Jean Charles de Menezes turns 15.

On July 22, 2005, Jean Charles de Menezes was executed in London in an act of state terrorism. I wrote the following article in the first days after his cold-blooded execution. It was published in Portuguese in La Insignia, and translated into English in CounterPunch, under the title “To Die by mistake”. 

To die by mistake 

There are many ways to die by mistake. All against one's own will. I recently thought that we could also die by mistake as a result of our own will. For example, attempting suicide when not all is yet lost. Something like killing ourselves in the course of an incurable disease, diagnosed as such by medical error. Killing ourselves due to an absolute lack of hope, when not all possibilities have yet been lost. Then, I considered that this would more properly be killing oneself by mistake. Therefore, I reaffirm that all ways of dying by mistake occur against one's own will.

One could even say, if we may delve a little deeper, that there are ways to die by mistake that are more and less cruel. And among the less cruel, I would include mistakes of nationality. For example, a Latin American or European individual fighting under the American flag in Iraq. And when he least expects it, his vehicle explodes. Or, in another way, posing next to George W. Bush in his last photo, a second before. This is dying by mistake, but in a less cruel way, because it is sudden and with a calculated risk. Or, in a more innocent way, getting lost on the wrong street, restaurant, hotel, or country, and being suddenly thrown into a zone of bullets, gunfire, or an extraordinary giant wave. This too is dying by mistake, in a harsh way, like all deaths, but still, if we allow for a gradation, in a less raw and cruel way.

Of the harshest and most terrible ways, we think of the sentenced, the innocent convicts, the wretches who are part of the human race of perennial criminals, and therefore await death in a corridor. But even these, until the very last hour, hope for a final clarification, a pardon, a salvation of mercy, before the priest or pastor comes to fulfill the role of entrusting them to the heaven of execution. Therefore, we conclude that few deaths by mistake are as cruel and despicable as being hunted like a dog. Like a dog, what do I mean? Hunted like a fox. Surrounded, knocked down, immobilized, and with glassy eyes seeing the glint and light of the shot a fraction of a second before, before it is broken open and the brain is ripped out.

The Brazilian – the dog, the fox, this hybrid animal, without species or defined breed – named Jean Charles de Menezes died by mistake, shot down with eight bullets. A harsh and vile death, which even for a dog, even for a fox, even for a rabbit, would be proof of manifest perversion and cruelty. What to say of a human, pardon me, Tony Blair, pardon me, Bush, pardon me, terrified English subjects, what to say of a being resembling a human? Even if he is a native of a country of samba and exotic mulatto women, good for bed and for tourism, even so, and despite that, would this inferior being deserve the end of a rabid animal in London?

Nothing nationalistic, nothing nationalistic, understand? Far be it from us to demand, I mean, to complain. sorryWe mean, in a low, humble voice, to plead for different treatment for Brazilians. Especially since the initial news reports indicated that an Asian man had been killed. Ah, well, if it's an Asian man, the world doesn't tremble, sighed all the well-meaning nationalists, those of the West. They said this because the dead terrorist had somewhat narrow, almond-shaped eyes, which are a first sign of an exotic, secondary, unimportant world, beyond the Orient. Then, surpriseThey saw that from Brazil's melting pot of mixtures, they also export bombs with slanted eyes, like those of the Chinese, to indigenous peoples of the Americas. Then, shitThey saw that on the subway floor, that inert mass, once cheerful, dancing samba and smiling for family photos, "Mom, I made it in Europe," then they saw that that headless mule wasn't even a terrorist. Sorry, what a pity, ladies, dogs and gentlemen.

No nationalism here. We all know the English don't treat their dogs like that. There's no people in the world who love them more. pops, pupsUntil proven otherwise, all dogs are considered pets. What joy they have walking their best friends on leashes through the streets of London! Some say, even the malicious, how much love and affection is devoted to a fellow human being. No, English humanity doesn't treat dogs like that. If there's a command to kill, to shoot moving beings in the head, that order won't be against dogs. It's for something much lower and more harmful, far, far less than... dogsAlthough it walks (simulates walking), talks (simulates talking), thinks (simulates thinking), and smiles (simulates smiling). Something that terror calls a terrorist. Ah, well, if that's the case, it's correct. Terrorism against terror. Or terror against terrorism. It's not known. The order of the concepts is still uncertain.

But one thing is certain, one thing is clear, limpid, objective, and without any zone or shadow of doubt. The terrorist has a face. The terrorist has a race. The terrorist has a nationality. The terrorist has a creed, language, class, and region. The head most worthy of being blown to smithereens has already been determined. The terrorist is us, the peoples of the Third World. The terrorist is us, Muslims. The terrorist is us, Asians. The terrorist is us, Black people, mixed-race people, Latinos, and similar people. The terrorist is all of us not born with the identifiable characteristics in the mass of dogs and... hooligansOur head is the target, and the darker it is, the more it becomes the target, the aim, the end. Our head is Jean Charles de Menezes.

When I read the account of a witness to the murder of Jean Charles, who understood the look in the eyes of the man lying motionless on the ground, and then, through the photos…

'If you look at the photos, his eyes seemed small, but when I saw his face for just a second, because it all happened so fast, his eyes were wide open. He looked very, very scared…'

…when I saw that account, my stomach felt like it had been punched. The small eyes that opened in astonishment, with a pistol pointed at their heads, were mine, ours, our children's, our brothers', of all non-British peoples. The Asian eyes of all of us terrorists.