The extinction of IGAL weakened the protection of citizens

In a small municipality in Baixo Alentejo, in the Beja district, I asked only for what the law requires: nighttime silence from a tower clock that strikes the hours in the early hours. The City Council didn't respond; the CCDR (Commission of the District of Rio Grande do Sul) washed its hands of the matter, deferring it to "municipal jurisdiction"; IGAMAOT (National Association of the Legislative Assembly) merely officiated. In the end, someone spread the word that "they wanted to get rid of the bells," a populist caricature that deflects the essential: compliance with the General Noise Regulation (11 p.m.–7 a.m.). The issue is local, the problem is national.

In 2011/2012, the country dissolved IGAL—the inspection body specializing in local government—and merged it into IGF, a super-agency focused on public finances. The IGF's own official documentation records the incorporation of the former IGAL, and IGAL's then-inspector general warned at the time that the merger would mean its dissolution. From then on, the "desk" for complaints about city councils ceased to be a dedicated facility and became a cross-functional structure, with priorities dictated by risk and financial materiality.

The numbers confirm the channel exists—but they also reveal its logic. In 2023, the IGF received 1,768 complaints, statements, and reports about the Local Government; these flows resulted in 85 reports and 783 official letters, after being sorted by "risk, materiality, and opportunity." In 2022, there were 884; in 2020—an atypical year, with a different counting method—8,628 emerged. In other words, much civic participation is handled through written documents and does not always result in on-the-ground inspections—precisely what ordinary citizens expect when the law is ignored.

Transparency also suffered setbacks. After the merger, Parliament recommended that reports on local authorities be made public again; today, there's a page with reports, but publication is irregular, and not everything reaches citizens quickly. For those who need answers, each month of opacity is another incentive for daily impunity.

Let's return to the bells. The Ombudsman has already stated, in similar cases, that clocks/bells that exceed the limits and timetables of the RGR violate the law—and that public entities must act. The CCDR itself reminds that "sound equipment that projects sounds onto public roads" must respect limits and timetables. The problem isn't tradition; it's noncompliance. When the City Council takes refuge in slogans ("get rid of the bells!"), it's choosing populism over administration.

But local "immunity" isn't limited to noise. The new institutional map coincided with a decade in which corruption detection relies primarily on reporting, as highlighted by the Transparency and Integrity national integrity system. If the entry point is confusing and unresponsive, fewer reports are filed and fewer investigations are conducted. And recent data from the National Anti-Corruption Mechanism shows that local government is the most common type of legal communication for corruption and related crimes (52% of criminal cases analyzed in 2024). The direct causal link between the end of IGAL and these figures has not been proven; the signal of risk in local government is.

There is, of course, progress: the IGF now publishes municipal reports; it has created channels for participation; it has strengthened its staff. But when a citizen demands compliance with a basic rule (nighttime silence), they find themselves in a maze where no one seems to have the mandate or incentive to swiftly enforce the law. The IGF prioritizes what has a financial impact; the IGAMAOT officiates; the CCDRs offer opinions; the municipality, if it so chooses, turns a deaf ear. This is the anatomy of administrative immunity: everyone has some authority; no one has a sense of urgency.

The bell case exposes the rift: when specialized inspections disappeared from the municipal radar, we lost a close referee. And, without a referee, the game slips into rhetoric. In my case, the law is clear and long-standing—and it doesn't call for the elimination of bells; it calls for respect for neighbors while they sleep. The state must ensure that councils enforce the law with the same zeal with which they collect fees. Until that happens, we will continue to hear the clock chime every hour—and feel that the law, in fact, has lost its sound.