We built this system. It's being dismantled.
In the waning days of March 2022, nine former Brazilian environment ministers — spanning four decades and every governing party — gathered before the Supreme Court and Senate to defend the institutional architecture of their nation's environmental law. What brought them together was not ideology but stewardship: a shared recognition that the protections they had built across successive administrations were being systematically dismantled. Seven major cases challenging the Bolsonaro government's rollbacks awaited judgment, and the former ministers understood that what was at stake was not merely policy, but the idea that some obligations endure beyond any single government.
- Seven Supreme Court cases scheduled for March 30 put the Bolsonaro government's environmental rollbacks — from Amazon deforestation failures to weakened air quality standards — directly on trial.
- Nine former ministers, representing every party that had governed Brazil in forty years, arrived at the court not as opponents of a government but as guardians of a legal tradition they had collectively built.
- The same group simultaneously pressed Senate president Rodrigo Pacheco to block three bills threatening environmental licensing, pesticide regulation, and land use — with a vote on mining in indigenous territories looming in April.
- Their unusual authority came precisely from what they were: not activists, but former occupants of the same office now being used to undo their life's work.
- The mobilization signaled a fracture in the assumption that environmental governance in Brazil was a matter of state continuity — and a determined effort to restore that assumption before the damage became irreversible.
On a Wednesday afternoon in late March 2022, Brazil's Supreme Court president opened his office to nine former environment ministers who arrived carrying four decades of collective experience. Their visit was urgent: in three days, the court would judge seven major cases challenging the Bolsonaro administration's systematic dismantling of environmental protections — a process that had come to be known colloquially as the "boiadas."
The cases struck at the foundations of Brazil's environmental architecture. They challenged the government's failure to honor Paris Agreement commitments, its gutting of the Amazon deforestation-fighting program, its stripping of autonomy from the enforcement agency Ibama, and its exclusion of civil society from environmental governance bodies. They also contested weakened air quality standards and an environmental licensing scheme created by executive decree. Minister Cármen Lúcia, who would preside over six of the seven cases, received the same group in her own chambers that same day.
The nine former ministers — among them Marina Silva, Carlos Minc, Izabella Teixeira, and José Goldemberg — had been coordinating since the start of Bolsonaro's term. In their formal request for the meetings, they framed their presence not as partisan opposition but as institutional memory. They had learned from one another across administrations of different political colors, and together had shaped the legal foundations that were now under threat.
The court was only half the battle. The following day, the group met with Senate president Rodrigo Pacheco to push back against three bills advancing through the legislature — on environmental licensing, pesticides, and land regularization — and to warn against an imminent congressional vote on mining in indigenous territories.
What gave their intervention its particular weight was who they were: not advocates from outside the system, but former holders of the very office now being used to undo their work. Across partisan lines, they were making a single argument — that the environmental architecture Brazil had built over decades was a matter of state, not ideology, and that it was worth defending.
On a Wednesday afternoon in late March, the president of Brazil's Supreme Court opened his office door to nine former environment ministers. They came bearing the accumulated weight of four decades of environmental governance—a lineup that spanned every political party that had governed the country during that stretch. Their mission was urgent: the court was about to judge seven major cases challenging what had become known as the "boiadas," a colloquial term that stuck to describe the Bolsonaro administration's systematic rollback of environmental protections.
The cases scheduled for judgment three days later, on March 30, cut to the heart of Brazil's environmental architecture. They challenged the government's failure to meet climate commitments under the Paris Agreement and its Amazon deforestation-fighting program. They questioned the stripping of autonomy from Ibama, the environmental enforcement agency, during Operation Green Brazil 2. They contested the exclusion of civil society from the board of the National Environmental Fund. They raised alarms about governmental inaction on deforestation, the freezing of the Amazon Fund, and a resolution that weakened air quality standards. And they challenged an automatic environmental licensing scheme created by executive decree. Minister Cármen Lúcia, who would oversee six of the seven cases, was meeting with the same group in her own chambers that same day.
The nine former ministers—Carlos Minc, Edson Duarte, Gustavo Krause, Izabella Teixeira, José Carlos Carvalho, José Goldemberg, José Sarney Filho, Marina Silva, and Rubens Ricupero—had coordinated their approach since the beginning of Bolsonaro's term. In their formal request for the meeting, they framed their intervention not as partisan opposition but as stewardship. "We have learned from each other's experience and seek to cooperate in building modern, democratic socio-environmental legislation with public policies that became global references," they wrote. The statement carried weight precisely because it was true: these individuals had shaped the legal and institutional foundations of Brazilian environmental protection across administrations of different colors.
But the court battle was only half the fight. The next day, Thursday, the same group had scheduled a meeting with Rodrigo Pacheco, president of the Senate, to pressure him against bills already passed by the lower chamber and now moving through his chamber. Three pieces of legislation threatened to weaken environmental protections further: one on environmental licensing, another on pesticides, and a third on land regularization. Beyond those immediate threats loomed another: mining on indigenous lands, a measure set for a congressional vote in early April. The former ministers were working both sides of the institutional divide, appealing to the judiciary to defend what had been built while warning the legislature against dismantling it.
What made this mobilization unusual was its composition. These were not activists or NGO representatives. They were former government officials, people who had held the same office the current administration now occupied. They represented continuity across partisan lines—a reminder that environmental governance in Brazil, whatever its flaws, had been treated as a matter of state policy rather than ideological whim. The Bolsonaro years had shattered that assumption. Now, facing the prospect of both judicial defeat and legislative erosion of environmental law, these former ministers were making a case that transcended party: that the architecture they had built, tested across decades and multiple governments, was worth defending.
Citas Notables
We have learned from each other's experience and seek to cooperate in building modern, democratic socio-environmental legislation with public policies that became global references.— The nine former environment ministers, in their formal request for the meeting
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did nine former ministers need to meet with the Supreme Court justices directly? Couldn't they have filed briefs like anyone else?
They could have, but there's a difference between submitting a legal document and sitting across from the people who will decide your case. These weren't activists—they were former government officials with decades of institutional credibility. Their presence said: we built this system, we know how it works, and we're telling you it's being dismantled.
The term "boiadas" is interesting. It means cattle drives. Why did that particular word stick to describe these policies?
It's a metaphor for moving things through quickly, under cover, without drawing attention—the way you'd drive cattle. The Bolsonaro administration was doing environmental rollbacks in a coordinated, almost choreographed way. The term became shorthand for the whole strategy.
These ministers came from different political parties. How unusual is it for them to unite like this?
Very. Brazilian politics is fractious. But environmental governance had been treated as a technical, institutional matter that survived changes in administration. These former ministers were saying: this isn't about left or right anymore. It's about whether the state itself will honor its own laws and commitments.
The Senate meeting the next day seems like a different kind of pressure. What were they hoping to accomplish there?
They were trying to stop bills before they became law. The court cases would take time. But legislation moves faster. They needed to convince Pacheco that weakening environmental protections would be a mistake—not just morally, but institutionally.
What happens if the Supreme Court rules against the government but the Senate passes these bills anyway?
Then Brazil would have a constitutional crisis of sorts. The court would be defending environmental protections while the legislature dismantles them. The former ministers understood that—which is why they were fighting on both fronts simultaneously.