The topic seems simple, almost routine, but one only needs to look around to realize that we are living through a disconcerting moment: science—that patient, collective, and cumulative construction that has shaped modern life—has begun to be challenged even on points previously considered indisputable. And I'm not referring to the legitimate doubts that drive scientific progress; I'm talking about challenges even to elementary fundamentals that were solved before modern microscopes or supercomputers.
Although it may seem unbelievable, we are once again debating the effectiveness of vaccines, the existence of viruses, and even basic sanitation. And it's not just about revisiting fundamentals settled decades or centuries ago: today, accumulated evidence on more recent topics is also being challenged, such as global warming, the role of human activity in climate change, or the direct relationship between deforestation and extreme events. In the current context, misinformation often spreads faster—and, worse, acquires more value than information itself: the false gains more prominence than the true.
How did we get here?
Part of the answer, we must admit, lies within the scientific community itself. For a long time, we have constructed and reproduced an intricate, almost coded language that works well for specialists – but works terribly for society. We have created an academic dialect that, while guaranteeing precision, also erects walls. For the general public, science often sounds like an inaccessible territory, inhabited by a select group of initiates who operate according to invisible rules. The metaphor of the "ivory tower," although imperfect, is not entirely out of place: pressures for productivity, publication metrics, international competition, and rigid evaluation structures have ended up distancing many scientists from public dialogue. The system rewards articles, not explanations; it values citations, not conversations. And so, little by little, the link between science, university, and society has been eroded.
The pandemic as a watershed moment.
Then came the COVID-19 pandemic, a watershed moment so profound that perhaps we still haven't fully grasped its impact. For the first time in generations, science had to operate in real time in the face of billions of people. Every uncertainty, every revision, every new piece of data was monitored, commented on, amplified, or distorted at unprecedented speed. And yet, most of the scientific community responded with responsibility, dedication, and courage. Researchers who had never given an interview found themselves explaining epidemiological curves, clinical protocols, and the limits of evidence in language understandable to diverse audiences. The pandemic exposed the inner workings of the scientific process – its provisional nature, its pace, its intellectual honesty – and this was both fascinating and dangerous. Fascinating for those who recognized the collective effort; dangerous for those who confused the provisional nature of the scientific process with improvisation or error.
But the pandemic also taught us something essential: science saves lives, but it only fully saves lives when it finds effective channels of communication. When the message doesn't get through – or worse, gets through distorted – it opens the door to noise, misinformation, and charlatanism. And in these fertile grounds of human insecurity, shallow certainties, instant miracles, and simple solutions to complex problems thrive. We compete with seductive narratives, with influencers who have never opened a scientific article but speak with conviction and charisma. Between nuance and simplification, the algorithm always favors the latter.
Communication as an antidote to misinformation and a lever for science.
It's not easy to confront "simplifying" algorithms, but if there's an effective antidote to this situation, it certainly includes education, science itself, and scientific communication. It's crucial to understand that science doesn't live solely on methods and evidence, on articles published in A1 journals and bibliometric indicators; it also needs a public presence, understandable language, and permanent channels of dialogue. When we don't communicate, we leave room for noise – and noise fills everything. Communication isn't academic window dressing or intellectual niceties: it's a constitutive part of scientific work. If we've gotten this far, it's partly because we've failed to build this dialogue continuously. And if we want to escape this labyrinth, the path necessarily involves communicating better.
In times of crisis, society rediscovers science – almost always too late. Valuing scientific communication means recognizing science as a public good. And, like any public good, it only fulfills its function when it is accessible, understandable, and debated. Disseminating science is what allows us to build trust – that scarce and necessary commodity for democratic life – and to support collective decisions based on evidence. If we want science to have a presence in daily life, in newspapers, in schools, in politics, and in our emotions, we need to communicate better. This is perhaps the most urgent conversation of all.
Science communication also contributes to open science: it brings researchers closer together, strengthens networks, amplifies the impact of discoveries, inspires young people, corrects misinformation, and encourages evidence-based public policies. Bills, textbooks, quality news reports, outreach initiatives, educational materials, and public debates all benefit from this work. In countries that value science, communication is part of the knowledge-producing process, not an optional add-on. It is part of the researcher's professional ethics to give back to society, in accessible language, what it has made possible.
The fragility of science communication in Brazil
Despite its importance, in Brazil science communication is still treated as a peripheral activity. Something nice, but secondary. An "extra." An academic nicety. Rarely recognized in career evaluations, almost never valued as legitimate intellectual work. Many researchers who dedicate themselves to science communication do so despite the system, not thanks to it. To make matters worse, they face suspicion – within academia itself – that disseminating science is oversimplifying, or "popularizing," as if it were an epistemological downgrading, and not the most authentic expression of the university's public commitment.
There is also a cultural trait that cannot be ignored: our tendency to value above all what comes from abroad. We celebrate discoveries announced in foreign journals, we cite international institutions with reverence – and, at the same time, we pay little attention to the science we produce and fund here. This asymmetry is old, but it has profound effects: we discuss our research little, we celebrate our scientists little, and we rarely recognize, with the emphasis they deserve, the vehicles capable of narrating this production with rigor and clarity.
Nevertheless, there is no shortage of cases that reveal the strength and importance of scientific dissemination in the country. Among them, without a doubt, the most outstanding is the FAPESP Research Magazine, which for decades has practiced excellent scientific journalism and, more than just reporting on the Foundation's work, fulfills the function of bringing society closer to complex research, contextualizing debates, revealing the vitality of science done in the country, and translating the complexity of scientific work without impoverishing it. The magazine is a qualified showcase of Brazilian science and an intellectual asset that deserves to be known and valued.
Its reach is greater than we sometimes imagine. It's not uncommon to find it in doctors' offices, being leafed through with visible interest by ordinary people; the other day I found it in my granddaughter's geography book, from the 5th grade; a cover story has already been the subject of an ENEM essay; and, on more than one occasion, I have seen debates in public hearings in the Chamber and the Senate illuminated by data and arguments presented in its pages. Few publications manage to move so naturally between these very different worlds.
And she is not alone. Unicamp, USP, SBPC – the Brazilian Society for the Advancement of Science – and other institutions also maintain qualified science outreach initiatives. From Unicamp, I highlight ComCiência / Labjor, created under the leadership of professor and poet Carlos Vogt, former rector, whose work was decisive in consolidating science outreach as an academic field in Brazil.
The fact is that when scientific communication is done with quality – as seen in Revista Pesquisa Fapesp and ComCiência – Brazilian science acquires form, voice, and presence in the public sphere. It leaves the restricted realm of specialists and begins to participate in social debate with depth, clarity, and substance.
Disseminating science is, ultimately, an act of generosity and humility. It's the willingness to open the door of the laboratory, the classroom, the experimental field and say: “Come in. This is yours. We did it together. We want to talk.” It's recognizing that knowledge is not just method and evidence; it's also language, relationship, affection.
If we want to rebuild that trust, it's not enough to produce excellent science. We need to talk about it. And talk about it well. With rigor, clarity, and commitment. Because science that doesn't engage in conversation doesn't transform. And a country that doesn't value its science will hardly find a sustainable path.
Let's keep talking.
This text does not necessarily reflect the opinion of Unicamp.
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