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𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝑴𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝑽𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒂 𝑭𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒂 𝒅𝒐 𝑳𝒊𝒗𝒓𝒐. 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂, 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒉𝒐 𝒅𝒆 𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒓, 𝒖𝒎𝒂 𝒃𝒊𝒛𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒐. 𝑬𝒓𝒂 𝒖𝒎𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒅𝒂, 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒂𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒂, 𝒏𝒂̃𝒐 𝒂𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒎𝒖́𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂, 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒓 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒖𝒎 𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒂, 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕, 𝒅𝒆 𝑭𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒔 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒍𝒂 (𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝑻𝒐𝒎 𝑾𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎 𝒂 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒓𝜾́𝒗𝒆𝒍 𝑪𝒓𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝑮𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒆 𝒍𝒂́ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂 𝒐𝒔 𝒊𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟐). 𝑵𝒂̃𝒐 𝒈𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒉𝒐 𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒄̧𝒐̃𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆. 𝑴𝒂𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒅𝒂 𝑭𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒂 𝒅𝒐 𝑳𝒊𝒗𝒓𝒐 𝒅𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒃𝒐𝒂 𝒆 𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒗𝒆̂-𝒍𝒂, 𝒂 𝒂𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝒂 𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒂 𝒅𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒅𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒏𝒉𝒐, 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒐 𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒓, 𝒏𝒐 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝑬𝒅𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒐 𝑽𝑰𝑰, 𝒔𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎 𝒖𝒎 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒐.
𝑷𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝒏𝒂̃𝒐 𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒏𝒉𝒖𝒎 𝒆𝒙𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒓, 𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆. 𝑭𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒄𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒔, 𝒄𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒂̀ 𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒂 𝒆 𝒂̀ 𝒆𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒂, 𝒔𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍, 𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒅𝒂 𝒅𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂, 𝒅𝒆 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂 𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆. 𝑶 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒍𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒂 𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐́𝒈𝒊𝒄𝒂 𝒅𝒂 𝒐𝒃𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒂𝒄̧𝒂̃𝒐.
𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒐 𝒂𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔, 𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒔 𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒔 𝒆́ 𝒖𝒎𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒓 𝒂 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒆 𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒂 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒂 𝒅𝒂 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒂. 𝑭𝒂𝒛-𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒂 𝒂𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒂 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒆̂𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒓 𝒅𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒐. 𝑻𝜾́𝒏𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒔 𝒖𝒎 𝒋𝒐𝒈𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒃𝒓𝒆 𝒐 𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒏𝒂̃𝒐 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒂́𝒗𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝜾́𝒐𝒅𝒐 𝒅𝒆 𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒂 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒂 𝒆 𝒂 𝑭𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒂 𝒅𝒐 𝑳𝒊𝒗𝒓𝒐, 𝒄𝒐𝒎 𝒐𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒔 𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒔, 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒎 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒔 𝒆𝒈𝒐 𝒎𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒅𝒐: 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂́𝒗𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒉𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒔 𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒎 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒂, 𝒐 𝒈𝒆́𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒓𝒐 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒎 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒎 𝒅𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒂̀ 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒂, 𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒐𝒔, 𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒂𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒓.
𝑺𝒐𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐 𝒅𝒆 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒄̧𝒂̃𝒐 𝒆́ 𝒖𝒎𝒂 𝒃𝒆̂𝒏𝒄̧𝒂̃𝒐 𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒆𝒙𝒆𝒓𝒄𝜾́𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒔 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒐𝒔, 𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝑴𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝑽𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒂𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒖𝒎 𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒆𝒈𝒓𝒐 𝒆, 𝒄𝒐𝒎 𝒖𝒎 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒅𝒐 𝒅𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂 𝒂𝒍𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒆-𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒍, 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒗𝒂-𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒔 𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒐𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒎 𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒄̧𝒐̃𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆.
𝑵𝒂̃𝒐 𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒖𝒎𝒂 𝒎𝒖𝒍𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒐 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒐, 𝒆 𝒏𝒂̃𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒃𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒉𝒂, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒐 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒎𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒓, 𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒉𝒂 𝒖𝒎 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒅𝒐 𝒅𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒊𝒙𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒆-𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒂 𝒇𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒂, 𝒅𝒂𝒔 𝒗𝒂𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒂𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒐𝒃𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒂𝒗𝒂.
𝑭𝒂𝒛-𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒂 𝒂 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝑴𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒍, 𝒐𝒔 𝒆-𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔, 𝒂 𝒔𝒖𝒂 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒐𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒄̧𝒂̃𝒐 𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒂𝒔, 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒎 𝒖𝒎 𝒄𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒐 𝒆 𝒖𝒎 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒊. 𝑶𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒂̃𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒂̃𝒐, 𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐-𝒗𝒐𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒆𝒍𝒂 𝒗𝒐𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒛 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒂. 𝑷𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒛 𝒅𝒆 𝒗𝒐𝒔 𝒗𝒆𝒓 – 𝒅𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒔 𝒗𝒆𝒓 – 𝒄𝒐𝒎 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒂́𝒄𝒊𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒖𝒎𝒂 𝒎𝒂́𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒏𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝑹𝒂𝒊𝒐-𝒙.
* Jornalista e escritora
IN "DIÁRIO DE NOTÍCIAS" -11/06/26 .
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