Mariana wakes to her phone buzzing with Signal messages. The group chat—"Resistência Democrática"—is planning today's action: a silent vigil outside the Assembleia da República to mark four years of Ventura's presidency. She reads through the logistics, the legal observer contacts, the contingency plans. They've gotten good at this. Too good, maybe.
Coffee is made in the small apartment she shares with two others, all activists, all exhausted. The rent has gone up 40% since 2026—Ventura didn't cause this, but his housing policy proposals went nowhere while landlords kept raising prices. The irony isn't lost on them: they're fighting a presidency they can barely afford to live through.
Morning shift at the NGO where she works—legal assistance for migrants. The office in Intendente used to be chaotic with cases; now it's quieter. Fewer arrivals, more deportations, the people who might have come to Portugal choosing Spain or France instead. The work has shifted: fewer "help me settle" cases, more "help me stay" cases. The desperation has changed in texture.
Her colleague Rita handles a case from morning until lunch: a woman from São Tomé, twenty-three years in Portugal, facing deportation over a gap in her social security contributions during a period of illness. The rules existed before Ventura; the enforcement changed after him. "Selective rigor," the lawyers call it. Technically legal. Ethically bankrupt.
Lunch is a sandwich at her desk, checking social media. The right-wing accounts are celebrating the anniversary—four years of "putting Portugal first," their language has its own vocabulary now. The left-wing accounts are mourning, resisting, organizing. The center is mostly silent, exhausted, waiting for things to return to normal. Mariana wants to shake them: this IS the new normal.
The afternoon vigil draws maybe 200 people. Four years ago, after Ventura's election, 10,000 marched in Lisbon. The energy has dissipated. Not because people agree with Ventura—the counter-movement polls higher than ever—but because permanent resistance is exhausting. Some have emigrated. Some have turned inward. Some have simply given up.
Mariana speaks briefly to a journalist from Público. She's learned to be careful: stay on message, don't give ammunition, avoid phrases that can be clipped out of context. The journalist is sympathetic but weary. "Same story, different year," she says, not unkindly. Mariana nods. The story IS the same. That's the problem.
After the vigil, she meets friends at a bar in Bairro Alto. The conversation is mixed: politics, relationships, who's dating who, who's leaving Portugal. Half her university cohort is abroad now. The ones who stayed are either committed to change or stuck without options. Mariana is both.
Her girlfriend, Sara, arrives late. She's a public school teacher, facing new "patriotic education" guidelines that she's supposed to implement. She won't. The consequences are unclear—probably nothing, the guidelines are voluntary for now—but the direction is clear. "I feel like I'm waiting for the next step," Sara says. "Always waiting."
Dinner is cheap wine and shared tapas. The group talks about what comes next: local elections, the European Parliament, the next presidential race. Some argue for inside strategies—support PS, hope for better. Others want outside pressure—direct action, civil disobedience, making the country ungovernable. Mariana doesn't know anymore. Both paths seem to lead to the same place: Ventura in Belém, smiling.
Walking home through Alfama, Mariana passes a group of tourists photographing a fado singer on a corner. Portugal, postcard version. She remembers believing this country was different—the "good European," the tolerant exception, the place that absorbed difference rather than rejecting it. Maybe that was always a myth. Maybe she was naive.
At home, she checks Signal one more time. Tomorrow's planning: another case, another vigil, another battle in a war that might already be lost. She'll show up anyway. Not because she's sure they'll win, but because the alternative—surrendering the future to people who want her and everyone she loves gone—is unthinkable.
Sleep comes slowly. Four years. How many more?