I saw a racist

I walk into a store in Chiado with my children. While I wait my turn to be served, I watch the young Brazilian employee help a customer with kindness and ease. Ahead of me, there's a woman, already completely white-haired, waiting her turn. When the girl approaches and greets her with a warm "good afternoon," the woman snaps at her, "Isn't there anyone here who speaks Portuguese?" The girl stops, opens her eyes, but still smiles. "I speak Portuguese. How can I help?" The woman doesn't back down. "Someone who speaks Portuguese properly, not that thing you're talking about." The tone is blatantly hostile. The employee tries to insist, always with kindness, asking if she doesn't understand what she's saying. The other woman repeats that she doesn't like that Portuguese.

I can't take it anymore. I intervene. "This lady is not only very nice, but she speaks very correct Portuguese." The customer pierces me with a hateful look. "This isn't Portuguese." I then notice the employee looking at the floor, her lips trembling. "It's Portuguese and very well spoken. If you don't understand it, that's your problem. I think you should go find another store," I snap, my tone harsh enough to make her leave, muttering insults at me.

"I apologize," the girl tells me. I see tears welling up in her eyes. I feel my cheeks flush. But I rally. "I apologize. As a Portuguese woman, I feel deeply ashamed. What this lady did is unacceptable. Her Portuguese is very good and very beautiful. She's working here, and they have no right to come here and attack her like this."

My children look at me in astonishment, their eyes wide. When we leave, I ask them, "Did you understand what happened?" They're confused. I take the opportunity to explain to them that what they witnessed is "racism." They repeat the word, ask questions, attentive and intrigued.

When they arrive at the restaurant where their father is waiting for them, they tell him loudly: “We saw a racist.” And they explain, in a more or less confused way, the scene they witnessed.

This episode happened a long time ago, but they haven't forgotten it. Every now and then, when my oldest daughter hears the word "racism," she tells me what she saw, and my youngest nods.

This week, I stumbled upon an Instagram post with videos of a scene that seems to be a replica of the one I experienced. Judging by the customer's accent, which isn't visible in the image, I assume the situation took place in the North. And the shopkeeper's reaction is more assertive than what I witnessed in Chiado. Everything else seems drawn from the same script of hatred and the need to demean those who are different, even if those who are different are simply trying to do their job as well as possible in a foreign country, often in precarious and poorly paid conditions, accepting jobs that locals despise. In the end, without anyone intervening to defend the worker, the customer asks for the Complaints Book and writes down her firm dissatisfaction with, imagine, having been served in a store by someone who speaks Portuguese with a sweet Brazilian accent.

A few days earlier, I received an Instagram message from a man I didn't know who explained he was Cape Verdean and had lived in Portugal for many years. The day before, his adult daughter with the Portuguese woman he married was stopped on the street by someone who spoke to her in English. Obviously, she responded in the same language and was then insulted by the respectable Portuguese man, who obviously concluded the scene by sending her back to her homeland, unaware that she was in his own country. "I live in distress and ashamed of others. I'm afraid. I don't trust the security forces," says the father, after explaining that he worked in Portugal for 47 years before retiring and that both his daughters have degrees, as if claiming a dignity that is rightfully his and shouldn't need to be defended with resumes and diplomas.

"I've been having terrible nights and days; I can't sleep, I feel blocked and listless. I came from Cape Verde as a child, at 14, and I no longer have anyone there, or almost no one. The situation is so complicated that if I don't have space here, I won't have shelter there either, where they call 'my land,'" he laments.

In recent weeks, I've received several messages from Brazilians telling me they're considering leaving, either because they no longer feel welcome or because economic conditions have deteriorated, largely due to housing prices. I know one of them well. Her name is Maria, and she's an assistant at my son's kindergarten.

Maria leaves Portugal with tears in her eyes and the affection and respect of all those who have entrusted their children to her over the years, knowing of her care and dedication. The vacancy she leaves at the school, as experienced by those who have witnessed the recruitment difficulties at schools in central Lisbon, tells us, will not be easy to fill. And it's not just (although it is also) because Maria is a great professional. It's because it's increasingly difficult to live on the meager salaries paid here, with the prices that everything costs in Lisbon.

Until now, many people like Maria have helped care for our children and parents, build and clean our homes, harvest our crops, deliver packages and food, and transport or serve us in shops, restaurants, and hotels. The harsh conditions they accept are the same ones we endured (and continue to endure) in France, Germany, Switzerland, and Canada.

Have you ever wondered: What if these people actually go back to their homeland? What will happen to us here?