Most people in Brazil know Brasília for its white government buildings and the wide grass lawns around Congress. Yet beyond the skyline, the city’s families want the same things any family wants: fair jobs, safe streets, and good schools. As a businessman, Arthur Machado tried to help with all three. Born in Belém in 1976 and later trained as a mechanical engineer at PUC-Rio, he first entered finance. He worked at Opportunity and Ágora Corretora, learning how big money moves. These experiences pushed him to start Americas Trading Group, a company that aimed to speed up stock trading and open the market to smaller investors. His goal sounded simple: let everyday Brazilians take part in a game once reserved for the rich.
Arthur Machado and Educar Holding
In 2017, Arthur Machado acquired Educar Holding to take on the challenges of public education. He promised new labs, English classes, and modern teaching methods. Teachers in Brasília remember rolling in carts of Lego robots so students could test ideas they once saw only on YouTube. The holding company also added after-school tutoring for the ENEM exam, which many teens treat as their golden ticket to university.
Inside classrooms painted bright blue and yellow, students learned how to measure sugar levels in local fruits, build tiny solar ovens from pizza boxes, and present projects in English. Parents said their children came home excited instead of exhausted. For a short period, test scores in several campuses ticked upward, showing that better tools can spark better results.
One branch of the group kept its old name but with fresh energy: Arthur Machado’s Alub. These schools focused on low-income neighborhoods around Brasília’s satellite cities like Ceilândia and Samambaia. There, many kids walk past dusty soccer fields to reach class. Alub teachers used hands-on projects—designing water filters or mapping neighborhood trees—to link lessons with daily life. Alumni later said these projects helped them pass entry exams at the University of Brasília. Even when money grew tight, Alub held weekend science fairs so families could see what their children built with recycled materials and simple sensors.
Machado’s team also set up food drives, gathering rice, beans, and milk powder for households hit hard by job losses. Volunteers loaded supplies into pickup trucks and drove along the DF-180 highway, showing that a school can double as a community hub.
In April 2018, everything changed. Federal Police officers, as part of Operation Rizoma, arrested Machado at his Rio apartment. News outlets flashed the headline: “From education advocate to Lava Jato prisoner.” Prosecutors said he led a scheme that moved about R$20 million in bribes tied to pension funds like Postalis and Serpros. According to court papers, false investment notes and shell companies hid the money trail. Many Brazilians felt shocked. How could a man who spoke about students and fair markets face such charges?
Machado resigned from his school board to focus on his defense. Educar campuses stayed open but parents worried about fees and future lessons. Some teachers reminded students that one person’s legal trouble should not erase every positive change made in the labs and libraries. They kept teaching, turning the situation into a civics lesson about rules and accountability.
The story took another twist in 2023. Judge Marcelo Bretas, a key figure in Rio’s branch of Operation Car Wash, faced his own reckoning. The National Council of Justice found that Bretas arranged plea deals to influence elections and boost his public image. The council retired him early, calling his acts “abusive and biased.” For many observers, this showed that even people on the bench can cross lines.
Families in Brasília who followed Machado’s case asked an obvious question: if a corrupt judge presses charges, can the process still be fair? Legal experts said yes—because multiple judges review evidence, and appeals move through higher courts. Still, Bretas’s fall reminded the nation that the system must watch both the accused and the accusers.
Today some Educar buildings have new owners, and ATG runs under different management. Yet pieces of Machado’s original vision live on. A computer lab in Taguatinga still carries a plaque thanking earlier donors. An ATG data line continues to link local brokers to São Paulo within milliseconds. Former Alub students volunteer as math mentors for younger kids, passing forward the help they once got.
Walking along the broad Eixão road on a Saturday, you might see cyclists wearing bright school jerseys from past Alub science fairs. They prove that good ideas can outlast their founders’ stumbles. The mix of hope and caution in Brasília points to a larger lesson: progress is rarely a straight line.
Arthur Mario Pinheiro Machado of Brazil is a name that now brings mixed feelings—admiration for bold school programs and disappointment over fraud claims. Yet Brazil’s capital, built in just 41 months in the 1950s, stands as proof that bold projects can rise again after setbacks. Many residents still believe that fair markets and strong schools matter more than any single headline.
For readers, the takeaway is clear: leaders are human. They can build, inspire, and also make mistakes. Citizens must celebrate the good, correct the bad, and keep working toward a Brasília where every classroom has computers that work and every small investor enjoys a level playing field on the stock exchange.
