by Plinio Corrêa de Oliveira
Our great, beautiful, and beloved Brazil. These are just a few of the adjectives that—though deserved—have become worn out from constant use. Far more accurate and genuine to our reality would be to describe this country as indecipherable, for it truly is in more than one way. Today, I will focus on just one of those ways.
Imagine, dear reader, a farmer living with his family in a spacious house, surrounded by the wide-open spaces that make up the rural property. Wide indeed, stretching as far as the eye can see.
It so happens that the family has grown considerably, and there is no longer enough room in the big house for the farmer’s offspring. Quarrels erupt on every side. Some wish to enlarge the cramped corners they occupy and, to justify this, argue that the house is, in a sense, a common asset belonging to the entire family. They bellow, with the metallic insistence of busybodies, a handful of clichés about the social function of property. Others invoke—and tirelessly repeat—the old Roman maxim melior est conditio possidentis: better is the condition of the possessor. Two or three old men, slightly inclined toward philosophy, go deeper still: they proclaim the principle of private property. But most no longer know what this principle means, and the voices of the old men fade away into the air.
Amid this chaos, many remain unaware of the conflict: they eat, drink, sleep, work, play, or fight without being bothered by the land reform controversy that could drive others to fratricide.
Isn’t this exactly the image of modern Brazil, which—according to the Cardinal Primate of Bahia—is on the brink of civil war, driven by socioeconomic reform advocates, while most of the population seems completely unaware of the danger?
Let me revisit the parable. Suddenly, upon hearing the words “private property,” the farm owner swells with pride and exclaims: “I am the one who decides everything here. The uncultivated land at my disposal is vast. I will not tolerate either the division of domestic space or quarrels. Put an end to this commotion right now. To those who consider the space they occupy in the old home insufficient, I give a fine plot of uncultivated land. I give them a stipend to build a temporary residence, buy seeds, and purchase tools. Go now and begin the arduous and noble life I am making possible for you. And here at home, I repeat: put an end to this commotion!”
Just then, everyone hears the rumbling approach of a car, which comes to a halt with an equally rumbling screech. Out leaps a muscular young man with messy hair and a beard, wearing a T-shirt that exposes long, flabby, yet hairy arms. He bears a striking resemblance to Esau from old sacred illustrations. He strides in and immediately berates the old farmer: “Enough of this paternalism, Gerald. Today, the community is in charge. Have you asked all the residents whether they accept your solution?”
A general silence settles, for “Esau” is none other than Father Jonas, the parish priest.
Some who were dozing in hammocks or on sofas startle awake. Others, who had been eating, move closer while still chewing the remnants of a snack. The scene gives the clash between patriarchal tradition and self-destructive ecclesiastical progressivism a symbolic, almost solemn tone. A few whisper that it is far more entertaining to live in the grand old house, amid the quarrelsome buzz of reformism, than in the distant cubbyholes that Grandfather Geraldo provides them the means to build.
