Even Silence Has an End Part 17

A grave, intense division now arose among us. In the beginning it merely seemed superficial; those who had chosen to be obsequious, and in turn felt judged by the rest of us for doing so, would still help the others with their needs. Everyone had something to gain, and none of us could be sure that we wouldn't behave the same way at one point or another out of sheer need.

For Lucho and me, our need to protect ourselves from ourselves and to maintain the unity of the group compelled us to call on our comrades to write a letter of protest to the members of the Secretariado. It was highly unlikely that our letter would ever end up in the hands of Marulanda. But we hoped in this way to establish a direct channel to the leaders, even if it was only to Sombra. The receptionist had to go, or at least be neutralized. I wanted, moreover, to make a written declaration, a testimony of our refusal to accept the treatment to which we were subjected.

They had no right to lock us up in a concentration camp, even in the eyes of their revolutionary doctrine. I did not want the members of the FARC to go about quietly finding ways to justify themselves and feel good about it. Plus, I dreaded that we might end up growing used to it.

I talked about this with Lucho for a long time. He also thought that one of us would be liberated soon and that we should write a secret letter to Uribe asking him to authorize a military operation for our release. He believed I would be the one who would get out, thanks to France's intervention.

So we all got together for a conference inside the barracks. There was a downpour; our voices would be m.u.f.fled by the sound of the rain on the metal roof. Those who were in more frequent contact with the receptionist were afraid that our letter might bring on reprisals. But sensing that they might be accused of cowardice or collaboration with the FARC, they argued about the form of the letter. The secret message to Uribe was less problematic. In principle everyone was ready to sign it, probably because they all a.s.sumed it would never reach its destination. Gloria was the only one who abstained. She did not want to authorize a military rescue operation that might endanger the lives of her children, still held hostage by the FARC. Everyone understood her position.

We spent a whole afternoon writing the letter to the Secretariado. Lucho went back and forth between us, like a good conventioneer, to add this or remove that, so that everyone would be satisfied. The rain had stopped and I saw one of our fellow prisoners speaking through the fence with the receptionist. I thought I could detect a servile att.i.tude, but I rejected my impression to avoid disturbing the harmony of our group. Later I saw that same person talking for a long time with Clara. In the evening when we were all getting ready to sign the letter to the commanders, Clara refused because she didn't want any problems with Sombra. I didn't insist. Those who were getting cold feet about continuing our protest used this escape hatch to declare that we all had to be united and that if we weren't, they would also abstain. So the letter to the Secretariado was abandoned.

The letter to Uribe was signed by half of our newly created company, secretly, so that the others who had refused to sign wouldn't know about it. The ones who had gone through with it were running the risk that it might fall into FARC hands and that they would be punished. The group's division seemed sealed. They entrusted me with hiding the letter, something I did for many years, keeping it even long after we had parted and scattered into different camps. No one ever found it, despite numerous searches. I had folded it, wrapped it in plastic, and sewn it inside the reinforcement at the elbow of my jacket. I reread it several times, long after we had all written and signed it, and it always gave me a twinge of sorrow. In those days we were still able to hope.

On a morning when we remained disheartened by our lack of success and by the split that had divided us, the prison awoke in an uproar. We could hear the sound of engines. Several fast boats had just arrived. The guards were in their parade uniforms. Rogelio wore a vest covered with ammunition and a parachutist's beret that hung over one ear and had the FARC tab embroidered on the front. He was so proud of himself! It wasn't hard to get the information out of him: Mono Jojoy was here on an inspection tour.

We rapidly agreed on what we would say when he came to greet us, thinking this would be the opportunity to express the indignation we'd meant to convey in our aborted letter. We set up our hammocks in the yard-because s.p.a.ce was at a premium, we had made minute calculations and had agreed the day before on where to hang everyone's hammock-and we waited for Mono Jojoy.

s.p.a.ce was perhaps the only advantage that the military hostages had over us and we envied them for it. The day we arrived in the prison, I saw them for the first time. I was in the middle of exchanging my first words with Gloria when I turned around at the sound of a metallic clanking. There were men's voices angrily calling behind me. For a moment I thought it was guerrillas chasing after pigs that had gone astray, because that had happened before.

Forty or more men in rags emerged from the bushes, with long hair, stubble on their faces, and a huge chain around their necks binding them together. Flanked by armed guards, they were walking in single file, carrying heavy backpacks, laden down with enormous old pots, moldy mattresses that were half split open and rolled up against their necks, chickens attached by their feet swinging upside down from their belts, pieces of cardboard and empty oil drums wedged behind the straps of their bundles, and radios all dented and patched together hanging from their necks like an additional yoke. They looked as if they had come out of a labor camp. I couldn't believe my eyes.

Guerrillas were circling them, shouting stupid orders to keep them walking. Holding to the bars of my prison's metal gate, breathless, my eyes popping out, I watched as this terrifying procession went by. I could make no sound. I recognized Alan. He turned around, and when he saw me, he smiled uneasily and said, "Hola, Ingrid. . . ." "Hola, Ingrid. . . ."

The other soldiers all turned around, one after the other. "It's Ingrid, it's the doctora. doctora."

They stopped walking. Some greeted me from a distance with a friendly wave, others raised their fists in a sign of resistance, some barraged me with questions I couldn't answer. The boldest among them came up to the gate to offer their hands through the bars. I touched them, wis.h.i.+ng that my hand's contact could convey the emotion I felt and bring them some comfort. These bedraggled men of the jungle had been persecuted, tortured, and yet they had the guts to smile, to forget themselves, to act with dignity and courage. The guards shouted insults and threats to stop them from talking to me. The men were quickly locked back up in the building behind ours. We couldn't see them, but we could hear them. As a result we had conversations with them, speaking in hushed voices, placing our lips against the cracks between the planks on either side of the narrow pa.s.sage where the guards performed their rounds. Communication between the two buildings was forbidden.

That is how we learned that Sombra had kindly granted them the s.p.a.ce to practice some sports, a privilege we didn't have. In the vastness of the jungle, where everything was lacking except for s.p.a.ce, the guerrillas had chosen to confine us in a narrow, insalubrious place whose conditions led to nothing but crowding and conflict. The few hours of cohabitation we'd shared had already unveiled the tensions created by our needs as individuals to defend our own s.p.a.ce. As it did in primitive societies, s.p.a.ce had once again become the essential, basic property, and its fundamental value lay in a.s.suaging our injured pride: Whoever had the most felt superior.

Settled in our hammocks as if we were in an observation post, we could follow Mono Jojoy's inspection tour. He kept a safe distance from the fences and circled our enclosure so that our voices couldn't reach him, and he avoided meeting our eyes. If he'd been inspecting his cattle, he wouldn't have acted otherwise. Then he vanished.

An hour later a group we didn't know emerged from the northern wing of the prison. Three men-two mature tall blonds and a third younger man, all wearing shorts and carrying lightweight backpacks, surrounded by half a dozen heavily armed guerrillas-walked alongside our fence, close by, on the wooden walkway that the guerrillas had just set up that went all the way around the outside of the prison. They were looking straight ahead, and they went on walking until they reached the soldiers' barracks.

"Hey, gringos! How are you? Do you speak English?"

The soldiers were thrilled to practice their few words of English. We looked at one another, disconcerted. Of course. They must be the three Americans who had been captured a year earlier and who were also part of the group of interchangeables. interchangeables.

One of our companions who had the closest rapport with Rogelio announced knowingly, "Yes, those are the Americans. They're going to put them in here with us."

"Here?"

"I don't know, with the soldiers or with us. I think it's going to be with us."

"What do you mean? There's no room!"

He frowned at me. Then, as if he'd found the thing that would hurt, he let out slowly, "They're prisoners like us. And we welcomed you when you came. You have to do the same with the others."

I was embarra.s.sed. Yes, of course, we had to welcome them as best we could.

THIRTY-ONE.

THE BIG ROW.

NOVEMBER 2003.

The metal gate opened, and the three Americans entered, their jaws clenched, their gazes apprehensive. We shook hands, introduced ourselves, greeted one another, and made room for them to sit down. The companion who had just lectured me took them under his wing and showed them the facilities. There were no bunks for them. Everybody began to speculate about what the guerrillas would do. We had the answer within the hour.

Brian, who was one of the strongest guerrillas in the group, showed up with the famous chain saw on his shoulder. Two other men followed him, carrying wooden planks and rough-hewn beams. They asked us to remove all our belongings and go out. In a few minutes, one of the bunks was cut from its base and pushed over to one side up against the wire mesh beneath the opening that served as a window. In the s.p.a.ce that remained, they managed to fit a new bunk, squeezed in between the two others, with just enough room to reach it from one side. We all watched without saying a word. The room was once again covered in a reddish sawdust that stuck to one's nostrils.

Brian turned to me, bathed in sweat. "Right, where is it you wanted a window?"

I was flabbergasted. I thought that Sombra had forgotten our request.

"I think we should have a window here," I answered. With my finger I drew a huge imaginary rectangle on the wooden wall that looked out over our inner courtyard. Keith, the one of the three who had entered the prison first, was murmuring something behind me. He didn't seem pleased with the idea and was complaining to himself. One of our companions tried to calm him down, but communication was difficult, because he spoke so little Spanish. He managed to convey that he wanted the wall to remain intact. He was afraid of being cold at night.

"Come on, make up your minds!" Brian remonstrated.

"A window, a window!" exclaimed the others, worried that Brian might just turn around and depart.

The incident left a tension in the air. Keith came over to me to smooth things out. He spoke in English.

"Do you know that when you were kidnapped, our mission was to look for you? We flew over the region for days. Who would have thought that we'd eventually find you . . . only here!"

This was news. I was unaware that the American emba.s.sy had contributed to the search. We began to talk eagerly. I told him how Joaquin Gomez had bragged about the FARC's having shot down their plane.

"That's completely wrong. They didn't bring us down. We had engine failure. That's all."

Then, as if he were confiding something, he leaned close to my ear. "In fact, they're really lucky, because we are the only prisoners who truly count here, the three of us and you. We're the jewels in their crown."

I kept silent. His comment disturbed me. Then I answered, weighing my words, "We are all prisoners here. We're all the same."

That made him angry. He felt I had criticized him, and he didn't like it. And yet the last thing I wanted was to have him think I was lecturing him. I smiled and added, "You'll have to tell me your story in detail. I really would like to know what you've been through up to now."

Lucho was behind me. I hadn't seen him come up. He took me by the arm, and the conversation ended there. We were beginning to build some shelves. Orlando had managed to get some nails and borrow a hammer. We had to hurry, since we had the use of it only until the end of the afternoon. We set to work.

That night the barracks rattled with everyone's snoring. It was like the sound of a factory. The day had been intense, and everyone had gone to bed exhausted. I stared at the ceiling and, in particular, the wire fencing over it, a few inches above my nose. They had built everything so quickly that to get to the upper bunks we had to crawl and roll over to lie down, since there was so little s.p.a.ce between the beds and the ceiling. It was impossible to sit up, and to get down from the bunk you had to let yourself go gradually, into the void, hanging from the fencing like a monkey until you landed below. I didn't complain. At least it was sheltered, with a wooden floor that would keep us dry. The new window was a success. A warm breeze came into the barracks and cleaned the air, heavy with the breathing of the ten unfortunate souls crowded inside. A mouse ran along the beam supporting the wire mesh just above my eyes. How long would we have to live packed in here, on top of one another, before we were set free?

In the morning Lucho and I woke up to an unpleasant surprise: All the shelves we had struggled so to build the day before were already filled with other people's belongings. There was no more room! Orlando was laughing to himself as he looked at us. "Go on, don't make such a face. It's no big deal.We'll ask for some more boards, and we'll put some other shelves over there, behind the door. It will be better for you-you'll have them opposite your bunks."

Gloria came over. She thought it was an excellent idea. "And we could make another shelf this side of the fencing!"

I wasn't too happy, quite simply because I thought it was unlikely that the guerrillas would give us any more boards. To my astonishment, at Orlando's request the boards arrived that very same day.

"You'll have a lovely shelf! I'll make a desk for you, fit for a queen!"

Orlando went on making fun of me, but I was relieved, and my spirits improved. With Lucho they set about building a piece of furniture that could be both a table and a shelf. They also planned on putting together a little bookshelf for the corner where Gloria was. I wanted to help. But I sensed I was getting in their way.

I went back out to the courtyard to set up my hammock while they finished the job.

The place that had been allotted to me had now been taken by Keith, unaware that before their arrival we had agreed how to divide up the s.p.a.ce. There was only one tree left where I could hang my hammock, but in that case the other end would have to be fixed to the chain-link of the enclosure. This entailed two problems. First of all, they might not allow me to hang it from the outside fence. Secondly, the rope on my hammock might not be long enough. Luckily, Sombra was doing his rounds of the barracks, and I was able to ask him directly. He agreed, and on top of it he provided the extra rope I needed. My companions looked at me askance. They knew that if I'd had to go through Rogelio, I wouldn't have gotten anything. These were little things, but our lives were made up of nothing but these little things. When Rogelio brought us the evening stewpot and he saw that I had hung my hammock to the fence, a dark shadow pa.s.sed over his eyes. I knew I had definitely fallen out of his good favor.

A few days later, Tom, the oldest of our new companions, who had initially set up near Keith, migrated and came to hang his hammock over by me a few minutes later. He'd obviously had a falling-out with his compatriot. When he saw Lucho coming over to join us, he raised his voice, grumbling. We would have to share the same tree for our hammocks. I tried to explain to him that we all had to make an effort to settle together, because s.p.a.ce was limited. Exasperated, he snapped back at me. Lucho took my defense, also raising his voice. Tom was easily irritable, in the midst of a cold war with his companion. I understood that he wanted to create some distance. It was also in Keith's interest to see Tom go elsewhere. He went to the fence while Tom and Lucho were arguing, and whispered to Rogelio. The metal gate suddenly opened, and the man swept in.

"Ingrid, are you s.h.i.+t stirring? Here everyone is the same. No one prisoner is more important than the others."

"But-" I quieted, instantly realizing this was not simply some misunderstanding over the hammocks.

"I don't want to know. You're not the queen here. You have to obey, that's all there is to it."

I didn't know what to say.

"I'll chain you up so you'll learn your lesson. You'll see!"

What I could could see was that my companions, the ones who had inflamed Rogelio, were holding their sides laughing. see was that my companions, the ones who had inflamed Rogelio, were holding their sides laughing.

Rogelio was delighted, too. His comrades in the watchtowers were following his performance. He spit on the ground, put his ranger's hat back on his head, and walked out, strutting like a peac.o.c.k.

Lucho took me by the shoulders and shook me tenderly. "Come on, we've been through worse. Where's your smile?"

It was true. I had to smile, even if it was hard. Then he added, "They're just making you pay. I heard what you said when the guy told you that you were the jewels of the crown . . . I don't think you've made a friend."

In these early days of cohabitation, we shared everything, even tasks, which we distributed as equitably as possible. We decided to sweep the barracks, the wooden walkway, and the toilets. We made brushes for cleaning the bowls using shreds of T-s.h.i.+rts. Every day we'd clean the facilities in teams of two.

When it was our turn, Lucho and I got up at dawn. In the beginning we had argued, because Lucho categorically refused to let me clean the latrines. He insisted on was.h.i.+ng the toilet shed all by himself. This was a job that required a lot of elbow grease, and I didn't want him to exacerbate his diabetes by overexerting himself. There was nothing I could do. He always pretended to get angry with me and would block my way. So I fell back on the barracks and cleaned them vigorously, because I knew that as soon as he was finished with his ch.o.r.e, he would come and take the broom from my hands to finish my job. This whole business amused no one except Lucho and me. It was a sort of game between us to prove our affection. But it seemed as if our companions didn't appreciate our way of doing things. Criticism became a popular sport. What I wanted most was to build on this fledgling harmony, but that was becoming increasingly difficult. Each of us had a story of pain, spite, or vexation. None of it was really serious. It was just that little things were blown out of all proportion, because each of us was suffering in one way or another. Any odd look or misplaced comment was taken as a grave offense and became a source of resentment, to be chewed over obsessively.

Add to that the way each individual's behavior toward the guerrillas was perceived. There were those who had "sold themselves" and those who "remained dignified." This perception was a product of speculation, because all it took was for someone to speak to the receptionist to be accused of dishonest collaboration with the enemy. In the end, sooner or later, every one of us had to ask for something we needed. If you "obtained" what you had asked for, the others were filled with pathological envy at not having been granted a similar favor. We all eyed one another with suspicion, caught in our absurd divisiveness in spite of ourselves. The atmosphere had grown heavy.

One morning after breakfast, one of our new companions came to see me, looking as if he was in a foul mood. He wanted to talk.

I had just that minute begun a lively conversation with Lucho, Gloria, and Jorge. They wanted me to give them French lessons, and we were getting organized. The intrusion annoyed my friends, but I followed my companion, knowing we would have plenty of time to continue discussing our project later.

My companion said that he'd "heard" that when they arrived, I'd remarked that I did not want them to be with us. Was this true?

"Who told you that?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does, because that is a malicious and distorted claim."

"Did you say it, yes or no?"

"When you arrived, I asked how we would all fit in. I never said that I didn't want you to join us. So the answer is no, I never said that."

"Well, it's important, because it hurt our feelings."

"Don't listen to everything people tell you. Rely on what you can see for yourself. You know that since you arrived, we have all done our best to make you feel welcome. As for me, it's a pleasure to talk with you. I enjoy our conversations, and I would like for us to be friends."

He got up, calmer, held out his hand in a cordial gesture, then apologized to my companions for having taken me away for a few minutes.

"That's the way it works: divide and conquer," said Jorge, the most cautious among us. Then, tapping me on the back of my hand, he added, "Come on, madame. We'll start our French lessons, and that will force us all to think about something else."

THIRTY-TWO.

ROLL CALL.

NOVEMBER 2003.

I began my day with an hour of gymnastics in the s.p.a.ce between Jorge's and Lucho's bunk beds, making the most of their being at the far end of the barracks, where I wouldn't bother anyone. Then I would go and wash in the shed, at the exact hour I had been granted in the strict schedule we had drawn up for the use of the "bath room." The entrance was covered with a black plastic sheet; it was the only place where we could get undressed without being seen. We would all get together before lunch-Lucho, Jorge, Gloria, and I-and sit cross-legged on one of the lower bunks, good-humoredly working on our French lessons, playing cards, and inventing projects to work on together for the day when we would be free.

When the lunch pot arrived, it was chaos. In the beginning, people tried to be courteous. We would go up with our bowls in our hands and help one another. The men let the ladies go first, observing rules of etiquette. But, over time, our conduct gradually changed.

One day someone decided that we should line up. Then someone else ran to get to the front as soon as the clicking of the padlock could be heard. Another day one of the biggest men insulted Gloria, accusing her of elbowing her way so she could help herself to more. What should have been a time to relax became a pitched battle, each of us pointing fingers at the others for wanting to have the best part of this revolting pittance.

The guerrillas had dozens of pigs. We could often smell the roasting meat in the camp, and there was never any for us. When we mentioned this to Rogelio, he brought us back a stew pot with the skull of a pig on a bed of rice. The pig had so many teeth it looked as if it were smiling. A laughing pig A laughing pig, I thought. A swarm of green flies came as its personal escort swirling around it. It was disgusting and that was what we were fighting over. We were hungry and suffering, and we all began to behave the way the guerrillas treated us.

I didn't want to be a part of this. I found it really distressing to be shoved by some and watched over by others, as if they were about to bite every time someone went near the pot. I could see their reactions, their sidelong glances, their bullying strategies. So we eventually agreed that it would be wiser for me not to go near the pot. I stayed in the barracks, and Lucho took my bowl and brought back my rice and beans. From a distance I observed our behavior and wondered why we reacted this way. Rules of civility no longer applied. A different order had been established, one that appeared meticulously egalitarian, but in fact allowed the more aggressive and stronger among us to prevail over those who were smaller and weaker. The women were easy targets. Any protest on our part-once we were irritated and hurt-became an easy object of ridicule. And if one of us was unlucky enough to weep uncontrollably, the reaction was pitiless: "She's trying to trick us!"

I had never been a victim of overt s.e.xism before. I had arrived in the political arena at the right time-discrimination against women was frowned upon, and women's partic.i.p.ation in politics was promoted as a breath of fresh air in a world rotting with corruption. Confronted with this alpha-male behavior made me think I could now understand why the Inquisition had managed to burn so many women at the stake.

One morning at dawn, when no one was up yet, the receptionist stood directly outside the window, together with another guerrilla, who stood just behind him as if to support him in a mission that, judging by how stiffly they stood, must be one of some importance.

Rogelio shouted in a voice that caused the entire barracks to jump out of their beds, "Los prisioneros! Se numeran, rapido!" "Los prisioneros! Se numeran, rapido!" 34 34 I didn't understand what that meant. Count? What did he want from us exactly? I leaned over to speak with Gloria, who slept below, hoping she would have the answer. She had spent more time with Sombra's troops, and I imagined she must know what Rogelio was asking. It must be some routine I was unfamiliar with. "We each have to say our own number in turn. It's to count us. Jorge, who is right against the fence, will begin by saying 'One,' and then it will be my turn, and I'll say 'Two,' and Lucho will say 'Three,' and so on," explained Gloria, whispering hastily for fear of being told off by the guards.

We had to count! I found this monstrous. We were losing our ident.i.ty-they refused to call us by our names. We were nothing more than cargo, cattle.

The receptionist and his acolyte were getting impatient when they saw how confused we were. No one wanted to start. Someone at the back of the barracks shouted, "s.h.i.+t! Start! You want them to be p.i.s.sed off at us all day long or what!"

There was silence. Then, in a loud voice, as if he were in a military barracks standing to attention, someone shouted, "One!" The person next to him cried, "Two!" The others followed: "Three!" "Four!" Then, when finally it was my turn, my heart beating, my throat dry, I said in a voice that did not sound as loud as I would have liked, "Ingrid Betancourt."