Brazil’s conservative carnival tries to put on brave face in era of resurgent left

“Lula, resign,” screamed the man, wearing a T-shirt bearing the same message. Then came the chorus — “Lula, resign!” — as the crowd voiced their distaste for Brazil’s leftwing president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva.

The group had gathered outside a convention centre in the eastern city of Belo Horizonte for an extravaganza that organisers had touted, with obvious exaggeration, as the “biggest conservative event in the world”.

Known as CPAC — or the Conservative Political Action Conference — the spectacle is an import from the American right that has taken hold among Brazil’s mix of conservative, evangelical and far-right communities.

During the previous presidency of Jair Bolsonaro, a former army captain turned populist politician, CPAC grew into a kind of Carnival for the right. Instead of skimpy clothes and glitter, there are Brazil flags and jerseys. Instead of samba, there are lectures on the dangers of gender ideology and the importance of Jesus.

This year, however, the swaggering exuberance of the event had all but faded. With Bolsonaro out of office and banned from contesting elections, and the left once again in ascendance, any sense of triumphalism had vanished. In its place were fear and loathing.

“Lula’s government is marked by hatred, resentment and revenge,” said Julia Zanatta, a federal lawmaker with Bolsonaro’s increasingly far-right Liberal party. “And the decisions of the judiciary have shown that against us opposition, rightwing and conservative politicians, anything goes.”

In addition to Lula — who is enjoying buoyant approval ratings despite his narrow election victory last year — much of the angst at CPAC was directed at Brazil’s Supreme Court. In the tumultuous days before and after the polls last October, the court took a firm stance in cracking down on hate speech and disinformation, often disseminated by far-right networks.

Then, when thousands of pro-Bolsonaro radicals stormed and vandalised the country’s political institutions in January, the court moved up a gear, arresting thousands and charging hundreds. Just a week before CPAC began, it delivered a harsh first conviction: 17 years to a rioter caught vandalising the Senate. The court took the view that the riots were an attempted coup.

Although the insurrection was widely condemned by Brazilian society, the populist right has attempted to portray the judicial response as political persecution. A separate decision by Brazil’s electoral court in June to strip Bolsonaro of his political rights for eight years, after he was convicted of abuse of power while in office, has fuelled the perceived sense of injustice.

“With every step I take I risk prosecution,” said Cristiano Caporezzo, a state lawmaker who spoke at CPAC on Saturday. “In fact, I have already received a complaint from public prosecutors, alleging transphobia for the simple reason that I will never agree that a biological man, who believes he is a woman, will compete in any female sport.”

Over the course of the weekend, many of the speakers urged the crowd not to be afraid and to start rebuilding the conservative movement. But the sense of unease was palpable. Many attendees expressed discomfort with having to disclose their names and personal details as part of registration.

Tickets were initially $50 per head, but a week before the event organisers waived this fee and offered reimbursements. The 1,500-capacity venue, nonetheless, never appeared more than two-thirds full.

In previous years, the event attracted a slew of speakers from the American right, including Republican congressmen and members of Donald Trump’s inner circle. Last year, Javier Milei — the frontrunner in forthcoming presidential elections in Argentina — was a prominent guest. This year they all steered clear.

“We are afraid to speak, afraid to post online, afraid to say his name . . . the name of [supreme court justice] Alexandre de Moraes,” said Patricia Schmidt, who travelled from the southern city of Curitiba to attend the event.

Bruno Carazza, a political analyst and professor at the Dom Cabral Foundation in Belo Horizonte, said the movement was in a “defensive position” since Bolsonaro’s defeat and the riots in January, which had tarnished the image of the populist right among the broader population.

“It is a difficult time for them. They are now trying to mobilise themselves and create a plan for the next few years.”

Indeed, municipal elections next year and federal polls in 2026 were weighing on the minds of the more senior politicians in attendance.

Romeu Zema, the rightwing governor of the state of Minas Gerais — where Belo Horizonte is located — took to the stage to deafening applause and chanting of his name.

“We need to participate, we need to fight. We have municipal elections next year and we have to find good candidates and get them to run,” said Zema, a polished, articulate former businessman, who is widely expected to contest the presidency in 2026.

The speech was interrupted midway, however, by a heckler lambasting the state’s pandemic-era vaccine requirements and Zema was forced unceremoniously offstage. Even at this unique reunion of the Brazilian right, opinions were not united.

Additional reporting by Emily Costa