Social inequality in Brazil is no accident; its roots run deep, tangled in centuries of history. From the moment Portuguese colonizers set foot on this land, a silent yet deliberate system began to emerge—one that elevated certain names while reducing others to whispers. The legacy of this structure persists, etched into the daily rhythm of our society, where the elite—predominantly white, educated, and outwardly polished—sit atop a precarious tower, holding fast to a status quo that serves them well. They like to think of themselves as benevolent, even kind, but beneath this self-congratulatory façade lies a truth that is far more perverse. Their generosity has always come at a cost: the dignity of those who serve them, the humanity of those whose lives are shaped by survival rather than choice.

The excuses they offer are as old as the system itself. They insist that structural problems are exaggerated, that opportunity is there for the taking if only people tried hard enough. And so, they frame inequality as an individual failing, not a collective one—a convenient fiction that absolves them of responsibility. It is a narrative of progress, they say, a locomotive hurtling forward, unstoppable in its march. But at what cost? This locomotive does not move without crushing all that stands in its path: the weight of slavery still echoes in its steel, the exploitation of workers oils its wheels, and the absence of care for the elderly rattles in its cargo. Even the ghosts of child labor, dictatorships, and unmarked graves cling to its shadow. They tell themselves the train must never stop, that it is for the greater good, even as the tracks run red with the injustices of the past and present.

This same logic—the sanctity of progress—justifies nearly every ill that plagues us. When cities flood because infrastructure was never built for the vulnerable, the blame shifts to the rain. When mining companies strip the earth bare, polluting rivers and leaving craters where forests once stood, we’re told it’s the price of prosperity. The drivers of this locomotive—the so-called good citizens—complain bitterly about labor costs, about workers they deem unskilled or unwilling, all while ignoring the barriers they have carefully erected to keep others in their place. To them, the burden of success rests solely on the backs of the downtrodden. They lament a lack of “qualified” workers without ever questioning who built the schools that failed them, or why opportunity is a luxury only afforded to some.

These good citizens, ever the proponents of order, champion penal reform that preemptively punishes instead of protects. They see potential criminals in the faces of the poor, in the skin of the black and brown, and defend their fear with the language of law and justice. But justice, in their hands, is a weapon wielded with impunity. The call for law and order becomes an excuse for brutality, for the excessive force that alienates and destroys. The hands of those who demand “peace” are often the same hands that tighten the grip of oppression, turning neighborhoods into battlegrounds and families into collateral damage.

From their penthouses, their gated enclaves of glass and steel, the elite are blind to the world below. The cries of orphans and widows are drowned out by the hum of air conditioning, the distant sound of gunfire muffled by walls meant to keep the chaos at bay. For them, this is not their problem. They say, “If you don’t like it, leave.” But where does one go when inequality spans the breadth of the nation, when the suffering is woven into the very fabric of the land?

There is a cold detachment in this indifference, a refusal to see the humanity in those outside their circle. The locomotive of progress may keep moving, but where is it headed? And who will be left to board it once the rest have been cast aside?

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