The night I lost faith
Anna Ramdass aramdass@trinidadexpress.com
Sunday, January 4th 2009
At 2 a.m. on December 31, a battalion of men dressed in police garb raided my Valsayn home in search of drugs and ammunition.
That horrific experience has left my family and me in a state of terror. As the final hours of 2008 ticked, if I am to believe that those men who raided my house were police officers, the Police Service of this country branded us as gun-hoarding drug lords. We were treated like criminals. And to date we have gotten no answers as to why we were awakened from our sleep, part of our house trashed and our peace of mind and citizens' rights trampled upon.
I was awake when I heard shouts and loud banging on our front door. Without thinking, I ran downstairs towards the garage, which was where I heard the noise coming from, and saw my 23-year-old brother and 25-year-old cousin spread-eagled against the wall with two men, dressed in heavy police wear, holding guns to their backs.
My heart stopped. I began to tremble even as I asked what was going on. My father, who had come running on my heels, couldn't say a word. He was in shock.
The two men in police gear, pointing their guns at us-my brother and cousin, my father and myself-ushered us into the house in a downstairs room.
I was paralysed with fear. I did not believe these men were police officers. I thought they were criminals who had stolen police uniforms and were now going to tie us up and rob us. There was nothing about their behaviour or demeanour that led me to believe that they were police officers.
I felt helpless and prayed silently that none of my loved ones or myself would be tortured or murdered. My eyes searched for something I could use to defend myself if one of the men tried to rape me.
As we sat around a table in the room where the two men with guns had led us, I saw many more men, and one woman, roaming throughout the house. Five men, all armed with big, black guns, remained to guard us; we were told not to make a move.
All of the men were dressed in navy blue and black gear with "POLICE" written on their vests, except one Indian man, who was in plain clothes. The men woke up my aunt and uncle, who were asleep upstairs in their bedroom. They searched their room and then some of the men stayed to guard them there while others moved on to other parts of the house.
One of the men then told us that this was "a raid, we here to search your house".
My immediate response was: "Where is your search warrant?" The man who had announced that this was a police raid ignored me. He started noting our names and dates of birth on some sheets of paper.
I faked an asthma attack and said I needed my inhaler from my bedroom. I didn't wait for a response, I ran up the stairs and grabbed the inhaler and my cellphone. One of the men, armed with his gun, ran behind me when I went to my bedroom and back downstairs.
One of the men, gun clutched menacingly in his hands, ordered me to turn off my phone. He then asked who lived in the downstairs apartment of the house. I told him that it was my mother, and he ordered me to go and wake her up. I panicked, wondering what would happen when she, a heart patient, came out and saw her house filled with men with guns. She was shocked when she saw the men and guns, but before she had a chance to respond in any way, two of the men and the female officer escorted her back into her apartment and then proceeded to trash the entire apartment.
Still seated at the table with my father, brother and cousin, I had no idea what was going on in my mother's apartment. I was crushed. I did not know what was happening with my mother nor with my aunt and uncle, who were still under guard upstairs.
I was in a state, shivering from fear. I began shouting over and over to see a search warrant.
One of the gunmen guarding us told me I was not the owner of the house and therefore not entitled to see a search warrant. I shouted for my mother to ask for a warrant; she later told me she did and was ignored.
I tried to make a phone call; one of the men tried to wrestle the phone away from me. I started screaming as he came close to me, demanding he produce some ID. Both my cousin and I kept pleading for two things over and over-a search warrant and some form of identification.
I kept yelling for some ID, and it was only when I said I was a reporter and I will write a story about this abuse that one of the men flashed an ID hidden in a wallet. He was so quick that, of course, I barely got to see the card. I begged the other men, about five of them, to see their IDs, to assure myself that they were not killers. I told them that bandits have been known to steal police clothes and I wanted to know that they were really policemen. They all ignored me.
We still sat there, for more than half an hour, me screaming at the gunmen, fearing the worse for my mother and my uncle and aunt. I asked questions: which magistrate or senior police officer had issued the search warrant? One gunman told me that I should do my homework, that a magistrate does not issue search warrants. Another man smirked and said if they were murderers, they would have killed us already.
When I could not sit still any longer, being held hostage by these gunmen, I stood up and asked the men, over and over, why were they harassing an innocent family when 540 people have been murdered in this country for the year. The gunmen began laughing at me.
My father, fearing the men would hurt me, pleaded with me to be quiet, but I couldn't be quiet. For more than half an hour, I yelled, objecting to these men who claimed to be police, invading my house. I screamed for the neighbours to help. I threatened to report the matter to the media and police officials. After one hour-in which myself, my father, my brother and cousin were held under guns-the gunmen left, empty-handed. Pen and paper in hand, I ran behind them asking for their names and ID numbers, they laughed and drove away in a police jeep, registration number PCJ 6578.
Back into the house, I found my mother in her room, weeping. The men had emptied every single drawer from her bedroom cupboards, smashing one of them, and throwing every single piece of clothing on the floor and bed. The sofas were turned upside down, In her kitchen, the stove was dismantled, pots and pans and other items pulled out from the cupboards. The place looked as though a tornado had swept through. The men had trashed only her apartment, leaving the rest of the house mostly untouched.
After making sure my family was physically unharmed, I replayed the incident in my mind. I could not make sense of it. Why trash only one area of the house and leave other parts untouched if they were looking for guns or drugs? Then a frightening thought struck me-what if these men had planted illegal items in my house?
I called the emergency hotline and was told to call the St Joseph Police Station. At the station, a male voice answered the phone. I gave my name and I related the ordeal to the policeman. I asked him to verify whether police officers from that station had been sent out to raid my house. He told me he could not help me.
I asked his name and he responded: "Come to the police station and I will tell you my name and how many teeth I have in my mouth."
I was enraged.
Around 3.30 a.m., I went to the St Joseph Police Station. I politely asked for the officer who I had spoken to on the phone. He identified himself and I told him and other officers present there that I wanted to verify whether the gunmen who had just trashed my house and terrorised my family were indeed police officers and if a warrant had been issued for that raid.
The officer told me we were treated like criminals because of my attitude. He didn't elaborate. I couldn't believe my ears-remembering that I was in my pajamas when I had cause to run out of my house and see my brother and cousin braced against the wall by two gun-toting men in police uniform.
I told the officer I will be reporting his behaviour and insults, to which he responded: "You can also tell them that I say you are a witch!"
"Excuse me?" I asked bewildered, to which he answered, "You heard me, I said you are a witch."
I was still shaking from the ordeal of having my house invaded by gun-toting men; my heart was racing and these officers were adding insult to injury. I told them that I had feared for my life, that I had family members who were victims of crime and that I now know how they felt when their house and bodies were violated. I sat down and a female police officer tried to justify her colleagues' behaviour. She told me to go home and contact head of the Northern Division, Senior Superintendent Maharaj, the next day.
I returned home, drained. I closed the gates of my house, fearing that the men would return. I helped my mother clear a place in her room to sleep, returned to my room and wept.
The sense of violation, of self and home, remains deep. My mother jumps whenever the dog barks, my entire family remains shaken from the ordeal. And I remain sickened by the fact that with so many people murdered this past year alone, the police themselves acted like criminals, killing my faith in the protective services and mentally scarring my family.
I am a law-abiding citizen of T&T but in the wee hours of the last day of 2008, the Police Service turned me into a witch capable of hiding drugs and ammunition in her home.
Show Posts
I'm happy for you to use an alias if you choose.
or 
. but I'm definitely not 
(See bold - Who's that?)
