At first glance, they are a group of men chatting quietly, sitting in a circle under an awning to protect themselves from the punishing sun in Fortaleza. The scene would hardly attract attention in Brazil, Bulgaria or Bangladesh. When you look down, first surprise, everyone has their feet soaking in some pink basins with warm water in which some leaves float. He floods the atmosphere. Second surprise, one of the speakers wears a blue light that flashes. Reinaldo, 55, says he is serving a seven-year sentence for failure to provide relief. For these men, that foot bath is a priceless moment of relaxation, a balm for heels and soles punished by the asphalt. That is one of the services that brings them to the Care Station, a center designed for homeless and/or drug dependent people that functions as a door to a range of public services that they would otherwise rarely reach.
Reinaldo fits into the first category. He proudly says that he gave up drugs in 2015, although after a brief silence he adds: “I still smoke tobacco.”
The Care Station is a unique —governmental— initiative in a context of the war on drugs marked by the United States’ decision to equate drug trafficking with terrorism and combat it with, the growing power of cartels and the increase in consumption.
What was born 16 months ago as a pilot project in Fortaleza now has 11 units nationwide. And by the end of the year, there will be 409 Care Stations spread throughout Brazil, explains in an interview Nara de Araujo, responsible for prevention and social reintegration of the Federal Government’s Drug Policy Secretariat. The CAIS or centers for access to rights and social inclusion, which the secretariat devised in collaboration with the Government of Ceará, are “a bridge to public policies on health, social assistance, etc., to try to include those people who historically have not had access to them due to issues such as structural racism, gender, violence…”, explains De Araújo in Fortaleza.
One recent Monday, while Brazil, the movement was constant at the original Care Station, a green container a couple of blocks from the epicenter of the crack in Fortaleza, in a favela with sea views called Moura Brasil. Some users arrive walking in a zigzag pattern, almost unable to stand. First, fresh water to quench thirst and a shower. They also offer them a lawyer, a washing machine, a psychologist, conversation, affection, a toilet, sheets of paper and paint brushes… When he gets out of the shower, Savio puts on deodorant, puts on perfume, grabs some condoms and crosses himself before taking a bag with his possessions from the locker and returning to the street.
This oasis for the most helpless drug users is located in Fortaleza, capital of Ceará, a state known for its beautiful beaches and , but which has been immersed for months in a brutal war between the large armed Brazilian drug groups for control of the routes. Last year, the clashes triggered murders and gave rise to a new practice: the forced expulsion of the entire neighborhood from some neighborhoods. Ceará is a strategic point for the drug business due to the port, the airport and its proximity to Europe and the United States.
This favela is, as the giant initials spray-printed on the narrow streets remind us. The group controls the sale of drugs and imposes its law on the neighbors, an iron fist to maintain order and not give the police reasons to intervene so that the illegal business prospers. The CV gives three opportunities, explains a neighbor. First violation of the rules, beating with a board. Second, another beating or, if you have contacts, banishment; to the third, death.
That is the dark backroom of Moura Brasil, a neighborhood with 6,000 residents just steps from a surfing beach and the rusty skeleton of an oil tanker that ran aground 40 years ago. Like so many favelas, it is a combination of several universes: it also has a vibrant associative movement, called Turma do Mamão, which to the pride of the locals has just won its fifth title, an open-air film club, an Evangelical Church called Revival that offers food to the neighbors, a community garden and a nickname that the neighbors hate and adopted from a former brothel, Oitão Preto. This Carnival several of the users of the project for the homeless paraded with the troupe. They wore elaborate hand-made costumes at sunset facing the sea.
The promoters of the Care Station, an initiative in which Copolad, a European program that promotes technical cooperation in drug policies between the European Union, Latin America and the Caribbean, participates, emphasize that before installing it there in the middle there was a long dialogue with the neighborhood. The project was born as a response to the homeless crisis after the pandemic. Fortaleza, with 2.6 million inhabitants, has 10,000 homeless residents. In all of Brazil, there are more than 300,000 people.
The head of drug policy in Ceará, Caio Sá Cavalcante, highlights that about a hundred users come daily, that since 2024 it has offered 58,000 services and that it has 1,800 registered users. Its budget, 1.8 million reais (290,000 euros, 340,000 dollars). “The Government of Ceará tries to combine a strong investment in public security and intelligence, with ostensive and intensive actions to combat the factions [los grupos narcos] and violence, with social protection actions,” emphasizes Cavalcante in Fortaleza, during a press trip organized by Copolad.
One of the most appreciated—and innovative—services is the lawyer, who guides them to know if they have outstanding accounts with the justice system. Sitting in front of lawyer Danilo in his office for a confidential conversation is a relief. For these men and women, approaching the Public Ministry to ask about their file is not an option. They fear ending up detained again.
Reinaldo is looking forward to the judge reviewing his case. Now he knows that there is a possibility that he has served his sentence with an ankle bracelet and will soon be able to limit himself to signing in front of your honor once a month. He says that would take away the stress of having a plug always at hand so that the device does not run out of battery. The stigma also weighs on him, because, of course, the flashing anklet is always in sight.
Irene, 32 years old, eight children, a granddaughter and living on the street for three months, goes to the lawyer with her silky hair after a shower. He needs to renew all his documentation, which he left at his ex’s house when he ran away. Half of the children remained with him, the other half with her mother. He says that he especially enjoys painting because it occupies his mind. For a while, she escapes from the anguish that has followed her since, she says, her teenage daughter was murdered and from the thousand emergencies of her precarious existence. From here, they are referred to the outpatient clinic, social services, mental health services… if they wish.
The peak time for the movement of people walking like zombies is in the afternoon, but before lunch there is already movement. On this street, next to a colonial building, they buy crack stone. They consume it in nearby shacks, in privacy, so that nothing tarnishes the high due to which many have lost their children, their partners and every possession they once treasured.
Támila, 37 years old, only comes to the Care Station to visit. He says that he managed to get off the hook and get his life back on track after losing two houses to coca and crack. He describes dependency as “a lion that I kill every day.” “The best thing about this place? That I was never rejected here.” Liandra, 25 years old, has just received her first salary as a Station worker, a position she agreed to after a selection when she was still living on the street. His family “As soon as my salary fell, I rented a room, I’m very happy,” he says smiling.
Among the professionals at the Care Station, Alzeni Vicente stands out. The technical name of her position is harm reductionist, but everyone knows her as Aunt Alceni – a nickname of respect in Brazil – or the blonde from the container.” Among her tasks, she enters the favela to talk about the service to those who are agitatedly circulating in search of the dose, or money, telling them what is offered.
Emphasize that the time users spend in the center is profit. “When we get him to come here we are already reducing the damage, he is already taking care of himself” because he is not taking drugs. When asked if she speaks to them like a mother, a sister, a friend or a colleague, she responds: “I speak to them as a human being. When they arrive I call them by name.” And that is exceptional and valuable to them.
