On a warm July morning, two groups of men stood on opposite rooftops in a hillside neighborhood overlooking Rio de Janeiro’s Ipanema Beach, locked in a tense showdown. Their weapons, however, were not guns or knives but kites. This might seem innocent, but these kites are equipped with razor-sharp lines, known as “cerol” in Portuguese, and their purpose is far from playful. The aim is to cut the opponent’s kite out of the sky, a pastime that has become increasingly perilous in Brazil.
The use of cerol has been linked to a growing number of injuries and fatalities, prompting lawmakers to push for a nationwide ban on these lethal kite lines. A bill currently making its way through Brazil’s Congress seeks to prohibit the manufacture, sale, and use of these lines. If passed, violators could face one to three years in prison and substantial fines.
Despite existing laws banning cerol in some densely populated areas, such as Rio de Janeiro, enforcement remains lax. This was evident in the kite-fighting spectacle above Ipanema, where even police officers were among those flouting the law. For some, kite flying with cerol is more than a hobby; it’s a form of therapy. “That’s the logic of kite flying: cutting another person’s line,” said Alexander Mattoso da Silva, a military police officer who goes by the nickname “Jarro.” Jarro is a seasoned kite fighter who even traveled to France in 2014 to compete in an international kite festival, where he won the kite-fighting competition. He insists that when practiced in the right places, the sport poses no risk. “We always try to fly the kites in suitable places to not put anyone at risk. There’s no risk here, because the kite falls into the woods,” he said, pointing to the forested area beneath the airborne kites. However, the narrow pedestrian alleyways below tell a different story.
Kites have a deep-rooted history in Brazil and are particularly popular in Rio’s favelas—impoverished neighborhoods that cling to the mountains surrounding the city. In these areas, a cottage industry thrives, producing kites made of bamboo and tissue paper. For many Brazilians, kites are a symbol of childhood joy and carefree fun. Yet, when attached to cutting lines, they transform into lethal weapons, particularly when they sweep across highways, where unsuspecting motorists struggle to avoid them.
The dangers have led some motorcyclists to attach thin, razor-equipped posts to the front of their bikes to cut through stray kite lines. Rio’s highway administration regularly distributes these posts to motorcyclists, yet the risk persists. Incidents of motorcyclists losing limbs or having their throats slashed by cerol are still all too common. As a result, several Brazilian states have passed laws regulating or banning the use of these lines. The federal bill to outlaw them nationwide passed Congress’s lower house in February and is now awaiting a Senate vote.
In June, 28-year-old lawyer Ana Carolina Silva da Silveira narrowly escaped death when a kite line slashed her neck while she was riding on the back of a motorcycle. “I went to the hospital screaming that I didn’t want to die,” she recalled. “I’m really happy that I’m alive.”
While there is no official count of injuries and deaths caused by cerol nationwide, Rio de Janeiro alone has reported more than 2,800 incidents of illegal line usage since 2019, according to the MovRio Institute, a non-profit organization that operates a hotline for such reports.
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Kite flying is so ingrained in Brazilian culture that in 2021, Rio’s municipal assembly passed legislation recognizing it as part of the city’s cultural and historical heritage. Historians like Luiz Antônio Simas, who specializes in Rio’s popular culture, have traced the origins of kite flying in Brazil back to Portuguese colonizers and even to African slaves who used kites as a means of communication and warning.
Despite its cultural significance, the dangerous practice of using cerol has sparked heated debates. Carlos Magno, president of Rio’s association of kite fliers, argues that the sport can be practiced safely in designated areas. In July, Magno traveled to Brasilia to lobby against the federal bill, which he believes would devastate the livelihoods of those who depend on the kite industry. “It should be banned in the street; we recognize that it’s dangerous,” Magno said. “But millions of people practice this sport, and hundreds of thousands earn a living directly or indirectly from it. So we can’t do away with it.”
For victims like Kelly Christina da Silva, whose son Kevin was killed in 2015 by a kite line while riding a motorcycle, the risks far outweigh any cultural or economic benefits. “My son’s life was destroyed. Because of a game,” she lamented, her voice trembling as she recounted the tragic loss. Kelly has since joined the “Cerol Kills” campaign, advocating for stricter enforcement of existing laws and supporting the national ban.
The debate over cerol highlights the tension between tradition and safety, culture and regulation. As Brazil’s Senate prepares to vote on the nationwide ban, the country stands at a crossroads, grappling with how to preserve a beloved pastime without endangering lives.
