Mothers Against Police Violence in Brazil: The Thiago Case and the Fight for Justice in Rio's Favelas

Priscila Menezes is 35 and lives in Cidade de Deus with her daughters. The eldest is Luíza, and the middle one is Ana Júlia, 17, who is pregnant, which, according to her mother, brings "a little more joy" to the house. Thiago was her only son. She describes him as a cheerful, smiling and very polite boy who dreamed of being a soccer player, played as a striker and was very dedicated to the sport.

Thiago went out for a ride on a motorcycle and never came back. He was hit by three shots. Priscila says she went to the scene and sat down next to her son's body. She says that when you receive news like that, you think the world is going to end and you wonder how you will live without your child. But she could not grieve, because, in her words, "they were incriminating" the boy. On top of the loss, she had to prove that her son was innocent.

At the scene, Priscila retraces the motorcycle's route. She shows where the vehicle lost speed and where Thiago and the passenger riding behind him fell. There was a security camera there that filmed everything. The owner of a tire repair shop kept the footage, which was stored on a tablet. Priscila says the question that haunted her was whether the camera had captured the moment Thiago was executed.

According to the narration, the footage shows the bloodied body on the ground, in agony, and, seconds later, a police officer's head appears. One of the people commenting on the case explains that the officers gave an account according to which other criminals were shooting at them and they had to protect themselves. In her view, the following scenes completely dismantle that version, because the officers appear "absolutely calm," using their phones and making contacts.

In this person's assessment, videos like this, even when fragmented, are important because they reveal the contradiction in the initial narrative. Investigations usually conclude that it was not possible to identify who caused the death or that no crime took place, because the police supposedly acted in self-defense. For this reason, the family's involvement ends up being decisive in making up for failures in the investigation and in the gathering of evidence.

The narration states that the two officers accused of the killing were to be tried in a few months. According to the film, this is a rare case in Rio de Janeiro, where most cases of police violence are shelved for lack of evidence.

The documentary places the case in a broader context. According to the narration, drug trafficking factions control almost a third of the city, and the state responds with a militarily trained police force, used as a combat unit. Residents and activists describe a different reality: violent operations that fail to contain drug trafficking and kill innocent people, unarmed or already wounded. In the country the film presents as one of the most unequal in the world, these deaths would go unnoticed.

A mother from Manguinhos shows photos of young people who were killed. Paulo Roberto, her son, questioned the police's stop-and-search of his brother and died of mechanical asphyxia. According to her, he was suffocated to death. João was killed by a shot to the head at the window of his home, while pulling his daughter away from the window during what she calls an "alleged operation." Johnatha, Ana Paula's son, was shot in the back.

Another resident describes an operation in Jacarezinho in stark terms: "This was a jungle. We are the animals and they are the hunter." She speaks of rivers of blood inside homes, of stained mattresses, pillows and sofas, and says Jacarezinho "reeked of blood." According to her account, there were 27 deaths, 28 counting a police officer. She says she had heard of massacres before but had never witnessed one. What residents wanted was for it to end and for no other mother to suffer the pain of loss.

Paulo Roberto's mother says her fight began right there, in Manguinhos. For her, the favela must be brought to the streets with large demonstrations: if Bolsonaro can fill Copacabana with thousands of people, why can't the favela come down the hill and take over the streets to show that "the favela won"?

The film follows a rally where the mothers gather and chant the names of the dead, with the refrain "present, today and always." One of the organizers asks what the bill they are protesting against means. The participants answer "more death" and "license to kill," because, according to them, the police have already killed their loved ones. She explains her motivation: "I had to lose someone to be in the fight today. We don't want that woman over there to lose someone to join our fight."

Priscila also speaks. She says that for years she has been proving that her son was just a 13-year-old riding a motorcycle in the community, executed with three rifle shots. "It can't be normal for police to come into communities and kill our children," she says. For her, her son "died for nothing," and she asks how many more will die if the law is passed. She says she came with a heavy heart and with anger, so that other young people are not killed and marginalized "by those who should be protecting us." She closes by saying the mothers are not there because they want to be: they only want young people in the communities to have the right to live, to come and go, and to have their rights respected.

The documentary also follows a police team. Before an operation, one of the officers explains the context: Complexo do Chapadão is a favela marked by a lot of cargo theft and a very strong drug trade. The tactic described is to surround the favela as much as possible and push the criminals inward, which he calls the "hammer and anvil theory."

One officer says he prays every morning before leaving home, because he is "a little religious," and that his first concern is that everyone comes back alive. For him, it is not feasible to enter a community like that one without rifles, vests and enough personnel to hold the ground, because the criminals have weapons of war and shoot regardless of whether there are people in the street.

He also speaks of the pressure surrounding the decision to shoot. An officer supposedly has fractions of a second to decide whether to fire or not, and if he doesn't shoot, he may die. The team trains a lot so as not to make mistakes and not act on emotion, but he admits that a mistake can happen and that, in that case, the bullet "is going to end up somewhere." Another officer says there is always great concern about not hitting an innocent person and that the team tries to reduce that possibility, but that it "will never get to zero." The narration remarks that, for them, the innocent person killed is a statistical error, an inevitable fact.

Among the critical voices, one person states: "the police kill, but they don't kill alone." According to her, the Brazilian state signals that when the police kill inside the favela, that death is legitimate, and what matters is building the idea that whoever died "deserved to die." She describes a logic of ever-widening exceptions: first it is said that there is no need to protect the lives of drug traffickers, then of robbers, then of rapists. For her, this grows to the point of reaching the "political dissident."

Another person recounts hearing a police officer who worked with her say: "in Brazil there is no death penalty, there is death without penalty." She links the phrase to the phenomenon of extrajudicial executions and points out that the death penalty, where it exists, at least requires a trial.

The film shows officers reciting a riot police prayer: "O Lord of hosts (...) if need be, O God, we shall perish for our faithfulness to the doctrine." One officer explains that this kind of ritual tries to show that part of the mission is something divine, a metaphorical struggle of good against evil, in which the police would be "the last barrier between civility and barbarism."

The documentary also addresses the psychological toll on the officers themselves. A young officer talks about the death of a colleague who was practically his age. He says he ends up putting himself in his colleague's place, which sets off an alarm to train more and be more careful. In a follow-up conversation, another officer says that even when an operation isn't one of the heaviest, his mind is troubled, mainly because of the colleagues who have already died. He speaks of traumas that pile up, one after another, mixing work, family and violence.

A professional who works with these officers notes that it is necessary to consider how much exposure to violence makes officers ill. According to her, they often don't put this into words to anyone because of the "hero logic." One officer sums up the force's worldview: "we're living through a war," and a declaration of war anticipates that innocent people may die.

At a party with children, Paulo Roberto's mother says she feels her son is there, among them, having fun and playing. She says she will never forget him and calls the moment a "celebration of life."

A young resident recounts an episode in which a police officer threatened to shoot him. To avoid being beaten and "treated like an animal," he lifted his shirt and ran, to show he wasn't armed. He says the police "only come to hurt," but acknowledges that the drug trade is also wrong, because it isn't right to walk around armed in a community where residents pass by. Even so, he says he isn't afraid of the drug traffickers, because he lives alongside them in the favela. What frightens him is being at home in the early hours and the police coming in shooting.

The mothers take their mobilization to Brasília under the slogan "it's us for us." One of them asks the authorities to look at favela residents "not through the eyes of criminalization," because, according to her, they are criminalized every day. She says the mothers have been doing their part as mothers and citizens and have come to ask the state to do its part: to provide security, not to take their children's lives or carry out a death penalty that, as she points out, is not in the Constitution.

After the meeting, one participant assesses how they were received. She mentions the ministries of Justice, Human Rights and Racial Equality and says she hopes they will follow through with the project. She explains why she values the moment: usually the authorities speak, and when it is the mothers' turn to speak, they leave and leave them "talking to themselves." This time there were two moments when they stopped to listen to them, and, for her, "it always has to be like this."

The film ends at the trial of the officers accused of killing Thiago. During her testimony, Priscila is handed a photo and asked whether she recognizes her son. She answers that the boy in the white hood seems to be Thiago. Next, she is asked whether she knows the meaning of a hand gesture made by another person in the photo. She replies: "It's from a faction, right? I think so, I don't know." She says she cannot answer that and that she doesn't want to be attacked there. She is also asked whether that faction is present in the community where she lives. She answers that it is present not only there, but throughout Rio de Janeiro.

Outside, the chant "Thiago, present, today and always" rings out again. Priscila sums up what she experienced in the courtroom: "What we saw here wasn't the trial of the police officers, what we saw here was the trial of Thiago." The documentary does not report the outcome of the trial. The narration closes with the idea that these deaths continue to be treated as collateral damage.