Luta Livre in the Heart of the Favela

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You're listening to the Away Days podcast on the ground outside, reporting from the underbelly with me, Jake Hanrahan.

To watch Away Days documentaries, go to youtube.com slash at awaydays TV.

This is part two favela government

episode two

this podcast is a production of H11 Studio and CoolZone Media

For the first few days in the favela we've only really been around gang members Obviously that's a huge focus of the project but I want to see what civilians are doing as well.

Specifically if there are any community outreach programs that might help the people of the favela in their everyday lives.

I speak to Carlos about this and he thinks for a moment.

Then as if a light bulb was flashed on in his head he says yes the gym

While CV is a violent favela gang with international drugs networks set up across the world, it does actually do some community outreach at home.

Whether it's as a means to coerce the population of the areas they control or out of a genuine altruistic streak remains to be determined.

But I don't think it really matters.

The residents of the favelas benefit when at least something is provided for them.

At this stage when the deprivation is so bad, the intention is largely irrelevant for the people.

Put yourself in their shoes.

If you're struggling day to day to get by and the armed group running your area does something to help, you're probably not going to ask why or where it's coming from.

As the saying goes, beggars can't be choosers.

It's certainly not my place to cast any judgment on what civilians of the favela accept.

They're stuck between a rock and a hard place.

So the gym.

What Carlos is talking about is a place reported to have been built entirely by Red Command.

Well, the construction was funded by them at least.

In Fallot Fogatero, the gang is the only authority.

As a whole, the organisation is believed to make hundreds of millions of dollars a year through their various criminal enterprises.

Apparently though, they've invested some of that money in the gym here.

Of course, I'm a bit sceptical.

I want to see this gym with my own eyes, so Carlos leads us up there.

Gang members watch on as he does.

After a few minutes stepping over short walls and walking up uneven steps, we emerge back at the intersection where the CV guys were dealing drugs out in the open.

I'm confused, we've already been here and I don't see a gym anywhere.

Carlos points towards one of the slopes leading out of the area to yet another collection of alleyways, snickets and DIY roads.

But I still don't see it.

Where is the gym?

Carlos points again to the huge building built out of solid concrete to the left.

That is the gym.

I was picturing some kind of small-time spit and sawdust gym on a random corner somewhere, but this is a massive sports hall.

It must have cost an absolute fortune to build.

As well as all the obvious open-air criminality, CV actually do put money back into the community.

They actually built this sports hall.

So we're going to go and speak to a guy who's putting on a wrestling class for the local kids here in the favela.

Inside the air is cool and the ceilings are high.

The sound of happy children echo around the hall.

There are basketball courts, a small weights gym, and an area for kids to train in the grappling-heavy combat sport Luta Livre.

That's upstairs to the right.

Young kids, around 8 to 12 years old, are flooding in.

There's a class on soon.

I make my way up the stairs to the Luta Livre area.

The floors are padded with inch-thick mats.

On the walls, there are shelves with several gold medals and championship cups.

The smell of tie oil and sweat is heavy in the air.

A lean man in his 30s, wearing a skin-tight rash guard and wrestling shorts, greets me warmly as the young fighters gather on the mats.

This is Diogo Alecantara.

He runs the Luta Livre club here in the gang-built favela sports hall.

His fight team here is called Boa Safra Team, and they're very good at Luta Livre.

Here we teach Luta Livre.

It's a gratuitous style similar with Jiu-Jitsu, but without gi.

Luta libre literally means free fighting in Portuguese.

It's a lesser known but culturally deep combat sport that developed in Brazil in the mid-20th century.

While often overshadowed by the more popular martial art Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu or BJJ, Luta Libre has its own unique history, specific techniques and subcultural following.

The sport demonstrates a different style of hand-to-hand combat.

Whilst Luta Libre's roots are in catch wrestling, it's more a mix of dap, judo and its own effective customs.

Differing from BJJ, the submission in Luta Libre is always paramount.

This wrestling style took a more defined shape in the 1940s and 1950s.

Key figures in its development include Ulysses Tatu Hatem, a Lebanese-Brazilian catch wrestler often considered the father of Luta Libre.

He was known for defeating numerous opponents from various styles including jiu-jitsu practitioners.

He laid the groundwork for what would become a distinct Brazilian grappling art.

What's more Luta Livre is fought without a gi, the white jacket thing traditional jiu-jitsu fighters wear.

This no gi format made it appealing for real world fighting scenarios and the early MMA style.

Now the philosophical elements of Luta Livre are specifically interesting, especially in regards to their early class connections.

For example, in the early days there was a divide when it came to BJJ and Luta Livre.

BJJ was associated with upper class families, most notably the now famous Gracie family.

BJJ academies were extensive, exclusive and located in affluent areas.

In contrast, Luta Livre was born in the poorer parts of Rio de Janeiro, where here in Fallet Fogatero for example it still remains.

Luta Livre began as a working class discipline, its practitioners were often from humble backgrounds and the art itself carried a bit more weight on its shoulders.

Luta Livre was for the street fighters.

By the 1980s and 1990s this class and cultural divide exploded into one of the most intense martial arts rivalries in Brazil.

There were literal gangfights between teams from BJJ and Luta Livre gyms.

Some of these brawls were organised challenges, arranged fights and others were random battles spontaneously happening when each side met the other.

Gyms were stormed, rival athletes would fight in car parks, beaches or at televised events and at this time the lines between the street and the gym were very much blurred.

Luta Livre fighters felt disrespected and marginalised not just by the BJJ elite but by the media and wider martial arts community.

BJJ had the prestige, the international international recognition and a lot of financial backing.

Luta Livre had the grit, the streets and the defiance.

Sadly though that's not enough in the elitist world of big money combat sports promotions.

At the time one of the most iconic flashpoints was a challenge match in the early 90s where Eugenio Tadu, a top Luta Livre fighter, faced Walid Ishmael, a tough BJJ black belt.

The match was televised nationally and it ended in chaos.

Riot police had to intervene when the crowd went mental, turning very violent against each other.

Another infamous moment came in 1997 when Tadu fought Renzo Gracie in a bare knuckle fight that sparked a full scale riot among fans in Rio.

To put it lightly the rivalry was serious business.

In many ways though I think it directly reflects the class issues of Brazil today.

The rivalry wasn't just for show or promo either.

They were bitter, real and deeply embedded in the social tension of the country.

Luta Livre was seen as the fight of the favelas, BJJ was the martial art of the suburbs.

Despite the talent and the toughness of many Luta Livre fighters, the style never really gained the same global traction as BJJ.

Part of this was due to marketing.

BJJ had the Gracie family pushing it hard overseas, particularly in the US where it exploded after Royce Gracie dominated early UFC events.

At the same time, Luta Livre was lacking a unified voice or even charismatic promoters and it never really broke through internationally.

Another issue was accessibility.

Many top Luta Livre coaches and gyms were based in impoverished areas like the favelas.

They simply didn't have the same access or money to go and do international travel or media exposure.

As BJJ grew into a massive global empire with worldwide academies, big competitions and even celebrities endorsing it, Luta Libre became increasingly localized.

Still respected by hardcore fans, but fading from the spotlight as a whole.

Today, Luta Libre is far from dead though.

In Brazil, particularly here in Rio, you'll find dedicated gyms teaching this aggressive no-gi grappling sport.

Now as I've just explained, Luta Libre has always been more than just a martial art.

It's a symbol of the working class counterculture here in Brazil.

It carries the legacy of Rio's poorer communities, the hardcore culture of street fighting and the belief that you don't need money or prestige to be a good fighter.

Fallet Fogotero is of course a natural place for Luta Libre.

Despite the poverty and the minimal support, Diogo's Boa Safra team are one of the best in Brazil, live and direct from the favela.

Right now we won the nationals and the International Cup.

So the kids love fight.

Fight is their life.

How did you get it started like here?

Because this is obviously an area that a lot of people don't go to.

I grew up here.

I live here since all my life.

So I know all the kids since day one.

We start here because we kind of feel that we need to give the kids the opportunity to be someone.

We teach to the kids have a bright future.

What is it like growing up here?

Very difficult, especially because of my background history.

My father used to be a cop.

And he died when I was two.

He got murdered.

And

when I have two years, so I grew up without a father.

It was very complicated in Fuella.

And I was thinking in get revenge or bad feelings, you know.

But when I make 18, I started to think, oh, I have to make a thing to the kids.

Don't follow what the guy make with my father, you know?

So to other families, have a good future, a bright future.

Do you feel like there's maybe a bad rap like this area gets like a lot of bad press when it's maybe not warranted?

Or do you think like it's, you know it's understandable?

It's complicated.

Right.

Yeah, it's complicated because the government don't come to help, we don't have help here so I'll do it for free.

It's very complicated but it's a life you know we live in Afravela.

And like the gangs around here are they kind of cool with this?

They like what you're doing?

Yeah yeah a lot of

gang members they put the kids on to the to-do because they could see that this is an opportunity to the kids get a right path, you know?

So

they like that.

They support.

You say the government is kind of like abandoned the area.

Do they do anything here?

Like, is any of this linked to the government?

No.

No.

No.

Wow.

So who built this?

The Fovella.

The Fobella built.

Yeah, okay, yeah, you know.

The tagger, gang members.

That's interesting, though.

It's unusual.

The time was...

Incredible because it's...

RUC is huge.

Places huge.

Alright, man, I'll let you go on.

Thank you so much.

Thank you very much.

I'll start right now.

I think think it's amazing what you're doing, man.

Thank you.

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Diogo is a true diamond in the dirt.

His father was killed by the gang and yet he works with them so the youth of the favela can have a better life for themselves.

As is with any extreme situation, there are many different shades shades of grey here.

Surviving in the favela is not so simple.

This gym is a great refuge for the kids of Folette Fogatero, but the coach is fighting an uphill battle.

Street violence is out of control.

Young men are still getting caught up in the gangs, often joining when they're just children.

In recent years, CV has ramped up operations.

The gang has ambushed police stations, shot up banks, launched deadly prison riots, extended their drugs network and executed people.

CV now controls the majority of gang municipalities across Rio.

The bloodshed is non-stop.

There were over 3,500 murders in this state last year.

That's almost 300 killings a month.

This doesn't happen in a vacuum.

The police and their so called militias play a big role in the violence.

The militias are criminal squads formed mostly of rogue police.

They shoot their way into favelas, extort the residents and set up protection rackets.

Brazil's military police are also involved.

Specifically Bope, a notorious shoot to kill tactical unit in Rio.

In 2019 they executed 13 men here in Falette Fogatero.

The victims were shot after surrendering.

They were unarmed, restrained, and yet still got a bullet in the head.

All of the cops involved were cleared of any wrongdoing.

We get word word that one of the higher up CV members might be willing to speak to us.

So far it's been mostly foot soldiers and mid-level street bosses.

The higher ups are no doubt here, there and everywhere watching on, but they're not stepping out to talk to us.

Not yet.

Much like a rebel group or militia detachment, CV as a criminal gang has a strict hierarchical structure.

At the top is the general leadership.

This is composed of high ranking members members who are either running things directly from prison or whilst on the run in hiding, often stowed away in the depths of the favelas.

For the top members of CV, being sent to prison by no means stops their operations.

Leaders continue to run things via smuggled mobile phones or corrupt prison staff, both of which are in abundance in Brazil.

These top level figures coordinate alliances, resolve disputes, handle external communications, and manage the organisation's financial game plan.

Beneath the top leaders are what's called the fronts.

These are mid-tier commanders responsible for managing a specific territory, either a whole favela or a cluster of communities within one.

A front oversees drug operations, local enforcement and strategic decisions in their zone of control.

It's a cell system that filters upwards.

The fronts maintain punishments, collect profits and enforce loyalty to the wider CV command.

Each front has what you could call sub-bosses who handle daily operations.

These include supervising lookouts, coordinating drug runners and overseeing the soldados, the gangs armed foot soldiers.

These sub-bosses act as a go-between for the street level operatives and the upper leadership.

The lad we mentioned in episode 1, Fat Sexy, is one of such sub-bosses.

As a whole, CV operates as a system like a decentralised franchise.

While everyone involved is united by allegiance to CV and their shared criminal code, each front has relative autonomy in managing its local operations.

This model allows flexibility and means that if one cell is wiped out, either through death or arrest, it doesn't really affect the full structure of the gang.

These networks keep it all moving and are very important as drug trafficking is the lifeblood of CV.

Territories are fiercely defended to protect sales points which generate consistent revenue for the gang.

Arms trafficking, extortion and robbery supplement their income.

The drugs though is their bread and butter.

Internal discipline in CV is enforced through a code known as the Estatuto de Crime.

Literally a crime statute.

This is a kind of gangster charter.

It includes rules on respecting allies, not stealing within the network and severe punishments for those who go against this, either through betrayal or insubordination.

The punishment more often than not is death.

CV regularly executes their members who don't toe the line.

The idea is that the crime statute enforces CV rule within their network and prevents fragmentation in what is a highly complicated cell structure of gang members all across Brazil.

Initiation into CV can involve a baptism of violence.

You can't be a member of this gang if you're not ready to kill anyone at any time, anywhere.

Loyalty is prized above all else, but desertion is rare.

Members are expected to obey orders without question and contribute financially.

CV also communicates their power across all the areas they control.

Whether you're a boss man of a front or a young runner transporting drugs around the favela, you'll always know exactly who's in control.

CV graffiti marks their territory on every wall.

I don't think I've turned a single corner here in Fallot Fogatero without seeing the red CV emblazoned on the wall somewhere.

What's more, here there are very few tags of other gangs sprayed over.

This indicates that CVs nearby rivals have almost never invaded and captured this favela because when they do they spray up their own gang tags.

CV has Falap Fogotero on lock Inside and outside prison CV moves with the same strategy of communications.

In the prison they have what's called disaplinas, inmate representatives who are responsible for enforcing gang rules and handling internal disputes.

These figures often act as liaisons between operatives who are outside and free and CV's jailed leadership.

Overall, CV functions like a criminal corporation with a strict hierarchy, defined roles and military style discipline within their more active ranks.

The gang has an ability to adapt and maintain unity despite regular police crackdowns and bloody internal disputes.

This has allowed CV to survive for over 4 decades, evolving into a dominant force in Brazil's underworld.

Naturally, I want to meet one of the guys who's moving in the higher-up echelons of the gang.

Turns out, after a few days in the favela, where we've been watched and sussed out from a distance, a CB sub-boss has agreed to meet me.

We head down to an open intersection with an intense cobweb of knotted up phone lines above our heads in every direction.

A health and safety officer would have an absolute heart attack in this place.

We don't have to wait long when the CV higher up arrives.

Apparently he goes by the name Player and he wears a balaclava and a zip up coat.

He's short but noticeably stocky.

Much like the other front sub-boss we saw earlier, He's clearly eating a lot better than your average foot soldier or drug runner.

What's interesting is that player is visibly unarmed.

No one else in CV that we've met so far has moved more than a few feet with their gun either nearby or slung over their shoulder.

If I had to guess, this guy is so confident in his role in the gang that he doesn't need to carry his own sidearm for such events as meeting a reporter from the UK.

Why would he?

Everyone around him is basically his protector.

Player waves us over and we walk to the end of a long ledge where you can see the whole built-up valley of the rival controlled favela nearby.

Player has a noticeable gravitas to him.

He walks slowly and purposely, he thinks before he speaks and he looks at me with complete uninterest.

He points out to the rival favela.

He looks intensely and begins to explain the never-ending battles CV has with their enemies.

Every time we go over there, we kill.

They're our enemies.

There's no other way.

It's an urban war.

One side attacks, one side kills.

It's a war that's going to last until the end of the world.

Do you guys feel like maybe like CV is like the government of this favela?

Like,

no doubt, no doubt.

CV law works in this case to implement rules, not to take your rights away.

That's how it is.

Each person in their own place.

The government say this place is like this because of you guys, because CV are here.

That's why there's chaos, that's why there's, you know, drugs and shooting and stuff like that.

They say it's your fault.

What do you think about that?

They're totally wrong.

Our criminal code keeps people in order.

We don't charge taxes or come to your doorstep for money.

Each person is where they belong.

The cops are a bunch of corrupt assholes.

We have a saying here in Brazil, and it's a fact, a well-known fact.

Those in power don't want the war to end because more war means more profit.

So so obviously you're at war with the police, you fight with the police, we've already seen.

But do you actually like, you know, pay off the police?

Do you ever have any interactions with them like that?

In a way, yes.

Because what helps us helps everybody.

We've made deals with cops, which reduces their mistreatment of the residents here.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend, you know?

Like, here is very different to

in the city.

Do you feel part of Brazil here?

Do you actually feel part of this country or separate?

I am Brazilian.

We defend our homeland.

In a way, it's the state that's genocidal.

They want to exclude the poor people and the black people.

But with hustle and determination, it's CV who helps these people.

The government abandoned us.

They left it for God to decide, so CV took control.

The difference between CV and other gangs is that that everybody is grounded and equal.

After this is translated to me, I can't help but show my skepticism.

Problem with me my whole life is that I'm somehow incapable of hiding my emotions in my face.

It just covers my whole face like a mask instantly.

As you can imagine, I've done my research and I don't believe that CV is quite as fair as player is saying they are.

He clocks my face and just looks me dead in the eye.

He holds the the gaze for about 30 seconds without blinking.

His eyes are completely black, just no colour, two huge pupils.

I get the feeling I best lose the scepticism from my face as soon as possible.

I look away, off into the distance, and I think about what Player was saying.

Whilst he's of course doing up PR for his own gang, something he's been around since he was a child, he's actually got some very good points.

The government has totally abandoned them here in the favela.

This has been going on for a very long time and not one single government entity here has made a considerable difference to the lives of the people in the communities of the favelas.

The government blames it all entirely on the gangs, but the gang didn't evolve into what they are today for no reason.

I look around and I see the foot soldiers up the road.

all of them with semi-automatic rifles dangling from their skinny bodies.

Then, player reaches his handout to me.

I look up and he nods.

We shake, we embrace, it's all good.

He knows his role, I know mine.

In this day in the favela we met two different kinds of leaders.

Player being the head of a considerable higher up position in the CV criminal hierarchy here in Falat Fogotero and also Diogo at the gym.

Diogo is a saving grace in a place like this.

God knows how many children he saved from the the gang life by simply being a positive role model and a tough leader in their equal and fair Luta Livre community.

There are many diamonds in the dirt in a place like this.

The favela is simply not black and white in any way, shape or form.

Next episode we'll be meeting an aspiring musician that's managed to keep himself out of harm's way in the favela despite living amongst the gang and even having friends that were executed by the police.

He himself though is completely unaffiliated.

It is possible.

You've been listening to the away days podcast.

Next week, part 2, episode 2.

To watch independent away days documentaries, subscribe to our channel at youtube.com slash at awaydays TV.

The away days podcast is a production of H11 Studio for CoolZone Media.

Reporting, producing, writing, editing and research by me, Jake Hanrahan.

Co-producing by Sophie Lichterman.

Music by Sam Black and in this episode, Diamondstein.

Sound mix by Splicing Block.

Photography by Johnny Pickup and Louis Hollis.

Graphic design design by Laura Adamson and Casey Highfield.

This is an iHeart podcast.