Chasing the Chicken through the Alleyways
The image is burned into the global cinematic consciousness: a frantic chicken fleeing the blade of a butcher, sprinting through narrow, sun-bleached alleyways while a samba-infused chase ensues. The camera swirls, the drums beat faster, and suddenly, the chicken is caught—not by the butcher, but in the crossfire between a phalanx of heavily armed police and a gang of teenagers pointing revolvers. This is the opening of Fernando Meirelles’ 2002 masterpiece, City of God. It is kinetic, terrifying, and exhilarating.
But for the residents of the actual City of God favela (Cidade de Deus), the reality is not a stylized montage. It is humid, concrete, and infinitely more complex.
To view Cidade de Deus merely through the lens of cinema is to miss the profound sociological tragedy of its existence. It is a place where the "marvelous city" of Rio de Janeiro hid its unwanted children. It is a community of over 40,000 people who have survived floods, state neglect, and the crossfire of one of the world's most notorious urban wars. This is the real story of City of God—stripping away the Hollywood filter to examine the muddy origins, the rise of the Red Command, and the enduring resilience of a community that refuses to be defined solely by the bullet.
The Muddy Origins: The 1966 Floods and the "Solution"
To understand the violence that later consumed the community, one must first understand its geography. Cidade de Deus was not an organic shantytown that sprouted up overnight. It was a government "solution"—a planned neighborhood designed to cleanse the wealthy districts of their poor.
In the mid-1960s, Rio de Janeiro was undergoing a massive urban transformation. The governor of the state of Guanabara, Carlos Lacerda, championed a policy of remocionismo (removalism). The goal was to eradicate the favelas clinging to the hillsides of the affluent "Zona Sul" (South Zone), such as those in Leblon and Lagoa. The catalyst came in January 1966, when catastrophic rains lashed Rio, causing landslides and floods that left thousands homeless.
The government seized the opportunity. They moved the displaced families—mostly black and poor—far away from the tourist beaches and the city center. They were trucked to the remote Jacarepaguá region in the West Zone of Rio de Janeiro. The area was a marshland, barely reclaimed from the swamps. The first residents arrived to find the "City of God" was less a city and more a muddy purgatory. The houses were unfinished, the streets were unpaved, and the promise of a modern life was immediately exposed as a lie.
COHAB and the Architecture of Exclusion
The construction of Cidade de Deus was managed by COHAB (Company of Popular Housing). On paper, it was a modernist dream: organized blocks, wide streets, and sanitation. In practice, it was an architecture of exclusion.
By moving the workforce 30 kilometers away from the city center where the jobs were, the state effectively severed the economic lifeline of thousands of families. In the 1960s, public transport to the West Zone was sporadic at best. Mothers spent four hours commuting to clean homes in Copacabana; fathers lost work because they couldn't reach construction sites on time.
The isolation was suffocating. There were no high schools, no hospitals, and minimal police presence. The Cidade de Deus history is rooted in this initial abandonment. By concentrating poverty in a remote grid without social services, the state created a petri dish for social unrest. The "planned community" quickly devolved. As families grew, they built makeshift additions to the COHAB houses, filling the wide spaces between blocks with brick-and-mortar shacks, transforming the ordered grid into the labyrinthine alleys (becos) that would later make it impossible for police cars to patrol.
The 1970s: From Petty Crime to Organized Chaos
In the early years, crime in Cidade de Deus was defined by the Malandro archetype—the street-smart rascal who engaged in petty theft but generally adhered to a code of conduct. Violence existed, but it was often personal or domestic. However, as the children of the original 1966 displacement reached adolescence in the mid-1970s, the dynamic shifted.
This generation had grown up in the mud, watching their parents toil for a city that wanted them hidden. The lack of state presence meant that disputes were settled on the street. Slowly, the malandragem gave way to something harder. Small gangs formed, robbing delivery trucks and holding up gas stations.
It was a time of transition, perfectly captured in the first act of the film through the "Tender Trio" (Trio Ternura). But the cinematic depiction of wild western-style robberies glosses over the desperation. These were young men operating in a vacuum of authority. The police only entered Cidade de Deus to repress and extort, never to protect. This distrust of law enforcement laid the groundwork for the community to accept—or at least tolerate—alternative forms of power.
Enter the Red Command: How the Comando Vermelho Took Root
The turning point for Rio de Janeiro’s underworld—and for Cidade de Deus specifically—occurred far away, on the island prison of Ilha Grande. During the military dictatorship (1964–1985), the regime made a tactical error: they incarcerated political dissidents (leftist guerrillas) in the same prison wings as common criminals.
The common criminals learned organization, hierarchy, and guerrilla tactics from the revolutionaries. Out of this fusion, the Comando Vermelho (Red Command or CV) was born. When these criminals were released or escaped, they brought this new structure back to the favelas.
By the late 1970s and early 1980s, the Red Command had established a foothold in Cidade de Deus. This was no longer about petty theft; it was about territorial control. The CV introduced a strict code of silence (the lei do silêncio) and established the "boca de fumo" (drug den) as a business enterprise. They offered a twisted form of social order where the state offered none. If a resident was robbed or raped, the gang dispensed justice swiftly and brutally. For a neglected population, the Red Command became the de facto government.
Fact vs. Fiction: Who Was the Real Zé Pequeno?
The film’s antagonist, Zé Pequeno (Lil’ Zé), is portrayed as a psychotic, chaotic force of nature. But who was the Zé Pequeno real person?
His real name was José Eduardo Barreto Conceição, known locally as "Dadinho." Unlike the movie character who is shown killing at a very young age, the real Dadinho was a strategic, albeit ruthless, criminal who rose to power in the late 1970s. He did not kill "The Tender Trio" as a child; that was a narrative compression by the filmmakers.
However, the essence of his reign is historically accurate. Dadinho was one of the first traffickers in Cidade de Deus to understand the changing economics of crime. He transitioned the business from marijuana (which had low profit margins) to cocaine, which was flooding into Rio in the 1980s.
To secure his monopoly, Dadinho systematically eliminated the competition. He was known for his extreme violence, which he used as a marketing tool to instill fear. Under his rule, the chaotic small gangs were unified under one banner—his. He brought a terrifying stability to the favela, where crime was forbidden within the community boundaries, but the streets were paved with cocaine profits.
The Robin Hood of the Slums: The Real Mané Galinha
Every villain needs a foil. In the film, he is "Knockout Ned." In reality, he was Manoel Machado Rocha, known as Mané Galinha.
The Mané Galinha real story is perhaps the most tragic arc of the Cidade de Deus saga. Manoel was not a criminal by nature. He was a former frantic, a handsome man who served in the army and was known for his calm demeanor. He worked as a bus conductor.
The conflict began, as it often does, with a personal slight. Zé Pequeno, paranoid about challenges to his authority, assaulted Mané Galinha’s girlfriend and, depending on the account, shot up his house or family members. Pushed into a corner and lacking legal recourse, Mané Galinha utilized his military training to fight back.
He did not want to be a drug lord; he wanted revenge. However, to fight an army, you need an army. Mané aligned himself with the few remaining dealers who had resisted Zé Pequeno. The community embraced him as a hero—a "Robin Hood" figure who stood up to the tyrant. This public support emboldened him, but it also trapped him in a war he couldn't escape.
The War for the "Pontos": The 1980s Conflict Exploded
The 1980s drug war in Cidade de Deus was not a skirmish; it was a civil war. It was a battle for the "pontos" (drug sales points). The film depicts this as a rapid montage of gunfights, but for the residents, it was a slow-motion nightmare that lasted for years.
The favela was divided. You lived in Zé Pequeno’s area, or you lived in Mané Galinha’s area. Crossing the line meant death. Schools closed. The local commerce collapsed. The sound of gunfire became the soundtrack of daily life.
This war marked the total deterioration of the community's social fabric. Children were recruited as "aviões" (planes) to deliver drugs and as "soldados" (soldiers) to hold assault rifles that were often bigger than they were. The arms race escalated rapidly; .38 revolvers were replaced by AR-15s and AK-47s, funded by the insatiable appetite for cocaine in Rio’s wealthy districts and Europe.
The war eventually claimed both men, but the cycle of violence did not end with their deaths. It merely fractured the power structure, leading to decades of internecine conflict that outlived the protagonists.
Paulo Lins: Anthropologist, Resident, and Author
The story of this war might have been lost to the police archives if not for Paulo Lins. Lins was not an outsider looking in; he was a resident of Cidade de Deus who managed to navigate the thin line between the world of the streets and the world of academia.
While working as a researcher for an anthropological project on crime in the favelas, Lins began conducting interviews with the bandidos he had grown up with. He spent eight years writing his novel, Cidade de Deus, published in 1997.
The book is significantly denser and more grueling than the film. It utilizes a "neo-naturalist" style, capturing the distinct dialect of the favela. Lins’ work was groundbreaking because it humanized the "monsters." He showed the sociological conveyor belt that took a child from a flooded COHAB apartment to a shallow grave. The Paulo Lins book remains the definitive historical document of the community, serving as a bridge between the silenced residents and the literate elite of Brazil.
From Book to Blockbuster: The Global Phenomenon
When Fernando Meirelles adapted the book in 2002, he made a crucial decision: authenticity above all. He founded an acting school, Nós do Morro (We from the Hill), in the nearby Vidigal favela, casting non-actors from the communities to play the roles.
The film’s release was a seismic event. It received four Academy Award nominations and is frequently cited as one of the greatest films of the 21st century. It introduced the world to the favela funk culture, the heat, the color, and the violence of Rio.
However, the "cool" aesthetic of the film—the quick cuts, the 70s soundtrack—created a strange duality. Suddenly, Cidade de Deus was a brand. "Favela Chic" became a trend. Tourists wanted to see the place where Rocket ran and Zé Pequeno killed. But for the people living there, the movie credits rolled, but the reality remained.
The Double-Edged Sword: Stigma vs. Visibility
Did the movie help the community? The answer is fraught with contradiction. On one hand, it forced the Brazilian government to acknowledge the existence of the favela. It brought NGOs and social programs.
On the other hand, it calcified a stigma. For years after the film's release, residents of Cidade de Deus reported being rejected for jobs simply because of their zip code. To employers in the city center, "Cidade de Deus" was synonymous with the psychopaths they saw on screen. The film, while a masterpiece of art, inadvertently flattened the identity of 40,000 people into a single narrative of danger. The complexity of the hardworking majority was overshadowed by the charisma of the violent minority.
The Era of the Caveirão: Police Brutality and Fear
In the post-movie era, the state’s response to the violence was not social investment, but militarization. The early 2000s saw the rise of the BOPE (Special Police Operations Battalion) and the introduction of the Caveirão—the "Big Skull."
The Caveirão is an armored personnel carrier, black and terrifying, designed to withstand high-caliber fire. When the Caveirão enters the favela, the streets clear. Residents hide in their bathrooms (often the safest room in a brick house) to avoid stray bullets.
This era was defined by a "kill first, ask questions later" policy. Human rights organizations have documented countless cases of innocent residents caught in the crossfire during police incursions. For the average resident, the police were often feared just as much, if not more, than the traffickers. The traffickers lived next door; the police were an invading army.
The Failure of the UPP (Pacifying Police Unit)
In preparation for the 2014 World Cup and 2016 Olympics, Rio launched the UPP program (Pacifying Police Unit). The goal was to reclaim territory from the drug gangs and install a permanent community police presence.
Cidade de Deus received its UPP in 2009. Initially, there was hope. Homicide rates dropped. Social services began to enter the community. It seemed, for a brief moment, that the war might be over.
But the program was built on quicksand. The police were not properly trained for community relations, and corruption remained rampant. Furthermore, the state failed to follow up the police presence with the promised sanitation, health, and education infrastructure. By 2016, as the Olympic torch left Rio, the UPPs began to disintegrate. The traffickers returned, emboldened, and the violence resumed, leading to what many locals call "the fake peace."
Cultural Resilience: Funk Carioca and Samba
To describe Cidade de Deus only as a war zone is an insult to its spirit. Amidst the struggle, there is a vibrant, thumping heart of culture.
This is one of the birthplaces of Favela Funk (Funk Carioca). The Baile Funk parties are legendary—massive open-air sound systems where the bass rattles the ribs. While often criticized by the elite for explicit lyrics, Funk is the authentic voice of the favela youth, a way to express frustration, desire, and joy.
Beyond Funk, the community has deep roots in Samba. Many residents parade with top-tier Samba schools during Carnival. There are community gardens, literacy programs, and boxing gyms (keeping the spirit of Mané Galinha alive in a positive way). The resilience of the residents is not just in surviving bullets, but in maintaining joy and community cohesion in the face of systemic abandonment.
Is City of God a Real Place You Can Visit?
This is the most common question for travelers to Rio. Is it safe to visit Cidade de Deus?
The short answer: Do not go alone.
Cidade de Deus is not a theme park. It is a working-class neighborhood with active drug trafficking conflicts. Entering the favela without a local contact, a grasp of Portuguese, and an understanding of the "codes" of the street is incredibly dangerous. You could inadvertently walk into a "boca de fumo" or cross a territorial line controlled by a militia or a rival faction. Google Maps often sends tourists into dangerous areas; relying on an app here can be fatal.
However, visiting is possible—and can be rewarding—if done correctly.
Ethical Favela Tourism: Avoiding the "Poverty Safari"
There is a fine line between cultural exchange and a "poverty safari." Gawking at residents from the window of a jeep is dehumanizing. Ethical Rio de Janeiro favela tours focus on engagement, not observation.
To visit Cidade de Deus ethically, you must hire a guide who lives in the community. This ensures that your money goes directly to the people who live there, rather than an outside agency. A local guide knows which streets are safe on any given day (the situation is fluid) and can introduce you to the community leaders, artists, and chefs who make the place special.
True travel is about understanding, and a guided walk through CDD offers a lesson in urban resilience that no museum can provide.
Landmarks of the Community: The "Karatê" and Beyond
If you do visit with a guide, you will likely see specific landmarks that define the neighborhood's geography.
- The "Karatê": This is one of the most famous (and historically volatile) sections of CDD, known for its dense housing and narrow alleyways.
- The CDD Youth Center: Often a safe haven, showcasing the work of NGOs and community activism.
- The Graffiti Walls: Street art in CDD is poignant and political, often memorializing victims of violence or celebrating local heroes.
- The Original COHAB Blocks: Seeing the decaying 1960s infrastructure helps visitors understand the failure of the original urban plan.
The City Today: Militias and New Dynamics
Today, the security landscape of Rio has evolved. While the Red Command still holds power in many areas, the West Zone of Rio is increasingly dominated by Militias (Milícias). These are paramilitary groups composed of retired and off-duty police officers and firefighters.
Militias originally claimed to fight drug traffickers, but they have evolved into mafias that extort residents for protection money, control the supply of cooking gas, and monopolize the internet and cable TV services.
Cidade de Deus remains a contested space. It is a battleground of ideologies: the drug trade, the militias, and the state. The residents are often caught in the middle, forced to pay fees to militias on one street while avoiding traffickers on the next. The "City" today is less chaotic than the 1980s, but it is under a heavy, oppressive blanket of control from various armed actors.
Conclusion: The Right to the City
The story of Cidade de Deus is not over. It was not resolved when the credits rolled in 2002, nor when the police occupied the streets in 2009.
It is a story of a people fighting for their "Right to the City" (Direito à Cidade)—the right to be recognized as citizens of Rio de Janeiro, deserving of sanitation, safety, and respect. When we look at Cidade de Deus, we must look past the gun-toting teenagers of the movie poster. We must see the grandmother sweeping her front step, the student studying for university entrance exams by candlelight, and the community leaders demanding better.
The legend is celluloid, but the people are flesh and blood. And their resilience is the true masterpiece.
Sources & References
- Folha de S.Paulo - A história real de Zé Pequeno e Mané Galinha (Historical archives on the 1980s conflict).
- Globo (G1) - Cidade de Deus: 50 anos de história (A timeline of the community since the 1966 floods).
- The Guardian - City of God: 10 Years Later (Analysis of the film's impact on the favela).
- Agência Brasil - Statistics on Police Lethality in Rio de Janeiro Favelas (Data on police incursions).
- Paulo Lins - Cidade de Deus (Companhia das Letras, 1997) - The foundational text.
- RioOnWatch - Community reporting on the failure of the UPPs in Cidade de Deus.
- BBC News Brasil - The Rise of Militias in Rio's West Zone.
- UOL Notícias - Interview with residents regarding the stigma of the film.
- Scielo (Scientific Electronic Library Online) - Academic papers on Remocionismo and Carlos Lacerda’s urban policies.
- Amnesty International - Reports on the "War on Drugs" in Brazil.
