RIO DE JANEIRO — Eunice Facciolla Paiva was the mother of a childhood friend of mine in the late 1970s. To us, ignorant of everything, she was just “Marcelo’s mother,” the one who welcomed the teenagers invading her apartment with a polite tolerance and a touch of strictness, setting necessary boundaries at an age when we were all somewhat clueless.
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We had no idea of the importance of that woman nor the extent of the suffering endured by a family deeply affected by the dictatorship. Making a scene, even in the face of real tragedies, was never the style of the Facciolla Paiva family, as I would later come to understand quite profoundly.
Although we superficially knew that our friend’s father was a political “disappeared,” Marcelo, who became a novelist and playwright, rarely made any mention of it.
And yet, he was far from the silent type: extroverted, a joker with a taste for sharp humor, completely unshy about showing off his compositions on the guitar or flirting with the girls. Marcelo blended right in with the reckless youth of 18- and 19-year-olds who went overboard at the parties in his student house in Campinas (have you read Feliz Ano Velho?) and visited, with more moderation, his family’s apartment.
Perhaps that is why Walter Salles’ beautiful film “Ainda Estou Aqui” (I’m Still Here) hit me so hard at the age of 65, on a December afternoon.
Lasting effects
By now I know too well the story of Rubens Paiva, cruelly murdered by the dictatorship, and a bit of Eunice’s remarkable biography through the book written by Marcelo, published in 2015, which inspired the film that has nabbed a rare Brazilian Oscar nomination for Best Picture (along with nods for best foreign film and Fernanda Torres for best actress).
She could only officially declare herself a widow 25 years after her husband’s death
Taken by Salles’ lens to Marcelo’s family home in Rio de Janeiro, reliving the time when we did not yet know each other but shared as children of the same generation, I felt in my bones the immense and brutal loss suffered by my friend, his sisters, and his mother — who could only officially declare herself a widow 25 years after her husband’s death.
This is the magic of cinema: it transports us.
Gratitude and joy
Everything was so similar, yet so much happier. Everything was so similar, yet so much more painful.
I felt the urge to truly go back in time and ask young Marcelo to stop laughing and playing for a moment, to tell me what he really felt while we brushed over so many emotions — perhaps just so we could live through others.
It is the thriving fruit of a daily, collective struggle, carried out with quiet determination.
To this family and the entire team of Ainda Estou Aqui, with a special affection for the glorious Fernanda, absolutely faithful to the Eunice I knew — and also to the one I did not — I extend my deepest gratitude for the joy and pride that we Brazilians now feel.
It matters now more than ever
Yes, right now, when Donald Trump’s inauguration, symbolized by Elon Musk’s Nazi salute, reminds us of the sorrow, despair, and injustice of the dictatorship’s crimes, which we foolishly attempt to erase. Or rather, the crimes of the Cold War, as Fernanda rightly emphasized in her interviews in the United States, where Trump’s country sowed dictatorships, violence, and pain across Latin America.
To me, the most beautiful part of Eunice, Marcelo, Veroca, and their sisters’ story of resilience — and I didn’t even know how much Eliana had suffered from her imprisonment at the age of 15 — is that it is not a meritocratic tale of an individual, but rather the thriving fruit of a daily, collective struggle, carried out with quiet determination, rooted in the humanity within us.
This is the Brazil that can light up the world.
