Evangelical surge, crime fears, and Lula's missteps fuel Bolsonaro family's Brazil election breakthrough

On Sunday night, as the results came in from Brazil's first election round, a group of dejected progressives in one of Rio's most left-leaning neighborhoods did what Brazilians do in moments of despair: they sang. The chant was a football terrace staple, adapted now into a plea. "Let's turn this around, Lula, let's turn this around." They were drowning their sorrows after watching their 80-year-old leader suffer a stunning setback at the hands of the Bolsonaro family's far-right movement.

The scale of the defeat demands explanation, and analysts point to three interlocking forces that have reshaped Brazilian politics in ways that caught the left flat-footed. The first is the explosive growth of evangelical Christianity. Since the 1980s, the church has expanded so dramatically that nearly a third of all Brazilians now identify as evangelical. This is not a passive religious constituency. Megachurch leaders like televangelist Silas Malafaia command millions of social media followers, control television airtime, and have mobilized their congregations as a political machine. During Jair Bolsonaro's presidency from 2018 to 2022, he cemented an alliance with these pastors through ultra-conservative policies. Now his eldest son, himself evangelical, has inherited that machinery and turned it toward his own political ambitions. The result is what one analyst called a "religious machine" placed entirely at the service of Bolsonarismo—a network of influence that reaches into homes across the country through both digital and traditional media.

The second force is fear. Urban violence has become a defining feature of Brazilian life, and voters desperate for solutions have found the Bolsonaros offering what one expert termed "misguided but easy-to-understand solutions." These include increased police violence, mass incarceration, and lowering the age of criminal responsibility. The far right has also drawn inspiration from El Salvador's authoritarian president, Nayib Bukele, whose brutal crackdowns on gang members—often without due process—have reduced murder rates and earned him a following among those who believe only strongmen can restore order. The Trump administration's decision to designate Brazil's two largest crime organizations, Rio's Red Command and São Paulo's PCC, as foreign terrorist organizations has given the Bolsonaros a language to match this appetite for hardline action. On the campaign trail, they have promised to "neutralize narco-terrorists" and chemically castrate rapists. These are not subtle appeals. They are direct promises to an electorate terrified of the violence that surrounds them.

But the third force may be the most consequential: Lula's own missteps. The 80-year-old president spent much of his campaign focused on defending Brazil's sovereignty against what he called Donald Trump's "colonial" designs and protecting the country's rare earth mineral reserves. Meanwhile, voters wanted to know how to pay their debts, afford food, and stay safe in their neighborhoods. At one rally in suburban Rio, Lula supporters visibly tuned out as their president discussed critical minerals and artificial intelligence. Political analysts believe this disconnect cost him dearly. One observer noted that Lula's government treated any criticism as evidence of fascism or elitism, when in fact many voters were simply people who expected more from their government and decided to punish it at the ballot box.

Lula's age has also become a point of contention, though analysts are divided on its significance. He will turn 81 two days after the October 25 runoff. The Economist compared him to Joe Biden, the American president forced to abandon his reelection campaign after a disastrous debate performance. But those close to the situation push back on this comparison. Lula, they argue, shows no signs of physical frailty or cognitive decline. What he does show is stubbornness—a refusal to listen to advisors who warned him that decent economic indicators alone would not guarantee reelection. He seemed convinced from the start that the election was already won. It wasn't.

The Bolsonaro surge is also part of a larger global pattern. The far right, armed with social media savvy and a deep rage against traditional political elites—journalists, intellectuals, career politicians—has been advancing across the world. In Brazil, this is particularly striking because both Jair and his son Flávio are themselves career politicians who have spent roughly half a century between them in Rio's state legislature or the Brazilian congress. Yet they have managed to position themselves as Trump-style anti-establishment outsiders come to drain the swamp, even as they are part of that swamp themselves.

With the first round complete, Bolsonaro is now favored to win the presidency in the runoff. But analysts caution against certainty. Brazil, one expert noted, has a habit of producing plot twists. The contest is not over.