Matthew Basilico

      27. Fresh Fruit, Broken Bodies: Migrant Farmworkers in the United States, by Seth M. Holmes, PhD, MD

      28. Illegality, Inc.: Clandestine Migration and the Business of Bordering Europe, by Ruben Andersson

      29. To Repair the World: Paul Farmer Speaks to the Next Generation, by Paul Farmer

      30. Blind Spot: How Neoliberalism Infiltrated Global Health, by Salmaan Keshavjee (with a foreword by Paul Farmer)

      31. Driving after Class: Anxious Times in an American Suburb, by Rachel Heiman

      32. The Spectacular Favela: Violence in Modern Brazil, by Erika Robb Larkins

      The Spectacular Favela

      VIOLENCE IN MODERN BRAZIL

      Erika Robb Larkins

      UC Logo

      UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

      University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu.

      University of California Press

      Oakland, California

      © 2015 by The Regents of the University of California

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Robb Larkins, Erika, 1977– author.

          The spectacular favela : violence in modern Brazil / Erika Robb Larkins.

              pages    cm. — (California series in public anthropology ; 32)

          Includes bibliographical references and index.

          ISBN 978-0-520-28276-6 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-520-28277-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-520-95869-2 (ebook)

          1. Violence—Social aspects—Brazil—Rio de Janeiro.    2. Rocinha (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil)—Social conditions.    3. Violence—Economic aspects—Brazil—Rio de Janeiro.    4. Rocinha (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil)—Economic conditions.    I. Title.    II. Series: California series in public anthropology ; 32.

          HN290.R5R63 2015

          303.60981—dc23 2015003806

      Manufactured in the United States of America

      24  23  22  21  20  19  18  17  16  15

      10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

      In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures Natural, a fiber that contains 30% post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992 (R 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

      To Michael, without whom none of this would be possible

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Introduction

      1. The Narco-Traffic

      2. The Penal State

      3. Favela, Inc.

      4. The Tourists

      5. Peace

      Epilogue

      Notes

      Bibliography

      Index

      Acknowledgments

      A book is never the work of a single person, and I would like to acknowledge those who have helped make this project possible. I owe a great deal to the residents of Rocinha. Preserving their anonymity prevents me from naming them in full. D, R, TL, I, W, S, J, J, I, B, H, F, I, O, R, R, and P all contributed in major ways, graciously sharing their time with me. Each welcomed me into their home and openly talked about hard subjects with a levity and humility that continues to inspire me. I am also appreciative for the assistance of several tour owners who allowed me to accompany their tours.

      The initial research for this book was funded by a National Science Foundation Doctoral Dissertation Improvement Grant, a Public Humanities Fellowship from the Center for the Humanities at the University of Wisconsin, a Scott Kloeck Jenson Fellowship, a research grant from the University of Wisconsin’s Division of International Studies, and a Tinker-Nave short-term research grant from the Center for Latin American, Caribbean, and Iberian Studies Program at the University of Wisconsin. At the University of Oklahoma (OU), research support has come from the Research Council Faculty Investment Program, a Research Council Junior Faculty Fellowship, and a College of International Studies Faculty Research Fellowship and Support Grant. The Social Science Research Council’s Drugs, Security, and Democracy (SSRC-DSD) Fellowship supported the final stages of research and writing. I am especially appreciative of the feedback from my SSRC-DSD peers and mentors, in particular, Taniele Rui, Arthur Trindade, and Joana Vargas. Desmond Arias has been a source of ongoing support and feedback.

      This work has benefited from the insight of many colleagues, mentors, and friends. Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney has been an inspiring mentor. Larry Nesper and Jo Ellen Fair provided useful critiques and encouragement. Special gratitude goes to Jim Sweet. Sverker Finnström and Carolyn Nordstrom were rays of light at a crucial moment.

      Thank you to Alessandro Angelini, Sarah Besky, Chelsea Chapman, Krista Coulson, Sangeeta Desai, Kristen Dowell, Sarah Grant, Robin Grier, Miriam Gross, Lisa Jackson, Katie Lindstrom, Dan Mains, Olivia McCarty, Amanda Minks, Alex Nading, Jerusha Ogden, Alise Osis, Sara Osten, Emily Rook-Koepsel, Mitchell Smith, Paul Sneed, Justin Strock, Danielle Theriault, Theresa Whitehead, and Kent Wisniewski, all of whom have provided helpful input, laughter, and an important sense of perspective at different points along the way. I am particularly grateful to Tricia Olsen and John Fowler for afternoons at Arpoador and to Noah Theriault for his amazing ability to find the right word.

      This book would have been far less readable without the assistance of my fabulous OU faculty writing group: Dan Emery, Lisa Foster, Sarah Ellis, Ellen Rubenstein, Ronnie Grinberg, and Andreana Pritchard. The encouragement of Kimberly Marshall has kept me sane and productive. Students Nick Aguilera, Kelli Silver, and Paul Vieth also provided assistance.

      At the University of California Press, I am particularly grateful to Naomi Schneider, Ally Power, Rose Vekony, and Sheila Berg. Thank you also to Janet Keller for reading an early draft of the manuscript and to the anonymous reviewers for their constructive criticism. Any and all of the book’s shortcomings are, of course, my own.

      I acknowledge the journal Law and Social Inquiry, the American Bar Foundation, and Wiley Blackwell for allowing the reproduction of short excerpts of my previously published article Performances of Police Legitimacy in Rio’s Hyper-Favela that appear in chapter 2.

      I gratefully acknowledge the support of the Robb, Larkins, and Lebowitz families. My mother, Anna, introduced me to Brazil. She supported me always, nurtured my sense of adventure, and taught me happy history. Thank you, mamãe, for raising me to believe that we should not only be outraged at the injustices of the world, but that we should do something to change them.

      My children were born during the research and writing of this book, and much of it was typed with one hand while I held a baby in the other. Denali Rio and Annabel Gladys, thank you for sharing your young lives with the gestation of this project and for inspiring me to dream of a different Rio, and of a different favela.

      Three of the people who were most central to the realization of this book did not live to see it in print. My mentor and graduate adviser Neil Whitehead entered the spirit world as I completed the first draft. A source of never-ending intellectual stimulation, I could not have asked for a better guide. Neil, you are alive in the conversations I have with you as I write.

      My two closest friends and collaborators in Rocinha, D and L, both died young, not from bullets, but from treatable illnesses. They died poor and in pain, with substandard medical care. I am angry that it had to end this way. I miss them terribly.

      Finally, to Michael. Thank you for sharing in the joys and sorrows of the favela, for all the sacrifices it took to arrive here, and for making my life so full and happy.

      •     •     •     •     •

      The author’s proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to Rocinha NGOs.

      Introduction

      November 2008. I was in the kitchen making breakfast when I heard the sound of Peter’s voice from below the window. Peter was a twenty-something Brazilian American who volunteered at one of the nonprofit organizations where I worked and who rented the apartment downstairs.¹ I poked my head out and looked up and down the narrow alley of the favela.² Peter stood below the window, hands gesturing rapidly, trying to explain something to Chucky, one of the narco-soldiers who regularly patrolled the neighborhood in the favela of Rocinha where I had been living and conducting fieldwork.

      The heavily armed traffickers who controlled my neighborhood were mostly polite guys. They would say Good morning and Good evening to me in the street like any other favela resident. If I made eye contact when I passed them, sometimes they would want to chat, or check out whatever song I had playing on my iPod, or practice their English on me. Then there were guys like Chucky. Taking his nickname from the murderous doll of 1980s American horror movie fame, Chucky was intimidating. His eyes were usually just a bit too glazed and bloodshot, his voice a little too raspy, and he took his job very seriously. So when Chucky started yelling Liar! at Peter and jabbing him in the chest with his M16 for punctuation, I knew there was trouble.

      The weekly baile funk had taken place the night before, and Chucky had clearly not been to bed yet.³ He wore a black Kevlar vest that read Polícia Civil (Civil Police) across the back in yellow letters. Lots of traffickers wore these, especially when there were rumors of impending police invasions. They were probably purchased from a police uniform store in the centro or maybe from police themselves. Chucky was shirtless under the heavy vest. It was late summer, and even in the morning it was already hot. His shorts had a garish neon pattern of naked ladies printed on them, and on his feet he wore a pair of Havaianas, the now-chic rubber sandals exported worldwide. An enormous gold medallion that spelled out C-H-U-C-K-Y in block letters hung from his neck, its diamonds catching the sunlight.

      As soon as Chucky started yelling, the alley became strangely quiet, as though someone had pressed the mute button on what was usually a cacophony of sounds—children laughing and yelling, the latest Christian rock hit, the bass-pumping rhythm of funk, or the sound of the pressure cooker with lunch’s beans cooking. The alley itself, where people usually sat outside on their stoops talking and where kids kicked soccer balls up and down the stairs, had emptied. Neighbors fled the street to watch the unfolding spectacle from the safety of their windowsills or doorways.

      Though Peter had lived in the house for several months and the neighbors certainly knew him, no one came out to intervene. They knew better than to get involved. So it was just me, descending the stairs, then entering the street, apologizing profusely to Chucky, saying that Peter had surely not intended any disrespect (for whatever he had done; it wasn’t clear yet) and suggesting that we all walk down to the boca de fumo (neighborhood drug-selling spot; lit., mouth of smoke), where cooler and more powerful heads would probably prevail. I knew that they were not likely to shoot a foreign woman. Popular belief held that if anything happened to someone like me the U.S. military would bomb the favela into oblivion—and I was more than happy to affirm this myth if it meant an extra layer of safety.

      Afterward, competing versions of what had happened circulated in the gossip mill that always exhaustively covered such events in the favela. Details aside, what was clear was that Peter had taken some unauthorized video footage in the neighborhood. A friend from the States was in town and had his eye on a certain souvenir—a video of the inner alleyways of Peter’s favela neighborhood that would show his American friends just how crazy and cool his trip to Rio had been. Back home, the spectacular favela sequence in the wildly popular video game Modern Warfare 2 had introduced a new audience to the favela and its traffickers. Evidence of one’s own foray into trafficker territory was an edgy and status-conferring souvenir.

      In our neighborhood of Rocinha, however, photography was more or less prohibited since the dono do morro (favela drug boss; lit., owner of the hill) lived a few doors up from our apartment building. The scores of armed narco-soldiers who provided him with protection patrolled the area at all hours of the day and night and were constantly on the lookout for risks to his security. Photographs or, worse yet, video could provide the police with important information for their endless but ineffective pursuit of the boss, who was then among the most wanted men in Rio. Peter knew this just as well as I did. In fact, the no photography rule was one of the first things that our landlord routinely mentioned to the foreigners to whom he rented his apartments in order to supplement his family’s modest income. With increased tourist interest in the favela—and with the proliferation of foreign nonprofit organizations and their sets of young volunteers—he had no shortage of renters.

      Regardless of the danger, Peter acquiesced to his friend’s desire and had taken a motorcycle taxi up the hill and down our alley, hanging off the back with his video camera outstretched to capture the chaotic favela landscape. Chucky had seen the camera when he passed by and had given chase. Realizing he was going to be in trouble, Peter had hidden the camera in his backpack, and when I first heard the argument he was trying to tell Chucky that there was no camera, that Chucky must have been seeing things. After all, it was the latest high-definition model, and Peter didn’t want to give it up. It was a pretty stupid move, everyone later agreed. Did he want to die over a camera, even a fancy one that probably cost as much as a typical resident’s yearly income?

      Chucky wasn’t willing to accept my apologies, but he was willing to walk down to the boca. The boca manager, who was called Rambo, acted his part as the de facto police chief and told Chucky to go and get some sleep. Faced with Rambo’s chilly professionalism and intimidating arsenal of shiny new guns, Peter took the camera out of his backpack sheepishly, an act that made Chucky furious since it confirmed that he had been lied to. Again, he began to scream Liar! at the top of his lungs, as he did for weeks afterward every time he walked by the apartment where we lived. Rambo checked the image, deleted it, and sent Peter home with a warning that left him wobbly in the knees.

      Peter and his friend spent a few hours laying low inside his apartment, after which he packed a suitcase and went off on a weeklong vacation to Buzios, the nicest and most expensive beach resort town in the region. The neighbors and I stayed behind, wondering whether Chucky would indeed cool it, cringing every time he walked by hurling insults at our front gate.

      A few months later, I saw Chucky again. This time it was in the newspaper, which featured pictures of his lifeless body and shiny medallions. He was killed during a police invasion in the favela. Residents said that Chucky had been caught smoking crack, and since the drug boss had prohibited its use in the favela, he had to be punished. After all, he was getting more erratic and aggressive, behavior that could undermine resident tolerance of the narco-regime and potentially attract unwanted police attention. In order to get rid of the problem, the dono allegedly told the police where Chucky lived. During the next police invasion, he was left as a sacrifice to appease the cops, the spectacle of his corpse a prize for the legions of photographers who habitually chronicled police actions in the favela. Chucky was one of twenty-six traffickers who died during my first year of residence in Rocinha.⁴

      This ethnographic anecdote, drawn from my 2008–10 fieldwork, captures many of the dynamics of violence and power I studied: trafficker governance, spectacular violence, the commodification of the trafficker image by foreigners, and the mediation of this fascination through souvenir images or sensational news reporting. When talking about violence, favela residents frequently sat back, sighed, and said, É complicado. It’s complicated. The complexity to which they refer lies precisely in these overlapping and intertwined forms of violence. Traffickers like Chucky, who control extremely lucrative cocaine, marijuana, and weapons markets, act as the de facto government in the favela. Police appear only sporadically, and policing is far more brutal and oppressive than it is effective in improving security or protecting citizens. Given the absence of a more ample and fully developed state presence, traffickers maintain their own version of law and order, legitimating their authority through flashy displays of weapons and wealth (particularly potent symbols in the overall context of poverty in the favela) and by imitating the detached competence of an imagined state bureaucracy.

      While violence is most overtly present as armed conflict, the favela population also suffers as a result of asymmetrical configurations of capital that constitute and perpetuate inequality. The overwhelming majority of residents experience what scholars call structural violence, the unequal structures of society that prevent some people from meeting their basic human needs—for food, shelter, safety, health care, happiness, or a chance for a better life (Scheper-Hughes 1993; Scheper-Hughes and Bourgois 2004; Farmer 2004).

      Historically, just as today, the favela constitutes an essential (if poor) labor force that enables the functioning of the rest of the city.⁵ Yet despite the central contribution of favela residents as honest workers, entire communities have been reduced to places of criminality and trafficking in the wider cultural imaginary.⁶ Rio’s former governor Sergio Cabral, discussing the high birthrates in Rocinha, even referred to the community as a factory that makes criminals (Freire 2007). The power of such dehumanizing imaginations (Rozema 2011) both legitimates police violence against favela residents and, in the eyes of the public, justifies the inferior place of favela residents in the social and class hierarchy.

      Class asymmetries are not just local or even national in nature. Rocinha is the site of a booming market in favela tours, during which foreigners observe favela life. Tourist interest and the pervasive presence of visitors like Peter and his friend attest to the imbrication of local crime and poverty with the desire for experiences of the favela on the part of more affluent members of the global North (including foreign anthropologists, a point I take up shortly and in the conclusion). Thus favela violence not only consumes the bodies of traffickers and cops in a profit-driven war on drugs while keeping the poor marginalized; it has also become a commercially viable by-product of an ongoing capitalist enterprise.

      This book offers an ethnographic account of how entangled forms of violence, spectacle, and commodification become essential forces shaping everyday social relations in Rocinha, the most (in)famous favela in Latin America. Long considered one of the most violent favelas in Rio, Rocinha is also well known for its size: it is one of the largest favelas in Brazil. Given these factors and its location between two of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Rio, the community occupies a unique place in the public eye and is a particularly evocative site from which to observe the spectacular nature of drug war violence.

      HISTORIES OF VIOLENCE

      The story of favela violence in Rio doesn’t begin with Chucky but rather with his ancestors stepping off a boat from Africa at the start of the transatlantic slave trade. Brazilian society, from its inception, was built on inequality between the Portuguese planter class that wielded economic and political power and the enslaved blacks whose labor constructed the emerging nation (Schwartz 1986; Skidmore 1999). The ideologies and practices of these formative colonial years have had lasting effects on Brazilian society. In a practical sense, they established a pattern of land and property ownership privileging a minority elite over the masses. In an ideological sense, they introduced long-lasting racial and class hierarchies that continue to inform prejudice and marginalization in Brazilian society today (Alves 2014; Fry 2000, 2005–6; Telles 2006; Sheriff 2001; Skidmore 1974; Needell 1995; Vargas 2004; Winant 1992; Perry 2013).⁷ Colonial rule, during which dominance over slaves was maintained through a culture of terror centered on public punishment, also established a pattern whereby violence and spectacle would become central to the emergence and evolution of Brazilian society and its class and racial relationships.

      When Brazil abolished slavery in 1888, it was the last country in the world to do so. Many newly emancipated Africans and their descendants moved to cities like Rio in search of work and a better life.⁸ In the early decades of the twentieth century, Rio’s urban population more than tripled in size (Fischer 2008: 17). New arrivals found little available housing and eventually settled in the hillside areas above the city center.⁹ These areas came to be called favelas after one such squatter community was established on land given to soldiers returning from the Canudos War (1893–97). The freed men and women who settled there were eventually joined by waves of migrants from the country’s interior, fleeing rural poverty in search of opportunity.¹⁰ Together, former slaves and their descendants and other rural migrants formed a new urban working class, which (literally) constructed the bourgeoning metropolis.

      Figure 1. Osvaldo Cruz, Rio’s public health minister (1903–9) pictured here sanitizing the favela, represented by a grotesque head. A diseased underclass, visually represented in this image, required forcible sanitation and vaccination. This imagined threat of physical contagion has since merged with a social contagion of criminality epitomized by the figure of the narco-trafficker. Image from Oswaldo Cruz: Monumenta Histórica, Brasiliensia documenta 6 (São Paulo, 1971), 1:clxxxviii.

      From its inception, the favela was imagined as a hindrance to the development of the otherwise modern, marvelous city (see Fischer 2014: 9–67). Early incarnations of what would come to be known as the favela problem were centered on the bodies of residents, imagined to be diseased (fig. 1),¹¹ and on the unruly architecture of the informal settlements.

      As the Brazilian elite strove to create a modern city in the image of Paris, urban development was given force through the ambitious use of legal instruments such as building codes, zoning restrictions, and sanitary regulations—that would showcase Rio’s beauty and sophistication and leave no crevices of unregulated growth (Fischer 2008: 17).¹² Favelas, as informal, urban interstices beyond governmental control, were on the receiving end of state repression. In a few cases, they were tolerated because they provided labor for much of the city’s service industry and housed the domestic workers of the elite.¹³ More frequently, however, communities were torn down, their residents left homeless or forcibly relocated to Rio’s outskirts.¹⁴

      If one thinks of favela violence not so much as a series of events but as a kind of ongoing social project, Brazil’s military dictatorship (1964–85) also changed the shape of the favela problem in important ways. Favela residents, who were largely considered by the junta to be apolitical, were not the primary target of right-wing generals and their death squads (Green 2003; Skidmore 1988).¹⁵ Still, the routinization of everyday state violence against the civilian population during this period came to have important consequences for later favela policy.

      In its campaigns against alleged subversives, the military dictatorship depended on an ideology that Giorgio Agamben calls the state of exception. For Agamben, the state of exception is a condition under which normal principles of law and order are superseded by exceptional acts or displays of force in the name of protecting citizens. The desire for a continental Brazilian modernity that produced the antifavela campaigns of the early years of the republic gave way to the military regime’s exception-based abuses leveraged against supposed subversives.¹⁶ Subversives were painted as enemies of the state. Their humanity thus degraded, they became a kind of nonperson stripped of citizenship, a condition Agamben calls bare life (1998: 11). As designated enemies of the military regime, it was far easier for the state to legitimately execute or disappear them.

      Exception as a paradigm of government did not die out with the end of the dictatorship.¹⁷ Rather, the state of exception continued, fueled by urgency on various, constantly shifting fronts. In the twilight of the dictatorship, oppressive tactics deployed in the war against political subversives were superimposed on the fight against organized crime (Pinheiro 1991; Huggins 1991). Even as Brazil’s abertura, or return to democracy, brought a climate of hope to the favela (Gay 2009; Pandolfi and Grynszpan 2003), another state of exception was being created and disseminated. Under this new state of exception, Rio de Janeiro was imagined as a divided city, comprising two (supposedly) different places: the formal city and the favela (Arias 2006: 3–14; Penglase 2009).¹⁸ Traffickers were reenvisioned not merely as common criminals, but as enemy combatants

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