Cristian Góes had built a reputation as a columnist unafraid to scrutinize the most powerful figures in Sergipe, Brazil’s smallest state.
He wrote for the small independent outlet Infonet based in the state’s oceanside capital of Aracaju. Then, one day, he decided to depart from straightforward commentary and try something different.
Góes wrote a short work of fiction that recalled Brazil in the early 1900s, when political power was dominated by local oligarchs known as colonels. He wrote the story, titled “Me, the colonel within me,” or “Eu, o coronel em mim,” in the first person, from the perspective of an unnamed, modern-day colonel who chafes at the need to respect democratic rule.
One paragraph — just 57 words long — would haunt Góes for years, setting off a legal battle that upended his life and threatened his career. In it, the narrator complains about being forced to tolerate public protests. “Accept nothing,” he writes. “I called in a hired gun of the law — not by coincidence, my sister’s husband — and kicked these people out.”
The passage mentioned no one by name, but angered someone with the power to respond. A local court sentenced Góes to seven months and 16 days in prison for insulting appellate Judge Edson Ulisses de Melo, who argued that the fictional story was a direct attack on him and his brother-in-law Marcelo Déda, who happened to be the governor of the state of Sergipe.
The case, which dates to 2012, was an early example of a tactic that has become familiar in Brazil: the use of the courts to pressure journalists whose reporting is said to have violated the “honor” of powerful figures.
An analysis released in December 2025 by the Brazilian Association of Investigative Journalism, or Abraji, found that since 2013, journalists and news organizations in Brazil have been targeted in at least 784 civil and criminal cases.
Brazil’s courts, according to the 2025 Report of the Monitor on Judicial Harassment Against Journalists, have increasingly become a tool of intimidation. In many of these lawsuits, the eventual legal outcome is of secondary importance. The objective, said Letícia Kleim, Abraji’s legal coordinator, is to deter reporting through the threat of costly and time-consuming legal battles.
And cases filed by judges tend to carry some of the harshest consequences, Kleim said. Data compiled by Abraji show that courts grant roughly half of all requests to remove journalistic content. When the plaintiff is a member of the judiciary, that figure rises to about 80 percent.
“Lawsuits brought by judges not only have a higher success rate, but also result in extremely high penalties,” Kleim told LatAm Journalism Review (LJR). “That creates an intimidating effect on journalists who investigate the use of public funds or the conduct of judges.”
Rosane de Oliveira (Courtesy photo)
In May 2025, Rosane de Oliveira, a journalist at Zero Hora, the highest-circulation daily newspaper in southern Brazil, was ordered to pay 600,000 reais (USD $105,000) in damages to a judge who said her reporting had harmed her honor.
The article — “Who are the judges who earned the most in April in Rio Grande do Sul” — was based on information published on the court’s own website. Still, the judge overseeing the case ruled that the reporting amounted to an “abuse of rights.”
On Nov. 27, the Ninth Civil Chamber overturned that decision, finding that the article fell within the bounds of press freedom.
But the case, despite its reversal, had already made an impact. Artur Romeu, director for Reporters Without Borders in Brazil, said the justice system continues to be used as a tool to silence journalists.
“In Brazil, judicial harassment is one of the biggest obstacles to press freedom,” Romeu told LJR. “It works precisely because of the enormous imbalance of power.”
The case of Cristian Góes in Sergipe is still having consequences. As a first-time offender, his seven-month prison sentence was converted into community service, but he said that even though he appealed, the charges of insult were upheld all the way up to the Supreme Federal Court.
As he was dealing with the lawsuit, he had to abandon his doctoral studies in communications at the Federal University of Minas Gerais, and he had to sell his car to cover legal costs, he said. Few colleagues spoke out on his behalf.
“In Sergipe, there was no reaction at all,” Góes told LJR. “I went to newsrooms, talked to colleagues, and nothing.”
Eventually, Góes, with help from the São Paulo regional office of the press advocacy organization Article 19, filed a petition with the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, which has agreed to hear his case.
They’re asking, among other things, for the Brazilian government to create a fund to support independent media as a form of reparation, which Góes said he believes would help prevent cases like his from happening again.
Góes eventually did complete his doctoral degree, and now runs a news outlet in Sergipe called Mangue Journalism. Maintaining editorial independence is central to the organization’s mission, Góes said, so instead of relying on advertising, its revenue model relies on donations, subscriptions, book sales and grants.
“Our organization was not born because of my specific case, but because of the core issue at the heart of that case: the full exercise of local freedom of expression,” Góes said. “We make do however we can so we don’t take advertising money from governments or private companies to guarantee this radical freedom.”
Góes continues to report on injustices and the powerful in his home state, but he says he doesn’t feel fully safe practicing journalism.
Kleim said his fear is understandable.
“We have to recognize the progress,” she said, “but we are still far from a situation of control, normalization and real protection for journalists.”
This article was translated with AI assistance and reviewed by Jorge Valencia.
