In November 1910, the Brazilian Navy discovered a radical new concept: if you underpay, overwork and routinely whip your mostly Black enlisted men, they may eventually object.
The fleet had just received its prestige toys – the dreadnoughts Minas Geraes and São Paulo, among the most modern battleships in the world. Discipline on board, however, still looked a lot like the 19th century: corporal punishment, “chibata” (lash), awful food and virtually no prospects of promotion for Afro-Brazilian sailors.
When a sailor was brutally whipped for a minor infraction, it lit the fuse. Led by a certain black sailor named João Cândido Felisberto, later to be nicknamed the “Black Admiral” by the Brazilian media at the time, crews on several major ships mutinied, including both Minas Geraes and São Paulo, took control of the guns, and aimed them at Rio de Janeiro, the capital of Brazil at the time. Their demands were pretty modest for people holding a capital city at 12-inch-gun range: end flogging, improve conditions, and grant amnesty, or *else*.
The government, staring down its own shiny dreadnoughts, suddenly discovered negotiation. Parliament rushed through a law abolishing corporal punishment in the Navy and announced an amnesty. But of course, once the ships were safely back under control, the state quietly rolled back the promises: many mutineers were arrested, deported, or killed, and João Cândido spent time in prison and was pushed into poverty.
Now, this is where my family story comes in: my great-great-grandfather served in the Brazilian Navy in the 1940s, patrolling the coast for German U-boats in WW2. He actually met João Cândido. According to the family story, the Navy never stopped making his life difficult. Decades later, the man who had led the most famous mutiny in Brazilian naval history was still treated as someone you were not supposed to talk about.
And that taboo survived. To this day, just saying “João Cândido” is uncomfortable inside parts of the Brazilian Navy. Among the more “aristocratic” old officers, the idea that a mere enlisted man, and a black one, no less, could organize his comrades, seize the most powerful ships in the country, and hold the capital at gunpoint is still almost offensive on principle.
So the Chibata Revolt isn’t just “lol sailors with dreadnoughts”: it’s a reminder that one of the most effective uses of naval power in Brazil’s history didn’t come from admirals or war plans, but from sailors demanding basic human dignity.
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In November 1910, the Brazilian Navy discovered a radical new concept: if you underpay, overwork and routinely whip your mostly Black enlisted men, they may eventually object.
The fleet had just received its prestige toys – the dreadnoughts Minas Geraes and São Paulo, among the most modern battleships in the world. Discipline on board, however, still looked a lot like the 19th century: corporal punishment, “chibata” (lash), awful food and virtually no prospects of promotion for Afro-Brazilian sailors.
When a sailor was brutally whipped for a minor infraction, it lit the fuse. Led by a certain black sailor named João Cândido Felisberto, later to be nicknamed the “Black Admiral” by the Brazilian media at the time, crews on several major ships mutinied, including both Minas Geraes and São Paulo, took control of the guns, and aimed them at Rio de Janeiro, the capital of Brazil at the time. Their demands were pretty modest for people holding a capital city at 12-inch-gun range: end flogging, improve conditions, and grant amnesty, or *else*.
The government, staring down its own shiny dreadnoughts, suddenly discovered negotiation. Parliament rushed through a law abolishing corporal punishment in the Navy and announced an amnesty. But of course, once the ships were safely back under control, the state quietly rolled back the promises: many mutineers were arrested, deported, or killed, and João Cândido spent time in prison and was pushed into poverty.
Now, this is where my family story comes in: my great-great-grandfather served in the Brazilian Navy in the 1940s, patrolling the coast for German U-boats in WW2. He actually met João Cândido. According to the family story, the Navy never stopped making his life difficult. Decades later, the man who had led the most famous mutiny in Brazilian naval history was still treated as someone you were not supposed to talk about.
And that taboo survived. To this day, just saying “João Cândido” is uncomfortable inside parts of the Brazilian Navy. Among the more “aristocratic” old officers, the idea that a mere enlisted man, and a black one, no less, could organize his comrades, seize the most powerful ships in the country, and hold the capital at gunpoint is still almost offensive on principle.
So the Chibata Revolt isn’t just “lol sailors with dreadnoughts”: it’s a reminder that one of the most effective uses of naval power in Brazil’s history didn’t come from admirals or war plans, but from sailors demanding basic human dignity.
That’s a really cool and tragic historic tale.
Great meme OP!
I love that you did this.