Wrestling with Bulls: Portugal’s Past, Present, and Future

I live in Portugal now. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Portuguese, it’s this: they know how to wrestle bulls. Not just the four-legged kind you see in the sand pits of Ribatejo, but the invisible bulls of history, economics, and identity. Portugal has been wrestling these beasts for centuries—sometimes thrown to the ground, sometimes bloodied, sometimes overlooked, but rarely broken.

If you’ve ever seen a bullfight here, you know the drama. The first bugle summons the horsemen, who dazzle the crowd with their costumes and theatrics, sticking barbed darts into the bull’s back. The second bugle releases the beast in full fury, charging at anything in its path. But it’s the third bugle that delivers the real moment of truth: a group of ordinary young men, dressed simply, rushes the animal barehanded. No swords, no capes, no tricks. Just muscle, grit, and the will to hang on.

The leader takes the hit, square in the chest. The others pile on, grabbing horns, legs, tail—whatever they can get their hands on—until the bull slows and collapses in exhaustion. It’s raw, it’s dangerous, and it’s deeply symbolic of the Portuguese spirit: never glamorous, sometimes reckless, but stubbornly determined to hold on against impossible odds.

That image has stuck with me because it feels like a perfect metaphor for Portugal’s place in the world. For centuries, the Portuguese have been called on to wrestle with oversized challenges—empire, decline, dictatorship, debt, globalization, the EU—and every time, they charge in barehanded, holding on until the bull finally submits.

Yet for all its drama, Portugal remains strangely invisible to much of the outside world. Even in Europe, even next door in Spain, people know little about the real Portugal. Mention the country abroad and you’re more likely to hear someone mention Cristiano Ronaldo, port wine, or the beaches of the Algarve than its history of exploration, revolution, or resilience.

That invisibility is part of why I find Portugal so fascinating. Outsiders often approach it as if it must simply be like Spain--which it isn’t. The language itself, with its distinct cadences, is a clue that this is a different story. But because it doesn’t scream for attention, Portugal is often misread, misunderstood, or overlooked.

I’ve come to see this invisibility as both a curse and a blessing. A curse, because it feeds a narrative of irrelevance, a fear voiced by former Prime Minister José Manuel Barroso when he warned that Portugal was “in danger of becoming irrelevant.” But a blessing, too, because it gives Portugal room to surprise. Just when you think the bull has it pinned, Portugal wriggles free.

Portugal once held the world in its hands. The Age of Discovery was Portugal’s first great bullfight—Vasco da Gama sailing around the Cape of Good Hope, Magellan circling the globe, caravels carrying spices, gold, and ideas across continents. A nation of barely a million people projected power across four continents.

But empires, like bulls, eventually turn on you. By the 18th century, Portugal’s wealth was dwindling. The catastrophic Lisbon earthquake of 1755 was not just a natural disaster but a symbolic one, shaking the confidence of a nation already in decline. Over the next two centuries, Portugal became what poet Fernando Pessoa once called a country “slumbering” between its glorious past and its uncertain future.

If the first bull was empire, the second was dictatorship. For nearly fifty years, António de Oliveira Salazar’s Estado Novo kept Portugal locked in authoritarianism, censorship, and economic stagnation. While Western Europe rebuilt itself after World War II, Portugal lagged behind, clinging to colonial wars in Africa when the rest of the world had moved on.

Then came 1974 and the Carnation Revolution. Soldiers put flowers in their gun barrels, crowds filled Lisbon’s streets, and overnight Portugal transitioned from dictatorship to democracy. It was one of history’s gentlest revolutions, but it unleashed decades of wrestling with modernization, integration, and catching up.

Portugal joined the European Economic Community in 1986, and for a while, it looked like the third bull might finally be tamed. EU funds poured in. Highways, airports, and bridges transformed the landscape. Portugal became the darling of Brussels, a model of how a small, once-isolated country could integrate into the European dream.

But globalization is a tricky bull. The same open markets that brought prosperity also exposed Portugal’s weaknesses. Factories closed. Young people emigrated. By 2009, average monthly salaries hovered just above €900—among the lowest in Western Europe—and nearly 20 percent of the population lived below the poverty line. The 2008 financial crisis hit hard, debt soared, and once again Portugal was wrestling with forces larger than itself.

Here’s the paradox: foreigners like me often see Portugal’s beauty more clearly than many Portuguese do. Walk through Lisbon’s Baixa district, and you’ll hear twenty languages in a single afternoon—American tourists marveling at tiled facades, Brazilian families chasing kids across the squares, German retirees sipping vinho verde in the sun. From the outside, Portugal looks idyllic: affordable, safe, with beaches and culture that draw millions every year.

But behind the postcards lies a quieter struggle. The minimum wage remains one of the lowest in Europe. The cost of housing in Lisbon has skyrocketed beyond the reach of most locals, driven up by foreign investors and short-term rentals. Many of Portugal’s brightest young people still leave for better-paying jobs in London, Berlin, or Silicon Valley.

That dual perspective—the Portugal of outside admiration and inside frustration—is something I wrestle with daily. My neighbors, Russian and Ukrainian refugees, talk about Portugal with gratitude: it’s peaceful, it’s safe, it’s warm. And yet many Portuguese themselves see only limitations. As Foreign Minister Luís Amado once sighed, “I only hear people saying bad things about Portugal in Portugal.”

And yet—here’s the thing about bullfights. No matter how battered the men in the arena get, they always regroup, dust themselves off, and charge again. Portugal is doing the same.

The new generation is not content to accept decline. They’ve grown up in a democratic, globalized, connected Portugal, with different assumptions than their parents. They’re building startups in Lisbon’s tech hubs, working on renewable energy in Porto, exporting culture, food, and design to the world. Portuguese expatriates are excelling at top jobs in multinational companies, reshaping perceptions of what a small country can achieve.

In AI education, where my own work lies, I see Portugal wrestling with yet another bull: how to prepare young people for a future defined not by manual labor or traditional industries, but by data, algorithms, and creativity. When I talk to parents and teachers here, I sense both fear and excitement. Fear of being left behind again, but excitement that maybe this time, Portugal can lead instead of follow.

Here’s the lesson I take from Portugal’s story: never underestimate a country that wrestles bulls. Nations, like individuals, have character traits. America’s is ambition. China’s is endurance. Saudi Arabia’s is transformation. Portugal’s, I would argue, is resilience. It has been knocked down by empire, dictatorship, debt, and globalization, but it keeps getting back up.

And resilience is the currency of the 21st century. In a world where shocks—pandemics, wars, financial meltdowns, climate crises—arrive with increasing regularity, the ability to absorb blows and still move forward matters more than ever. Portugal has been stress-tested for five centuries. That gives it an advantage.

When I walk along the Tagus River and see the Discoveries Monument rising above the water, I’m reminded that Portugal once launched ships into the unknown when the rest of the world thought the edge of the map was the end of the world. That spirit hasn’t disappeared. It’s just waiting for its next voyage.
Portugal’s story is not a straight line of decline, nor a fairy tale of triumph. It’s a cycle of wrestling with bulls—sometimes winning, sometimes losing, always fighting.

And that’s why I believe Portugal will never be written off. Because countries that wrestle bulls, like people who survive hardship, develop a kind of muscle memory. They may falter, they may doubt themselves, but they know, deep down, how to hold on until the beast gives way.

The Portuguese may sigh, complain, and self-criticize, but when the third bugle sounds, they’ll charge into the arena once again. And that, more than GDP figures or EU rankings, is what will shape Portugal’s future.