In a country with a long tradition of political apathy, this week's wave of protests across Brazil took even those participating in them by surprise.
“Look how cool! Brazil’s come to a stop and it’s not even carnival!” chanted marchers in São Paulo while, online, more demonstrations were organised using the hashtag #ogiganteacordou, or “the giant has awoken”.
Even more surprising is that a movement that has grown into the biggest challenge to the country’s political class since the return of democracy a quarter of a century ago started with demands for the reversal of a seven-cent rise in bus fares in São Paulo.
Brutal policing of those earlier protests helped spark a nationwide youth rebellion. As one placard put it: “The sofa generation has come to the street.”
Unused to such defiance, politicians quickly caved in and, by the end of the week, most large cities had announced a reduction in bus and train fares. But whether that will be enough to appease protestors remains unclear.
Since the rallies spread across the country via social media from their epicentre in São Paulo, the list of grievances of those taking part has grown beyond calls for lower bus fares. They have also taken to denouncing the abysmal state of public schools and hospitals and high levels of violence, as well as more esoteric issues, such as efforts by politicians to curb the ability of public prosecutors to investigate corruption.
For the former radicals of the ruling Workers Party, all this anger has come as a shock. Just a few weeks ago it was celebrating the achievements of its first decade in power, proud of having lifted 40 million people out of poverty. But the economy is sputtering, a consumer boom fuelled by subsidised credit is waning and most of the historic flaws in Brazilian society remain as intractable as ever.
“For a few years everyone was able to buy mobile phones, their first car or a new home so they felt better off,” says William Trindade de Jesus Bastos, a protester from São Paulo’s poor periphery. “Now they have to pay back the loans they got to buy all these things, so they feel less well off, while the public services we use are as awful as ever.”
This widespread dissatisfaction with the state of public services has been thrown into sharp relief by this month's staging of Fifa's Confederations Cup in the country. It is a dress rehearsal for next year's World Cup, on which the government is lavishing taxpayers' money, including on a string of new stadiums at least four of which will be largely redundant once the tournament ends.
“Brazil deserves a World Cup, but we deserve decent schools and hospitals more. We made the wrong choice on what to invest in,” says Bastos, a film student.
Amazingly for a land that likes to think of itself as the country of football, the Confederations Cup – even games involving the national team – has become a target for protesters. “Hey, Fifa! Pay my bus fare!” was one of the wittier chants heard this week.
But marchers’ deepest rage is reserved for the country’s political class, with both government and opposition leaders accused of being arrogant, indifferent and incorrigibly corrupt.
Yet this is no Tropical Spring: Brazil is not Egypt. In October the country will celebrate 25 years since it ratified its democratic if deeply flawed constitution. The politicians abused this week in the street were all elected by free and fair elections. According to opinion polls, President Dilma Rousseff and the opposition governor of São Paulo, Geraldo Alckmin, will both be re-elected comfortably.
Come elections next year the protests could seem a political flash in the pan rather than a historical turning point – a momentary scare for a political class with a strong survival instinct.
To avoid that happening the civic energy unleashed this month will need to be channelled into reform. That will prove challenging considering the nature of protests organised spontaneously online and the disdain that the few spokespeople for the movement to have emerged in the past few weeks have for elective democracy.
But more traditional groups within Brazil’s civic society are already reaching out to the protesters to combat political corruption.
“Brazilian society already has the mechanisms it needs to force through political reform. It just needs to mobilise,” says Márlon Reis, a judge who is the director of the Movement to Combat Electoral Corruption, a network of more than 50 civic organisations dedicated to curbing corruption in Brazil. Reis led the campaign for the Ficha Limpa, or Clean Record, law, which disqualifies from office for eight years anyone convicted of a serious crime.
The law, forced on to political parties by civil society, was the biggest advance against political corruption since the return of democracy. Now anti-corruption campaigners want to repeat the process but this time in support of a much broader reform, including stemming the flood of corporate money in Brazilian politics.
“We do not want to tell the protesters what to do. They are not a passive lot. But we think we can work together to change things,” says Reis, who will launch the new campaign on Monday.
Of course, organising to gather signatures for a petition is less glamorous than taking over your city for the night and capturing the world’s attention. And tackling the root cause of corruption is far more complex and laborious than marching for lower bus fares. But if the hundreds of thousands of demonstrators – and the millions at home who support them – really do want meaningful change then they will need to undertake such activism in order to build on the success of this week’s protests, which, for all their energy, remain unorganised and ephemeral.
Otherwise they risk the politicians waiting them out and buying time with tactical retreats, convinced the marchers will eventually slip back into apathy.
