Ah! So many disgusting stories.... every day, everywhere....
See, Rrman, we're tirelessly chatting about worldshaking events and presumably disgraceful shenanigans in Iraq, Chechnya, Algeria, Congo, Sierra Leone, you name it! And, in the meantime, most outrageous rogueries are unfolding right here, right inside our "100%-democratic-or-your-money-back-resorts" Just have a squint at the following Belgian story:
Front page of De Morgen, September 3 1998
Copyright Karin Spaink.
"Training isn't a game," says the back of his T-shirt. The man's arms are straddled, per force: under the one armpit he carries a holster and gun, under the other two handcuffs attached to a leather strap. He is a member of the Antwerp section of the state police. They are real men, all of them. All the officials that I see look very snug, fully convinced of their own importance, their use, their status, their right, and especially of their power and our defencelessness. In a side room, a state police officer kicks my lover and I hear him scream. Training may not be a game but beating is apparently a popular sport on the premises.
Journalists who write about their personal experiences, often find themselves caught between a rock and a hard place. It is both difficult to maintain your objectivity and to convince your readers that you have managed to maintain your objectivity. Fortunately I am not a journalist, but a writer and a columnist. Furthermore, I am a writer who believes that words offer protection and that words deserve protection. And precisely because my lover and I spoke freely, we were arrested.
An hour earlier. We're in the train between Amsterdam and Antwerp, travelling to the Theatre Festival in Ghent; I'll be lecturing there tomorrow. A short, slightly stocky man wearing a suit-jacket passes us. 'Must be on his way to the toilet,' I think in the back of my mind. A few minutes later I see the same man at the end of the compartment, next to where two North-African youths are seated. He hands them back their passports and gestures that he wants their coats. They hand them over immediately. Border control, I deduce, and shake my head pityingly. The smoking compartment is fully occupied, and who are the only two people the police chooses to check upon? You said it. The only two North-African people. I point the scene out to Zenon. The police guy's posture is - well, strange. He has made his body big and broad, his arms rest massively upon the arm rests on both sides of the youths. He hovers over them and blocks their way. Then he makes a short gesture: "Follow me!" The youths stumble out of their seats, a second man joins them and the four of them disappear into the small platform between the train compartments, where the toilets and exits are.
"Hmm, let's take a look, I don't trust this," Zenon says. We walk to the platform and once there, light a cigarette. The two state police men are performing a body search upon the youths. They haven't found anything yet. The short stocky guy grabs one of the youths in the groin and feels it - minute after minute. Kneads his left testicle. Kneads his right testicle. Kneads the penis. Shifts the lot and starts kneading anew. The youth's eyes are fixated on a faraway point in space and he's desperately trying to mentally disappear. He's terribly embarrassed. The groin search takes awfully long.
"Considering how long this groin examination is taking, you'd think that this police guy enjoys doing this," I say to Zenon. "Chances are that it's a case of repressed homosexuality. Must be grand to work with the police when you're a closet case." "Ah, but these guys are fighting big crimes," Zenon corrects me. "It's clear why they picked these two boys. They are obviously big criminals. A real catch!" I chime in. "Having an innocent outlet for your gay tendencies plus getting to be a hero. What a wonderful profession." The short-haired colleague of the groingrabber shoots us an angry look. They didn't like our presence to begin with - it prevents them from doing whatever they want - but our comments are appreciated even less. We don't reciprocate his glance. The groingrabber, who still hasn't found anything, pushes the youth into the toilet and orders him to drop his pants; he keeps the door open and he himself stays outside. In that toilet, a boy is almost dying of shame.
"To arrest and search somebody without an actual and concrete suspicion is illegal," I say. "Then again, being Moroccan is sufficiently suspicious." "Ah, but you forget where we are," Zenon says. "This is Dutroux country. Prejudice, corruption, and meanwhile the police go for the wrong people." The eyes of the short-haired guy narrow to a slit. I hesitate. Dutroux, that's a national wound, you don't rub salt in it just to score. But Zenon is right, I then realise. It is precisely this narrow-mindedness, this snugness, the ease with which these cops violate their legal possibilities, their air of being sacrosanct, their deprecation of the law and the ease with which they harass these two youths that allowed for Dutroux to happen. Dutroux could do whatever he wanted because too many officials lacked a sense of responsibility. And here we have two of such officials.
We are silent for a while and continue to watch the scene. The train enters the Antwerp station. We get off. Fifty meters down the platform we are suddenly joined by the groingrabber. "Come along, the two of you," he says. "You're under arrest."
[snip]
The full story:
xs4all.nl
Well, strange as you may find it, I've NEVER heard this story on the French-speaking TV/radio networks!! Now, tell me about Orwell, 1984, censorship, and so on....
(Footnote: over 30% of Antwerp's electorate cast their votes on the neo-fascistic Vlaams Blok) |
