Democracy Beyond the Binary: Trans Women Transforming Brazilian Politics

On paper, Brazil is a democracy of rights. Its 1988 Constitution—sometimes called the “Citizen Constitution”—proclaims the dignity of every human being as a foundational principle. But for Brazil’s trans population, those words often dissolve into the streets' cold reality. The country has consistently ranked among the most violent places in the world for trans people. Murder rates remain staggering; life expectancy for trans Brazilians hovers around 35. Most trans women still survive in precarious economies, often through sex work, navigating a labyrinth of social rejection, police brutality, and economic exclusion.

And yet, in this hostile landscape, something quietly radical is happening.

Three trans women—Érika Hilton, Duda Salabert, and Indianarae Siqueira—are refusing to let the political system ignore them. Each comes from distinct regions, ideologies, and tactics, but together they form a new frontline in Brazil’s ongoing battle for dignity, representation, and democracy. Their work is not just about inclusion in the traditional sense; it’s about remaking the very concept of who gets to hold power.

Érika Hilton: The Voice in the Chamber

In the cavernous plenary of the Brazilian Congress, Érika Hilton’s voice echoes with rare clarity. Her presence alone rewrites centuries of political imagery: a Black trans woman, once homeless, now standing at the heart of national decision-making. Elected as a federal deputy in 2022, Hilton’s victory was not just symbolic—it was a declaration of endurance.

Hilton’s political style is sharp, articulate, and unapologetic. She entered politics through activism in São Paulo, first fighting for housing and public health, then moving into formal politics as a city councilor in 2020. When she received more than 50,000 votes—making her the most-voted woman in Brazil’s municipal elections—she shattered a barrier that had kept trans people at the periphery of governance.

But Hilton is not interested in mere representational politics. Her speeches in Congress often expose the structural contradictions of Brazilian democracy: a system that claims equality while letting trans bodies accumulate in morgues and marginalized neighborhoods. Her legislative work focuses on anti-violence measures, public housing, and the rights of LGBTQIA+ citizens, but at its core, her mission is cultural. She is forcing the state to see who it has long refused to see.

In a political climate still scarred by Bolsonaro-era conservatism, Hilton’s insistence on speaking from the margins destabilizes business as usual. “We are not guests in this house,” she said in one of her first congressional speeches. “We are here to redesign its architecture.”

Duda Salabert: The Environmentalist in the Crossfire

Where Hilton brings rhetorical precision, Duda Salabert embodies pragmatic, environmentalist politics from Brazil’s interior. A teacher by profession and an activist by calling, Duda became the first trans woman elected to Belo Horizonte’s city council in 2020 and, alongside Hilton, one of the first trans federal deputies in 2022.

Her politics intertwine environmental justice, education reform, and LGBTQIA+ rights. For Duda, climate collapse and social collapse are two faces of the same crisis. She grew up in Minas Gerais—a state ravaged by mining disasters, dam failures, and extractive industries that disproportionately harm poor, Black, and Indigenous communities. Her environmental proposals are not just about preserving rivers and forests; they are about dismantling the colonial logic that treats both land and marginalized people as expendable.

Salabert’s career has not been without personal cost. She has received multiple death threats from far-right extremists. In 2020, she was forced to register her candidacy under a cis man’s name for security reasons—a decision that speaks volumes about the country’s political violence against trans bodies.

Yet she persists. In her speeches, she often frames eco-socialism and trans feminism as part of the same struggle: a war against disposability. “We trans people know what it means to be discarded,” she has said. “That’s why we must lead the fight to protect what remains.”

Her approach is pedagogical, reflective of her years in the classroom. She is less confrontational than Hilton, but no less revolutionary—teaching through example that a trans woman can debate policy, draft legislation, and negotiate in the corridors of power while holding on to radical principles.

Indianarae Siqueira: The Radical Organizer

If Hilton works within the system and Duda reforms it, Indianarae Siqueira prefers to tear it down and rebuild from scratch. Indianarae is the veteran of Brazil’s trans struggle, a street-level organizer who has spent decades in Rio de Janeiro fighting for those left behind even by the progressive left.

Unlike Hilton and Salabert, Indianarae has not secured an electoral seat. She ran for city council in 2016 but was blocked by party bureaucracy and openly criticized PSOL for what she described as institutional cowardice. For her, radical politics cannot be contained in parliamentary rituals.

Indianarae is best known for founding CasaNem, a mutual aid network and housing collective for trans people, homeless youth, and those living with HIV in Rio’s Copacabana. CasaNem is more than a shelter—it is an act of resistance, an autonomous space where the community governs itself, educates its members, and protects each other from police raids and state neglect.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, CasaNem became a lifeline for hundreds of LGBTQIA+ individuals abandoned by formal institutions. Indianarae’s leadership is hands-on: cooking meals, organizing legal defenses, and rallying protests against evictions.

Her politics are anarchist, feminist, and grounded in lived experience. She critiques not just the far-right but also the soft progressivism that leaves trans people as symbolic figures without structural change. For Indianarae, survival is the most radical form of protest.

More Than Representation: A New Political Grammar

In a world obsessed with identity politics, it would be easy to reduce Hilton, Salabert, and Indianarae to mere symbols of diversity. But their work goes far beyond that. They are not just “representing” the trans community—they are rewriting the conditions of representation itself.

They challenge the idea that trans lives can only be mourned, pitied, or sensationalized. Instead, they offer visions of trans life that are political, strategic, intellectual, and communal. They make governance porous, letting in the experiences of those who have historically been shut out.

Their presence also challenges Brazil’s broader democratic project. In a nation increasingly polarized between authoritarian nostalgia and neoliberal fatigue, these women propose a third path rooted in care, community, and radical reimagination.

The Cost of Courage

None of this comes without risk. In Brazil, visibility can be both a shield and a crosshair, especially for trans people who dare to enter the public arena. The price of political courage here is not abstract—it’s written in hard, brutal numbers.

For over a decade, Brazil has been the deadliest country in the world for trans people. According to Transgender Europe’s Trans Murder Monitoring Project, 126 trans people were murdered in Brazil in 2023 alone—accounting for nearly a third of global cases. The vast majority of victims are Black trans women and travestis, many surviving on the economic margins through informal work or sex work.

The average life expectancy for a trans person in Brazil is just 35 years, compared to 76 for the general population. For Black trans women, the number is likely even lower, though official data is scarce—a silence that speaks volumes.

For trans politicians, the threats intensify. During the 2022 election cycle, the Observatory of Political Violence in Brazil recorded that 82% of LGBTQIA+ candidates received direct threats, from death threats to doxxing and physical harassment. Duda Salabert received over 30 death threats during her campaign. She was forced to register her candidacy under a male pseudonym on the ballot just to reduce the likelihood of assassination.

Érika Hilton faces daily security concerns. Indianarae Siqueira, though not elected, has been the target of police raids and far-right attacks for her work with CasaNem, a shelter protecting trans people who have nowhere else to turn.

It is not just criminals or neo-fascist militias who endanger them. Police violence remains a constant threat—with 70% of trans people in Brazil reporting abuse by law enforcement, according to ANTRA, the National Association of Travestis and Transsexuals. Often, the same institutions tasked with “protecting democracy” are those trans activists must protect themselves from.

These women live in the tension between symbolic victory and bodily vulnerability. Every speech they give, every vote they cast, every protest they lead, is done with the knowledge that Brazil’s political system is not just indifferent to trans lives—it has historically been complicit in their erasure.

And yet, they remain.

They stay in the fight not because it is safe, but because the alternative is silence—and silence is the first step toward disappearance. Their political existence is not just representation—it is an act of daily defiance against a system that wishes they would vanish.

They are betting their lives on the possibility of change.

Conclusion: Building the Future in the Present

If the future of democracy is to be open, intersectional, and genuinely inclusive, it will have to look something like the world that Hilton, Salabert, and Indianarae are building—not tomorrow, but now.

In the words of Indianarae herself:

“We are not the future. We are the present. And the present is already too late to wait.”