A year has gone by since the Olympic Games. Only 147 of those 365 days ended without the residents of Complexo do Alemão hearing gunshots. After the promises of hope and the Games’ legacy of peace, 218 days were accompanied by a soundtrack of gunfire.

On 218 days we were afraid we wouldn’t make it home alive; we were scared to leave the house in case we were hit by a stray bullet; on 218 days we were afraid that the walls of our homes might be hit. To pretend that we were not in a war zone, the military police painted their armoured military tanks – popularly called caveirão, or “big skull” – white.

A few weeks ago, I was woken by intense gunfire. It seemed to be very close. Still sleepy and curled up in my sheets, I instinctively rolled out of bed and lay down on the floor. Peering out of the window, I could see a huge white van, like the ones that transport money. At 2am, as I lay there, my phone rang. A friend was calling me in despair to warn me that a shooting was happening right next to my door.

Outside my window was an armoured tank, protecting the military police as they fired shots. All that protects me from gunfire is the wall of my home. What makes the policemen’s “work” easier and safer puts my life – and the lives of thousands in the narrow alleys of favelas – at serious risk.

For a long time I’ve wondered about the reason for the conflict and danger in the favelas of Rio, the same places that hold so much shared affection, culture, art and memory.

I have many memories of Nova Brasilia, in the Complexo do Alemão. I can remember when as a kid I ran through the alleyways barefoot, with a smile on my face. These days, children have a look of fear. A child who plays after school in Nova Brasilia today needs to stay alert and know the escape routes. I hear parents saying, “If you hear shots, run to the bar or lie down on the floor near the tables,” because police operations might begin at any time of day. It might be during school hours, or at lunchtime, or during playtime. At any moment police and drug traffickers might run into each other in an alley, and suddenly it’s war.

Since the Olympics, residents of the Complexo do Alemão have been afraid of organising a cultural event in the neighbourhood square, or of people gathering outside because an intense shootout might happen without prior notice, with no chance to find protection. It has been 218 days of fear.

All eyes – and investments – were turned to Brazil when it hosted, over 10 years, three mega sporting events. But the country has failed to keep its promises of peace after the 2007 Pan-American Games, the 2014 World Cup and the 2016 Olympic Games.

Before the Olympics, the state was completely absent in the favela. Back then we had no cable car – now we do, but it doesn’t work. We did not have family clinics – now we do, but without medical care. There were no police – now there are, and we live with daily shootings. What have the poorest received as a result of the Games? On television, I see only news of corruption.

Brazil is at war, some say. A war on the poor, justified by drugs. A war that justifies, for many (but not for me) the presence of the Brazilian army in the streets of the city. The beauty of Rio’s natural landscapes contrasts with the conflict of our daily lives, militarised by the government.

We need to talk about the relationship between violence and drugs. Young people from different favelas are now coming together to think about strategies that we hope can feed into public policies on drugs in Brazil. The #Movimentos movement – which runs discussions and seminars for young people – was created because it isn’t possible to deal with the drugs issue without the input of those who live with the consequences of failed policies.

As other countries move towards resolving the issue in a serious way, investing in research and prevention mechanisms in public health services, Brazil invests in more weapons and repression that result in an increase of death and incarceration – particularly among people who are poor, black, young and living in favelas.