Fortaleza, Brazil – Beneath a sun-drenched awning in Fortaleza, a group of men sit in a circle, engaged in quiet conversation. The scene, unremarkable in cities across Brazil, Bulgaria, or Bangladesh, takes an unexpected turn upon closer inspection. Each man has his feet immersed in a basin of pink-tinged water, flecked with basil leaves, the fragrant aroma filling the air. One man wears an electronic monitoring ankle bracelet, its blue light blinking steadily.
Reinaldo, 55, explains he is serving a seven-year sentence for failing to render assistance. For him, the foot bath is a moment of respite, a balm for calloused heels and weary soles. What we have is one of the services offered at the Estação do Cuidado (Care Station), a center designed for the homeless and those struggling with drug addiction, acting as a gateway to public services often inaccessible to Brazil’s most marginalized citizens.
Reinaldo proudly states he overcame his drug addiction in 2015, adding with a touch of vulnerability, “I still smoke tobacco.”
The Estação do Cuidado is a unique – and government-funded – initiative unfolding against a backdrop of escalating global drug wars. The United States has increasingly equated drug trafficking with terrorism, responding with controversial military actions, such as ’s reported bombings of suspected drug boats in the Caribbean and Pacific. This is occurring alongside the growing power of drug cartels and rising rates of drug consumption.
What began as a pilot project in Fortaleza has now expanded to 11 units nationwide, with plans to reach 409 Care Stations across Brazil by year-end, according to Nara de Araujo, head of prevention and social reintegration at the Federal Government’s Secretariat for Drug Policies. These CAIS (Centros de Acesso a Direitos e Inclusão Social – Centers for Access to Rights and Social Inclusion), developed in collaboration with the Ceará state government, aim to “bridge access to public health, social assistance, and other services for those historically excluded due to structural racism, gender inequality, and violence,” de Araújo explained.
On a recent Monday, as Fortaleza prepared for Carnival, a steady stream of people moved through the original Estação do Cuidado, a repurposed shipping container located a short distance from Moura Brasil, a favela overlooking the sea and known as a hub for crack cocaine use. Some arrive stumbling, barely able to stand. They are offered water, a shower, and access to legal aid, laundry facilities, psychological support, and even art supplies. Savio, after a shower, applies deodorant, cologne, and grabs condoms before pausing to make the sign of the cross, retrieving a small bag of belongings from a locker before returning to the streets.
This oasis for the most vulnerable drug users is located in Fortaleza, the capital of Ceará state, known for its beautiful beaches and quality education, but also embroiled in a brutal turf war between powerful Brazilian drug gangs. Last year, the violence spiked, leading to the forced displacement of entire neighborhoods. Ceará’s strategic location – with its port, airport, and proximity to Europe and the United States – makes it a key transit point for the drug trade.
Moura Brasil is territory controlled by the Comando Vermelho (Red Command), as evidenced by the gang’s graffiti emblazoned on the narrow streets. The group enforces its rule through violence, maintaining order to protect its illicit business. Residents say the Comando Vermelho offers three chances: a beating with a plank for a first offense, another beating or exile for a second, and death for a third.
This is the hidden reality of Moura Brasil, a neighborhood of 6,000 residents located near a surfing beach and the rusted hull of a shipwrecked oil tanker. Like many favelas, it is a complex mix of communities, including a vibrant cultural scene, a samba school that recently won its fifth championship, an open-air cinema, an evangelical church offering food to neighbors, and a community garden. Several users of the Care Station project participated in the Carnival parade, wearing elaborate handmade costumes.
Those behind the Estação do Cuidado, a project supported by Copolad, a European program promoting technical cooperation on drug policies between the European Union, Latin America, and the Caribbean, emphasize that its establishment followed extensive dialogue with the local community. The project was launched in response to the surge in homelessness following the pandemic. Fortaleza, with a population of 2.6 million, has an estimated 10,000 homeless residents, while Brazil as a whole has over 300,000.
Caio Sá Cavalcante, Ceará’s Secretary of Drug Policy, notes that the station serves approximately 100 users daily, providing 58,000 services since and registering 1,800 users. Its budget stands at 1.8 million reais (approximately $340,000 USD). “The government of Ceará is attempting to combine strong investment in public safety and intelligence, with ostensive and intensive actions to combat factions [drug gangs] and violence, with actions for social protection,” Cavalcante stated.
One of the most valued services is access to legal counsel, offering guidance on outstanding legal issues. Sitting down with lawyer Danilo in his office provides relief for many, who fear arrest simply for inquiring about their records.
Reinaldo hopes a judge will review his case, potentially allowing him to serve the remainder of his sentence at home, reporting only once a month. He is weary of the constant need to keep his ankle monitor charged and the stigma associated with wearing it in public.
Irene, 32, a mother of eight and grandmother of one, recently found herself homeless. She visits the Care Station regularly, having successfully overcome her addiction. She describes dependency as “a lion I fight every day.” “The best thing about this place?” she says. “They never rejected me.” Liandra, 25, recently secured her first job as a station worker after being selected during a period when she was living on the streets. Her family expelled her due to her sexual orientation. “As soon as I received my salary, I rented a room. I am very happy,” she says with a smile.
Among the professionals at the Care Station, Alzeni Vicente stands out. Officially a “harm reduction worker,” she is affectionately known as “Aunt Alceni” by those she serves. Her role involves venturing into the favela to inform users about the services available, offering a lifeline to those caught in the cycle of addiction.
She emphasizes that simply getting users to the center is a victory. “When we manage to get them here, we are already reducing the harm, they are taking care of themselves.” She adds that addressing people by name makes a significant difference. “I speak to them as a human being.”
