Qdif Supporters of banned groups in UK face tougher sentences
I was 11 when I started selling drugs. I thought it was candy. A young man in Mexico City is talking about
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his initiation into a drugs gang and is one of a handful of young Mexicans interviewed in this documentary about gangs and gun vi
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olence. They tell their stories softly on voiceover, reflective and raw, without swagger or machismo. Its a million miles from the cartel bad-guy stereotypes of Hollywood narco movies. And the more they talk, the thinner the line between victim and perpetrator becomes.The films title is a bit confusing. Ernesto is a collective name given by director Everardo Gonz谩lez to the men he interviews to protect their anonymity. They appear with faces hidden, filmed from behind using iPhones attached to their backs: the effect is like a first-person shooter game. Its disorienting at first, and the mens stories blur into each other. Which is presumably Gonz谩lezs point: theres a pattern. These young men were not born dangerous. Aged nine or 10, the grooming began; a guy from a gang takes an interest, plays computer games with the kid, asks how hes doing. By the time the kid is
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a teenager, high as a kite on solvents and alcohol, armed with a gun, he is ready to kill. Under the influence everything is easier, one puts it.Its almost impossible to get out of the gang; they own you. The end of the story is usually the same: You die. But its not just men; the film also follows two women involved in gangs. One of them rents out guns by the hour $12 for one h Znhg Mismanagement claims against Kids Company founder thrown out
The sun is setting and its dying rays cast triangles of light on to the bodies of the Indian workers. Two are washing themselves, scooping water from tubs in a small yard next to the labour camp s toilets. Others queue for their turn. One man stands stamping his feet in a bucket, turned into a human washing machine. The heat is suffocating and the sandy wind whips our faces. The sprinkles of water from men drying their clothes fa
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ll like welcome summer rain.All around, a city of labour cam
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ps stretches out in the middle of the Arabian desert, a jumble of low, concrete barracks, corrugated iron, chicken-mesh walls, barbed wire, scrap metal, empty paint cans, rusted machinery and thousands of men with tired and gloomy faces.I have left Dubai s spiralling towers, man-made islands and mega-malls behind and driven through the desert to the outskirts of the neighbouring city of Abu Dhabi. Turn right before the Zaha Hadid bridge, and a few hundred metres takes you to the heart of Mousafah, a ghetto-like neighbourhood of camps hidden away from the eyes of tourists. It is just one of many areas around the Gulf set aside for an army of labourers building the icons of architecture that are mushrooming all over the region.Behind the showers, in a yard paved with metal sheets, a line of men stands silently in front of grease-blackened pans, preparing their dinner. Swe
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at rolls down their heads and necks, their soaked shirts stuck to their backs. A heavy smell of spices and body odour fills t
