"Those years of lead that President Bolsonaro wants to restore in my country"

In a tribune, the Brazilian writer goes back on his arrest, in 1974, by the junta in power (1964-1985), and on the sessions of torture that he underwent.

Time to Play 7 min.

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(In a tribune which he publishes in several titles of the international press and of which he reserved to the "World" the exclusivity in French language, the Brazilian writer tells his arrest by the junta in power and the sessions of torture which he suffered.)

Tribune. May 28, 1974: A group of armed men enters my apartment. They start with drawers and cupboards but I do not know what they are looking for, I'm only a rock music writer. One of them, nicer than the others, asks me to follow them "To clarify a number of things". The neighbor witnesses the whole incident and warns my family, who panic immediately. Everyone knew what was happening in Brazil at the time, even though it was not covered by newspapers.

I am taken to the Departamento de Ordem Politica e Social (DOPS), arrested and photographed. I ask what I did, he answers that they are the ones asking the questions. A lieutenant asks me ridiculous questions and lets me go. From that moment, I am no longer officially in prison – so that the government is no longer responsible for me. When I go out, the guy who took me to DOPS suggests we have coffee together. He hails a taxi and gently opens the door. I go up and give the address of my parents – they have to know what happened.

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On the way, two cars pop up and block my cab – a man with a revolver in his hand, gets out of one of the cars and pulls me out of the cab. I fall to the ground and I feel the barrel of the revolver against my neck. I see a hotel in front of me and I say to myself, "I can not die so fast. I sink into a catatonic state: I feel no fear, I feel nothing. I know the stories of friends who have disappeared; I will disappear and the last thing I will have seen is a hotel. The guy lifts me, throws me on the floor of his car and orders me to put on a hood.

"You will really suffer"

We drive for half an hour maybe. They must be deciding where they will perform – but I still do not feel anything. I accepted my destiny. The car stops. I am pulled out and beaten while being pushed into what appears to be a corridor. I scream, but I know no one can hear me because they scream, too. "Terrorist!, they howl. You deserve to die. You fight against your country. You will die slowly, but before that you will really suffer. " Paradoxically, my survival instinct is slowly starting to wake up.


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