Dona Silvia still has the stench of a rotting corpse in her nose. On a muggy night many years ago, two gangs came face to face in the dark alley where Maria lived with her husband Galvao. Bullets flew and bodies fell as local residents locked the doors of their matchbox houses. One body – a kid barely in his teens – was left beside Silvia’s doorstep. It lay there for days. No one – not even the police – picked the bullet-ridden body. When the putrid smell began to permeate their food, a few locals paid money to a policeman to get the body removed.
“We have lived with violence and deaths on the streets for years,” said Silvia, 62, who runs a small kiosk at the end of this lane in Cidade de Deus (City of God) on the western outskirts of Rio. “But that day the smell of death entered our houses. Forever. We thought of leaving many times, but where could we go. All the other favelas were equally bad or worse.”
Made known globally by Fernando Meirelles’ film of the same name, City of God is a slum that cropped up more than 40 years ago on the dusty corners of the western fringes of the city, as poor migrants built their shacks to escape the sun, dust and roaming beasts. Abandoned by the state and crammed with hapless families, the slum was overtaken by violent gangs, which provided basic things like water and gas to the people but robbed them as well. Cops came in occasionally, only to unleash more violence on the poor. With the poor robbing the poor and the police showing up only to show the brute power of the state, City of God became a living hell. Like Rocket, the narrator of Meirelles’ dark story, a whole community was trapped between two armed lines: the gangs on one side, the cops on the other.
And there was no escape.
Pacifying the locals
Until five years ago, the drug trade fuelled violence in the City of God. Bodies turned up at street corners and in drains almost every morning. Then in February 2009, the city government set up a Police Pacification Unit in the heart of the notorious slum, which spreads over 135,000 sq metres. The unit, known as the UPP in its Portuguese acronym, was designed as a plan under which the police, trained in sociology and social welfare, work with the local community to provide social services after criminals have been driven away by Special Forces – often after a violent clash.
Even as the police got down to work, the city government introduced social welfare schemes like the Bolsa Familia direct cash transfer plan, free electricity and healthcare in the community. Now, the slum has functioning schools, community centres, restaurants that serve subsidised meals, football pitches and basketball courts and a cultural centre, where a policewoman runs ballet classes for girls from the community.
“Earlier, we had no peace,” said Silvia, whose joint is quite popular for fried snacks among the locals as well as cops. “Now, I sleep well at night and I’m not worried about if someone is going to rob or burn my kiosk. After years of chaos and violence, finally we have peace. Now, we can go out for walks at night. No problem.”
The pacification campaign, which started in 2008, now has 38 units in as many favela communities, with more than 9,000 cops. Started as an experiment in Santa Marta, a slum sitting on a hill in Rio's rich southern zone of the city, the first UPP was led by a woman officer, Captain Pricilla Azevedo. As the gangs were driven out by Special Forces, a UPP station set up and public services improved, the Santa Marta community began to receive tourists, both foreigners and Brazilians. Then the city introduced a trolleybus system to improve the mobility of its residents and to provide social services to the highest part of the hill, where the UPP is stationed.
Repeating the experiment
The success of UPP at Santa Marta broke many myths and motivated others to follow suit. “People believed that the favelas were full of criminals,” said Carlos Perreira, a volunteer who works with the city’s poor communities. “When the gangs were gone and people started visiting the slum, they discovered that these were communities where hard-working people lived and tried to improve their lives. After the government started providing water, education, food and health services to people, the criminals lost their hold over the communities.”
In the past five years, the success of Santa Marta has been repeated across Rio. In Jardim Batan, a community of 45,000 people, after the police drove away the drug dealers and militia, UPP set up base in a house once occupied by criminals. Now the building has a public swimming pool, classrooms and a community vegetable-garden. Today, the crime rate in Batan is down to zero. In Chapeu Manguiera, another slum in the south, as the UPP introduced health and daycare centres, it became a hub for tourists looking for breathtaking views of Copacabana beach, good trails for nature walks and cheap dining options. “People from all over the world come to my joint for authentic food and Brazilian drinks,” said David Bispo, who runs Bar do David on a happening street. “Once our community was known for violence. Now my bar is a reference point in the city,” says Bispo. “The UPP has established a bond with the community.”
Winning trust
The bond didn’t happen overnight. Nor was it easy. With poor people – often at the receiving end of police oppression – deeply suspicious of men in uniform, the UPP cops had to work hard to win their trust. But its success in many favelas has other poor communities demanding UPP intervention.
But Rio police faced its biggest test on November 13, 2011, when it planned to move into Rocinha, a settlement of 100,000 people, the largest and most violent slum in South America. Working closely with the community for weeks, the Special Forces took over Rocinha without firing a single shot. “The relationship is now based on mutual respect,” said a police captain. “Earlier, the cops treated every slum resident as a criminal. Now, we see them as partners. Too many people have been killed by criminals and police. It’s time to stop it.”
The never-ending cycle of violence between the police and criminals, in which poor communities were caught in the crossfire, started in 1971, when US president Richard Nixon initiated America’s “war on drugs”. The collateral of this war has been colossal in Brazil and other South American countries, which produce almost all the cocaine consumed in Western countries. Across the region, the so-called war on drugs turned into an attack on the poor, as thousands were killed in the name of combating the drug menace. In Brazil, the biggest economy in South America, police have allegedly shot more than 11,000 people in the past decade. Still trapped in the legacy of slavery (abolished in 1888) and military rule (1964-85), until recently the Brazilian police had little regard for human rights. The transformation – a focus on human rights and social welfare – started only when the Workers Party, led by President Lula, came to power in 2003.
Even today, despite the UPP’s efforts at peace, human rights abuses by police officers have not vanished. High-handed behaviour by some cops has given an opening to drug lords lodged in jails to try to reclaim their lost territory. Amid allegations that the UPP cops are no better than the gangsters they replaced, five police officers have been killed since February. In other incidents, police posts in three favelas have been set ablaze and several other units attacked. “All these attacks have been coordinated by gang leaders sitting in jails, frustrated as they are with losing their drug trade and power over people,” said the police captain. “Nobody wants them back.”
With murder rates and gun crimes well below the peak of the mid-2000s, the favela communities don’t want to see the gangs, with the stench of death following them, back in their lanes.
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“We have lived with violence and deaths on the streets for years,” said Silvia, 62, who runs a small kiosk at the end of this lane in Cidade de Deus (City of God) on the western outskirts of Rio. “But that day the smell of death entered our houses. Forever. We thought of leaving many times, but where could we go. All the other favelas were equally bad or worse.”
Made known globally by Fernando Meirelles’ film of the same name, City of God is a slum that cropped up more than 40 years ago on the dusty corners of the western fringes of the city, as poor migrants built their shacks to escape the sun, dust and roaming beasts. Abandoned by the state and crammed with hapless families, the slum was overtaken by violent gangs, which provided basic things like water and gas to the people but robbed them as well. Cops came in occasionally, only to unleash more violence on the poor. With the poor robbing the poor and the police showing up only to show the brute power of the state, City of God became a living hell. Like Rocket, the narrator of Meirelles’ dark story, a whole community was trapped between two armed lines: the gangs on one side, the cops on the other.
And there was no escape.
Pacifying the locals
Until five years ago, the drug trade fuelled violence in the City of God. Bodies turned up at street corners and in drains almost every morning. Then in February 2009, the city government set up a Police Pacification Unit in the heart of the notorious slum, which spreads over 135,000 sq metres. The unit, known as the UPP in its Portuguese acronym, was designed as a plan under which the police, trained in sociology and social welfare, work with the local community to provide social services after criminals have been driven away by Special Forces – often after a violent clash.
Even as the police got down to work, the city government introduced social welfare schemes like the Bolsa Familia direct cash transfer plan, free electricity and healthcare in the community. Now, the slum has functioning schools, community centres, restaurants that serve subsidised meals, football pitches and basketball courts and a cultural centre, where a policewoman runs ballet classes for girls from the community.
“Earlier, we had no peace,” said Silvia, whose joint is quite popular for fried snacks among the locals as well as cops. “Now, I sleep well at night and I’m not worried about if someone is going to rob or burn my kiosk. After years of chaos and violence, finally we have peace. Now, we can go out for walks at night. No problem.”
A police officer teaching ballet, Cidade de Deus.
The pacification campaign, which started in 2008, now has 38 units in as many favela communities, with more than 9,000 cops. Started as an experiment in Santa Marta, a slum sitting on a hill in Rio's rich southern zone of the city, the first UPP was led by a woman officer, Captain Pricilla Azevedo. As the gangs were driven out by Special Forces, a UPP station set up and public services improved, the Santa Marta community began to receive tourists, both foreigners and Brazilians. Then the city introduced a trolleybus system to improve the mobility of its residents and to provide social services to the highest part of the hill, where the UPP is stationed.
Repeating the experiment
The success of UPP at Santa Marta broke many myths and motivated others to follow suit. “People believed that the favelas were full of criminals,” said Carlos Perreira, a volunteer who works with the city’s poor communities. “When the gangs were gone and people started visiting the slum, they discovered that these were communities where hard-working people lived and tried to improve their lives. After the government started providing water, education, food and health services to people, the criminals lost their hold over the communities.”
David Bispo outside his bar, Chapeu Manguiera.
In the past five years, the success of Santa Marta has been repeated across Rio. In Jardim Batan, a community of 45,000 people, after the police drove away the drug dealers and militia, UPP set up base in a house once occupied by criminals. Now the building has a public swimming pool, classrooms and a community vegetable-garden. Today, the crime rate in Batan is down to zero. In Chapeu Manguiera, another slum in the south, as the UPP introduced health and daycare centres, it became a hub for tourists looking for breathtaking views of Copacabana beach, good trails for nature walks and cheap dining options. “People from all over the world come to my joint for authentic food and Brazilian drinks,” said David Bispo, who runs Bar do David on a happening street. “Once our community was known for violence. Now my bar is a reference point in the city,” says Bispo. “The UPP has established a bond with the community.”
Winning trust
The bond didn’t happen overnight. Nor was it easy. With poor people – often at the receiving end of police oppression – deeply suspicious of men in uniform, the UPP cops had to work hard to win their trust. But its success in many favelas has other poor communities demanding UPP intervention.
But Rio police faced its biggest test on November 13, 2011, when it planned to move into Rocinha, a settlement of 100,000 people, the largest and most violent slum in South America. Working closely with the community for weeks, the Special Forces took over Rocinha without firing a single shot. “The relationship is now based on mutual respect,” said a police captain. “Earlier, the cops treated every slum resident as a criminal. Now, we see them as partners. Too many people have been killed by criminals and police. It’s time to stop it.”
UPP officers with favela children
The never-ending cycle of violence between the police and criminals, in which poor communities were caught in the crossfire, started in 1971, when US president Richard Nixon initiated America’s “war on drugs”. The collateral of this war has been colossal in Brazil and other South American countries, which produce almost all the cocaine consumed in Western countries. Across the region, the so-called war on drugs turned into an attack on the poor, as thousands were killed in the name of combating the drug menace. In Brazil, the biggest economy in South America, police have allegedly shot more than 11,000 people in the past decade. Still trapped in the legacy of slavery (abolished in 1888) and military rule (1964-85), until recently the Brazilian police had little regard for human rights. The transformation – a focus on human rights and social welfare – started only when the Workers Party, led by President Lula, came to power in 2003.
Even today, despite the UPP’s efforts at peace, human rights abuses by police officers have not vanished. High-handed behaviour by some cops has given an opening to drug lords lodged in jails to try to reclaim their lost territory. Amid allegations that the UPP cops are no better than the gangsters they replaced, five police officers have been killed since February. In other incidents, police posts in three favelas have been set ablaze and several other units attacked. “All these attacks have been coordinated by gang leaders sitting in jails, frustrated as they are with losing their drug trade and power over people,” said the police captain. “Nobody wants them back.”
With murder rates and gun crimes well below the peak of the mid-2000s, the favela communities don’t want to see the gangs, with the stench of death following them, back in their lanes.