The quiet terror of state repression in ‘I’m Still Here’
In the late 20th century, several nations of the Global South leaned towards military-backed authoritarianism, and one of the most disturbing words emerged. The alarming part was that, though the word is Spanish, it crossed cultures because it became a shared systemic political violence of silencing state enemies and critics.
The word is “desaparecidos,” or enforced disappearances, or simply, the disappeared. The word’s consequences are played out in the Oscar-winning Brazilian film I’m Still Here (2024, directed by Walter Salles).
In the 1970s, Brazil—just like many fragile democracies in South America, Africa, and Southeast Asia—saw military dictatorships demonize perceived enemies as communists out to destabilize and destroy their nations.
I’m Still Here is based on the true story of the kidnapping of Brazilian lawmaker Rubens Pavia and how this chipped away at the family. His wife, Eunice Pavia, portrayed by the magnificent Fernanda Torres, is the resolute center that held the family together in dignity as she combated the system while coming to terms with this monumental tragedy.
As much as I love Mickey Madison in Anora, Fernanda Torres was robbed of the Oscar for Best Actress. Torres’ portrayal is with strong, dignified, upright steeliness. She does have some emotional turns, but none of them slide into an unhinged telenovela flash and flourish. This is highly respectful of a family trauma—not to slide into a melodramatic mess.
One of the most powerful moments in the film is when a photojournalist insists that the Pavia family look somber for the camera. The matriarch and the children laugh this off. Mirth is their prerogative—to twit cheap media expectations and soldier on with defiance through familial joy, which is the basic directive of this movie.
The movie does not pander with open duress, but it always leads the viewers to a series of Damocles swords hovering above the family. The psychological torture of the uncertainty is the cruelty behind the enforced disappearances. Are they still alive? When will they come home? What happens now?
The ones left behind are left dangling. Instead of scenes of deep wails and gnashing of teeth, the tragedy is even more pronounced in everyday acts like counting money or even noticing a fraying apron.
The biggest tragedy of I’m Still Here is not just that it is based on a true story, but the disappearances persist well into this century—and even in places where one thought democracy was strong.
In the world’s wealthiest and most powerful democracy, the United States, though not yet officially under martial law, disappearances are now the policy of Trump. Movies like I’m Still Here should be a cautionary tale for all of us to learn from history and protect our democracy.
Presence is the unsung hero for democracy—when you have claimed your place and registered your thoughts visually and audibly, regardless of odds. Declaring yourself to be still here is a defiance against disappearance.
You may reach Chong Ardivilla at kartunistatonto@gmail.com or chonggo.bsky.social