Protesting the G8 in Genoa

My friends and I arrive at the Diaz school on Saturday, just before midnight. Both joyful and dramatic images of the last two days are still vivid in my mind. I haven't eaten all day, but decline an invitation to get pizza on the corner. I feel overwhelmed and need to rest. We spread our blankets in the gymnasium, just past the main entrance. Twenty or so people are scattered on the wooden floor, some already sleeping, others softly talking to each other. Before falling asleep I call my husband in the United States. I need to tell him that I have found a safe place to spend the night, across the street from the media center. Our conversation is broken by loud shouts coming from the entrance of the school. Someone in the gym yells “Polizei! Polizei!” I tell my husband that something is happening outside and that I will call him later. People inside the school begin to run frantically. Some start to barricade the main door with desks and chairs. Suddenly, batons break through the windows from outside, while something insistently pounds on the door. It must be large—maybe a car. Hysterical screams echo throughout the school. I am paralyzed by confusion and fear. I turn to the windows behind me and see that they have metal bars. I locate my friend in one of the corners of the room. I go to her and we hold each other, unable to speak. Others join us in the corner. Our bodies tremble, out of control. This is impossible, I think, this can't be happening to us. The door is smashed in and an endless line of policemen start entering the school. Their faces are hidden behind red bandannas, their bodies protected by blue Robocop-like uniforms, their hands firmly holding the batons. They are a wild pack of dogs. They run toward us, unleashed, and start violently beating inert people who embrace each other in a desperate hope of escaping what is to come. They run toward those who, with their arms raised in gestures of peace and submission, are hoping to reason with madness. Before my eyes, there is a massacre occurring, and nothing can be done. Soon, blood is everywhere: heads, arms, legs, the walls, the floor. When will it end? Are we going to die? My silent questions are soon answered. A young policeman, whose hair is covered with sweat, still panting from his efforts, screams, “We finally got you bastards! No one knows we are here, and we are going to kill you all!” I believe him. How will they ever justify such a massacre? They have to kill us now. The thought that there must have been a coup d’état briefly brushes my mind, followed by fear, anger, pity, and contempt. My stream of confused thoughts is interrupted by the crying voice of a young Italian woman. She is carried down from upstairs. Her head is broken, red. Her hands are stained with blood. She implores a policeman to help her. Her friend, she says, lost consciousness and was left upstairs. I am unaware of an upstairs, of more people. In a short while, they are all brought down, and thrown against the rest of us on the floor. We are many, a hundred maybe. The young man on my right has a broken arm. It is almost unrecognizable from the swelling. The older woman on my left has a broken arm as well. She must be fifty. In front of me, a young German girl, her mouth bleeding, is missing her front teeth and she cannot move her jaw. There are moans resonating throughout the hall. “Ambulanza,” some plead, in broken Italian. Almost all of them are foreigners. I realize that I am one of the very few who has not been beaten. I feel awkwardly lucky, and overwhelmingly impotent, ashamed, and angry. Policemen taunt us, laugh at our misery. I feel annihilated within. I can't see the end of this, and I am filled with despair.

Two men in elegant gray suits—the heads of the police, it seems—enter the school. They glance around the scene with initial looks of disconcertment, but then give somber nods to their inferiors. They give the order to have our documents collected and to seize our belongings. They look at us with menacing expressions, and then leave, satisfied, finally allowing in the medical crew that has been waiting outside. The paramedics are unprepared for this scene. They wear expressions of shock mixed with despair, while they try to assess whom to rescue first among the mass of bloody human bodies. They start with those who are unconscious.

Our names are called and groups are divided between the seriously injured and the less injured, which includes men and women with severely bruised limbs, swollen eyes ringed blue, and deep cuts on their faces. Couples are separated. People are helplessly crying. We are ordered to be silent, to obey everything we are told. We are lined up and brought outside. Bright lights are pointed at us. They are coming from photographers and cameramen. Behind them is a large crowd—hundreds of people are in the street, shouting to the police, “Assassini! Assassini!” I am deeply moved by the display of solidarity, and relieved that there are witnesses to the raid.

We are pushed into police vans in groups of ten. We drive for a while, leaving Genoa, and are taken to the infamous detention center of Bolzaneto. I realize that our drama is not over and might get worse. We are really alone now. Bolzaneto is an isolated military station, where hundreds of young policemen are trained. We are in their kingdom and no one can see us or help us here. They leave us in the van for a while, and take turns playing psychological games with us: out of our sight they bang their batons loudly, then they interrogate and verbally humiliate us. I feel sorry for them and think of the unfortunate way they must be treated and trained in order to have such hate for us. After they bring us out of the van, we are lined against the wall, with raised arms and open legs. We are forcefully searched. Foreign women are verbally threatened with rape. I lose control for a moment and my body begins to shake. The prison doctor warns me to stop, or else I will receive a shot of Valium. We are dragged inside the detention center and are locked in a small square room, with an open barred window. It must be early morning by now. The room is terribly cold, and we are ordered to stand spread-eagled against the wall. This is exhausting, and some of the arrested whose limbs have been beaten cannot continue to stand straight. Those that fall down are beaten again. This torture lasts for a few hours. They finally allow us to sit on the cell floor. We are forbidden to sleep or to look up, so we all stare at the floor. Meanwhile, some of the male demonstrators are screaming in the next room, but we cannot see what is happening to them. We hear guards shouting abuses at the demonstrators. We also hear a man being forced into a cold shower, covered with disinfectant powder. He passes by in the corridor and is thrown into his cell, practically naked. We are kept in Bolzaneto for two more days, with no blankets, undrinkable water, and little or no food, depending on the whims of the guards. On the second day, we are forced to sign a declaration, which we are not allowed to read. They tell us that serious charges have been pressed against us: “association with dangerous groups that caused public destruction, violent resistance to public officials, possession of dangerous tools.” I can't help but laugh to myself. This is all so tragically ridiculous. We are denied the right to call our families or to appoint a lawyer.

The torture in Bolzaneto escalates on the last day. We must pass a medical exam before being brought to the actual prison, and we are forced to strip in front of the male doctor. Foreigners especially are prime targets. A German woman's hair is shaved, and her nose ring is torn from her nose.

On the morning of the third day, we are divided again into random groups, handcuffed in pairs, and put on an armored bus. During the trip, no explanations are given. “You will see what they will do to you in jail,” they keep repeating. “You are going to the worst prison, you are not going to make it out of there.” One says smugly, “This is the lesson you deserve. I'd like to see if you'll protest again.” Their objective is clear by now: disseminate blind terror, discourage civil society from freely expressing its dissent. I realize in that moment, that in Genoa the foundations of the corporate state have been shaken. Now the state has to show its power, and we have become its scapegoats.

Once in the Voghera prison I feel somewhat safer. The prison guards are gentle and take pity on us. We are put in cells in twos, divided from the other prisoners. I have no idea how long I will have to stay here. We are given food, water, and beds. There are also televisions in our rooms and the news announces that people throughout Italy are protesting, urging for our release. I translate for the foreigners, screaming through the bars of my cell, “The people have not forgotten us!”It is a very emotional moment for everyone. A few hours later, a guard tells us that all the Italians are to be released. It is unsettling and sad to leave behind the others, many of whom will not be released until an entire month has passed. It is midnight, and together with another two Italian women, I have to walk from the prison to the train station. I call my husband and tell him that I am alright. I find out that the police have searched my parents' house in Padua to find evidence to support my arrest. All they could confiscate were a few leaflets explaining the reasons to go to Genoa, the effects of corporate globalization on the world, and the role of the G8.