The U.S. State Department’s 2022 Human Rights Report highlighted a troubling pattern of impunity within the Mauritian police force, noting that dismissals or prosecutions of officers for brutality and human‑rights violations were “rare.” A 2021 United Nations human‑rights report echoed this assessment, describing impunity as a “significant problem” for police investigations that often dragged on for years. Mauritian lawyers share the same concern. Jean‑Claude Bibi, who handles police‑brutality cases, told *L’Express* that convictions are “rather few in relation to the amount of complaints received.” The question, then, is why Mauritius struggles to hold abusive officers accountable.
A major factor is political. Since the mid‑1980s, opposition parties have repeatedly criticised governments over law and order, prompting successive administrations to adopt increasingly repressive police powers. Rajni Lallah of Lalit, which has documented 72 deaths in police custody since 1976, observes that this climate fostered a “more muscular” style of policing in the early 2000s, epitomised by Prem Radhooa, head of the MCIT in Curepipe. Radhooa’s tactics initially won public and political support, but his unit soon extended brutality beyond the poor to wealthier citizens, many of whom sued and won damages. By the time Radhooa left the force, police commissioner Ramanooj Gopalsingh acknowledged over 50 unresolved brutality cases linked to him. Lallah adds that the political attitude has changed little: “We do not see calls from the government to end police brutality; the police continue to believe their job is to extract confessions, and there is just no political will to deal with this issue.”
Legislative attempts at reform have stalled. After the 1999 riots sparked by Kaya’s death in custody, parties have offered only lip‑service to policing reform. The Labour‑PMSD government introduced a Police and Criminal Evidence (PACE) Bill in 2013 but never passed it. Subsequent MSM‑led governments promised a Police and Criminal Justice (PAJCA) Bill from 2015 onward, yet that legislation remains unrealised.
Institutionally, successive governments have created bodies that prove ineffective at curbing police abuse. The 1998 Complaints Investigation Bureau (CIB), housed within the police, was dissolved in 2013 due to a lack of public confidence in police investigating their own colleagues. Its 893‑case backlog was transferred to the Police Complaints Division (PCD) of the National Human Rights Commission (NHRC) in 2014. However, the NHRC’s approach—initially seeking conciliation without lawyers and without cross‑examination—often resulted in complainants withdrawing their cases. Bibi notes, “If a private citizen hits someone, that is a criminal offence; why should a policeman’s assault be treated as a matter for conciliation?”
The NHRC itself recognised its limitations. In its first report after the PCD’s creation, it pleaded for greater powers to act against abusive officers. Yet, rather than granting these powers, the commission’s capacity was reduced: from six investigators in 2016 to two in 2018. Of 541 brutality complaints, only one—Iqbal Toofany’s—was forwarded to the Director of Public Prosecutions. In 2018 the NHRC’s PCD was replaced by the Independent Police Complaints Commission (IPCC), which replicated the same shortcomings. By June 2022 the IPCC had six investigators handling 507 assault complaints, while 1,509 of 2,681 total complaints remained unresolved and no officers had been convicted.
Reliance on internal police discipline has drawn criticism from auditors. The 2021‑2022 audit report identified 147 interdicted officers who, despite being off duty, continued to receive a total of Rs 49.7 million in pay; one investigation lasted twelve years. Regulations introduced in 2008 and reinforced in 2015 and 2020 to expedite internal investigations were ignored. Public confidence has eroded: a June 2022 Afro‑Barometer survey found only 46 % of Mauritians trusted the police, and 64 % believed the force used excessive force.
High‑profile cases illustrate the systemic failures. In 2006, suspect Ramdoolar Ramlogun died in police custody after being shuffled among more than 20 officers; four officers were charged, but the case collapsed because no one could identify who inflicted the fatal beating. The Supreme Court lamented that “those responsible remain unpunished.” A similar pattern emerged in the 2009 Neemye case: after a brawl, Neemye was shackled to a hospital bed and paraded in public. Although police admitted the practice was “out of practice,” no officer was held accountable. The Supreme Court later stressed that “a disciplinary force should be able to ascertain who was responsible…accountability…leads to public confidence.” Yet no officer faced consequences, and Neemye received only Rs 100,000 in damages.
Legal scholars argue that the burden of proof should shift to the police. Lallah contends, “The courts should put the onus on the police to explain how someone in their custody ended up with injuries or was abused, rather than expecting detainees to prove it and identify the officers involved.” Bibi adds that delayed investigations hinder identification of perpetrators, often resulting in case dismissals.
The government’s response has been largely symbolic. By June 2022, Prime Minister Pravind Jugnauth announced the installation of 805 CCTV cameras in police stations since 2018, yet Lallah points out that many incidents of brutality occur outside stations, as in the Ramlogun case or recent viral videos. In 2018, opposition leader Xavier‑Luc Duval proposed that courts reject confessions unless voluntarily given before a magistrate, but this reform, like the IPCC’s empowerment, remains unimplemented.
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