I love my city, Salvador. Its songs, its foods, its natural landscapes, everything that’s been built over all these years by people you can only find here. I imagine for you who are listening to me from whatever city of Brazil or even the world, your city, in a certain way, may also be special for you: Maybe it’s a typical dish you can only have there, songs that you know from hearing them all the time in the streets, places that you go to unwind when you’re sad, or to celebrate when you’re happy ... Our city is mainly where we live with one another, we trade ideas, give people hugs that we’ve known for a long time, and where we meet new people who will change in some way the course of our lives. We’re still experiencing the consequences of having been suddenly torn from our cities in an attempt to protect ourselves from something quite threatening. For the greater good, we’ve had to seek a thousand strategies not only to live apart from each other, but to to live together, when needed, under these new terms. What things could we give up during that time, and what things seemed to be more essential? It was an isolation to try to help us overcome the moment, but it had enormous consequences for our relationships, our opportunities, and our mental health. But, what’s it like when this existence away from the city, along with being isolated and kept out of everyone’s eyes, is the way a person is obliged to spend a good part of their life? When living apart from socialization isn’t the exception, but the rule? When walking around the city to access any right, such as studying, working, taking care of health, is something so full of undue obstacles that it almost becomes a rehearsed event that needs prior planning to happen? This, when it happens, is reality for many in the population who have some sort of disability, a minority of which I’m a part. And even though my life may be easier than others in my situation - I have access to technologies such as a motorized chair and an adapted car - I still often feel that I need to force myself upon this city, which as I said at the beginning, I love. According to the latest IBGE census, about 24% of Brazil’s population has some type of disability. That would be about 45 million Brazilians. It would be as if for every ten people you met, about two had a disability. Is this proportion representative of your relationships in your workplace, among your friends, with people you relate to, and in the places you study? If not, have you ever wondered where all these people are that you haven’t had the opportunity to interact with? What makes the isolation of these people such a normal thing? In addition to it being our right to live with others, a right that cannot be normalized or postponed, having people with disabilities in the city teaches how everyone should be treated. What we have to add, to teach, I assure you, is a lot. People with disabilities are problem solvers by nature. The fact that we have to adapt our daily lives to live in a world that isn’t prepared for us has made us more creative people, always looking for new ways to do things that everyone else does naturally, such as communicating without using the voice, locating yourself in an environment without using your eyesight, and moving about without using your legs. And with these sudden route changes, like the one we experienced during social isolation, it became clear how much we need to count on each other to accomplish things that we used to do very easily. How interconnected we are, and each one of us can bring new perspectives to the debate. When we take away the right to live in the city from people with disabilities, we also take away from everyone else the right to learn from diversity, and all the richness that brings. A more accessible city leads to a kinder place for its citizens. After all, you never know what circumstances you might be in when you need to move around: You might be a father or mother with a baby carriage, you might be an elderly person whose eyesight has diminished, you might be in a wheelchair because you broke your foot at Carnaval, or you might coming back from the market with lots of bags and can’t dodge the obstacles on the sidewalk. It shouldn’t have to be an effort for anyone to move around, access places, and be present. It shouldn’t have to be something so infrequent for some of us that many people still find my presence strange, don’t know how to treat me and people like me in places, and still have doubts about our way of living - doubts that are evident in the curious eyes of those who seek to understand what I am doing there. In fact, my presence should be natural. Sometimes I’m carrying out a very simple activity, doing something at the bank or being at a concert with my friends, and people show surprise. These people have been convinced that the existence of people with disabilities is such a complicated, difficult thing that whenever we happen to be able to do something commonplace, it must because something very big had to be overcome or adapted, when in fact, it really wasn’t that difficult. Places should be prepared to welcome anyone well, without having to appear like we’re in an eternal, sweaty dispute to be there. Convincing people without disabilities that the lives of people with disabilities are hopelessly difficult is the easiest way to relieve them of the responsibility to do something to change this reality of segregation. It’s as if there was nothing that could be done to improve our lives, as if relevant issues or protection of historical heritage were impediments that couldn’t possibly be corrected, which, all too often, is given as an excuse that does not hold up. We have many examples of ancient places with rugged relief that have become more accessible over time. Those who have access to the city should remember that while we, people with disabilities, are sometimes unable to move freely, people without disabilities continue to enjoy these spaces. They occupy positions, open establishments, and promote events. It’s like I’m going to live in a house, but when I go to enter it, I realize that some rooms are closed to me. I can’t choose which rooms to enter, what time, how long I can stay there, or with whom. The keys to the closed rooms are there, inside, but only those who are already inside, already occupying it, can use them. Those who have access to rights, establishments, and events in the city are moving freely through the rooms of this house we call the city. If you look in your pockets and drawers, you’ll realize that you have the key to open the doors that will give access to me and other people like me. You can turn this key by consuming products and services from those who prioritize accessibility. You can turn this key by demanding places that are not yet adequate remember the need for inclusion from the beginning of any project, not just as an adaptation that comes later as a mockery. Listen to what people with disabilities have to say, what they produce, what they claim, and make our presence in spaces more natural, asking ourselves what is the reason for our absence. Sometimes I’ve heard I should be a little more patient on this path of wanting to feel like I belong in my city, that my right to access it is still under construction, and that I should wait while the city, this constantly pulsating being that’s always modifying itself, first resolves all its structural, economic, and social issues, and only then will it be my turn to participate actively in it. But I’m in a hurry. There are so many people who need to see the sunset from the places I’ve seen it, eat the food, listen to the music, take care of their health, study, have a profession, and above all, bond with others while doing each of these things. There are so many people I need to meet and who need to meet me. It’s living with disability that will teach us to find solutions for each of these barriers that we need to face. We must understand that the city should be known not for its barriers, but for its people, all of them, without restriction. After all, a city’s function is to serve as a home, and as a way of getting not only where we need to go, but where we want to go. It’s not sufficient to admit that the feeling of belonging may be felt only by some of its inhabitants. We know now, more than ever, how important it is, not only to feel good at home, but to have open lanes to get where we want. I’m counting on everyone’s help to turn this key and open the doors so we can meet out there in this city of ours and in all the cities we call home. Thank you.
