Newsgroup: it.arti.cinema
Titolo: [OT] Testimonianza sul G8

Giusto per non lasciare nulla di non detto.
Quella che segue e` la testimonianza di un neozelandese, Sam, che ho
ottenuto grazie all'intermediazione dell'amico Alistair (neozelandese
pure lui). Alistair ha vissuto per qualche anno qui a Edimburgo, l'ho
conosciuto durante l'International Film Festival.
Sam era a Genova a manifestare. E` stato catturato dalla polizia alla
Diaz durante la famosa incursione, portato a Bolzaneto e li` tenuto per
36 ore, quindi al carcere di Pavia. Di li` e` stato spedito a Heathrow e
di li` dopo qualche tempo (non aveva piu` i documenti) e` riuscito a
tornare in Nuova Zelanda.
Cerchiamo di non dimenticare NULLA, ragazzi.
Per chi non ha voglia o tempo di consultare il Merriam-Webster:
"swollen" sta per "gonfio" e "sprained" sta per "sottoposto a violenta
torsione con possibile strappo dei legamenti". Buona lettura a tutti.
------------------------------------------------------
From: "Alistair Thomson"
To: 
cla...@dai.ed.ac.uk
Subject: Tales from Genoa
Date: Sun, 02 Sep 2001 07:56:12 +0000
Claudio,
I just got home yesterday, so I can now finally send on the email from
my 
friend concerning the Genoa summit. It was passed around a long list of 
cc's, so I don't belive that it was private. I will mention to him that
I 
have sent you a copy. Despite his problems with the 'police', he still
seems to have liked Genoa as a nice place to visit. :-)
Cheers,
Alistair.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Hi everyone - here's the definitive account of my time in Genoa from 
Saturday through to arriving back in London. There's a summary for those
in 
a hurry, followed by a full report, Part II will complete the story and 
include recommendations and acknowledgements.
1. Executive summary
·	I was in a school building in Genoa, about to go to sleep when cops 
stormed in, beat everyone up and took us into custody. I was held 
incommunicado in a holding centre for about 36 hours along with about 40 
others. Uncomfortable, badly fed and cold. We had no idea what was
happening 
to us.
·	We were then processed and transferred to prison where things
improved. 
Two days in solitary and two more sharing with an Irish guy. Comfortable 
enough but very boring. Played chess a lot.
·	Brought before a magistrate, given a paper detailing the charges in 
Italian, essentially accused along with 92 others of being in a building 
where weapons were stored. Questioned for ten minutes, released into
police 
custody, taken to a police station, held overnight then bussed to Milan 
airport and told to leave. Banned from Italy for five years. Friend lent
me 
money for a ticket, arrived at Heathrow with no passport or ID and
talked my 
way in. Up and down for the next week as the stress cut in.
2. Full report
Part I: Saturday's demo
Saturday was the third day of the anti-G8 demos in Genoa.  Reports in
the 
capitalist press claimed up to 200,000 people attended (but we don't
trust 
those lying bastards, do we kids?).
I walked along the main drag, bordering the beach, as the demo came
past, it 
filled a wide dual carriageway, and after about an hour showed no sign
of 
ending. It was a ginourmous demo all right. Me and some Aussies and
English 
joined in and walked up to where the road was blocked by riot cops, vans
and 
armoured cars. Soon teargas canisters were dropping around us, windows 
started to be smashed, rocks and , I was told, molotov cocktails, began
to 
fly. We dropped back and retreated into town followed by clouds of gas.
After a while we tried to walk back to the waterfront to see what was
going 
on, from a vantage point we saw the road had been cleared and an
unconscious 
man was being loaded into an ambulance. People were drifting around but 
there was no sign of any organised demo. Police helicopters were
overhead 
and their inflatables were rapidly booting about the harbour for no
obvious 
reason. What appeared to be a coastguard cutter was patrolling just 
offshore.
We walked south and found a bunch of Italian trade unionists. I was
feeling 
tired and a bit sick, maybe a result of breathing too much gas the
previous 
day. I sat down and ate a salmon paste sandwich proferred by a middle
aged 
woman out on the demo with her husband and their teenage son, all
wearing 
hardhats. Ater a chat I rejoined the English, having lost the Aussies,
and 
we made our way towards the waterfront road. Within seconds of our
arrival 
we were tear gassed. We retreated off with a few hundred people, and I
ran 
into my flatmates from London. We marched towards town, the helicopters 
found us, then police vans careered around the corner into the back of
the 
demo firing teargas (getting boring, isn't it), and the retreat turned
into 
a rout. I lost my friends, then found a couple of others around the
corner 
in a dead end street. A couple of dozen of us climbed a wall into a bit
of 
wasteland and tried to get into the next street, but were told there
were 
cops there as well. The three of us decided to go to ground and we hid
under 
bushes waiting for things to ease up.
After an hour, we made our way back to the Indymedia centre through
gardens 
and suburban streets, finding a couple of other groups lying low along
the 
way. Things were returning to normal, with locals out walking their dogs
and 
enjoying the evening. We stopped for a beer, then headed back to the
school 
where we were sleeping.
Part II: Police Raid and Custody
Five of us were sleeping in a room upstairs in an old school building 
undergoing refurbishment. The building wasn't a headquarters as some of
the 
press reported, just a place to sleep. There were about a hundred people 
staying there on Saturday night. Most out-of-towners were camping at
other 
sites.
A bit after midnight there was three of us in the room, the two Aussies
were 
across the road at the IndyMedia centre. We had just got into or
sleeping 
bags when we heard shouts andf running feet outside, looking out we saw 
about sixty police in riot gear heading for the building gates. By the
time 
we were dressed they had entered the building and shouts, thumps and 
screaming was echoing up the stairs.
The door to our room had been accidentally locked the previous day, we 
couldn't get it open and had been accessing the space via scaffolding on
the 
front of the building. We hid under a table and waited while thuds and 
screams continued. This was probably the worst moment in the whole 
experience. Soon they were banging on the door, and, after a few
minutes, 
broke it open.
Eight or ten cops ran in and began batoning us as we lay on the floor. I 
tried to protect myself with a chair, but quickly decided I was in for a 
beating and might as well get it over with. I dropped the chair and
curled 
into a ball with my hands over the back of my neck. I was hit on the
arms 
and legs, and three times on the head, making little fireworks go off in
my 
brain, just like in the comics. They stopped after I started screaming - 
half from pain and half as a conscious decision that I should give them
some 
satisfaction.
The beating wasn't as bad as I expected. One of my friends was hit much 
worse, with a sprained wrist, and bleeding from a head wound. I got off
with 
bruises and a small cut on my head. My left hand and arm was very
swollen 
and isn't quite back to normal after two weeks, but there was no
fracture.
We were then frog-marched downstairs into the main room which contained 
about fifty people, some semi-conscious, many bleeding. We were told to 
kneel by the wall, later allowed to sit. Beside me was a young Swiss
woman 
who had been batoned in her sleeping bag and was covered in blood and in 
shock. A Dutch woman on the other side of me had a suspected broken arm. 
Others were much worse. I tried to keep talking to the Swiss to keep the 
shock down. After ten minutes or so ambulance crews arrived and began
the 
triage process. They seemed quite stunned and a bit out of their depth,
they 
had to find old cardboard boxes for splints, and didn't do much for most 
people other than hand out gauze and antiseptic liquid. After a while
things 
got more organised. About 60 people, including my friends were taken to 
hospital. I was hauled off into a police van ringed by lines of cops and 
driven to the outskirts of Genoa, to a place I later found out was the 
Bolzaneto Holding Centre.
I was searched, cuffed about the head and punched in the kidneys while
being 
marched through a crowd of cops around the door of the building, then
put 
into a bare concrete cell with about twenty others. We were made to
stand 
against the wall in a spreadeagled position for a couple of hours, which 
quickly gets very uncomfortable. On the positive side this kept my arm 
elevated which helped the swelling go down.
We were held at Bolzaneto for about 36 hours. During this time we had
little 
food - water, two biscuits and half a ham sandwich - no blankets and
only 
the clothes we were wearing when the raid started. Anyone wanting to go
to 
the toilet was marched around doubled up with their head forced down by
a 
hand on the back of the neck. There were usually several cops in the
cell 
watching us and sometimes arguing with those who spoke Italian. All
requests 
to phone lawyers or anyone else was denied. We were never told what, if 
anything we were charged with, or what would happen to us. The cops
didn't 
seem to know themselves. Lots of rumours went around. We didn't know if 
anyone outside knew where we where, and later I found that for most of
the 
time we were there, lawyers from the Genoa Social Forum had been looking
for 
us unsuccessfully. Even Genoa's chief judge hadn't been able to find us!
To make things worse, the police changed shifts a couple of times
bringing 
not only different cops, but whole different police forces who had even
less 
idea what was happening. All this was rather intimidating. I kept fairly 
quiet, figuring there wasn't much to do other than wait things out. The 
people there included a few Italians, but mostly it was foreigners - 
Germans, Poles, Spanish, French and others. I was treated as a bit of a 
novelty as a Kiwi, which I think gave me an easier ride than some. The 
Germans seemed to be considered the main troublemakers.
Sometime on Sunday they took us out for processing, photos fingerprints
and 
personal details were taken. There were about 30 people in the cell by
this 
time and it took ages. Organising the process involved about a dozen
cops 
coming in and counting us over and over again, checking off our names, 
arguing with each other, going away and coming back and doing it all
over. 
Eventually it got done and we were moved around a bit, all the women
were 
taken to another cell, and a few more men were bought in. At some time
in 
the early hours of Monday we were divided up again, searched, had our 
posessions taken ( they'd put them in an envelope and handed them back
to 
us, but this time we didn't get them back, this was the last I saw of my 
passport, belt and wallet). Then it was back to the 
spreadeagled-against-the-wall routine for a while, then we were
handcuffed 
in pairs and loaded into a prison bus and driven to Pavia prison.
Part III: Prison and Deportation
Arriving at Pavia prison we were handed sheets and plastic plates and
shown 
to our rooms. We each had a room of our own for a couple of days with a
view 
of the soccer field. This was a great improvement over police custody, 
mattresses, regular meals and a chance to shower. Food was about bad New 
Zealand student flat standard, but tolerable. Hot milk, fruit and bread 
rolls for breakfast, pasta with tomatoes for lunch (this began with
meat, 
next day it was tuna, next day just tomatoes - I think dealing with 
vegetarians was a bit tough for the staff - I actually think they were 
trying to be nice, but didn't have a clue). Soup or rice for dinner,
with 
ham or cheese - some of the regional cheeses were quite good, I thought,
but 
nobody else seemed to agree.
Spent the first day washing the blood out of my clothes and reading a
few 
pages of an old Italian paper I found in the cupboard, made a chess set
out 
of tinfoil and papier mache and played a game against myself. Dozed a
lot, 
watched soccer and tried to think happy thoughts. Every now and then
anxiety 
set in and had to be fought down. Otherwise it was just boring. I
quickly 
lost track of time. On the second day I figured that the cell was about 
three metres long, so walking up and down 666 times gave me a two
kilometre 
walk.
I was eventually moved to another cell, without the view, and generally
of a 
lower standard, but it contained an Irish guy, arrested in the street
for 
carrying a pocket knife and accused of stabbing a cop. Understandably,
he 
was very anxious. We made another chess set and played lots of games,
took 
turns walking up and down and chatted about this and that. We had given
up 
asking for phone calls by this time, but in the course of things, one of
the 
staff, who spoke English, came around with forms for alerting our
embassies 
and contacted lawyers for us. He explained that at the end of the
five-day 
period which we could be legally held for questioning, we would be taken
in 
front of a magistrate and possibly released.
Our fifth day in custody dawned and nothing much happened, the helpful
guy 
gave us clean shirts provided by some charity and we waited all day for 
something to happen. Finally, towards evening I was taken to an office, 
introduced to a lawyer from the Genoa Social Forum and briefly
questioned by 
the magistrate. She didn't really dig much, after telling the story of
my 
arrest, she asked me to wait five minutes, then along with a few others, 
including one of my friends from the room where everything began, and we 
were all told we were free to go.
This turned out to mean we were back in police custody. At this point I 
found out my wallet and passport had never made it to the prison. We
were 
taken outside, the British Consul chatted to the English, then we were 
driven to a police station in Pavia. There was a demo outside by
supporters, 
and a bunch of people from the Genoa Social Forum inside who gave us
lots of 
fruit, biscuits and pizza. I phoned my mother and my Irish cellmate's 
girlfriend, then it was back to hanging around while the lawyers argued 
about whether we could be deported or not. At least there was company
and we 
caught up with all the people we'd briefly met in custody.Eventually we
were 
given orders banning us from Italy for five years, the Germans were
driven 
to the border and the rest of us were packed off into a bus and driven
to 
Milan airport. There we were dumped at the door and left. The British
consul 
was there to oil the wheels, and a friend bought me a ticket back to 
Heathrow. The very helpful consul assured the airline I wouldn't have
any 
trouble getting into the UK, which was a blatant lie, and, after nearly 
missing the plane while a slow old cop photocopied our documents, we
were 
off.
Later I found out that the one Lithuanian guy had had his flight home
paid 
for by the Government of Pavia, turned out his home town, Vilnus, and
Pavia 
were twinned and he'd been treated like an honoured guest!
We were expecting a deluge of journalists on arrival, I spent the flight 
writing up a statement for the Brits and attempting the in-flight
breakfast, 
which made me nostalgic for the prison food.
At Heathrow, I split off from the group and avoided the cohorts of 
photographers. I got to the immigration desk and announced that I had no 
passport or ID. By some lucky fluke I was attended by the only helpful 
immigration official to ever work at Heathrow. She ran around trying to 
confirm my visa details and even fetched me a cup of tea when I
pretended to 
be about to have a nervous breakdown. By this time all the stress was 
catching up with me and I wasn't having to pretend too hard.
A special branch cop - possibly the smartest police officer I've ever
met 
-questioned me closely about my political involvement and lifestyle. He 
homed in on all sorts of things I'd rather not have talked about,
picking up 
that I was squatting and so forth. Caught between a rock and a hard
place, 
possible deportation back to Italy in mind, I avoided any bullshit that
I 
could be caught out on and tried to play the happy-go-lucky Kiwi joker.
It 
seemed to work and he ended up shaking my hand and appearing friendly, 
though you never really know.
After a long wait, they couldn't find my visa details on the system, I
got 
them to fax the gardening agency I worked for and get copes of the visa. 
This worked and they let me in. I headed off to a friends place and
For the next week or so I was up and down like a New Zealand railways
bus, 
and consequently hard to live with, luckily most of my flatmates were in 
Croatia and didn't have to cope with me, so my short-term Kiwi squatmate 
Johanna had to bear the brunt. I did an interview with NZ TV and one
with 
the NZ Herald, lots of other journos phoned, but I ignored most of them.
I 
thought my hand might have had a fracture, but it was just deep
bruising. 
Now, three weeks later, I'm pretty much back to normal annoying self,
only 
slightly bruised.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Johanna and Angela for post-trauma support, Joe, Ross and 
Mark for fielding the media at home, my mother Jane for having to cope
with 
all my escapades, Norm, Dan, and Mel for political support here, D'ugh
and 
Toni-Anne for the holiday in Wales, lots of Italian lawyers and others
for 
all the work they did to get us out, everyone in NZ who organised or 
attended the solidarity demo, and everyone who e-mailed or phoned.
Lessons and recommendations
·	Human bodies are a lot tougher than you'd expect.
·	Black blocs might have their moments when the surveillance is
        heavy, but otherwise they just attract cops and are easy to
        vilify.
·	The state's capacity for violence shouldn't be underestimated,
        how we fight this isn't easy to figure out.
·	If you are going to get arrested, try and do it somewhere where
        you speak the language.
·	Avoid contact with the police whenever possible. Scream when
        batoned, but not before.
·	Always leave town as soon as possible after a riot.
·	Stones just bounce off armoured cars.
·	Genoa is set to be the European City of Culture in 2004, should
        be worth a visit.
·	Try the pesto pizza.
Regards,
Sam
_________________________________________________________________
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-- 
mio amore,
il tuo cuore e` un mare calmo
e non basta una sola notte
per attraversarlo.

 conosciuto durante l'International Film Festival.
Grazie, e' una testimonianza che tutti dovrebbero leggere.
Ne ho lette altre, sia di italiani che di stranieri, e mi sembra un
peccato che vadano perse nel mare degli OT.
Nessuno ha pensato a reccoglierle tutte ad esempio in un sito (che non
sia google) per non dimenticare l'accaduto, o a pubblicarle?
Saluti
Elena