Carnival preparations are in full swing in Rio de Janeiro this week. Costumes are frantically sewn in secret warehouses, sweaty street parties fill the city center with music and glitter, and in the suburbs, samba schools are running rigorous rehearsals to perfect the exuberant and carefully choreographed parade that they will put on in the Sambadrome.
Brazil’s Carnival may be known internationally as a week of non-stop dancing and celebration, but “the greatest show on earth” is also deeply political. The themes chosen by each samba school involve everything from political satire and commentary to highlighting historically marginalized figures or social groups. They can also reflect changing norms or political shifts in broader Brazilian society.
Take the Paraíso do Tuiuti samba school this year. In the São Cristovão neighborhood just north of the city center, members of the group gather on a closed-off street on a recent Monday evening decked out in blue, pink, and white t-shirts. The dress code is a nod to their 2025 performance spotlighting trans history and pride, and it’s the first time ever that Rio’s Carnival celebrations will feature a parade focused exclusively on Brazil’s transgender community.
Although Tuiuti picked the theme last April—it takes nearly a year to prepare for Carnival—the topic feels particularly timely. Brazil may have a highly organized trans rights movement that has conquered important milestones over the past two decades, but it’s still one of the deadliest places in the world for trans people. And trans rights are increasingly under attack globally, with the government reversing trans-affirming policies in neighboring Argentina and U.S. President Donald Trump issuing an executive order in January recognizing only two sexes—male and female—and declaring they can’t be changed.
“International leaders are painting a target on trans people’s backs,” says Dani Balbi, one of around 30 trans public figures who have been invited to sit atop a towering float in Tuiuti’s parade. “It’s very important that we highlight our resistance, our presence, in these symbolic places” like Carnival, she says.
Full Citizenship
For Eloá Rodrigues, who has performed in samba parades for a decade, Carnival is exactly the place to underscore the history of Brazil’s trans community. “Carnival is built by Black people, by the LGBTQ community, and trans people in particular, so it’s very symbolic to have a parade that talks about our experiences,” says Rodrigues, who danced with Tuiuti for the first time after transitioning in 2015 and is returning this year as part of a larger group of trans dancers.
Tuiuti’s performance will share the story of Xica Manicongo, Brazil’s first known transgender woman, through a samba-enredo song celebrating her life. Xica Manicongo was brought to Brazil from Africa in the 16th century. Accounts of her life shared today say that she refused to live as a man and was ultimately sentenced to death by the Catholic Inquisition.
“This is [an opportunity] to show the audience that we’re not just a piece of meat that stands on a street corner. We’re people who work, who study, who vote,” says Serena da Silva, a hairdresser and seamstress who will take part in Tuiuti’s parade in a wing of exclusively trans people honoring a transgender Carnival queen from the 1970s.
Brazil’s trans rights movement has successfully advocated for a specific healthcare protocol in the public health system for trans people and for the right to change their name and gender on official documents without having gone through gender-affirming surgery. They are also building their presence in institutional politics: In last year’s local elections, 28 trans candidates were elected to city councils, according to the trans rights group ANTRA. In 2022, Erika Hilton and Duda Salabert made history as the first transgender women to win seats in Brazil’s federal congress.
But transphobia is rife. More than 120 trans people were murdered last year, according to ANTRA, and there is “a constant, systemic stigmatization that causes violence to transgender people,” driving them out of education and formal employment and often pushing them into forced prostitution, says Balbi, the first trans lawmaker elected to the legislature in the state of Rio.
“There is still a huge way to go for us to secure full citizenship,” she says, speaking from her parliamentary office.
Carnival’s "Political Dimension"
The first samba schools were founded by Afro-Brazilians nearly 100 years ago as neighborhood-based cultural associations. They continue to be a conduit for engaging with social and political discussions today while “putting forward characters you don’t learn about in schoolbooks,” says Mauro Cordeiro, a researcher and member of Rio’s Academy of Carnival Arts.
“They’re not called samba schools for nothing,” says Rodrigues, the dancer. “They shape opinions, they teach people.”
Behind the gleeful parties and extravagant performances, “Carnival has always had a very important political dimension,” says Cordeiro.
In past parades, Tuiuti has depicted a former president as a vampire to criticize labor reform and sung the story of João Cândido, a Black sailor who led a revolt against floggings in 1910. This year, several samba schools will shine a light on Afro-Brazilian religions at a time when religious intolerance is growing. Brazil's human rights ministry reported an 80 percent increase in reports of religious intolerance last year.
Back at Tuiuti’s rehearsal, trans members say they hope their unprecedented samba parade does more than briefly raise awareness about this community and its history. “It mustn’t be a one-time thing. We can’t have this same conversation in 20 years’ time,” says Rodrigues.
As a few hundred drummers start pounding out a vigorous beat, the crowd of participants burst into song, and a lively choreographed procession moves down the otherwise empty street.
The rousing performance is just a taste of what is to come at the Sambadrome on the eve of Ash Wednesday, when tens of thousands of spectators of all ages, genders, and backgrounds are expected to join Tuiuti’s more than 3,000 performers in belting out their chorus: “eu, travesti.” A term reclaimed by trans women in Brazil to signify both pride and struggle, it literally means “me, transvestite.”
Constance Malleret is a freelance journalist based in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. She covers Brazilian politics, human rights, and social and environmental issues.
