Felipe Luther spends his afternoons studying for a degree from one of Brazil’s top universities, tucked in the green hills of Rio de Janeiro above the ritzy beaches of Leblon and Ipanema.
He spends his nights hauling rubbish in those wealthy communities below.
“When I tell my classmates about my job, they’re often shocked,” Luther said in an interview with Reuters news agency.
In 2017, he got a full scholarship to the social sciences programme at the Pontifical Catholic University of Rio (PUC-Rio), a private school that has minted central bank presidents and movie stars.
Luther’s rare opportunity and daily routine are reminders of the disparities in Brazilian society and Rio in particular, where a police raid killing dozens in May stirred fresh debate about the dangers and disadvantages facing Black men like him.
Luther, 38, had previously passed up college for work to support his family, including a job sweeping streets with the municipal cleaning agency since 2009.
In 2000, the national census found white Brazilians were five times more likely to have attended university than their Black, mixed-race and Indigenous peers.
“Because there are so few Black people at this renowned university, many view Black folks as servers, not as fellow classmates,” Luther said, recalling awkward run-ins on campus.
In one case, a woman mistook Luther for a lift operator. In another, someone tried to pay him for a cup of coffee, confusing him with cafeteria staff.
“It hurts, in a way, because you get the impression that you don’t belong there,” he reflected.
Brazil’s educational inequalities have only grown during the pandemic, as remote classes force students to rely on resources at home, widening a gap between the haves and the have-nots.
For months, Luther was reading at night by candlelight in Niterói, across the bay from campus, where his student residence often lacked power. He charged his phone and laptop at work and used them to study until his street-sweeping shift from 9pm to 5am.
“For my course, which demands a lot of reading, I need a better computer than the one I got. But some people aren’t even given a computer,” he said, noting the array of challenges for disadvantaged students forced to study from home.
“Not all phones are good enough for working, and not everyone has a phone … or enough internet data to download their readings.”
Recent events in Rio have underscored even greater challenges Luther faces as a Black man.
In May, police stormed Jacarezinho, a poor community in northern Rio, in a raid targeting the Red Command drug gang. The hours-long shoot-out killed 27 men in the neighbourhood and one officer, making it one of the deadliest police operations in the city’s history and drawing backlash from human rights groups.
“Even if I were rich or very famous, I would still be living in a Black body in a city, a state, a country where Black people seem expendable,” he said.
More than three-quarters of the almost 9,000 people killed by Brazilian police over the last 10 years were Black men, according to Human Rights Watch.
Despite threats, Afro-Brazilian culture continues to thrive in Brazil as it has for centuries.
Twice a week, Luther visits a local “terreiro” to practise Umbanda, a religion with origins in West African spiritual traditions. Dressed in all-white clothing with beaded necklaces hanging over his chest, Luther participates in dances, songs and rituals with fellow believers.
Once he gets his degree, Luther says one of his goals is to begin teaching college prep courses in low-income communities, opening the door for the next generation of aspiring students.
“I want to give back to other young people by allowing them to hope that this is possible,” he said.