Rio Drug Trafficking Gangs Brand Narcotics with Religious Symbols, Viewing Themselves as ‘Soldiers of Crime’

Police operations in Rio de Janeiro often uncover cocaine blocks and marijuana bundles marked with a religious emblem: the Star of David. This marking does not signify an affiliation with the Jewish faith; rather, it reflects a conviction held by certain Pentecostal Christians that the repatriation of Jews to Israel will precede the Second Coming of Christ. The criminal organization distributing these distinctively branded narcotics is the Pure Third Command, recognized as one of Rio’s most formidable criminal entities. This group is known for both eliminating adversaries and its fervent evangelical Christian beliefs. According to theologian Vivian Costa, author of *Evangelical Drug Dealers*, the gang assumed command over a cluster of five favelas in the city’s northern sector, now designated the Israel Complex, following what one of their leaders perceived as a divine revelation. Costa states that these gang members perceive themselves as “soldiers of crime,” with Jesus considered “the owner” of the areas they control. Some observers have controversially labeled them “Narco-Pentecostals.” Pastor Diego Nascimento represents an individual with a background in both crime and religion, though not concurrently. He converted to Christianity after a gangster, armed with a gun, shared the gospel with him. It is challenging to reconcile the image of this youthful-appearing, 42-year-old Wesleyan Methodist minister, characterized by a cheerful smile and dimples, with his past as an operative for Rio’s infamous Red Command crime gang, where he oversaw operations in the Vila Kennedy favela. A four-year prison sentence for drug dealing did not deter him from a life of crime. However, his status within the gang drastically declined once he developed an addiction to crack cocaine. He recounts, “I lost my family. I practically lived on the street for almost a year. I went so far as to sell things from my house to buy crack.” At his lowest point, a prominent drug dealer within the favela called for him. Nascimento remembers, “He started preaching to me, saying there was a way out, that there was a solution for me, which was to accept Jesus.” The young man, then an addict, heeded this counsel, embarking on a path that led him to the ministry. Pastor Nascimento continues to engage with individuals involved in criminal activities, but now through his prison outreach, where he assists others in transforming their lives, mirroring his own experience. Even though a gangster facilitated his conversion, he views the concept of religious criminals as inherently contradictory. He states, “I don’t see them as evangelical believers.” He further elaborates, “I see them as people who are going down the wrong path and have a fear of God because they know that God is the one who guards their lives.” He asserts, “There is no such thing as combining the two, being an evangelical and a thug. If a person accepts Jesus and follows the Biblical commandments, that person cannot be a drug dealer.” Forecasts suggest that Evangelical Christianity is poised to surpass Catholicism as Brazil’s predominant religion before the close of the current decade. The expansion of the charismatic Pentecostal movement has especially appealed to residents of favelas plagued by gangs, leading some of these criminal groups to leverage aspects of their childhood faith as a means of asserting control. An allegation leveled against these groups is their use of force to suppress Afro-Brazilian religious practices. Christina Vital, a sociology professor at Rio’s Fluminense Federal University, observes that Rio’s impoverished communities have historically existed “under siege” by criminal gangs, and this situation is now impacting their religious freedom. She notes, “In the Israel Complex, people with other religious beliefs cannot be seen to practise them publicly. It’s not an exaggeration to speak of religious intolerance in that territory.” Vital further indicates that Afro-Brazilian Umbanda and Candomblé religious centers in adjacent areas have also been closed, with gang members occasionally inscribing messages on walls, such as “Jesus is the Lord of this place.” Adherents of Afro-Brazilian faiths have historically encountered prejudice, and drug traffickers are not the sole perpetrators of attacks against them. However, Dr. Rita Salim, who leads the Rio police Department for Racial and Intolerance Crimes, asserts that threats and assaults by narco-gangs carry a uniquely potent effect. She explains, “These cases are more serious because they are imposed by a criminal organisation, by a group and its leader, who imposes fear on the whole territory it dominates.” Salim points out that an arrest warrant has been issued for the individual believed to be the primary crime boss in the Israel Complex, on suspicion of directing armed individuals to assault an Afro-Brazilian temple located in a different favela. Although claims of religious extremism within Rio’s favelas initially emerged in the early 2000s, the issue has “increased dramatically” in recent years, as stated by Marcio de Jagun, who serves as the co-ordinator of Religious Diversity at Rio’s City Hall. Jagun, a babalorixá (high priest) of the Candomblé religion, indicates that this problem has now become a national concern, with comparable assaults reported in other Brazilian cities. He describes it as “a form of neo-Crusade,” adding, “The prejudice behind these attacks is both religious and ethnic, with outlaws demonising religions from Africa and claiming to banish evil in the name of God.” However, theologian Vivian Costa points out that religion and crime have historically been interconnected in Brazil. Previously, gang members sought protection from Afro-Brazilian deities and Catholic saints. She explains, “If we look at the birth of the Red Command, or the birth of the Third Command, Afro religions [and Catholicism] have been there since their beginning. We see the presence of Saint George, the presence of [the Afro-Brazilian god] Ògún, the tattoos, the crucifixes, the candles, the offerings.” Therefore, she argues that labeling it “Narco-Pentecostalism” diminishes the deep-rooted and customary link between crime and religion. Costa states, “I prefer to call it ‘Narco-Religiosity’.” Irrespective of the terminology used to describe this fusion of faith and criminal activity, one aspect remains evident: it endangers religious freedom, a right guaranteed by Brazil’s constitution. Furthermore, it represents another method by which violent drug traffickers inflict damage upon communities compelled to exist under their dominion.