Portugal’s surging CHEGA movement, like Brazil’s Bolsonaro, draws on the lusophone cultural singularity of ‘saudade’—a nostalgia for a past that never was
Portugal’s recent elections, held on 10 March this year, saw a far-right political party called CHEGA—meaning ‘ENOUGH’ in English—emerge as the third political power in Portugal’s parliament. Founded in 2019, CHEGA’s rapid ascent from securing a single seat in the year of its inception to claiming fifty seats in this year’s election is remarkable.
This was a shock to many, for until recently Portugal was a unique case among European countries, with no far-right representation in its parliament. The country had not seen a notable far-right presence since the end of the Estado Novo—the decades long fascist dictatorship led by General António de Oliveira Salazar and overthrown by the Carnation Revolution in 1974. The standard explanation for Portugal’s exceptionalism has been that the collective memory of severe repression under fascist rule, coupled with the socialist ideals that emerged victorious from the revolution, has immunised it against the allure of far-right ideologies. CHEGA’s surprising electoral success, weeks before the Revolution’s fiftieth anniversary, has challenged this perceived immunity, prompting a reassessment of these assumptions.
CHEGA’s rise mirrors trends seen in several other European countries, but it may be better understood when analysed alongside the case of Jair Bolsonaro, Brazil’s infamous former president. Portugal and Brazil share a history of colonisation, a common language and cultural ties, and both endured lengthy military dictatorships in the last century. In both countries, the recent far-right ascendance has coincided with economic crises and major corruption scandals. André Ventura, CHEGA’s key figure, shows an ideological kinship with Jair Bolsonaro, displaying the typical markers of far-right leaders: a combination of nativism, authoritarianism and populism that is clear in their inherently racist and authoritarian discourse.
André Ventura is a former Catholic seminarian, lawyer and soccer commentator who has been tried and convicted for racism. Jair Bolsonaro, a former military captain, was named ‘2019’s Racist of the Year’ by the Indigenous rights organisation Survival International for outrageous racist comments, such as lamenting that ‘the Brazilian cavalry hasn’t been as efficient as the American, who exterminated the Indians’. Ventura and Bolsonaro portray their nations as besieged by severe threats, both internal and external. They craft narratives of looming catastrophe to rationalise demands for more authoritarian government control. As part of this fearmongering, they scapegoat ethnic minorities and immigrants, casting them as menaces that must be confronted. This calculated strategy stokes anxiety while diverting attention from more urgent national concerns.
Yet, their racist discourse is tailored to resonate with the distinct cultural and societal contexts of their respective countries, which are indeed very different. In Brazil, over half of the population is Black or mulato, a direct result of the country’s history as a major importer of African slaves (it received ten times more than the United States). Indigenous people constitute approximately 0.83 per cent of the population. Quilombolas—descendants of escaped slaves who formed settlements as early as the 16th century and still preserve a distinct cultural identity with African traditions, languages, and religious practices—comprise 0.65 per cent of the population. Bolsonaro’s most grotesque attacks target these ethnic minorities, which, because of their smaller numbers, are less likely to sway election results. He is more cautious when attacking the larger Black and mulato population, masking his racism under the pretext of advocating for meritocracy. For example, he criticised affirmative action in universities, stating, ‘I would not board a plane piloted by a quota beneficiary, nor be operated on by a quota doctor’. On occasion, his offensive remarks become overt, as when he claimed that his sons would never date a Black woman and when he referred to African refugees as ‘the scum of the earth’.
In contrast, the demographic composition of Portugal is predominantly of Portuguese ethnicity, with this group accounting for about 90 per cent of the population. The Roma community represents a mere 0.52 per cent, and those of African descent, originating from former Portuguese colonies such as Angola, Cape Verde, Guinea-Bissau, Mozambique and São Tomé and Príncipe, comprise around 5 per cent. Unlike other European countries, Portugal has not seen significant immigration, maintaining a relatively homogeneous culture. André Ventura leverages this demographic landscape by advocating for preserving a predominantly white Portugal. He has proposed the restriction of immigration to individuals ‘who can easily assimilate’ into Portuguese society.
Additional threats to the nation’s stability, as Ventura and Bolsonaro see them, come in the form of ‘criminals’ and the ‘corrupt elite’, with their implied solution being a tough, often authoritarian, crackdown. For dealing with criminals, Ventura calls for extreme penal measures, including life imprisonment, mandatory labour for prisoners and chemical castration for sex offenders. Bolsonaro goes further, declaring: ‘I’m pro-torture’ and ‘A good criminal is a dead criminal’. By casting the elite as villains, they build a narrative of cleansing and renewal, promising to dismantle existing power structures. Their rhetoric strategically positions them as outsiders committed to eradicating entrenched corruption by any means necessary. Bolsonaro has controversially remarked,
Voting won’t change a thing in this country, absolutely nothing. Change, unfortunately, will only come when we start a civil war and finish the job that the military regime didn’t—killing 30,000 people, beginning with FHC [former President Fernando Henrique Cardoso]. If a few innocents die in the process, so be it. Innocents perish in every war.
Ventura has also made forceful comments against the corrupt elite that allegedly occupies Portugal’s institutions, describing the country as ‘a brothel of nepotism, promiscuity, and corruption’ and further asserting, ‘They want to destroy us because they are afraid of us, but that fear has to be our strength too … Saving Portugal is what we must do at this moment’.
Above all, what underpins the strategies of both Bolsonaro and Ventura is the use of nostalgia—emotionally connecting today’s alleged crisis with a desire to return to a glorified past. To be fair, Ventura and Bolsonaro are not the only far-right leaders to leverage nostalgia. Donald Trump’s ‘Make America Great Again’ evokes nostalgic sentiments, as does the ‘Take Back Control’ rhetoric used by the Independence Party during the United Kingdom’s Brexit campaign. What remains surprising is the kind of nostalgia they harnessed—one that longs for the years of dictatorship in Portugal and Brazil, times marked by restricted civil liberties, unaccountable governments and violently suppressed opposition. The question then arises: How were they able to leverage this type of nostalgia?
Misrepresented historical accounts and national identities built on myths offer one explanation for the resonance of such nostalgia in Portugal and Brazil. Despite transitioning to democracy, both countries still struggle to fully confront their colonial and dictatorial pasts, still clinging to discredited ideas like ‘Luso-tropicalismo’ and ‘Brasilidade’. Luso-tropicalism, a theory developed by Gilberto Freyre in the 1950s, professes a mythically harmonious interracial society established during Portuguese colonialism. Freyre argued that the Portuguese Empire fulfilled a unique civilisational mission, uniting different peoples under a single nation and language. Luso-tropicalism was embraced by Salazar and integrated into the official narrative together with older stories of Portuguese imperial grandeur, such as tales of pioneering exploration and courageous battles to promote national pride. These were used in official documents, school textbooks, films and radio programs to promote a sense of national pride. After the fall of the Portuguese dictatorship (1974) and the end of its colonial rule in Africa (1975), one might have expected Luso-tropicalism to fade away. However, it remains alive and still significantly influences Portuguese cultural identity and collective memory. In 2017, while on an official trip to Senegal’s island of Goreé—a location where world leaders had previously apologised for their nations’ roles in the slave trade—the President of Portugal invoked these ideas of Portuguese colonial exceptionalism. For a people who experienced the glories of the Empire and then an incomplete reckoning with its loss, maintaining such a relationship with the past may seem inevitable.
In Brazil, a comparable narrative unfolded during the military dictatorship of 1964–85. Official propaganda advanced the idea of ‘Brasilidade’, which emphasises the country’s unique character, derived from its mixed heritage and cultural diversity. Selective interpretations of Sergio Buarque de Holanda’s seminal work Raízes do Brasil (Roots of Brazil)—a text that offered a complex view of Brazilian society—were employed to underscore the valour and resilience of the Brazilian people. Under censorship, the media narrative pushed the idea of an ‘economic miracle’, particularly from the late 1960s to the early 1970s, when there were rapid increases in GDP, industrialisation, and significant infrastructure development, further stimulating an optimism about Brazil. Slogans like ‘Brasil: ame-o ou deixe-o’ (Brazil: love it or leave it), ‘Ninguém segura este país’ (Nobody can stop this country) and ‘Brazil: o país do futuro’ (Brazil: the country of tomorrow) still populate the minds of Brazilians who, like me, grew up during that time.
Such distorted historical memory glosses over the darker aspects of authoritarian legacies, producing a nationalist sentiment that is backward-looking. The absence of effective transitional justice measures in both countries also contributes to many Portuguese and Brazilians recalling only the favourable aspects of their military dictatorships. In Brazil, a June 2019 poll revealed that the military was considered the most trustworthy national institution. In Portugal, Salazar was voted ‘the greatest Portuguese who ever lived’ on a 2007 television show. As it happens, the collective memory of the dictatorship not only failed to immunise the country against the far-right but, in its distorted form, may actually have facilitated the ascendance of far-right ideologies.
Nostalgia for an era when the nationalist project seemed promising but ultimately fell short is not just a practice of distorted historical recollection; it is a potent political tool. Bolsonaro and Ventura exploit and reinforce this historical amnesia to normalise their political agendas. In 2016, during the controversial impeachment proceedings of President Dilma Rousseff (Workers’ Party—PT), Jair Bolsonaro dedicated his pro-impeachment vote to Carlos Alberto Brilhante Ustra, a military officer notorious for torture and murder. Rousseff herself is a survivor of torture from that period. Bolsonaro’s election campaign saw supporters brandishing ‘Ustra lives!’ T-shirts, celebrating his grim legacy. Ventura takes a more veiled approach to celebrating Portugal’s dictatorial history: his party, CHEGA, repurposed the Salazar-era slogan ‘God, Fatherland, Family’ but appended ‘Work’ to obscure its direct connection to the dictatorship. Ventura criticises the past forty-eight years of democracy as a time of growing discontent for the Portuguese people, attributing it to an excess of socialism while invoking the traditional values and glory of Portugal’s history.
While all this might make sense, there could be another, more poetic explanation: nostalgia as a defining characteristic of both Portuguese and Brazilian culture. The Portuguese language even has a unique word, ‘saudade’, to describe this profound emotional state of longing. No other language has a word quite like it. It is untranslatable. ‘Saudade’ embodies a deep longing for people, places and experiences that once brought immense joy, and uniquely, also for imagined scenarios that have never occurred and might never happen. In his book, In Portugal, scholar Aubrey Bell describes saudade as ‘a vague and constant desire for something … other than the present’, highlighting its role as a powerful, emotional undercurrent that connects past aspirations with present feelings, shaping one’s perception of time and existence. This concept is deeply rooted in Portuguese and Brazilian cultures, where it often finds expression in literature, music and art, evoking a profound connection to one’s heritage and shared experiences.
Saudade finds its most poignant expression in Fado, the traditional music of Portugal. Fado, which translates to ‘fate’ or ‘destiny’, features lyrics and melody that are infused with a deep sense of melancholia. Saudade also echoes through the works of Fernando Pessoa, Portugal’s literary giant. Pessoa’s modernist classic The Book of Disquiet is a meditation on nostalgia and loss set against the backdrop of Lisbon. In this book, Pessoa gives voice to the ‘unaccountable nostalgia’ and ‘yearning for impossible things’ that characterise the Portuguese experience. Pessoa describes the Portuguese as having a talent for ‘feeling everything in every way’.
Nostalgia also holds a prominent place in the Brazilian psyche, despite the vibrant and exuberant image often associated with the country thanks to its extravagant Carnaval. A spirit of escape and happiness marks these celebrations, yet they often coexist with a profound sense of saudade—a melancholic longing for what might never return or perhaps never was. Brazilian historian and writer Paulo Prado published a book in 1928 entitled Retratos do Brasil—ensaio sobre a tristeza brasileira (Portraits of Brazil—an essay on Brazilian sadness). For Prado, sadness is a national characteristic. He argues that the natural defence of our culture has been a forced joy—a false smile that has to be shown. Carnaval would be a prime example of this false cheerfulness that hides our deep melancholy. Another Brazilian author, Moacyr Scliar, explores the historical and cultural underpinnings of melancholy in Brazilian society in his book Saturno nos Trópicos (Saturn in the Tropics). Sinclair argues that just as medicine has developed antidotes to diseases, Brazil has developed practices to combat melancholy. Exuberant cultural manifestations are responses to everyday sadness, or a defence against it. Scliar quotes one of Paulo Prado’s conclusions: ‘In a radiant land live a sad people. This melancholy was bequeathed to them by the discoverers who revealed it to the world and populated it’. Saudade, with its paradoxical joy in being sad and its longing to reclaim what once was, is deeply ingrained in Brazilian culture. It shapes the collective identity and provides a lens through which the past is romanticised and the future envisioned.
However poetic this is, though, it shouldn’t distract us from a more critical issue.
Writing about Brazil, philosopher Marilena Chauí presents an alternative, darker account, arguing that authoritarianism, often seen as a sporadic political phenomenon in the state, is actually deeply embedded in Brazilian society itself. The political state reflects societal norms, and the success of authoritarian rhetoric is merely a reflection of existing societal authoritarianism. This perspective suggests that the ascension of the far-right is a by-product of deeper societal ailments. Chauí’s argument echoes Aurelien Mondon and Aaron Winter’s distinction between of ‘illiberal racism’ and ‘liberal racism’. The former, characterised by overt, explicit racial hostility and discrimination, is often associated with populist far-right groups and is condemned in mainstream society for clashing with democratic norms and values. In contrast, liberal racism is more insidious, embedded within the fabric of liberal democratic practices and discourses. It operates under the guise of more socially acceptable norms and values, such as meritocracy, freedom of speech and colour-blind policies, effectively perpetuating racial inequalities while maintaining a veneer of equality and non-discrimination. The existence of liberal racism within societies serves as fertile ground for the emergence of the populist radical Right.
Authoritarianism and racism are often intertwined in a symbiotic relationship where one reinforces the other. In both Brazil and Portugal, authoritarianism and racism are fuelled by a nostalgia that idealises past eras and narratives, overlooking or even glorifying periods when repression, racial inequality and discrimination coexisted. This results in societies where racial prejudices are not just prevalent but deeply embedded in their cores. Surveys expose these patterns: A 2013 opinion poll by the Perseu Abramo Foundation found that while 87 per cent of Brazilians recognise the prevalent racism in their country, only four percent admit to being racist themselves. Similarly, the European Social Survey of 2020 revealed that 55 per cent of Portuguese participants admitted to racist attitudes, with 71 per cent showing a preference for white individuals, attributing more positive traits to them than to people of other races. Notably, the vast majority of Portuguese believed that their country didn’t have a racism problem. Such entrenched racism has been identified as a key driver for the emergence and growth of far-right ideologies.
The convergence of dissatisfaction with the present, historical amnesia, a melancholic cultural disposition, and deep-seated racism creates a fertile environment for the use of authoritarian ideals in political discourse. The resurgence of far-right forces in the political landscapes of Portugal and Brazil signals a disquieting endurance of authoritarian legacies. This shift compels us to consider the complex interplay between history and modernity, between the longing for a romanticised past and the stark realities of the present. It paints a portrait of two nations grappling with their historical demons, revealing that the struggle for democratic values is a perpetual endeavour. In facing this resurgence, Portugal and Brazil are not merely revisiting history but actively shaping its course. It is in this context that both nations now write the next chapters of their histories.