Inside the school, it was dark. The small lamps and lighters present throughout did not help in making it any better.
Despite the hundreds of people and their sleeping bags present inside the building, and the summer heat coming through the open windows, Elizabeth Paulson could not stop the chills on her back. For some reason her body did not want to relax – might have been those grotesque hallways which even if by day were supposed to be welcoming students, by night they seemed ready to be part of a Frankenstein movie.
Or maybe her body was just not used to such warmth, having grown in the cold and cloudy English countryside.
“Today the 21st of July, the violent protests that have swept the city of Genoa continued until late in the evening. Thousands of protesters in the streets opposing what they call ‘the capitalist globalization’ of the world. It’s been a day since the tragic death of protester Carlo Giuliani, with some claiming it was at the hands of Carabiniere Mario Placanica in self defense when the former attacked the carabiniere van with a fire extinguisher. The local police assure that the cause of death will be thoroughly investigated. Continuing on with world news…”
“It’s crazy huh?” a dark brown-haired man with a slight American accent and a camera around his neck approached Elizabeth, who was turning down the radio. “Violence justified by ideology. All our hard work ruined by some people who want nothing but blood”
“Well some might say that without violence nothing will ever be achieved,” responded the blonde woman, “after all, there is no right way to protest.”
“And do you believe that?” said Gabriel, that was now lying next to her, with an arched eyebrow and a small smile, already knowing the answer.
“Not at all,” with a small smile directed at the man. “I am a journalist for a reason.” And then raised the notepad that was on her lap, as if to prove the point, “everything good is ruined by hatred, and that is where words come in, to ease the tensions.”
“Wise words my friend.”
The radio now was playing some old 90s song. The two colleagues laying next to each other, looking at the atmosphere around them. To the notes of “Wonderwall” by Oasis, the exchanges between journalists and photographers present all around them seemed to be stronger than the violence that plagued the outside world. For a moment it seemed as if everything was going to be fine.
Then a scream was heard.
Then others.
The sound of skin on skin.
Slaps,
Punches,
Kicks.
Then steps. Hundreds of steps.
Everybody in the room was looking at the door. Elizabeth and Gabriel quickly stood up alert, looked at each other and then back at the door. The music could still be heard.
Men erupted in the room, with weapons in their hands, ready to strike.
Roberto Carola, leader of the journalist unit and boss of Elizabeth and Gabriel, was the first one to go ahead, in front of everybody.
“Signori, noi abbiamo un permesso dal comu-” and they struck. Hard. They did not care.
The men fell on the floor like a muppet whose strings suddenly were cut away. With a bruise on his forehead and eyes closed, the men’s body laid on the ground, a stain of blood pooling beneath his head.
Everybody started running.
Gabriel took Elizabeth’s hand and they run as quickly as possible. Everybody was storming at the door. Chaos erupted and nobody knew what to do. The desperation and fear could be felt in the air.
Elizabeth could not feel Gabriel’s hand in hers anymore. She turned around and all she could hear was ringing in her ears.
A tall and brutish policeman was on the dark-haired photographer, beating him with his baton mercilessly.
“Leave him alone!” Elizabeth tackled the policemen. She tried to get the truncheon out of his hands, but that soon turned out to be unsuccessful as a second policeman soon attacked her from behind.
She was ripped away from the man and brutally thrown to the floor, as if she was nothing more than a doll. She felt pain somewhere on her left leg.
The two officers then picked up Gabriel, bloody and bruised, and brought him out.
Elizabeth tried to follow the two, attempting to stand up and failing, crawling on the floor like a dog, with tears in her eyes and blood on her face, the pain on her left leg increasing.
She felt pain on her back. She turned and a third officer was upon her.
“Leave him alone!” she sobbed.
Punches and kicks and breaking ribs.
“Leave him alone!” Her voice started breaking from all the screaming.
Hit after hit, punch after punch, pain is all she could feel, her own screaming all she could hear.
“We didn’t… do.... anything... wrong” Shallow breaths escaped her lips, desperation clinging her soul.
A final blow. Darkness was all she could see.
_____
Those grotesque school hallways, which, even if by day were supposed to be welcoming students, were now nothing short of the set of a horror movie scene. The metallic smell of blood still polluted the air, the smears of red substance all over the floors and walls.
Ambulances were all over the scene with hundreds of stretchers for the injured.
Elizabeth Paulson, found almost on the point of death, was sent to the closest hospital, where she had fallen in a coma.
Gabriel was later found, like many others, in a police station jail, interrogated mercilessly, with no water nor food, nor any other sort of right.
Hundreds of people beaten, treated like animals for slaughter, and stripped of their basic rights.
But Italy is a civilised country, sure.
The Scuola Diaz raid was a 2001 police raid of the Albaro district school Armando Diaz. At the time of the raid, the school was the temporary headquarters of the Genoa Social Forum, an anti-capitalist globalization movement made up of international journalists and reporters. When masked officers had broken into the building, many of those that were inside were sleeping and unaware of the events until they were met with a mass truncheon attack.
To learn more, check out this article by BBC News.