Memory in Motion

Reflections on “I’m Still Here”

Brazilian cinema has reached a historic milestone with the nomination of I’m Still Here for Best Picture at the Oscars. For the first time, a film from my country stands among the most celebrated works of global storytelling. More than just a cinematic achievement, this film has ignited conversations about Brazil’s military dictatorship (1964–1985), a dark chapter in our history that shaped generations. Watching I’m Still Here was not just an experience; it was an invitation to confront our collective past and reflect on how memory and resilience shape our present.

The film tells the story of Eunice Paiva, a woman whose husband was taken during the dictatorship, never to be seen again. Her struggle for truth and justice unfolds against a backdrop of state-sanctioned violence and silence. What struck me most was the quiet determination Eunice exhibited—her refusal to be consumed by despair. As I watched her journey, I couldn’t help but think of the many untold stories within my own family and community, of whispered accounts of fear during those years, and of the bravery it must have taken to simply survive.

One particular scene stayed with me: Eunice sitting at her kitchen table, surrounded by the absence of her husband. The stillness was haunting, amplified by the faint sound of children playing outside. It reminded me of how the absence of noise can sometimes speak louder than words. This silence felt deeply familiar, as if it carried the weight of all the silences passed down through generations in Brazil. The dictatorship didn’t just take lives; it stole voices, stories, and the right to grieve openly.

For me, I’m Still Here isn’t just about revisiting history—it’s about reclaiming it. Growing up, I often felt that this period was treated as a distant, almost abstract concept, something found in textbooks rather than lived experiences. But this film makes the dictatorship personal. It forces us to look at the human cost, to see the faces of those who suffered and those who resisted. It reminded me that history is not just what happens to a country; it’s what happens to people, to families, and to individuals.

This realization brings both pain and hope. Pain, because acknowledging the suffering of others—especially when it’s tied to the land you call home—feels like shouldering a burden you didn’t know you carried. Hope, because films like I’m Still Here prove that these stories can find their way to the surface, no matter how deeply they were buried.

Watching this film also made me reflect on the concept of resilience. Eunice’s refusal to give up on her husband’s memory mirrors a broader truth about Brazil: that even in the face of injustice, there is an unyielding will to remember. Memory is an act of resistance. It’s a way of saying, “We are still here,” despite attempts to erase or silence us.

As I think about the impact of I’m Still Here, I’m reminded of how storytelling bridges the personal and the universal. Eunice’s story may be rooted in Brazil’s dictatorship, but its themes—loss, resilience, and the fight for justice—resonate far beyond our borders. In a world where historical amnesia often threatens to repeat old mistakes, films like this are crucial. They don’t just document; they challenge, provoke, and inspire.

For Brazil, this Oscar nomination is more than a recognition of artistic excellence; it’s a moment of reckoning. It’s a chance to revisit our history, to honor those who fought for democracy, and to ensure that their sacrifices were not in vain. Personally, it has deepened my commitment to listen, learn, and share these stories.

I’m Still Here reminds us that history lives in the present. It’s in the scars we bear, the silences we keep, and the stories we tell. By embracing these narratives, we not only honor the past but also shape a future rooted in truth and compassion. For that, I am profoundly grateful.