The man who isn't on the ballot
In a rally in Belo Horizonte earlier this year, Jair Bolsonaro did what ineligible politicians are not supposed to do: he confirmed his candidacy for the 2026 presidential election . It was a familiar performance—the defiant growl, the crowd's roar, the calculated ambiguity about whether he was speaking literally or symbolically. "They are afraid," he told his supporters, as if his legal disqualification were merely a technicality to be overcome by sufficient willpower . At another event, he offered a riddle wrapped in messianic language: "The name is Messias," he said, leaving observers to parse whether he meant himself, a proxy, or some future revelation .
This is the strange quantum state of Brazilian politics in 2026: the election's defining figure cannot legally stand for office, yet he dominates its contours. Bolsonaro was barred from running until 2030 after Brazil's electoral court found him guilty of abuse of power and disseminating disinformation during the 2022 campaign. But ineligibility, it turns out, does not mean irrelevance. Instead, it has spawned a volatile proxy war in which family members, ideological heirs, and opportunistic newcomers jostle to inherit—or steal—his political capital, whilst the incumbent president, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, governs with one eye perpetually on the rear-view mirror.
The result is not so much a campaign as a shadow theatre, where the real drama unfolds in polling hypotheticals, strategic endorsements, and the slow, tectonic shifts in public sentiment that occur when a country is forced to imagine its future through the prism of its unresolved past.
The numbers game
Brazilian elections are fought, in part, in the pages of polling firms—Datafolha, Quaest, AtlasIntel, Futura—whose competing methodologies and samples produce a dizzying array of scenarios. The 2026 race, still two years out, has already generated dozens of hypothetical match-ups, each one a small thought experiment in political possibility.
The broad contours are clearer than the details. Lula, now in his third presidential term, leads in most first-round scenarios. Datafolha shows him with 40% support in a multi-candidate field, well ahead of any single rival . Quaest puts him at 30% , whilst AtlasIntel credits him with enough strength to win outright in the first round under certain configurations . A Futura/Apex poll gives him 42.7% against Flávio Bolsonaro's 35.6% .
Yet these numbers, reassuring as they may appear to the governing Workers' Party, conceal a deeper fragility. When pollsters model second-round run-offs—the decisive phase of Brazil's two-stage electoral system—Lula's advantage narrows precipitously, and in some scenarios, vanishes altogether. Datafolha's surveys show him leading in most first-round configurations but tying with both Jair Bolsonaro (were he eligible) and Tarcísio de Freitas, the governor of São Paulo, in head-to-head contests . Another poll, conducted by Futura, goes further: it shows Lula losing to Bolsonaro, Michelle Bolsonaro (the former first lady), Tarcísio, Ratinho Junior, Eduardo Bolsonaro, and even Ciro Gomes—a perennial candidate on the centre-left—by margins exceeding ten percentage points . Tarcísio alone, according to this survey, would beat Lula by 11.6 points .
The divergence between these findings is not merely methodological. It reflects the unsettled nature of the race itself. Lula's lead rests on name recognition, incumbency, and a fragmented opposition. But his ceiling appears fixed—he is deeply familiar to Brazilian voters, admired by some, despised by others, and unlikely to expand far beyond his base. The question, then, is less whether Lula can win than whether the opposition can unify behind a single challenger capable of consolidating the anti-Lula vote. That question, in turn, depends on a cast of characters whose ambitions and limitations are only now coming into focus.
The heirs apparent
Flávio Bolsonaro, the former president's eldest son and a senator for Rio de Janeiro, has emerged as the most visible standard-bearer of Bolsonarismo . He carries his father's surname and, to some extent, his political DNA—the populist rhetoric, the culture-war framing, the antagonism toward the media and judiciary. Yet he lacks Jair Bolsonaro's charisma and his father's decades-long cultivation of the military and evangelical bases. What Flávio offers instead is continuity: a recognisable brand for voters who wish to signal their loyalty to the Bolsonaro project without the complications of the man himself.
The polling reflects both his strength and his limitations. Datafolha shows him at 31% in the first round, trailing Lula but competitive . In some second-round simulations, he now ties with Lula—a striking development that suggests the opposition vote is beginning to coalesce . Yet other surveys are less kind: AtlasIntel's data still shows Lula ahead , and Flávio's negatives remain high. In a recent Quaest poll, he is tied with Caiado and Zema in second-round scenarios, a sign that even within the right-wing coalition, his dominance is contested .
Flávio's candidacy received an unexpected boost when Pablo Marçal, the influencer-turned-politician who mounted a chaotic run for São Paulo mayor in 2024, declared his support . Marçal called Flávio "the Bolsonaro we always dreamed of," a phrase that manages to be both an endorsement and a backhanded slight against the father . Marçal himself had announced plans to run for president in 2026 , but his own campaign was cut short when São Paulo's electoral court ruled him ineligible for eight years, citing abuse of political and economic power during the mayoral race . His endorsement of Flávio, then, is less an act of altruism than a calculated move to remain relevant—a "win-win game," as one observer put it, in a political landscape where attention is currency .
Yet Flávio is not the only heir. Tarcísio de Freitas, the governor of São Paulo, is widely regarded as the most formidable challenger to Lula. A former infrastructure minister under Bolsonaro, Tarcísio combines technocratic credibility with ideological alignment. He governs Brazil's richest and most populous state, a platform that grants him both resources and visibility. Quaest puts him at 13% in first-round scenarios , and AtlasIntel shows him with 30.4% in a head-to-head against Lula's 48.2% —a narrower gap than most challengers manage. The Futura poll that shows Lula losing to multiple opponents gives Tarcísio an 11.6-point advantage , a figure that, if accurate, would make him the front-runner in any eventual run-off.
Tarcísio's appeal lies in his ability to straddle two worlds: he reassures Bolsonaro's base whilst offering moderates a less abrasive alternative. He is disciplined where Jair Bolsonaro was erratic, managerial where Flávio is performative. Yet his path to the nomination is complicated by the very qualities that make him attractive. He is not a Bolsonaro, and in a movement defined by loyalty to the clan, that distinction matters. If the right-wing electorate fractures between those who prize competence and those who demand fealty, Tarcísio risks being neither fish nor fowl.
Then there is Michelle Bolsonaro, the former first lady, whose name appears in multiple polling scenarios despite no formal declaration of candidacy . She is an evangelist with deep ties to Brazil's sprawling Pentecostal community, a demographic that constitutes nearly a third of the electorate and was instrumental in her husband's 2018 victory. The Futura poll shows her beating Lula by more than ten points , a staggering figure that likely reflects both her own appeal and the symbolic weight of the Bolsonaro name. Yet Michelle has given no clear signal of her intentions, and it remains unclear whether her strength in polls would survive the scrutiny of an actual campaign.
Others circle the periphery. Ratinho Junior, the governor of Paraná, and Eduardo Bolsonaro, Jair's son and a federal deputy, both appear in surveys, though neither has gained significant traction . Eduardo Leite, the governor of Rio Grande do Sul, confirmed his pre-candidacy, positioning himself as a centrist alternative , but he registers poorly in polls. Ciro Gomes, the veteran leftist who has run for president four times, trails Lula by nine points in Quaest's second-round simulation —a humiliating margin for a man who once positioned himself as Lula's successor. Even Augusto Cury, a self-help author and psychiatrist, has declared a pre-candidacy for the Avante party , though his presence is more curiosity than threat.
The populist wildcard
Pablo Marçal's brief, incandescent rise and fall encapsulates the volatility of Brazil's current political moment. A businessman and social-media influencer with millions of followers, Marçal ran for São Paulo mayor in 2024 as an outsider, positioning himself against both the traditional left and the Bolsonarist right. His campaign was a masterclass in digital-age populism: provocative, unfiltered, contemptuous of norms. It was also, according to São Paulo's electoral court, illegal. The court found that Marçal had abused both political and economic power, and barred him from running for office for eight years .
Marçal's ineligibility might have ended his political career before it truly began, but he appears to have found a workaround: he has become a kingmaker. His endorsement of Flávio Bolsonaro is a marriage of convenience—Marçal gains continued relevance, Flávio gains access to Marçal's digital army . Yet it is also a reminder of how easily the boundaries of the permissible can be tested in Brazilian politics. Marçal, like Jair Bolsonaro, is barred from office. Unlike Bolsonaro, he has openly declared his intention to run in 2026 anyway . Whether this is bluster, a legal gambit, or a genuine challenge to the electoral court's authority remains to be seen.
The Marçal phenomenon speaks to a broader challenge facing Brazil's democratic institutions. The electoral courts have disqualified both Bolsonaro and Marçal for conduct they deemed beyond the pale. Yet disqualification does not erase these figures; it merely displaces them. Bolsonaro campaigns for his proxies. Marçal endorses Flávio. Both remain forces in the political landscape, their influence undiminished by the courts' judgements. The question, then, is whether the rule of law can constrain political movements that refuse to recognise its authority—or whether ineligibility is simply another stage in an endless game of manoeuvre.
Lula's dilemma
If the right is fragmented and searching for a champion, the left faces a different problem: it has a champion, but he is 80 years old, increasingly unpopular, and running out of time.
Lula's third presidency has been marked by economic turbulence, political infighting, and a pervasive sense that the transformative energy of his earlier terms has dissipated. He governs in coalition with centrist parties whose support is transactional, and his approval ratings, whilst not catastrophic, are far from robust. The polling numbers capture this ambivalence: he leads in first-round scenarios, but his vote share hovers around 30% to 40%—enough to stay ahead in a crowded field, but hardly a mandate . In second-round match-ups, where the contest narrows to a binary choice, his advantage shrinks or disappears .
Lula's challenge is not that he has lost his base—the Workers' Party faithful remain loyal—but that he has failed to expand beyond it. Brazil's electorate is divided into roughly three camps: a third that will vote for Lula no matter what, a third that will vote for anyone but Lula, and a third that is persuadable. It is this middle group that will decide the election, and Lula's ability to reach them is constrained by a decade of polarisation that has hardened opinions on both sides.
The president's task is further complicated by the nature of his opposition. If the right unites behind Tarcísio, Lula faces a disciplined, competent rival with cross-over appeal. If it rallies behind Flávio, he faces a culture-war candidate who will mobilise Bolsonaro's base and force the election into a referendum on the past eight years. If it fractures, Lula may win by default, but without a clear mandate to govern. Each scenario presents its own risks.
There is also the question of succession. Lula will be 81 on election day in 2026, and 85 at the end of a hypothetical fourth term. The Workers' Party has no obvious heir—Fernando Haddad, the finance minister, is competent but uninspiring, and polls poorly when tested as a candidate . The left's failure to cultivate a next generation of leadership means that Lula is both indispensable and a liability, the only figure capable of uniting the coalition but also a reminder of its inability to move forward.
The structural forces
Behind the personalities and the polling lies a deeper set of structural forces that will shape the 2026 election. Brazil remains a nation divided—by class, by geography, by culture, by memory. The Bolsonaro years did not create these divisions, but they exploited and deepened them, and the country has yet to find a way to bridge them.
The electorate's centre of gravity has shifted rightward since Lula's first presidency in the early 2000s. Evangelical Christians, who once leaned left, now form the backbone of the right-wing coalition. Middle-class voters, anxious about crime and corruption, have abandoned the Workers' Party in large numbers. The agribusiness lobby, enriched by commodity booms, wields enormous influence in Congress. Even within the left, there is dissent: younger voters, particularly in urban areas, are sceptical of the old guard's top-down politics and hungry for new voices.
The electoral system itself contributes to fragmentation. Brazil uses a two-round system for presidential elections, which encourages multiple candidates to enter the first round in hopes of making the run-off. This produces a crowded field and rewards polarisation: in the second round, when only two candidates remain, the contest often devolves into a binary choice between starkly opposed visions. The system also grants outsize influence to smaller parties, whose support in Congress can be bought or bargained for, and whose presidential candidates can serve as spoilers or power-brokers.
Then there is the question of institutions. Brazil's electoral courts have played an assertive role in recent years, disqualifying candidates, banning disinformation, and intervening in campaigns. These actions are defended as necessary to protect democracy from authoritarian threats; they are condemned, by the right, as judicial overreach and partisan manipulation. The disqualification of Bolsonaro and Marçal will be litigated, in legal and political terms, throughout the campaign. If either man's proxies win, the legitimacy of the courts—and, by extension, the election itself—will be called into question.
The campaign that hasn't started
It is worth remembering that the 2026 election is still two years away. The candidates are not yet formally declared. The alliances are not yet formed. The issues that will dominate the campaign—economic performance, crime, corruption, the spectre of democratic backsliding—are still unfolding. A great deal can change.
Yet the contours of the race are already visible. It will be a contest between a governing left that has lost its dynamism and a resurgent right that has lost its figurehead. It will be fought in the shadow of Jair Bolsonaro, who cannot run but refuses to leave. It will be decided by a persuadable middle that is weary of polarisation but unsure of the alternative.
The polling, for all its contradictions, points to a single conclusion: the election is wide open. Lula leads, but his lead is fragile. The opposition is divided, but capable of unifying. The outcome will depend less on ideology than on tactics—who can build the broader coalition, who can consolidate the anti-incumbent vote, who can navigate the treacherous terrain between base mobilisation and median-voter appeal.
"They are afraid," Bolsonaro told his supporters, as if his legal disqualification were merely a technicality to be overcome by sufficient willpower.
In the meantime, Brazil's politics remain suspended in a peculiar state of anticipation. The candidates who cannot run campaign anyway. The candidates who might run hedge their bets. The polls churn out hypotheticals, each one a small fiction about a future that has not yet arrived. And the electorate, exhausted by a decade of turmoil, watches and waits, unsure whether the next election will bring resolution or simply another round in an endless fight.
The 2026 election will determine not only who governs Brazil for the next four years, but whether the country can move beyond the politics of grievance and personality that have defined the past decade. It will test whether democratic institutions can withstand the pressure of populist movements that reject their authority. It will reveal whether a fractured electorate can find common ground, or whether polarisation is now the permanent condition of Brazilian democracy.
The answers to these questions remain uncertain. What is certain is that the campaign has already begun—not with rallies or manifestos, but with whispers and manoeuvres, with polling and proxies, with the slow, inexorable logic of political ambition. The uncandidates are preparing. The electorate is watching. And Brazil, as always, is caught between its past and its future, unsure which will prevail.