Working in Brazil

On Favelas, Street Children, and Human Dignity

Rio de Janeiro.

I still remember the light.

The intense morning light over the ocean near Copacabana. The green mountains rising behind the city. The sound of people, traffic, music, and voices that never seemed to become completely silent.

Rio was beautiful.

And yet, beneath that beauty, the city carried something else. A restlessness. A pain beneath the surface.

I had traveled to Brazil several times through research and collaboration projects related to social work. This particular journey took place in November 2012 together with colleagues from Norway and Brazil. On paper, the trip was about research, lectures, and cooperation between universities. But what remains with me today, many years later, is above all the encounter with people.

Brazil came close.

Not only as a society.

But as a human experience.

The Narrow Streets of the Favelas

On our first day, we visited several favelas in Rio together with Brazilian friends who knew the areas well.

We walked up steep stairways between small houses pressed tightly against the hillsides. Children ran through the alleys. Music flowed out from open windows. Bare electrical wires hung between buildings.

Everywhere there were people.

Life.

Movement.

It was impossible not to notice how full of life this city was. People sang loudly in the streets. Danced. Laughed. Strangers approached us and started conversations. They wanted to know where we came from. Most had never heard of Norway, but when we said “Northern Europe,” they nodded and smiled.

No one treated us as strangers.

Perhaps because Brazil itself was built by people who once came from elsewhere.

The history of Brazil is also a history of slavery, migration, poverty, and people trying to create a life far from where they began. In many parts of Rio, we encountered a society where identity seemed more fluid than at home in Norway. No one appeared to belong completely, and perhaps that was precisely why there was such openness toward others.

At the same time, one could still sense the darker layers of history.

It was not long ago that Brazil had been ruled by a military dictatorship. Democracy was still relatively young and fragile in many ways. Distrust toward the police and public institutions was noticeable, especially in the favelas.

The Shadow of Violence

At the same time as we encountered warmth and kindness, violence was never far away.

Police officers carrying automatic weapons patrolled the streets. Police vehicles moved slowly through the city with a tension that could almost be physically felt. In some places, drug dealing took place openly. Many people told us that the trade was organized by gangs that controlled different favela areas.

The favelas had their own invisible borders.

There were places one did not enter alone. Not as a foreigner. Not without people who were respected by those living there.

We quickly understood how important our Brazilian friends were for us. They did not only open doors — they created safety. Many shared stories about violence between gangs, police operations, and military interventions in certain areas.

Several described a daily life where fear had become part of what was normal.

And yet life continued.

Children played in the alleyways.

Families prepared food.

Music drifted through open windows.

Perhaps that was what affected me most deeply. The fact that people continue to live, hope, and love even under difficult conditions.

The Children in the Streets

One of the experiences that affected me most deeply during our days in Rio was meeting the children living and working in the streets.

Small children walked between cars carrying boxes of matches, flowers, or small items they tried to sell. Some gently knocked on car windows at traffic lights. Others simply stood still and looked at us with eyes far too old for a child.

I remember the feeling of helplessness.

What do you do when a child tries to sell flowers late at night in a large city far from home?

I was told that many of these children still had families living in the favelas. But poverty was so severe that the children had to spend much of their lives in the streets to earn money. Some survived through small sales, begging, and theft. The money they earned was taken home to their families.

It was difficult to comprehend.

Here poverty revealed itself in its most brutal form. Not as statistics or research reports, but as children’s faces in traffic.

Several times I felt tears rise in my eyes.

Perhaps because no child should carry such responsibility.

Perhaps because one suddenly realizes how fragile safety truly is.

In Norway, we often discuss poverty as a political or economic issue. In Rio, poverty had faces.

Small hands.

Tired eyes.

Children who should have been home.

Social Work and Trust

A few days later, I lectured at the School of Social Work at PUC-Rio about collaboration in cases involving violence and sexual abuse against children.

They were powerful meetings.

The Brazilian students listened with great interest as I described how police, schools, health services, and child welfare agencies cooperate in Norway. For us, such cooperation feels natural. But for the students in Rio, it was difficult to imagine.

Several said openly that collaborating with the police in Brazil could be dangerous.

Not only difficult.

Dangerous.

At that moment, I understood something important:

Social work can never be separated from the history of a society.

Institutions are built on trust. And trust grows slowly.

In Norway, trust in public institutions is relatively high. In parts of Brazil, experiences were very different. Many social workers operated in communities where the police were not necessarily viewed as protectors.

This made a deep impression on me.

Suddenly, social work became something larger than methods and theories. It became about history, power, fear, and people’s lived experiences of society around them.

When Research Becomes Human

We had many meetings with researchers and professionals during our stay. We discussed poverty, health, violence, education, and children’s living conditions. Statistics were reviewed. Projects were planned. New forms of collaboration were explored.

But the most important conversations often happened during the breaks.

Over coffee.

Walking through the city.

During long dinners late in the evening.

It is easy to believe that research is primarily about analysis and statistics. But international collaboration is also about friendship. About people trying to understand one another across languages and cultures.

Perhaps this is what remains strongest in me after these days in Brazil:

The experience of human closeness.

Despite differences in language, economy, and history, we encountered people who opened their lives and experiences to us.

It created humility.