Police Brutality in a Rio de Janeiro Favela
A Factual Account of Police Brutality
A British friend of mine, with whom I occasionally discuss writing, recently asked me: “what are the most absurd stories that have happened in your neighborhood in Rio de Janeiro?”
Being an experienced and well-lived Carioca — Carioca is the term for a resident of the state of Rio de Janeiro — I immediately thought of a sad and recurring story familiar to the entire northern zone (the poorer area) of the city where my neighborhood is located.
My neighborhood has three favelas, each with barricades that prevent the police from entering. At least a few times a week, you can hear gunfire exchanges. The confrontations sometimes start in the favelas and end up in other areas of the neighborhood — or vice versa. Less frequently, executions and mass car robberies also occur.
Since the activities in these favelas can involve drug trafficking and cargo theft, the police conduct patrols and raids at the entrances, checking cars, backpacks, and verifying residents’ identities.
This story is about an acquaintance, a resident of one of these favelas, who one day, returning from work, was approached by a type of police officer who takes pleasure in humiliating residents.
“Where are you going with that backpack?” the officer said.
“Returning from work, sir,” the resident said.
“Work? With that bum face?”
“Yes, sir, I work at the market.”
“That cellphone there? How does a piece of shit like you afford it?”
“I can afford it, sir. With my job.”
“Show me the receipt.”
“I don’t have it with me, sir.”
“Open the backpack.”
“Yes, sir. There’s nothing in it, sir.”
“Did I ask you anything, you piece of shit?” The officer took his backpack, opened it, and dumped all his belongings on the ground.
“Pick that shit up.”
The resident picked it up and looked back at the officer.
“Can I go home, sir?”
“Take off your clothes.”
“I don’t have anything, sir.”
“Take off all your clothes.”
“I’m not taking them off.”
The officer pointed his rifle at the resident’s face, laughing.
“If I see you here again tomorrow, I’ll fill your face with bullets.”
The officer got into the patrol car and left.
The resident told me that now, every time he comes home, he has to watch out to see which police officers are on patrol. He said he is afraid every day that he won’t be able to come home.
This is the routine for many. If you’re black, especially from the favela, in Rio de Janeiro, sometimes you have to carry a receipt. A receipt! Just to prove that your cellphone is yours.
These and many other Rio police officers are worse than criminals. The criminal has the power of authority within the favela — and influence outside of it — the corrupt police officer has the power of state repression. If you’re some rich kid from the south zone (the affluent area of Rio) and get hassled by the police, you can point your finger in the officer’s face, humiliating him, because you know nothing will happen to you. But if you’re black and poor and forget a receipt for your own cellphone, God forbid… You have to bow your head. And if you don’t, your family might find your body in the river the next morning — or perhaps something worse.
