By: Tomas Bernales-Jabur

Leaving the city in my uncle’s beat up Chevrolet Onix, we watched as the oncoming traffic inched forward slowly. It was early in the morning, far earlier than I would care to wake up on my holidays. However, the influx of working people driving into the plano piloto of Brasilia had already begun.

Much like constellations and planetary systems in space, the geographical layout of greater Brasilia revolves around the plano piloto, the predesigned urban center housing the main government agencies and the administrative capabilities of most governmental organs. Around the plano piloto lie the various cidades satellites, satellite cities that expanded as rural workers migrated to the new capital in search of jobs.

It was one of these very cities, Ceilandia, where we were headed.

My uncle is a professor of health and social sciences at the Universidade de Brasilia, more commonly known as UnB. His academic focus is the health of vulnerable populations, which has seen him partake in several research projects, some led by himself, and others by his colleagues. It was one of these projects that had us driving to the UnB satellite campus in Ceilandia, where we would pick up supplies and another researcher.

The project we were working on is called Homelessness in Brasilia: HIV, mental health & substance use needs’ assessment, which examines the mental health and prevalence of HIV and drug use in homeless populations around greater Brasilia. Each participant was administered an HIV test and participated in an exhaustive questionnaire which qualitatively examined everything from the participants sex life, drug use and mental health to their use of government aid.

In my capacity as a volunteer research assistant, I administered oral, saliva-based HIV tests, ensuring the proper handling of saliva samples and the organization of the tests. Luckily, thanks to a certain global pandemic I was quite well versed in swabbing corporal cavities for tests. The first time I was asked to administer the HIV test, the researcher explaining the process simply said, “Pretend it’s a Covid-19 test, but instead of swabbing the nose you swab the mouth.” Since that moment, my sobriquet of “American” was replaced by “the test guy.”

As usual, though, I am getting ahead of myself. After picking up twenty boxes of tests, give or take, we proceeded to turn on a main thoroughfare of Ceilandia. With Nalbert now in tow, we continued until his barking order spurred my uncle to turn down an alley where we stopped under a large red sign that read MESCVIDA: Ministerio de Evangelização SalveCristo Vida. Today that church would house our home base and testing center as the other researchers foraged for homeless people in the surrounding neighborhood.

Before we go on, it is crucial to note the location of the church. If you recall the main thoroughfare I mentioned, imagine this road as a border. A border which marked the beginning of the Crackolandia territory. In this region of Ceilandia, the use of crack cocaine was endemic, so widespread it became known as Crackolandia.

I rarely ask of anything from my readers, yet now I must make one request. I entreat those reading my words to take them at heart, without dismissing them as pure exaggeration or as a figment of my imagination. What follows is my most accurate account of my observations, calling on all my senses and faithfully documenting them to the best of my ability. The heights of misery, anxiety, and helplessness these people found themselves in is so great I doubt I accurately depicted their pain; such was the visceral magnitude of this project.

Roaming the streets were homeless people, some helpless due to their addiction to crack cocaine. Being early morning, many were still lucid, something that would change drastically later on. The first few research students ventured beyond the wrought iron fence enclosing the church. Hesitantly, the four of us stood on the corner of an abandoned square assessing what we saw. Along one edge of the square there was a wall, against which makeshift structures stood. Some people hunched over, prone, and others ambled and shuffled back and forth, greeting the others.

A faint rattling reached our ears, coming from the farthest corner along the iron fence of another church. A homeless person was waking up, gathering their clothes and belongings and placing them in a shopping cart, which was adorned with a dirt-stained rainbow umbrella. Farther down the alley we had driven to reach the church, our small group could see the shuffling figures faintly outlined by the weak early morning sun.

                  As if by a silent collective consensus, we began to spread out, each seeking out a homeless individual. I stood there and waited for one of the researchers to signal they had obtained an individual’s participation. Soon Rafael raised his hand and beckoned me, as he crouched beside a squatting figure.

This entire time my eyes had been focused around me on the people and the layout of the scene, yet I had failed to notice the ground. Walking over to Rafael, I heard, rather than felt, the crunching of vials, burnt paper, and plastic syringes below my feet. My soles felt nothing because the trash meshed together into a level surface. The ground was completely covered in an abundance of refuse it formed a carpet below our feet. The wall around the square even had a baseboard along the bottom, formed by the trash.

When I reached Rafael, he was asking the individual’s name. Pedro Paulo. The man was still lucid. Conscious enough to warn Rafael that he might not be able to finish the questionnaire because of his need to smoke crack. He told Rafael, “Espero que voçé não tem problema me intrevistando. Eu tó um pouco maluco, e se o resultado não for bom existe uma chance que eu dou uma paulada em alguem.” (I hope you don’t have a problem interviewing me. I’m high and if the result isn’t good, there’s a chance I might hit someone.)

Nevertheless, Rafael decided to continue the interview, and I conducted the HIV test. When I began swabbing his cheeks and gums I could feel small bumps, which Pedro Paulo explained were inflammation due to how much they smoked. As would become increasingly clear as the day wore on, everyone’s mouths were raw. The swabs were bloody and brown, and every participant, without fail, would warn me before beginning to be delicate because their mouths were inflamed. One participant even asked if the test would be accurate if “all the saliva has is crack.”

While intermittent, we had a few spells of quiet, when no one could find a participant or was resting between interviews. We all sat within the small room of the church, speaking with the pastor, who was more than happy to explain in detail the happenings of his parish.

First thing our pastor said was that despite what we saw, these homeless people were not lazy. They spent the day recycling, roaming the streets of Crackolandia like ants, picking up bits of metal and plastic then shuffling quickly back to the recycling center. Undoubtedly, the recycling center also moonlighted as a drug market or den. The territory of Crackolandia was a system in and of itself. As we observed repeatedly, the anxiety, or “fissura,” that tore through the region was such that many could not even finish speaking with us and left mid-sentence. They acted like businessmen, rushing here and there with their sole purpose to score some crack cocaine.

The pastor also explained why government benefits seemed to disappear. The homeless individuals would receive their money and food checks and go on “vacations,” disappearing to hotels for two to three days before their money ran out again. As the pastor put it, “Often with lady-friends.”

“It’s a way of life,” said the pastor. Some even have homes but such is their addiction they resort to living on the street. Whether they are kicked out of their homes, leave of their own volition, or do not have a home, they all share a common, utter addiction to crack cocaine.

Most understand their dependency on the drug, and some even make attempts at sobriety. However, in the environment of Crackolandia it is nearly impossible to remain sober. When the neighbor on the left is so high he thinks Buddha is sitting next to you, and the fumes of crack waft from the neighbor on the right, any attempt at sobriety goes out the window. Some organizations, like the church, host retreats to encourage sobriety. And while these can prove successful, some churches take advantage of vulnerable populations at these retreats, indoctrinating them, sometimes using physical violence. In the end, the few attempts to leave their lives as a homeless drug addict behind are unsuccessful.

I must make an important distinction, however, that those homeless individuals interviewed in Crackolandia differ greatly from those we interviewed on other occasions at homeless shelters like Centro Pop. Sadly, those in Crackolandia were enveloped in a haze of drug addiction and a tearing craving, or fissura, that created an environment of harried anxiety. Such was the stress of said environment, it seemed the passage of time was different in that territory. The homeless aged faster, with someone, say my age (16 years old), having the appearance of someone in their late twenties.

The reality at the Centro Pop was much different. Many of those living in the government provided homeless shelter had dreams and were acting on those dreams to leave the life of homeless behind. And many of those stuck in the reality of the homeless, were making the best of their lives.

While working with my uncle on his research project, not only did I learn valuable scientific lessons, but I was also exposed to a population that I do not interact with. I saw the struggles they faced, the stifling atmosphere, and the fundamental dependency on crack that drowned the homeless people in Crackolandia. Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw judgement and prejudice, and especially the predisposition to throw all the homeless people in the same boat. But no. By talking and listening to both the people in Crackolandia and at the Centro Pop, I was offered a glimpse into their lives from the ivory tower of my life. And as I reflected upon this, I understood the importance of understanding before judging, of listening before dismissing, and of overcoming a societal and prejudicial disgust. Empathy means an emotional understanding with another person. I will never fully understand what the homeless people of Crackolandia, Centro Pop, Brazil, and the world endure. Empathy may not happen, but everyone can work towards overcoming their judgment and reaching some inner part of them that houses compassion and sympathy.