By Tiago Lucero
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This isn’t a rhetorical question, nor is it an exaggeration: what on earth is happening in Brazil? What kind of country are we living in, where confessed billion-dollar corruption convicts walk free, laughing, sneering, reclaiming power and influence—while a comedian is sentenced to 8 years and 6 months in prison for telling jokes on stage?
Yes, you read that right. Léo Lins, a stand-up comic known for his sharp, controversial humor, just received a sentence harsher than many convicted murderers and rapists in Brazil. His crime? Words. Lines delivered during a comedy show, recorded and shared in 2022. Meanwhile, José Dirceu—found guilty of passive corruption and a key player in the notorious “mensalão” bribery scheme—attends public events, grinning and saying: “the mensaleiro never left.” And he’s right. He didn’t. He’s back. Free. Politically and judicially absolved. Applauded.
The moral inversion is so absurd it defies logic, ethics, even basic common sense. Brazil’s Federal Court has just ordered the return of R$15 million to Antonio Palocci, a former finance minister who openly confessed to corruption and provided plea bargain testimony. This, in the same country where billions were proven to have been siphoned from Petrobras in collusion with major construction firms—crimes those companies admitted to, signing leniency deals that have now been overturned, undone, whitewashed. Confessed criminals are returning to public life as if nothing ever happened. Impunity has become not just the rule—but the punchline.
Despite its flaws, Operation Car Wash dismantled the largest corruption scheme in Western history. That’s not hyperbole; it was recognized as such by international courts. And yet today, it’s been entirely undone. Not because the crimes disappeared—but because the convictions were nullified on technicalities. That’s the new narrative: the evidence was valid, the crimes happened—but the trials took place in Curitiba, not Brasília. The issue was a zip code.
All the while, Lula—the “un-convicted” president—governs with the air of historical vindication. No institutional scrutiny. No checks or balances. Quite the opposite: he’s backed by a Supreme Court that no longer acts as a constitutional guardian, but as an ideological shield—and increasingly, an informal lawmaker. The proposed regulation of social media, about to be enforced by executive fiat, is just another chapter in this growing alliance between the Executive and Judiciary. Preemptive censorship will be dressed up as “regulation.” Dissent will be rebranded as “disinformation.”
And when even organized crime is treated with leniency, the moral collapse is complete. MC Poze, an artist who openly celebrates ties to drug trafficking in songs and social media—cheered on by gun-wielding crowds in favela videos—was recently granted legal clearance, despite his business dealings being investigated for laundering money for the Red Command cartel. The same state that cracks down on comedians offers freedom to those who glorify crime.
Yes, we are in a state of anomie. A country where institutions exist, but justice does not. Where the machinery of the state runs smoothly—but serves itself, not its people. Where the law bends to shield allies and crushes anyone who challenges the narrative. Justice may be blind—but not out of fairness. It’s blind out of convenience.
The question we need to ask is no longer “who stole,” “who ordered the hit,” or “who lied.” We already know those answers. The real question now is: what is happening to Brazil? What kind of society are we becoming, where truth-tellers and comedians are jailed—while those who undermine the nation become role models?
There is no democracy where criminals dance and comedians are handcuffed.
There is no republic where the law is selective and truth is punished.
And there is no future where corruption is rewritten as heroism.
Maybe—just maybe—it’s time Brazil stops asking “what’s happening?” and starts asking: how long will we keep accepting this?
