away.
For the remainder of my time in Zakynthos, the police allowed my parents to see me for a few minutes a day at specific visiting times. They came back a few hours later and my mum told me that the officer had also mentioned something to her about CCTV of the alleged attack. Her response was exactly the same as mine: it needed to be included in the investigation because it was a crucial piece of evidence that would clear my name – if it even existed.
My parents had brought me a sheet and towel, so it was an incredible feeling knowing that I could finally have a shower after four days in the heat. My dad called Riya on his mobile and passed the phone to me through the bars. I could hardly hold the phone because I was shaking so much. ‘Just stay strong,’ I remember her saying softly.
There was no toilet in the cell, so when I needed to go I’d have to stretch my arms through the bars and wave frantically at a camera in the hallway. Eventually, one of the officers would acknowledge the live feed on a screen in the office and come to let me go. Sometimes I would be waving at the camera for overan hour – and I knew that they were just sitting there drinking coffee and smoking. I could hear them only metres away, laughing and completely ignoring me! There was one time in particular when I’d been waving at the camera for at least an hour. I was absolutely desperate to go to the toilet. I began to shout at the top of my voice, ‘Kyrie Astynome! Kyrie Astynome! Toualeta! – Toilet!’ I could hear one of the officers laughing with his friends in his office, so he must have been able to hear me. After a while, a few of the men in the neighbouring cell started to shout too, saying things like, ‘Ade, gamimeno! Afiste to paidi na paei stin toualeta! – Come on, fucking hell! Let the kid go to the toilet!’
The officer walked into the hallway of the jail, still sniggering about something that his friend had just said. As he approached the cell, he slapped on an angry frown and started to shout at the men who’d tried to help me. I believe the officer said something like ‘Who do you think you are telling me what to do? I’m the policeman, not you!’ He approached my cell and began to unlock the gate. ‘Ten seconds, no more,’ he said in English.
16
----
WE NEED GUNS
----
I t was a long, hot and sweaty time spent locked up in Zakynthos town police station. I’d memorised every bit of graffiti marked on the cell walls, and I can still remember them. One detainee had written ‘TONI MONTANA’, the name of the infamous Cuban drug lord brilliantly portrayed by Al Pacino in the film Scarface (spelled incorrectly of course). He seems to be the fictional character that most small-time criminals idolise, regardless of the fact that he murders his best friend and ends up dead. I also remember reading ‘ PATSI! GOUROUNIA! DOLOFONI! ’ – which was written in its rightful Greek lettering. I learned what these words meant on my second day in Zakynthos, when a man called Sakis Sofos was thrown into the cell with me. Sakis looked a little bit like a Greek Mel Gibson in his thirties: he had the same short, neat brown hair, which was slicked back exposing his defined widow’s peak hairline. He pointed at each word one at a time and translated them for me.
‘ Patsi – this is what we call cops. Gourounia – pigs, they are fucking pigs! Dolofoni – killers, that’s what they are my friend! Fucking murderers.’
I’d always known that the word for ‘police’ in Greek was ‘ astynomia ’. But Sakis told me that the slang word ‘ patsi ’ had derivedfrom the word ‘ patsa – slap’, and is a direct reference to the brutality with which they may enforce the law. It just goes to show how common police brutality is in Greece. Of course, ‘not all Greek police are like that’, as argued by the police officer from the aeroplane when I was extradited days earlier. Nonetheless, I found it bizarre that the
For the remainder of my time in Zakynthos, the police allowed my parents to see me for a few minutes a day at specific visiting times. They came back a few hours later and my mum told me that the officer had also mentioned something to her about CCTV of the alleged attack. Her response was exactly the same as mine: it needed to be included in the investigation because it was a crucial piece of evidence that would clear my name – if it even existed.
My parents had brought me a sheet and towel, so it was an incredible feeling knowing that I could finally have a shower after four days in the heat. My dad called Riya on his mobile and passed the phone to me through the bars. I could hardly hold the phone because I was shaking so much. ‘Just stay strong,’ I remember her saying softly.
There was no toilet in the cell, so when I needed to go I’d have to stretch my arms through the bars and wave frantically at a camera in the hallway. Eventually, one of the officers would acknowledge the live feed on a screen in the office and come to let me go. Sometimes I would be waving at the camera for overan hour – and I knew that they were just sitting there drinking coffee and smoking. I could hear them only metres away, laughing and completely ignoring me! There was one time in particular when I’d been waving at the camera for at least an hour. I was absolutely desperate to go to the toilet. I began to shout at the top of my voice, ‘Kyrie Astynome! Kyrie Astynome! Toualeta! – Toilet!’ I could hear one of the officers laughing with his friends in his office, so he must have been able to hear me. After a while, a few of the men in the neighbouring cell started to shout too, saying things like, ‘Ade, gamimeno! Afiste to paidi na paei stin toualeta! – Come on, fucking hell! Let the kid go to the toilet!’
The officer walked into the hallway of the jail, still sniggering about something that his friend had just said. As he approached the cell, he slapped on an angry frown and started to shout at the men who’d tried to help me. I believe the officer said something like ‘Who do you think you are telling me what to do? I’m the policeman, not you!’ He approached my cell and began to unlock the gate. ‘Ten seconds, no more,’ he said in English.
16
----
WE NEED GUNS
----
I t was a long, hot and sweaty time spent locked up in Zakynthos town police station. I’d memorised every bit of graffiti marked on the cell walls, and I can still remember them. One detainee had written ‘TONI MONTANA’, the name of the infamous Cuban drug lord brilliantly portrayed by Al Pacino in the film Scarface (spelled incorrectly of course). He seems to be the fictional character that most small-time criminals idolise, regardless of the fact that he murders his best friend and ends up dead. I also remember reading ‘ PATSI! GOUROUNIA! DOLOFONI! ’ – which was written in its rightful Greek lettering. I learned what these words meant on my second day in Zakynthos, when a man called Sakis Sofos was thrown into the cell with me. Sakis looked a little bit like a Greek Mel Gibson in his thirties: he had the same short, neat brown hair, which was slicked back exposing his defined widow’s peak hairline. He pointed at each word one at a time and translated them for me.
‘ Patsi – this is what we call cops. Gourounia – pigs, they are fucking pigs! Dolofoni – killers, that’s what they are my friend! Fucking murderers.’
I’d always known that the word for ‘police’ in Greek was ‘ astynomia ’. But Sakis told me that the slang word ‘ patsi ’ had derivedfrom the word ‘ patsa – slap’, and is a direct reference to the brutality with which they may enforce the law. It just goes to show how common police brutality is in Greece. Of course, ‘not all Greek police are like that’, as argued by the police officer from the aeroplane when I was extradited days earlier. Nonetheless, I found it bizarre that the
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