Did the Murder of George Floyd Lead to the End of My 17-Year Police Career in Scotland?
I felt the hate of the world on my shoulders
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I wrote this piece two years ago when I decided my career break from Police Scotland would become permanent. Being a police officer was one of the greatest honours of my life; it has also imbued me with vicarious shame.
I never intended to leave the police. I was in it for the long haul. I was there to fly through the ranks and serve my country. I was dedicated to bringing about justice and helping the vulnerable.
Nominated as the probationer of the year and the winner of multiple awards. This high achiever excelled in every department she worked in. I don’t say this to brag; I want to highlight the passion I once held for this job.
Uniformed response, community policing, criminal investigation department, violence reduction unit, murder squads, sexual offences department, security runner for the baton relay in the 2014 Commonwealth Games, offender management unit... you name it; I did it. And I did it with commitment, determination, and humanity. Humanity. Is this a rarity in the police?
I never intended to leave the police.
I saw behind the curtain and under the blanket of life. I peered into the cracks that society steps over. I ran toward situations that most of you sensibly retreat from.
I witnessed the ugly, dark, and dangerous side of life. But was also privy to decency in its rawest and purest of forms.
You never forget your first death message.
Let in by the flatmate, I sat on the sofa, waiting for the sister of the deceased to return home. My heart beat through my chest. She breezed in the door with levity and smiles. The weight of my words crushed her. I held her hand and fought my own empathetic tears as she struggled to make sense of my message.
I embraced the crisp night in a comforting hug as I closed her door. Leaving her in my wake to navigate her now alien world. I could no longer hold back the tears, and they streamed down my cheeks. Police officers are human too, or at least some of them are.
I never intended to leave the police.
You never forget your first sudden death, either. At least, I haven’t. She was only 40 years old. Lying naked in her hallway. With only the whisperings of belongings around her to give me a sense of her character.
Death is a peculiar thing.
We don’t notice the metronomic heartbeat within every person we meet. But take this away, and we certainly notice it’s lacking. When life first expires, all that remains is a body, not quite a person, but not yet a cadaver. It’s confusing for our senses.
By far, my most challenging encounters with death involved children. No parent should ever have to bury their child.
The media incited hate against the police.
Thousands upon thousands of good news police stories are available, yet they pounce on the errors and mishaps. Sensationalisation sells. Was the corruption increasing?
The mistrust and skepticism of the police were palpable. Even my mum’s friend suggested a police car passing her with the sirens blaring and blue lights flashing was on its way to lunch.
Ignorance is bliss. I wanted to give the alternative option that it was attending a fatal vehicle collision, where officers would have to retrieve a decapitated head out of a ditch, locate and inform the next of kin, spend all evening completing admin, and have to disappoint their partner by canceling their evening plans yet again.
The police is not a job you can understand from the outside. Yet there are plenty of keyboard police officers all over social media, experts without a day of service or training.
I never intended to leave the police.
As the years passed, I realised I was just a number. My organisation did not value me. The people I was trying to protect did not value me. Heck, I didn’t value myself.
Crime does not stop. I worked over Christmases and regularly missed significant celebrations. I had requests rejected for leave to attend weddings. I even had to cancel foreign holidays for court attendance. I was becoming robotic and institutionalised. Several times, when involved in complex arrests, I worked over 24 hours on the trot!
When the attitude of my colleagues became more about covering their asses than providing a service, I lost my edge. Did I succumb to the “if you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em?” adage? I’m not sure, but I can’t deny it.
Was I losing the part of me that made me a good police officer? Was my compassion, kindness, authenticity, empathy, and ability to connect with other humans diminishing?
I never intended to leave the police.
On 25th May 2020, George Floyd uttered his last words.
I can’t breathe.
A murder in America shook the world and ricocheted through my small corner of Scotland. I felt the now familiar weight of the world's hatred on my back. It did not matter that I policed with compassion. It is irrelevant that I was one of the good ones.
I was part of the clan that murdered George Floyd and was guilty by association.
Complex feelings stirred inside me. By doing a certain job, I was labeled as racist and corrupt. Society judged me as being part of that gang and not by the merits of my actions.
I felt defensive.
I wanted to shout out to the world, “Not all police officers.” I felt persecuted for being a police officer. The behaviour of George Floyd's murderers does not indict all police officers.
And yet it did. And it needed to. We must scrutinise every officer out there.
It struck me that my feelings of frustration, upset, and injustice are absolutely nothing compared to the experiences of Black people across the globe.
Black people who have endured generations of living hell are still targeted and murdered.
I chose my job. I had the advantage of removing my warrant card and stepping into oblivion at the end of the working day. I have the luxury of changing my job. We can not choose what skin colour we are born into.
My privilege of choice made me feel sick.
If I had to endure slight discomfort of the hate of strangers for a job I chose to do, big deal, but I realised that paled into insignificance compared to the deadly racism Black people face.
I never intended to leave the police.
My career break began three months after George Floyd was murdered. A three-year sabbatical in another country. An opportunity to learn new skills, pivot, and explore different paths. A chance to return to the person I was before being calloused by my job. A job I had once loved deeply.
Be the change you want to see in the world — attributed to Ghandi
I used to believe that. I used to believe I could do anything. But as my return date to policing drew closer, I felt my anxiety escalate.
I’ve had space to reflect and grow. I wondered if I could return and fight the amoeba from within. Did I have it in me to tackle the institutional sexism, racism, and all the other isms still so rife within all the ranks of the force? Could I infiltrate the system and make systematic changes from within its control center?
I soul-searched and pondered, and ultimately, I was honest with myself. My values did not align. I no longer had the strength or gumption to take on Goliath.
Policing in America and Scotland are oceans apart, literally and metaphorically. But the murder of George Floyd burst my damn and left my reservoirs dry. Those murderous police officers took George Floyd’s last breath and knocked the wind out of my sails.
I have always given my all to my work. But there are only so many times we can get back up after being knocked down. It’s time to tap out while I still can. This privilege is not lost on me.
I never intended to leave the police. I will always be proud to have been a detective. But its hold on me has gone, and I am now free. I handed in my notice and closed the door on an era. I feel I owe the public an apology, as good cops are leaving in their droves.
One rotten apple really does spoil the whole barrel. And unfortunately, there’s a lot of rotting fruit in forces worldwide.
If you are a police officer, don’t let the job callous you. The job can be thankless — know you are appreciated. Thank you for the sacrifices you make. Thank you for risking your life. Take that extra time to sit with the bereaved. Remember, there’s a fine line between banter and bullying. You do not have discretionary powers over who you treat with integrity, fairness, and respect.
And finally — please remember to always be kind.
Thanks for reading
Ali
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You may also enjoy my other Substack Life Without Children, a place for readers and writers of life without children, whether by choice or circumstance.
You can also find my writings and musings on Medium, where I write about well-being, feminism & personal growth. I also own the publication Life Without Children.
Love this article. I’ll look at some of your others soon too. You have been on a fascinating journey.
Love this article. I’ll look at some d tour others