German Complex

October 28, 2025. Rio de Janeiro awoke under the weight of the deadliest police action in its history: Operation Containment.

The following morning, in a city accustomed to the noise of sirens, the silence of the scenes spoke volumes. Brutal photographs of St. Luke's Square circulated around the world. Images impossible to ignore —and even harder to forget.

While everyone reacted in shock, amidst the violence that dominated the headlines, I didn't yet know it, but something was also being born within me.

In conversations, voices rose in the air. The topic ignited any discussion. Some defended the operation fervently. Others condemned it with indignation; consensus seemed impossible. It was one of those subjects that the old saying recommends avoiding: politics and religion. I preferred to refrain from giving my opinion. In my view, violence begets more violence, and usually those who pay the price are the most vulnerable.

While the adults eagerly discussed that barbarity, I wondered how the children were experiencing it all.

I wondered how many of them had to change their route to school just to avoid encountering those images, which were difficult to explain. The impact must have been profound for them.

Like a beacon of hope amidst the chaos, a new perspective on Rio began to emerge —with the innocence that childhood requires. There, the first seeds of Miauventuras – Rio de Janeiro were sown.

That's when a question started to haunt me: what could I do for those children? Even if it was something small—almost invisible—I wanted to offer them another way of looking at the city, a way to escape, even if only for a few moments, the daily violence that drug traffickers impose on the streets.

On the evening of November 1st, during dinner, something unexpected happened. The first images from the book began to emerge. The table was still full, but my mind was already elsewhere.

Flashes came incessantly, one after the other. Around me, everything seemed distant—from the clatter of cutlery to the aromas coming from the kitchen. I don't even remember exactly what I ate.

If someone asked me something, I would just nod, without really listening. I didn't want to lose track of those thoughts that were arising.

As soon as I got up, I went straight to the computer to start turning those ideas into something concrete. I wanted to at least glimpse what this new project could be. Little by little, the first two reference drawings began to take shape.

Initial reference drafts

Initial reference drafts

Initial reference drafts

Still, my anxiety wouldn't subside. I wanted to take the first step. Waiting for Monday's business hours meant more than 24 hours—a time that, at that moment, seemed to stretch almost to infinity. When the clock struck nine in the morning, I started contacting the printer, illustrator, layout designer, and Arthur, my proofreader.

At that moment, Miauventuras finally began to exist.

Before continuing with the story, a tip: if you haven't read the previous post, RIO DE JANEIRO, it's worth taking a look. That's where I recounted the struggles of getting the books to the communities. I promise not to repeat everything here… because, let's face it, my reader doesn't deserve a senile author telling the same story again!

Continuing! Finally, my trips to Rio started to be scheduled. Of all the communities scheduled to receive the books, one name insisted on not appearing on the schedule: Complexo do Alemão. I couldn't accept leaving out the birthplace where it all began. To me, it wasn't consistent.

Being the persistent person I am, I went and pestered my contacts. I called. I sent messages. I reinforced my requests. I insisted once more. And nothing. A silence that was beginning to unsettle me. I could even swear it was a conspiracy against me.

But, deep down, I think maybe the Complex was just asking me for patience. As if to say: “Calm down, woman. Take it easy! When you come, it needs to be the right way. With everything you've achieved, I want to welcome you in grand style—red carpet and all the honors of the house.” And it was no different.

In an almost poetic way, it was as if the stars had aligned and, when I least expected it, my cell phone rang with the call I had been waiting for. I would be received, nothing more and nothing less, in the week we celebrate International Women's Day.

In those days, I would see firsthand something that no statistic can measure: the power of the women who sustain the world every day. Because, they may try to diminish us, silence us, erase us—and often brutally, as we see in the news that insists on reminding us of the violence so many face. But there is something they cannot destroy: the strength we carry. We bend before life, but we rarely break.

I had less than a week to organize my trip. Flights, shipping the books, hotel reservations, going to São Paulo with Baloo and Suki in tow, and all the logistics to ensure they wouldn't lack anything in my absence. The list seemed endless. And, of course, there was also my private driver. That's how my Powerpuff Girls gang began.

Cristina

Henrique, who usually helps me, wouldn't be available on those dates. But he solved the problem with a simple phrase: "I'll send you Cristina."

As soon as she pulled up to the airport, I knew I was in the presence of an intense woman. She's one of those who arrives showing what she's made of. Confident, direct, with a look that seems to have seen a little bit of everything in this life. In just a few minutes I knew: I couldn't have anyone better by my side.

She took me to places that, as she herself said, "It's tense here." And it really was.

We drove through streets that are usually featured in the newspapers: closed roads, stories of shootings, armed men watching who comes and goes. But Cristina seemed completely at ease in that setting. There was something about her—in the way she drove the car, in the calmness with which she spoke, in the firm way she occupied the space—that conveyed an unwavering sense of security to me.

Even when we passed men carrying rifles or revolvers, nothing wavered in their posture. And, curiously, that didn't bother me either. Perhaps because, in the places I had decided to visit, scenes like those were already part of my travel experience.

We spent hours inside that car. Between one community and another, long conversations arose, unexpected laughs were shared, and stories were created that only Rio knows how to produce. She was my driver, confidante, book carrier, and, on many occasions, even an impromptu assistant during autograph sessions. And while I rushed from one appointment to another, it was with her, in my haste, that I satisfied my hunger with an açaí bowl.

By the end of those days, I already knew Henrique was right. She wasn't just the driver who took me from one place to another. She's one of those striking presences who arrive, occupying space, organizing the chaos around her, and leading everything without needing to ask permission. An example of a strong, intense woman, absolutely in control of her own path, working in an environment dominated by men.

Among the many lives that pass through this community, some not only endure—they are reborn stronger. It was precisely one of these journeys that welcomed me there. My host was Mariluce Mariá Souza. And for me, it was an honor—one of those that life offers us only a few times.

Mariluce

Some people carry within them a presence that is difficult to explain. It's not something that can be perceived simply by what they do, but by the path they had to travel to get there. To know Mariluce's journey is to encounter the strength of a woman who decided to rewrite her own destiny.

Her life began marked by a brutal absence. While still in the maternity ward, she was abandoned because she was born with a heart condition. She grew up living with gaps that often shape difficult paths. Over the years she faced losses, physical violence, and moments when the world seemed to push her into darkness.

During one of the most difficult periods of her journey, she became lost in the world of drugs. And there was a moment when life itself seemed to erase who she was—when she lost her memory, as if everything had been temporarily suspended. So she chose to rewrite herself.

She learned to exist again, rebuilt her identity, and transformed her own pain into something that transcended her personal experience. This is how Favela Art was born, a project that uses art as a tool for social transformation, offering workshops and opportunities to thousands of children from the Complexo do Alemão itself.

But to only talk about the project would be to diminish the magnitude of the woman behind it. Because what truly impresses about Mariluce is not just what she has built, but the fact that, after overcoming so many setbacks, she decided not to give up on her journey and to extend a hand to those in need. She chose to transform her scars into bridges.

Within what we are building with Miauventuras there in Alemão, she becomes more than just an inspiration. She becomes a living part of this silent and powerful movement of women who believe in education, art, and affection as instruments of transformation.

Because when a woman rediscovers her own voice, something extraordinary happens. She not only transforms her own life, but paves the way for many others, changing entire destinies.

When I arrived at school, Mariluce was already waiting for me. The rain was relentless, falling loudly. Outside, unloading the books became a challenge. I held the boxes against my chest while dodging the puddles that were already forming on the ground. But the warm welcome I received made the storm seem small. I was still making an almost futile effort to remain minimally presentable for the photos. In the end, I looked like someone who had just been through a hurricane. My photos and videos were deplorable; I looked like a disheveled madwoman.

Assistant director Ana Júlia came to meet me, all excited, hugging me and pointing out where I could put the boxes. She's one of those people who spreads joy and brightens the atmosphere wherever she goes. Euphoric, she couldn't contain her curiosity to see the book. I quickly settled into the Reading Corner and spread out around the table. Everyone with me started a collective effort to open boxes and insert the booklets for the Little Writer project. And I, frantically, signed some books.

Frankin - Eu - Ana Júlia - Mariluce

Time to go to the classrooms. Walking through those floors and corridors was like a trip down memory lane, back to when I was six years old. On the walls, the notice boards were full of drawings by the students. True works of art made the old-fashioned way: paper, colored pencils or markers, and collage. It was like reliving the time without the internet, little fingers covered in glue and glitter, the rounded-tip scissors that barely cut the paper. Nostalgia!

Upon arriving in class, Ana Júlia, with her sweet and engaging way of speaking, introduced me to everyone as the writer who had come exclusively to visit them and bring Miauventuras as a gift. She said I wasn't Brazilian and had them start guessing my nationality. It was a festival of country names. Finally, they discovered that I am French.

She concluded her speech by telling them not to worry, as everything was written in Portuguese. The room seemed mesmerized by her—and, at that moment, there was no room for distractions, only for the enchantment of being guided by her voice.

When it was my turn, I took the opportunity and started speaking to them in French. The reaction of those wide eyes, surprised that I didn't speak Portuguese, their faces full of curiosity, all looking at each other as if to say , "What is she saying?", was the moment that showed me that all the effort had been worthwhile—I couldn't help but smile. After the initial surprise, I explained what I had said. The happiness etched on each little face is beyond words.

I began by explaining who Baloo and Suki are, and I talked about the importance of respecting animals and never mistreating them. I gave a brief overview of what's on the pages and, of course, showed that in one of them the cats are in the classroom, commenting on the importance of school and teachers. Everyone listened to me in silence and with a certain reverence.

In their eyes there was something profound that made me lower my guard. Perhaps it was that joy of those who realize that, suddenly, someone from another universe had crossed the entire world just to be there with them—that feeling of belonging. While I spoke, they held the books as if they were newly discovered treasures.

It didn't take long for the flood of questions to begin. Among all the curious little faces, one in particular insisted on following me. There was something about him that disarmed me. A skinny, well-spoken and articulate boy, one of those who seem to burst with curiosity. He laughed easily, chatted with the classmate next to him, leafed through the book eager for new discoveries. He had such genuine joy that it was impossible to ignore. Several times our eyes met, as if a small, veiled complicity existed between us.

Franklin, one of those responsible for opening doors for me at the schools, was with us and had a fantastic idea: " Why don't we read a page in French?"

The kids went wild. He read in Portuguese and then I read in French.

The children's thirst for knowledge got the better of them, and they all wanted to know their names in French. That moment was a real treat for all of us.

But it was precisely in that moment of affection and acceptance that I lived through the most painful experience—one for which I was unprepared. With several rooms to visit and little ability to interfere with the schedule, everything was orchestrated, and every second was precious. That's when my world completely crumbled.

I was already turning to leave the room when I heard a familiar voice running towards me from behind: “Auntie! Auntie! Sign my book!” It was him. The skinny boy who, throughout the entire conversation, seemed to vibrate with excitement at every word.

Instinctively, I reached into my back pocket to get my pen. But in a split second, I felt someone's hand pulling me by the arm and guiding me toward the exit door. "She'll be back soon," she said to the children. I knew it wasn't true.

When I looked back, I saw those little eyes, full of expectation, turn to frustration. In that instant, I had the painful feeling of having broken something very delicate. We adults often don't understand the urgency of children's dreams.

And I know I will always remember that boy running towards me, with the book in his hands. And every time I relive that moment, my heart will be broken again.

But it was also on that same day that I will carry with me a memory of tenderness in its purest form. One after another, the children approached and, with the simplicity that only childhood possesses, asked if they could give me a hug or a kiss.

Amidst the hustle and bustle of everything being recorded, some—the more timid ones—asked, almost secretly, if they could take a picture with me. They held the book against their chests while waiting their turn. Small gestures that, even today, warm my memory.

It was Baloo and Suki who awakened something within me that had been dormant for a long time: the feeling that I could not remain indifferent to situations that shock us.

Within my smallness, I found the way that was within my reach to make a difference. It wasn't anything grand or revolutionary. It was simply what I could do. That's how my Meow Adventures were born. They took me to Rio de Janeiro, where I met incredible people, lived memorable moments and, above all, rediscovered a voice within me that had remained silent for a long time.

Without a publisher or large structures behind it, and with unconventional distribution, the book found its own path—and arrived exactly where it needed to be.

This community ceased to be just the place where a book was born. It became part of my own journey. There I understood that small gestures can cross invisible barriers and touch lives in unexpected ways.

Some stories, once they truly begin to unfold, don't allow for long goodbyes—that's why I'll be back soon. Some connections simply continue.

Complexo do Alemão — thank you very much.

Don't finish reading this text without watching Mariluce's TED Talk. ACCESS THE LINK BY CLICKING HERE.

Instagram: @favelaart