Girls Power

I was the Jean Charles de Menezes Whistleblower

No dia 7 de julho de 2005 eu estava na casa de uma incrivel e muito querida amiga em Canasvieras, Florianopolis, num breve periodo de ferias ( e de fato a ultima vez que fui a Floripa desde entao) que me permitia algum tempo para despedidas e preparativos antes da minha partida do Brasil, em setembro daquele mesmo ano.

"P*** q'pariu!" Foi minha reacao ao ligar a TV naquela manha e assistir impactado os noticiarios que mostravam incessantemente os headlines dos ataques terroristas em Londres. Onibus e linhas de metro aos pedacos, quase 60 mortos, muitos feridos e, deste lado do Atlantico, uma passagem para a capital inglesa ja comprada me esperando na minha gaveta.

Muita gente lembra o que fazia na emblematica manha do dia 11 de setembro de 2001, mas talvez poucos tenham arquivado com a mesma relevancia as memorias dos ataques a Londres. Eu, por razoes obvias, tenho muito clara a lembranca daquele dia cuja consternacao durou ate a hora do almoco, quando minha amiga e eu saimos a buscar um restaurante de buffet a quilo. Acho que foi nesse mesmo dia que arrebentei o carro do marido da minha tia num onibus de linha de Canasvieras, mas essa eh uma outra historia.

A paranoia terrorista chegava ate Londres, entretanto meu entendimento sobre o terror, a guerra contra o terror, as reacoes da populcao e a atmosfera que se gera na cidade atacada nao eram muito diferentes das que os ingleses tem, por exemplo, das lutas indigenas por demarcacao de terra no Brasil. Realidades muito distantes, dificil empatizar, compreender.

Num periodo de tamanho significado e mudancas na Inglaterra, nada menos que o proprio Brasil se mistura a sua historia. Menos de 20 dias depois, a ate entao refinadissima e altamente confiavel Metropolitan Police, assassina o mineiro Jean Charles de Menezes com 7 tiros na cabeca, dentro de um vagao de metro em Londres, configurando o mais grotesco e vergonhoso erro (porque ate que se prove um contrario a estupidez foi mesmo apenas um erro) da policia britanica.

A policia, como todos sabem, tenta enganar o pais e o mundo. Ja havia sido um erro executar sumariamente um cidadao inocente, porem era um erro supostamente justificado porque o inocente havia se comportado como culpado e isso, em tempos de paranoia, eh inadmissivel. Pouco tempo depois toda a farsa da policia vem a tona gracas a uma secretaria do IPCC, Lana Vandenberghe, que possuia documentos da propria policia com a versao real do que havia ocorrido.

O resto da historia todos sabem. Julgamentos, descredito da outrora tida como uma das melhores policias do mundo, acalorados debates internacionais, protestos, luta da familia, ninguem individualmente condenado.

A historia virou filme, rodado por diretor brasileiro radicado em Londres, e que eu acabei entrevistando quando trabalhei para a JungleDrums cujo texto (aqui) foi publicado tambem pela Caros Amigos.

Contudo, o papel principal nesse enredo quem desempenhou foi a secretaria. Gracas a ela a historia, ainda que nao possa ser remediada, foi verdadeiramente conhecida.

O The Guardian publicou a versao da propria Lana na sua revista semanal do dia 22 de julho de 2006, que pode ser lida abaixo. Dentro de um mes, o assassinato de Jean Charles, um brasileiro em Londres, faz tres anos. E sua historia segue viva. Gracas a Lana.

* Na minha primeira semana em Londres, quando a paranoia terrorista ainda era bastante presente na cidade, principalmente no transporte publico, sofri um stop searching da policia na estacao de WhiteChapell, pois eu encaixava no perfil suspeito: jovem, tracos fisicos (quizas a barba a-la-arabe?!!) e carregando mochila. Mas ao dizer para o guardinha que eu era brasileiro, e do Rio Grande do Sul, ele perguntou se eu torcia para o Gremio. E da-lhe Ronaldinho!

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I grew up in Alberta, Canada. My grandmother was a strong woman who always spoke her mind, but I was encouraged by my parents to keep quiet about things. In fact, they were so wary about bringing things out into the open that the first I knew of their marriage being in trouble was when my mother moved out of the family home to live with another man.

At 18, I gave birth to my daughter, Jacqueline. I wanted her to feel she could say anything she wanted to me. I believed strongly, and still do, that people should be able to say what’s on their mind. I had no idea that, years later, this conviction would result in me hitting the headlines, put me at risk of going to jail and cause huge embarrassment to the Metropolitan Police.

When my daughter grew up, I moved to the UK to work. I’d taken a job as a secretary at the Independent Police Complaints Commission and had been there for more than a year when, on july 22 last year, Brazilian electrician Jean Charles de Menezes was shot in the head seven times by police at Stockwell tube station after he was mistaken for a suicide bomber. When I heard the news, two thoughts went through my mind. First, that if this guy was a terrorist it was a shame he had been killed, but it had been warranted. Second, that the IPCC would be conducting an investigation into the shooting.

The IPCC was a passed police documents relating to the shooting a few days later. I thought that Jean Charles de Menezes’ suspicious behaviour was the reason he was shot. Then we were given a bomb-shell briefing at work. We were told he hadn’t vaulted over a ticket barrier and run down an escalator to escape firearms officers, and that he hadn’t been wearing a bulky coat that would have concealed explosives. In fact, he had strolled into Stockwell tube wearing a denim jacket, picked up a free newspaper, then made his way down the escalator to catch his train.

The room went quiet. I thought it was terrible the police, who we were supposed to trust and who we paid to protect us, couldn’t tell the truth.

I saw where Jean Charles was shot. I saw the conditions of the seats, I saw the blood, and from what I have seen I can speculate about what happened to him. Whenever I sit on a Victoria Line tube, that’s what I think about. It will never leave me. The police should have come out at the beginning and said they had made a mistake.

That evening, I told a friend what had happened. “Oh my God, this is a big story”, she said. I brooded over the information I had. My friend told her boyfriend, who worked as a producer at ITN, and two weeks later I handed over the documents. I felt very strongly that this was such a big lie it warranted telling the truth. I thought the information would cause a few ripples in the media. It turned out to be more of a tidal wave, undermining the position of Sir Ian Blair, the UK’s top police officer, and eroding public confidence in the police.

When the story broke I was questioned by my bosses and, although I said nothing, suspended. I then resigned from my job. On September 24 last year, police raided my flat and arrested me. When I was taken to the police station for questioning, I was treated very harshly.

I was released on bail and dreaded at any moment being charged. I took on a series of temping jobs and it was through work I stayed sane over the next few months. But when I wasn’t at work, I went from being sociable to being recluse. I was afraid to go out in case I was followed by police and no longer knew who to trust.

When I was finally told in May that no charges would be levelled against me, I felt an incredible sense of relief. But I was still plagued with negative memories about my decision to speak out. From the day I decided to leak the documents, I had wanted to meet the De Menezes family to convey my condolences and talk to them about my decision. Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I did meet three members of the family. It was very emotional meeting with hugs and tears on all sides. When his cousin Patricia told me how important it was to the family that I had helped them to discover the truth, I felt so much better.

It’s extraordinary that this man whom I never met has had such an impact of my life. I spoke out for him and for his family, to make sure the truth wasn’t covered up I don’t see myself as brave for doing that. I know if my grandmother were still alive, she’d be proud of me for what I did.