As Panteras Em Nome Do Pai E Da Filha Here

In the 1970s and 80s, Black Panther–inspired movements emerged across Latin America—not as a copy of Oakland, but as a local cry against police terror, land theft, and state neglect. In Brazil, groups like the Movimento Negro Unificado (MNU) and Pantheras Negras (an unofficial, localized network) were led largely by men. They faced torture, exile, and death.

The police hesitated. Then, one by one, some officers lowered their shields.

“We are not erasing them,” Mônica says. “We are completing them.” Not all the daughters had fathers who lived to see their victories. Many of the original Panthers were killed, disappeared, or died from state-sanctioned violence. What remains is absence—and memory.

Janaína is one of dozens of women now organizing under a new, informal banner: (Daughters of the Panthers). They are lawyers, psychologists, programmers, and community organizers. Their logo is not a snarling cat, but a panther’s silhouette cradling a child. The Daughter’s Strategy The original Panthers were confrontational. These daughters are strategic . as panteras em nome do pai e da filha

“My father gave me his name, but I give it new meaning,” says , 41, a photographer documenting the movement. “He believed in armed resistance. I believe in armed existence . Showing up. Being visible. That is the revolution now.”

“This is our weapon,” Lúcia says, holding up a children’s book about racial equality. “Ignorance is the jailer. Literacy is the jailbreak.” The phrase “in the name of the father” carries weight in patriarchal societies. But for these women, it is not about obedience. It is about reclamation .

Not war cries. Lullabies.

Across São Paulo, Salvador, and Rio, a quiet but seismic shift is taking place. They call themselves —The Panthers. But unlike the revolutionary men of the 1970s, these Panthers move in the name of two forces: the father who fought , and the daughter who continues . The Father’s Blueprint To understand the daughter, you must first meet the father.

“My father believed in the revolution tomorrow,” says , 29, a community health worker in the Maré favela, Rio. “I believe in the child’s homework tonight.”

“That’s the new power,” Lúcia says later, smiling. “A panther doesn’t always need to pounce. Sometimes, she just needs to be seen.” On the movement’s WhatsApp group, there is a pinned message. It reads: “Dear Father: You fought so I could exist. Now I fight so my daughter can thrive. Not in your shadow. In your name. And in hers.” As night falls over the favelas, the daughters gather in community centers, living rooms, and public squares. They study. They dance. They argue. They plan. In the 1970s and 80s, Black Panther–inspired movements

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Lúcia runs a program called Panterinhas (Little Panthers)—an after-school collective where girls aged 8 to 14 learn coding, constitutional rights, and self-defense. On the wall: a photo of her late father, who was killed by military police in 1999. Next to it, a drawing by her nine-year-old daughter: a panther wearing glasses, reading a book.