Originally published on July 18, 2024, in Folha de S. Paulo.

As I mentioned in my last column, the Paulista Academy of Letters held an event this week to plant native trees of the Atlantic Forest at Parque do Cordeiro Martin Luther King, in the south zone of São Paulo. The chosen date for the action, July 17, coincides with Brazil’s National Day for Forest Protection.

The park is beautiful, and the cool morning with a clear sky was delightful. I am writing these lines just after returning from the planting event, which marked the inauguration of the Paulista Academy of Letters’ grove. It was a special day, with the massive presence of members of the “House of Lygia” —a reference to the celebrated writer Lygia Fagundes Telles, a former member of the Academy.

I am a person who reveres nature. I truly get emotional when butterflies visit me, when I see a marmoset, or when I walk in silence among the leaves.

Drawing from the wisdom of Afro-Brazilian terreiro traditions, we understand that orixás—the deities of the African diaspora—are also manifestations of nature. That is, Iemanjá is the sea, Oxalá is the air, Oxum is the waterfall, and so on. One way to interpret the itãs— the mythical narratives—is to recognize the unique characteristics of each of these natural forces.

Oxóssi, the great king of Ketu, is the guardian of the forest. As the itãs recount, he is the lone hunter with a single arrow who enters the woods by himself. He studies his prey and anticipates its movements. He is agile, silent, and precise. Meanwhile, back in the community, his return is eagerly awaited, and his hunt will be celebrated.

However, Oxóssi’s independence transcends the notion of mere survival. He hunts not out of obligation, but for the good of the collective. There are many stories about his rebellious nature because his independence is his most invaluable possession.

In one such story, Oxóssi enters the forest and meets Ossaim, the keeper of the secrets of the leaves. Enchanted by him, Oxóssi decides never to return. After some time, Iemanjá, his mother, sends Ogum, his older brother, to retrieve him, and Oxóssi returns—but only to bid farewell. Even though they are different, forest and sea continue to meet in some paradisiacal places along the Brazilian coast.

Speaking of which, let us take a moment to reflect on the forest through the lens of Oxóssi. In this sense, one can only connect with the forest if there is respect. Otherwise, rebellion is inevitable, for the forest does not need you. But you depend on it—to breathe, to eat, and to stay warm.

The inauguration of the grove was an act of acknowledging this respect. By planting the jabuticabeira (jabuticaba tree) in honor of the patron of his chair, sociologist José de Souza Martins revived the etymological origins of the tree’s name. Jabuticaba comes from the Tupi-Guarani language and can be translated as “the fruit of the jabuti” (a type of tortoise).

As he explained in his tribute speech, the tree bears its succulent fruit multiple times a year. The jabutis gather at its base to eat them, crushing the fruits with their bony plates, which function like a kind of tooth—and I remember this part vividly because I was impressed by the richness of detail about the tortoise’s teeth in his impromptu speech.

Through digesting the fruit, the jabutis end up planting it throughout the forest. Such was the alliance between the tortoise and the tree that it came to be called the jabuticabeira.

Now, observe how complex the forest is and how it functions through mutual exchanges. The tree feeds the tortoise, and the tortoise sows the tree. There is a logic of collaboration, not exploitation. And since independence is the theme of today’s text, the jabuticabeira does not depend solely on the tortoises to fertilize the land, as it also feeds the birds that nest in its branches.

On the other hand, the tortoise is not dependent on the jabuticabeira either, as it eats other fruits. Certainly, they may be less tasty, less sweet, but to paraphrase the saying—if we don’t have jabuticabas, let’s make do with leaves.

Interdependent, the tortoise and the jabuticabeira establish a relationship of immense success. Just as the tree begins to fill up, the tortoise grows in anticipation and celebrates the arrival of the first fruit and the harvest that will follow.

And so, the jabuticabeira was planted. I wish long life and abundance to that tree that honors Chair 22. It is a chair that moves me because, in addition to being so well represented by José de Souza Martins, it was previously held by Ruth Guimarães, the first Black person in the history of the institution.

It is said that Oxóssi is also the hunter of hopes. Planting trees is sowing projects of respect, autonomy, and the future.