{"id":78843,"date":"2024-08-09T11:52:49","date_gmt":"2024-08-09T14:52:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/rioonwatch.org\/?p=78843"},"modified":"2025-09-13T14:11:00","modified_gmt":"2025-09-13T17:11:00","slug":"between-alleys-and-lanes-lesbian-memories-and-casa-resistencias-lesbian-life-in-complexo-da-mare","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/rioonwatch.org\/?p=78843","title":{"rendered":"Between Alleys and Lanes, Lesbian Memories and Casa Resist\u00eancias: The Lives of Gay Women in Rio’s Mar\u00e9 Favela"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Coordinators<\/a>
Coordinators from Casa Resist\u00eancias, which works to guarantee rights and build public policies for LBT women in Complexo da Mar\u00e9: Dayana Gusm\u00e3o, Paloma Marins, and Camila Felippe. Photo: Gabriela Lino<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Clique aqui para Portugu\u00eas<\/i><\/span><\/em><\/span><\/i><\/span><\/a><\/h4>\n

This article is part of\u00a0RioOnWatch\u2018s series on\u00a0Memories of Favela Power<\/a>, which documents and celebrates the history of Rio de Janeiro\u2019s favelas through narratives and reports from residents\u2019 collective memory, in their daily struggle to lead fulfilling lives. It was originally published in Portuguese on June 28, International LGBTQIAPN+ Pride Day<\/a>, celebrated worldwide with parades, festivals, cultural events, and other activities promoting LGBTQIAPN+ visibility, acceptance, and equality. The publication of its English version marks the beginning of Lesbian Pride and Visibility Month<\/a> in Brazil, culminating with National Lesbian Visibility Day<\/a> on August 29. The article explores the experiences and challenges of six lesbian women living in the favelas of Complexo da Mar\u00e9<\/a>, in Rio de Janeiro’s North Zone<\/a>. Lesbian memories of resilience and the history of the organized favela movement bear fruit such as Casa Resist\u00eancias, the country’s first home dedicated to providing a safe haven for LBT women within a favela\u2014a survival strategy for Mar\u00e9 lesbians aiming to offer a safe and welcoming space within their own community.<\/em><\/p>\n

Setbacks: Lesbophobia in Brazil<\/h3>\n

The advance of religious conservatism, lesbophobia<\/a>, and fascism in Brazil<\/a> can be tracked numerically. In 2023, the country recorded over 5,000 cases of human rights violations against lesbians<\/a>, according to Dial 100<\/a>, the federal government’s human rights violations hotline, with most crimes going unpunished. And the nation tops global rankings<\/a> of trans and transvestite murders.<\/p>\n

Little is said about the living victims, survivors of violent acts that are rarely named. For lesbians from favelas, the first obstacle when filing an incident report is the State’s necropolitics<\/a>: the same police who kill in the favela are the ones called in to defend the rights of a lesbian who has been victimized. Rather than protected, she is then often re-victimized.<\/p>\n

The second obstacle is invisibility and a data blackout<\/a>. Lesbians in favelas need to produce their own data in order to fight for their rights. This is what the Lesbian Resistance Collective<\/a> in Rio de Janeiro’s Mar\u00e9 favelas did in 2020 when, in partnership with the Fluminense Federal University (UFF<\/a>), they launched the country’s first mapping of favela lesbians titled Sociocultural and Affective Mapping of Lesbians and Bisexual Women of Mar\u00e9<\/em><\/a>. The report highlighted how lesbians in Mar\u00e9 live and recorded their public policy needs.<\/p>\n

Last but not least, the greatest obstacle to quality of life for lesbians is structural lesbophobia<\/a>. Analyzing the National Information System for Notifiable Diseases (SINAN<\/a>), researchers Suane Soares, Kamila Firmino, and Camila Dantas found that there was a 50% increase<\/a> in cases of violence against lesbians between 2015 and 2022. These are women who survive but are left completely shattered, lacking the proper support of public policies to rebuild their lives. Typically, they rely on one another and the broader movement. In many of these cases, victims are not guaranteed the right to file a police report. There is a policy vacuum regarding the rights of LGBT+ individuals in favelas in Brazil.<\/p>\n

It was only in 2024 that Brazil’s federal government created a program to support survivors of severe LGBTphobia, called Acolher+<\/a> (Shelter+). Linked to the Ministry of Human Rights and Citizenship<\/a>, the project supports civil society organizations that operate LGBT+ shelters across the country.<\/p>\n

Before that, some Brazilian states and municipalities, such as Rio de Janeiro, already had state and municipal programs to support LGBT+ rights, such as the Rio Without LGBTphobia State Program<\/a> and the Sexual Diversity Coordination Office (CEDS<\/a>). However, their work was restricted and primarily focused on education and violence prevention. For surviving victims, there are few mechanisms for access to justice and public policy. This is because, in Brazil, the social rights<\/a> of LGBT+ people are, in reality, a collection of decisions<\/a> by the Supreme Court (STF<\/a>) and rulings<\/a> by the National Council of Justice (CNJ<\/a>), which can be overturned depending on the country\u2019s political climate and court composition at any given time.<\/p>\n

Memories, Alleys, and Lanes: Casa Resist\u00eancias and the Sheltering of Lesbian Women<\/h3>\n

Gender reveal: \u201cIt\u2019s a girl!\u201d From then on, there are no surprises. \u201cSit properly! Behave like a princess, or else the boys won’t love you, or else God won’t love you! Close your legs, sit up straight! Walk gracefully!\u201d This is how the life of a cis girl begins in a cisheteronormative<\/a> society like Brazil.<\/p>\n

Gracefully jumping over mud puddles due to Complexo da Mar\u00e9’s incomplete sanitation, dodging the cops’ armored truck, coming back from a class that was canceled\u2014whether due to a police operation<\/a>, water shortage<\/a>, power outage<\/a>, or another public policy disservice\u2014there go the girls being molded into cisheteronormative patterns. Another \u201cSilva\u201d<\/a> [the country’s most common last name] being fed into the people-grinding machine.<\/p>\n

Despite the hegemonic narrative stating that the family is a safe space, in practice, the first violence many LGBT+ people experience comes precisely from the family. Attempts at correction are always very aggressive, invasive, guided by conservative religious dogma, and hidden behind the guise of care. This violence accumulates like layers on lesbian women’s bodies, leading many to attempt suicide<\/a>.<\/p>\n

\"Maria<\/a>
Maria Joira (Maj\u00f4), 31. Lesbian, caregiver for the elderly, and founder of MariEllas Soccer Team. Photo: Personal Archive<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Every lesbian has heard from their relatives: \u201cI don’t have a problem with you being lesbian, but I’m afraid you’ll suffer out there in the world.\u201d In this way, even behind the narrative of protecting us, families commit violence.<\/p>\n

In extreme cases, lesbophobia from family members culminates in being kicked out of the home. And so the girl is forcibly thrown into the world. In reality, there are several other unknown worlds where she will encounter various forms of violence. Facing this perverse reality would be much easier in a loving family that embraces and accepts the diversity of all its members. However, this is not the reality for all lesbian women.<\/p>\n

Thus, in Mar\u00e9, Casa Resist\u00eancias<\/a> stands as a possibility for these women, who come to understand that family is not about blood, but about affection, shelter, and friendship. For Maj\u00f4 Pinho<\/a>, a Black woman from Bahia, founder of the MariEllas soccer team<\/a>, and a resident of Vila do Jo\u00e3o\u2014one of the 16 communities that make up the Mar\u00e9 cluster of favelas\u2014for nine years, Casa Resist\u00eancias has emerged as a crucial support, a beacon in the midst of violence.<\/p>\n

\u201cI’d never even seen a place like this before, specifically for lesbian victims of violence, which offers support to meet other girls from the favela too. Knowing that such a place exists here gives us a certain comfort.\u201d \u2014 Maj\u00f4 Pinho<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Growing up in the favela is an experience with many layers of complexity. Just like our many streets, lanes, and alleys, our journey is also tortuous and intertwined. We are like our squares and viewing points: when least expected, we offer beautiful images of the favela and the city. There is a beauty in this tangle of ways of inhabiting Mar\u00e9 that touches the deepest feelings in all of us. Among these intertwining paths and ways of life, women are mapped as just over half<\/a> of the favela\u2019s population.<\/p>\n

However, these maps do not show the diversity of these women. This is a fact that women\u2019s and LGBT+ groups in the area have been attempting to correct for some years by organizing specific studies. One example was the Socio-cultural and Affective Mapping of Lesbians and Bisexual Women of Mar\u00e9<\/em><\/a>, with 59 local respondents, where 24% are students, and the majority are Black and indigenous (71%). The violence they have experienced is summarized by the Institute on Race, Equality, and Human Rights<\/a>:<\/p>\n

\u201cIn relation to violence, the interviewees stated that they feel safer and more comfortable expressing their sexuality within the favela, as they have faced attacks outside of it… The research reveals that domestic violence is that which characterizes daily life for lesbians in Mar\u00e9.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\"Beatriz<\/a>
Beatriz Virginia, 24, bisexual, resident of Conjunto Esperan\u00e7a, historian, master and doctoral candidate in History of Health Sciences at Casa de Oswaldo Cruz. Photo: Personal Archive<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

The legal means for action are still difficult to access, and progressing with these reports has been even more challenging. All members of the Mar\u00e9 Lesbian Resistance Collective report having experienced lesbophobia in the favela.<\/p>\n

In March, Beatriz Virg\u00ednia<\/a> and her girlfriend experienced lesbophobic harassment at a bar. They reported the crime and awaited justice. However, the case was dismissed due to an error made by the police officers when filing the incident at the police station. Faced with this, they felt completely helpless.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen I faced that violence, I felt very abandoned. We know there are some laws protecting women in situations of violence, but we often don’t know how to access them. Besides, as favela residents, there’s always a fear of lesbophobia and hatred towards us, ‘favelados,’ which we know is structural within the police.<\/p>\n

Thanks to Casa Resist\u00eancias’ partnerships, I was able to access rights defense organizations. However, due to the bureaucracy within the police system itself, my incident report was dismissed. If I want justice, I’ll have to start all over.\u201d \u2014 Beatriz Virg\u00ednia<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

And it’s not as if Beatriz Virg\u00ednia lacks knowledge or direction: the daughter of Dona<\/em> Joelma, she is a human rights activist, a doctoral student at the Casa de Oswaldo Cruz<\/a>\u2014part of Brazil’s national health foundation, Fiocruz<\/a>\u2014coordinator of knowledge production at Casa Resist\u00eancias, and a native of Mar\u00e9. Although she is proud of and loves the favela where she was born and carries this responsibility with great commitment, she felt the full weight of structural lesbophobia when she was a victim of violence.<\/p>\n

Lesbophobia is at the root of social relations and is therefore called structural. It has also affected Paloma Marins<\/a>, a Black woman, practitioner of the Afro-Brazilian religion Umbanda, mother, human rights activist, employee of a hotel chain, and employability coordinator at Casa Resist\u00eancias. She is, therefore, a woman with social and political visibility in the favela, known for her activism.<\/p>\n

\"Parque<\/a>
Parque Uni\u00e3o resident Paloma Marins, 38, a lesbian and employability coordinator of Casa Resist\u00eancias. Photo: Personal archive<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

At the beginning of the year, after rejecting persistent advances from a man, Martins was given a spiked drink and woke up in an Emergency Care Unit (UPA<\/a>), not knowing how she had gotten there. Completely disoriented, the only reason she did not experience further violence at the health unit was because the staff knew about the work of Casa Resist\u00eancias and recognized her as a member of the group. The health professionals immediately contacted her colleagues to inform them that she had been admitted to the unit. She recalls:<\/p>\n

\u201cI sat at a bar to wait for my partner. Meanwhile, I ordered a drink. A man who always harassed me at work found me in the bar, approached me again, and I rejected him. It all happened very quickly. After that, I woke up at the UPA, without my clothes, in a robe, not knowing where I was or what had happened. According to the medical staff, there was no rape, but to this day I don\u2019t know what happened because I don\u2019t remember.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

In April, at Casa Resist\u00eancias’ anniversary event, during the reading of the book Marielle and Monica: A Story of Love and Struggle<\/em><\/a>, Councilwoman Monica Ben\u00edcio<\/a>, born and raised in Mar\u00e9 and widow of slain Councilwoman Marielle Franco<\/a> (who had also been from Mar\u00e9), said that if there had been a place like Casa Resist\u00eancias during her teenage years, her life would have been less complicated. According to Ben\u00edcio, she would have faced less lesbophobic violence in the streets of the favela.<\/p>\n

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Uma publica\u00e7\u00e3o compartilhada por Monica Benicio 🏳️‍🌈 (@monicaterezabenicio)<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n