«You sound irritated. You look irritated,» said the police officer. One of the three. «Sure, I am. Because you have no idea how many times I’ve been stopped in stores or chased, thinking I’m stealing. All because of the color of my skin,» I replied. «I just asked to understand, why have you three stopped me halfway?» I added.
They identified themselves as district police but did not give their names. They asked me where I was going, why to a particular gym and not another, why to the pool, if I had marijuana, if I had smoked marijuana in Romania, and if I had smoked it in Peru.
They opened my briefcase, touched everything. They put their hands in the pockets of my sweater and pants. Each police officer in each pocket. While the third officer recorded the details from my digital foreigner ID card, using my phone.
They told me I had to cooperate. That this was normal. That they had surely verified me before. «No, in eight years here, the police have never stopped me,» I replied. «After eight years, you should be interested in knowing the law and your obligations,» he replied again. I said, «Yes, that’s true. So I can be sure that the police are acting according to the law when they put their hands in my pockets, which unfortunately I don’t know which law or article says, but I must assume they do this to anyone, right? Well, if this is legal, you shouldn’t mind answering my question about why I’m being detained here.»
It frustrates me not to speak Romanian in the way I would respond in Spanish when I feel and believe that my rights are being violated.
«You can go now, have a good day,» they said as they returned to their car.
Racism is outrageous. And no matter what explains it. Nothing will justify someone being mistreated, especially in the name of the law.
And the law says that the police can ask for your identification and detain you if they suspect (subjectively) you are involved in some illegal activity. Today, my illegal act is having mixed-race skin, earrings in both ears, a hummingbird tattooed on my neck. And saying that I’m Peruvian is almost like saying that in school, we take courses on how to produce cocaine.
Art. 34 – Romanian Law 218/2002
Ave Migratoria 