#4: my first Viennese police stop - and a little bit of ACAB

There is a very clear wealth gap between the two districts I patrol whilst on the job. They’re directly adjacent to each other, separated by a canal flowing away from and then back into the mighty Danube, and are connected by a series of bridges carrying cars, trams, subway lines, buses, cyclists and pedestrians alike.

Over the course of a single shift, I use these to cross the boundary dozens of times. Until earlier this week, I had been able to do so without any hassle.

I was stopped, for really no good reason at all, by police officers in the significantly wealthier 19. Bezirk, Döbling, as my presence there was deemed to be suspect.

I’d like to make it clear that when the officers stopped me they weren’t aggressive, or more intimidating than they have to be by virtue of their position. I have no illusions that from their perspective, they had actually been more generous with me than they had to be.

They probably bent the rules in my favour, at least a little bit. For that, even though I don’t think I should have to be, I am grateful.

I was stopped roughly halfway through my shift, when I had crossed over from Brigettenau into Döbling and back five or six times already. There are only so many streets, alleys, bike lanes, pavements, nooks and crannies to scour within my territorial domain - and I’m prone to drifting off into podcast fuelled dream states - so my brain hasn’t deemed it necessary for me to keep an accurate record of every bike rack, and every retrieval. It all just sort of blurs together.

Even to a long time vegetarian like myself, though, the scent of bacon will never fail to cut through that haze.

I was working a rack (one of the many fun phrases I’ve started using to soften the sharp edged monotony of my exceedingly repetitive job) about two blocks away from a police station, and saw a patrol car trawling further up the road, looking for trouble.

Though I fought temptation and kept my eyes on my work, the feeling of eyes focused on the nape of my neck had my senses tingling, and I turned just enough to catch a glimpse of the car passing me by - slowed to a walking pace - and three faces pressed up against the glass. They came to a stop around twenty metres down the road.

Prior to their little drive by, my plan had been to finish up and head in the direction from which they had approached. I knew what was about to happen, and I didn’t want to give them any reason to believe I was trying to flee, thus rousing even more suspicion than my appearance had clearly already generated. After donning my helmet, I rode carefully, slowly, in their direction.

I had practically pulled over before they even asked me to. (Pawlu 1 - Cops 0)

I came to a full stop when all three were outside their car staring me down. They each raised a hand in eerie synchronicity. I registered immediately that they were all carrying firearms. That isn’t relevant to the story - I was right not to think for a second that any of these would be unholstered - but guns are precisely the sort of thing it’s difficult not to notice.

I have been working on my German, wherever possible, but this didn’t feel like the best opportunity to practice. Immediately, before they could get a word in (Pawlu 2 - Cops 0), I asked if they could speak English.

Thankfully, their English was great. One of them - Midsize Constable (henceforth, MC) - took the lead. To nobody’s surprise, it was explained that this was a “random stop”. I don’t know what it is about me (yes I do), but I seem to win the random stop lottery a lot. Historically, this has been particularly noticeable in airports, where my face and complexion have proven their ability to bend entropy in my direction.

MC asked if I had identification on me, and I gave him my national ID card. I didn’t know that this was part of the test, but have since learned that all non-Austrian citizens are required, by law, to carry official ID at all times.

Apparently, and not surprisingly because… Malta… when I lost my Maltese ID card in Scotland, then reported the loss to Maltese police, and had a new card issued, the Maltese constabulary failed to report the first card as missing. This meant that when my details were checked, it appeared that there were two versions of my ID card in circulation.

MC and Big Bobby (henceforth, BB) deliberated amongst themselves in German, trying to figure out what this meant. They ultimately settled on the explanation that since I was in possession of the new card, not the old one, I was unlikely to be thieving myself of my own identity.

Those who can could choose to be anyone, and still chose to be themselves, have got excellent self esteem.

I flashed a smile at Smalls (I contemplated referring to this one as “Small Sheriff”, but thought better of it when I thought about what the acronym for that would be) as their deliberations continued, and this one didn’t have any particular role throughout the stop, beyond standing and observing with an intimidating glare. Smalls was uninterested in returning that smile, and frankly, looked a little pissed off that they’d been picked.

This damn grin of mine is going to land me right in it, one of these days.

BB turned to me and explained why I had actually been stopped. Turns out it wasn’t so much “random” as it was “motivated entirely by my physical appearance”.

“People have been drinking alcohol or using cannabis while riding these vehicles, and causing crashes, so we stopped you to check. Do you drink alcohol?”

The pause was too short for me to respond with the nuance I felt was appropriate. “I can tell you haven’t because you don’t smell like -”

Before finding out what I didn’t smell like, I interjected with the nuance which had finally come to me.

“I do drink, sometimes, but I haven’t had a drink this morning.” Well done, Pawlu. Honesty is a great policy, but I’m not sure the same is true when it comes to being a pedantic stickler.

(Pawlu 2 - Cops 1)

That question had really already been asked and answered by BB, because it wasn’t the reason I’d been stopped.

“And when was the last time you smoked cannabis?”

Not “do you smoke cannabis?” but “when was the last time?”.

Don’t get me wrong, you’re spot on there BB, but that’s still an assumption you made based on very little information. I guess making assumptions about people is a big part of your job. Seems like a whack ass job.

In answer to the question, no word of a lie, it was over a month ago. Doesn’t much matter that the reason has more to do with access, and budgetary constraints, than restraint. Take that, copper. (Pawlu 3 - Cops 1)

“More than a month ago, before I came to Austria.”

Quickly, BB rattled off a response which clearly anticipated my own.

“Okay, well the reason we stopped you is because you have these,” circles were drawn with a finger from each hand, around the cop’s eyes, “ - dark rings.”

Now lookie here, I love a good doobie as much as (or more than) the next friendly neighbourhood degenerate pothead, and I’d like to think that over the past couple of years of indulgent experimentation, I’ve learned to spot the symptoms of weed use.

The following is a non-exhaustive list, based upon my research:

• Mellow worldview
• Blank stares into some unknown distance, often serving as a thin veil for exciting contemplation, unveiling secrets of the universe one is sure to forget almost immediately
• A propensity for writing hard fkin bars
• Insatiable munchies
• Reddened irises
• Giggling
• Inability, or unwillingness, to get off a sofa (indica puts ya in da couch)
• Paranoia (sometimes, not always, and not for everyone) - and a resulting inability to calmly manage interactions with armed representatives of the law

Here are a few symptoms I haven’t (yet) encountered:

• Changes to your DNA, resulting in the development of genetically inherited features prevalent amongst people of semitic descent, such as deep-set eyes and a big ol’ nose
• Insta-tanning - resulting in a brownish, olive skin pigmentation
• Getting worse at counting

“So with your permission, I’d like to do a test,” continued BB.

I consented to the test, because how much of a choice do you really have in that situation? Well, as it turns out, in Austria, you do have the right to say no. I didn’t know this at the time, and I’m ultimately glad that I agreed to the test. If I had refused, I wouldn’t have been automatically arrested.

Instead, the police could have chosen to take me to the station, or to the nearest certified medical professional who could conduct a blood test to see if I had recently ingested any controlled substances. I made the right call, given that I had nothing at all to hide, but I didn’t feel I had much of a choice, even though the options were outlined for me.

BB outlined their ingenious test, a very sciency marvel of an exam which is bound to stump greenthusiasts forevermore.

I was instructed to close my eyes, tilt my head backwards, and count silently to 30. When I got there, I was to say “stop”, and my count would be compared to that of an actual stopwatch, which would be running simultaneously.

I’m not saying I can’t count, I can actually count pretty good (editor's note: this was written before I tested myself).

But even under the best conditions, if I’m asked to count 30 seconds, my thoughts are likely to drift off and alter the effectiveness of my timekeeping. See the (absolutely shocking) results of a test conducted under these conditions below.

Under that day's conditions - standing in the street, surrounded by armed police regarding me as a foreigner, and an object of suspicion, with my eyes closed, adrenaline pumping and my heart rate elevated - I wasn't feeling particularly calm.

Now, with hindsight, having failed the same test spectacularly whilst sitting in a peaceful park by myself, I’m realising that I probably didn’t do all that well.

As soon as I said “stop” and opened my eyes, I watched BB's face contort, and read his expression to mean: “borderline, at best”.

Because I simply refuse to help myself, I asked, “how’d I do?” in a joking tone. This was answered with a shrug, and I wasn’t told how I’d done. Not a very good test, in my opinion, but I’m grateful it didn’t get me in any more trouble.

Having “proven” a lack of THC coursing through my veins, I was asked if they could search my bag.

Again, I consented. I did not know for a fact, at that point, that they only had the right to search my bag if they had reason to suspect that I was carrying something illegal, or if I told them they could. Now, I will know to respectfully ask what their suspicion is before agreeing to let them search the contents of my pockets or rucksack.

Again, if I were to refuse, that would potentially give them reasonable suspicion, allowing them to take me down to the police station for a more thorough inspection of my person.

I had nothing to hide at that moment, as I was carrying a basketball - which was picked up and placed gently on the ground - and a paper sack at the bottom, full of empty lunchboxes. Before opening the sack to reveal its contents, MC asked if I had anything in there I wanted them to know about.

My answer, “lunch boxes,” was honest, because I think everyone, regardless of their career choices or proclivity for racial profiling, should know about lunch boxes. A simple, but effective, and elegant invention which nobody should be deprived of. Them things hold lunch, and we all deserve lunch.

MC was disappointed, clearly, to discover those lunch boxes. If I was a hack (and I am) I would say that the disappointment was due to those boxes being empty and therefore lacked even a single paltry doughnut for them to split three ways.

They checked the main, top and side pocket, finding a battery bank, a pair of charging cables, and my house-keys, but stopped when they opened the second and final pouch. Therein, I carry a small, open topped cardboard box, containing two rows of five white chalk pieces. I use these to mark up shooting spots on outdoor basketball courts - of which this excellent city has so many to offer - when I’m running drills to build towards my longstanding NBA aspirations.

The cop looked up at me briefly, before having extracted the chalk and understood what they actually were. In my mind, MC believed that they had just stumbled upon a box containing ten pre-rolled joints, in sharp white rolling paper.

I’d be disappointed too, buddy.

The box was extracted and held it in a cupped palm, and I watched as the officer’s face barely concealed a laugh. The box was handed to me, and I explained what they were for.

All three cops looked incredibly bored of me, even if they could probably have fined me for admitting to regularly vandalising public spaces with chalk. Lock me up, along with all those happy hopscotching little criminals you see outside schools.

My ID was handed back to me, and they were just about to leave when they asked how long I’d been in Vienna, if I worked, and where I lived. I told them that I was actually working at that very moment, and that I’d arrived just over a month earlier, and then gave them the name of my street. They asked why that address had not come up in their search.

MC’s eyes lit up slightly when I explained that I was not yet registered there, as my appointment for doing so - which has been organised - would be the following week.

“But when did you move in?”

I told him.

“Well you are supposed to register within the first three days,” explained the lead cop. I knew this already, and three days had elapsed already, but that’s am unreasonably short amount of time. “If you do not, that can result in a fine.”

I explained again that I had the appointment to register, and could show a confirmation of that appointment, and watched all three considering whether or not to bother issuing the fine. This is a minor offence, and throughout our interaction I had been entirely cooperative and polite, if not a little too prepared to try and make jokes with them.

I am thankful that they decided it wasn’t worth the hassle - and maybe that I had already been inconvenienced enough. I don’t know how they think, so I might be wrong about that. Whatever the case may be, our interaction had given them no reason to deepen the suspicions they formed based on my appearance - even though I’m sure that talking to me did nothing to convince them that I don’t like weed.

“Be sure to register as soon as possible, because when you’re stopped again, you will be fined” warned MC.

“Okay, I will do,” I responded. “Thanks.”

They got in their car, and drove away, with hope in their eyes, I’m sure, that they would soon stumble across someone a little bit more exciting.

This interaction took place in the mansion strewn Döbling, rather than the social housing and apartment block littered Brigettenau. In the latter district, the proportion of people who look like me, rather than my fair-skinned counterparts, is much higher. During my shifts there, I’ve noticed that people regard passing police cars with disdain.

In Döbling, some cops can be seen patrolling on foot. In Brigettenau, they don’t leave their vehicles unless they absolutely have to.

During one of my very first shifts, when I was walking down the street in the less affluent of these districts, I saw a young person drinking a beer as a large police van passed by.

Very intentionally, and indignantly, this person proceeded to step into the road, head tipped back to take a long swig, staring the driver down and walking as close as possible, without making contact, to the vehicle.

The beer can got as close to clipping the van’s wing mirror as it possibly could have done without doing so, and the message was clear. In Brigettenau, many appear to feel that they are unfairly targeted by police, and some of them have taken it upon themselves to antagonise officers and make it clear that they are not welcome, and only tolerated to the extent that they have to be.

If graffiti is to be believed (and I staunchly believe that it is, because when the writing is literally on the walls, that has to mean something), some residents, in some parts of Brigettenau, see their district as a “ghetto”.

I don’t know that this is fair, and I don’t know how to evaluate that claim given that the numerous public parks there are so beautiful, the streets are so clean, roads, pavements and bike paths are so well maintained, and people generally appear to be doing well there, and I have generally felt safe there.

Relative to many other parts of Vienna, and not just the incredibly affluent neighbouring 19., this one is more deprived. I do not live there, and have only spent a limited amount of time there so far, so I won’t pretend to be an expert on the subject, but it still strikes me as important to acknowledge this perspective.

Wherever you go in Brigettenau, you’re never far from “ACAB” scrawled across a wall.

Back in 2020, George Floyd was brutally murdered by an absolutely horrific human being and Minnesota cop - for the alleged crime of having used a suspected counterfeit twenty dollar bill.

This killing triggered anti-racist and anti-policing awakenings which I believe have yet to be fully quelled, because the causes of such violent racism and oppression have yet to be uprooted.

George Floyd’s murder was one in a terrifyingly, and tragically long list of people killed by cops in the US, and it led to protesting and demonstrations of solidarity across the world. I was in Glasgow when I watched the footage I will never be able to scrub from my memory. Though pandemic restrictions made mass gatherings inadvisable, if not illegal, thousands came together at Glasgow Green in a mass-demonstration organised by anti-racist activists.

At the time, “defund the police” and “all cops are bastards” were phrases being used liberally, and a lot of people were thinking about the police in a way they hadn’t before. Even though it wasn’t a Glaswegian or Viennese officer who killed Floyd, people all across the world were questioning the construct, and contemplated what it was that police forces exist to protect - and who their work truly serves.

To some, ACAB is literal, and every one of these law enforcement officers is an oppressor. To others, ACAB is a slogan encapsulating a more nuanced approach to policing, which does not necessarily aim to suggest that each individual police officer is a monster, but that by virtue of having to protect and serve monstrous interests, even the most righteous of “good apples” are bound to be spoiled.

I started this piece talking about class and wealth, and I’ve been thinking about both a lot since I was stopped - and let go with little more than a warning.

I grew up in Luxembourg - a middle class person in an upper class nation. My parents provided me with a very high standard of life. I never had to worry about food on the table. I never had to worry about economic precariousness, even if they sometimes did. I was provided with a great education at schooling level, and followed this up with two university degrees - both of which are currently being squandered on ideological/laziness grounds, depending on who you ask.

When I need or want to be, I can be very well spoken and polite.

My appearance, to some, can apparently be threatening, but in my experience, this perception almost immediately falls away when I speak. Because I grew up very middle class, the mannerisms and affect haven’t gone anywhere. Even now, as a minimum wage worker doing manual, repetitive labour, I’m living a middle class life.

Granted, this isn’t necessarily a sustainable position, but I have enough resource access - and enough help being offered to me - that I have a lot more opportunity than most people ever have or will. Even in this economy.

I don’t derive any pride at all in this position. I have done nothing at all to earn it, and I’ve met scores of people with less supportive backgrounds who have done a lot more with a lot less.

I feel strongly that the distinctions between people of different classes exist to exacerbate infighting and prevent the development of sweeping solidarity It would be beneficial to advancing all of our rights through collective struggle for us to disregard those distinctions completely - by eliminating them.

It is easy for me to think this, from where I'm standing, but that facility doesn't make it any less true that we are all workers being exploited and destroyed by capitalism.

Some of us live comfortably while others are a lot less comfortable. How could that not breed resentment? Those who are less comfortable are the ones most likely to feel the effects of devastation first, and worst. It's coming to us all, though.

I am one of those incredibly privileged individuals with safety nets resulting from my being a European Union citizen, with parents who have been able to build themselves a comfortable nest-egg, with the ability and generosity to still have enough left over for me.

I can’t say that I was stopped this week because I’m a card-carrying member of the oppressed working class. There are strong associations, shared across variants of whatever European public psyche actually exists, between class and race. The racist expectation is mind-numbingly simple, but no less prevalent for its ridiculous simplicity, that those who’s bodies exhibit signs of not being white are more likely to be relegated to the lowest rungs of the socio-economic ladder.

I was stopped, because I appear to be just-not-white enough to be smoking weed, because I’m not white enough to appear to be Austrian, and because I’m not white enough to be assumed to be as middle class as I am.

I was allowed to go because when the cops spoke to me, they could tell that I wasn’t whatever it was they had imagined me to be.

I don’t like police, but I also haven’t been traumatised by them, not really. As a result, I’m able to treat them respectfully, and non-confrontationally, even though I don’t respect their job.

My class showed itself when they let me off the hook for a minor infraction, because I’d been forthcoming and respectful up to that point. I even thanked them when they left, and I’m betting that I would not have been nearly as likely to do that if I hadn’t spent most of my life naively believing that police existed to protect people.

They exist to protect wealth, the wealthy state, those benefitting most from it, and the status quo.

If such a time does come - as unfortunately I believe it has to if we’re going to save our world and ourselves from catastrophe - they will be geared up, standing staunchly between those seeking to redistribute the stolen, accumulated wealth of the few they serve.

And if history is any indication, they are likely to keep doling out the violence deemed necessary to do so.

blog the fourth signing off