Even Silence Has an End (6 page)

I left the meeting at ten. I was desperate to be in Papa’s arms again. He would not have eaten because he was waiting for me, and I wanted to put him to bed before going home. Ever since he left the hospital, I’d made it a rule to end my working day by dropping in to give him a kiss. It was always a relief to share all the latest minor crises with him. He looked at the world from above. Where I saw threatening waves, he saw tranquil water.

I always arrived with chilled cheeks and frozen hands. He would lift his oxygen mask and pretend to be disagreeably surprised. “Ha! You’re like a toad,” he would say, as if he were angry with me for bringing in the cold with my hugs. It was all a game, and then he would laugh and shower me with kisses.

Yet when I arrived that particular evening, the face behind the oxygen mask was serious. He asked me to sit down on the arm of the chair, and I complied, intrigued. Then he said, “Your mother is very worried about your trip tomorrow.”

“Mom worries about everything,” I replied, feeling unconcerned. Then, after thinking about it a little longer, I added, “What about you? Are you worried?”

“No, not really.”

“You know, if you don’t want me to go, I will cancel.”

He said nothing.

“Papa, it doesn’t matter if I don’t go. Besides, I don’t really want to go. I would much rather stay with you.”

The overriding priority in my life at that point was my father. The day he had been discharged from the hospital, his physician took my sister and me aside and led us into a small room full of computers to show us a beating heart on one of the monitors. He pointed to an erratic-looking line on the screen. “That’s the vein that is keeping your father alive. It is going to stop working. When? Only God knows. It could be tomorrow, the day after, in two months, or in two years. You need to be prepared.”

“Papa, tell me that you want me to stay and I’ll stay.”

“No, my darling, do what you have to do. You gave your word. The people of San Vicente are expecting you. You have to go.”

I was holding his hand, as always. We looked into each other’s eyes in silence. Papa always based his decisions on principles. I had frequently rebelled against this; as a child I found it strict and stupid. Then, as it came time for me to make my own decisions, I understood that when I was in doubt, his course was always the best one. I had devised my own motto from his example, and it had stood me in good stead. That evening I, too, saw that the trip to San Vicente was a matter of principle.

Suddenly, in a kind of irrational outburst, I heard myself say to him, “Papa, wait for me! If anything should happen to me, you wait for me! You are not going to die!”

Still shaken, his eyes widened in surprise, he replied, “Of course I will wait. I am not going to die.” I immediately regretted letting myself go like that.

Then his face relaxed, and he took a deep breath and added, “Yes, I will wait for you, my darling. God willing.”

And he turned toward the picture of Christ that had pride of place in his room. His expression was so intense that I, too, turned toward it. I had never really looked at that picture before, even though it had been there for as long as I could remember. In fact, viewed with my adult eyes, it looked very kitschy. Yet it was Christ resurrected, full of brightness, his arms open and his heart vibrant. Papa made me stand in front of him, beneath the saintly picture.

“My good Jesus,” he said, “take care of this child for me.”

Mi buen Jesús, cuídame esta niña.

He patted my hand to indicate that it was me he was talking about, as if his request might have been misconstrued.

I was startled, just as he had been a few minutes earlier. His words seemed strange. Why did he say “this child” and not “my child”? But why even give it a second thought? It was of no importance whatsoever. Papa often came out with old-fashioned expressions. He was born before the streetcar, in the era of horse-drawn carriages and candles. I remained motionless, scrutinizing the expression on his face.

“Cuídame esta niña.”
He repeated it, and it permeated my entire being, as if water had been poured over my head.

I knelt before him, hugging his legs, my cheek pressed against them.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Everything will be fine.”

It was more for my own reassurance that I uttered these words. I helped him back into bed, taking care to place the bottle of oxygen next to him.

He switched on the television, which was airing the last news bulletin of the day. I curled up against him, my ear against his chest listening to the beating of his heart, and dozed off in his arms, unafraid.

Toward midnight I got up, put out the lights, and kissed him good night, making sure he was well covered up. He held out his hand to give me a blessing and was asleep before I even reached the door. That evening, as on all previous evenings, I turned to look at him one more time before I left.

I didn’t know that it would be the last time I would ever see him.

THREE

THE ABDUCTION

FEBRUARY 23, 2002

The security escort arrived as planned, a little before four in the morning. It was dark, and I was wearing my campaign uniform: a T-shirt printed with our campaign slogan—FOR A NEW COLOMBIA—jeans, and hiking boots. I put on my fleece jacket and just before leaving, on an impulse, removed my watch.

No one in the house except Pom, my dog, was awake. I kissed her between the ears and left with a small bag containing only what I would need for one night away.

Once I arrived at the airport, I checked that all the security arrangements were in place. The police captain in charge of coordinating the security team pulled a fax from his pocket and showed it to me. “Everything is in order. The authorities have provided you with armored vehicles.” He smiled at me, satisfied that he had done his job.

The rest of the group was already there. The plane took off at dawn. We were stopping first at Neiva, a town 150 miles from Bogotá, before crossing over the Andes to land in Florencia, the capital of the Caquetá department in the
Llanos Orientales,
a stretch of lush, flat grassland between the Amazon rain forest and the Andes. After that we would go by car to San Vicente.

The stopover was expected to be half an hour but ended up lasting just over two hours. I barely noticed, as my cell phone did not stop ringing; a vicious article in the local press was reporting the split that had occurred within our campaign team. The journalist quoted only the biting comments of those who had deserted our ranks to endorse my competitors. My team was outraged and wanted to get out our side of the story as quickly as possible. I spent most of the time on the telephone going back and forth between my HQ and the editor of the newspaper in question to have our version of the facts published.

We got back on the plane in sweltering heat, and by the time we reached Florencia, we were already behind schedule. However, we could still make the sixty-mile drive to San Vicente in less than two hours.

Florencia Airport had been taken over by the military. A dozen Black Hawk helicopters were lined up on the tarmac, blades rotating, waiting for the order to lift off. As soon as I disembarked from the aircraft, I was met by a colonel in charge of local operations, who led me into an air-conditioned office while my security team contacted those responsible for our journey on the ground and prepared the final details of the next leg.

The colonel was respectful, and with great courtesy and deference he offered to fly us by helicopter to San Vicente.

“They leave every half hour. You can be on the next one.”

“That’s very kind, but there are fifteen of us.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

He left the room, returning ten minutes later looking frustrated, and announced, “We can only take five people on board.”

The captain in charge of my security escort was the first to react. “Some of the security team can remain behind.”

I asked if the chopper could accommodate seven. The colonel nodded. “That’s no problem.” He asked us to wait in his office for the next helicopter.

We expected a half-hour wait. My security team was conferring among themselves, probably deciding who would go with me. One of the escorts began to clean his pistol and put back the bullets that had been removed for the plane journey. While he was handling the gun, he accidentally pulled the trigger, and a shot rang out, thankfully with no consequences. The bullet landed right next to me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, suddenly aware of how edgy I was.

I hated these small incidents, not because of the incidents themselves but because of the conflicting thoughts that entered my head immediately afterward.
Bad omen,
resonated a monotone voice within me.
Smacks of a bad movie.
The other voice retorted,
What a stupid thing to say. On the contrary, it’s good luck!
My team was on the alert, watching for my reaction, and the poor guy who’d fired the shot was now scarlet with embarrassment, apologizing profusely.

“Please, don’t worry. But let’s be careful. We’re all tired,” I said, putting a close to the incident.

My thoughts turned to Papa, but I remembered that phone coverage was sketchy in this region. The wait continued. Some of my group wandered off to the restrooms or to get drinks. I had already seen at least three helicopters depart, and it still wasn’t our turn. I didn’t want to appear impatient, especially since the offer seemed very generous. Finally I went to see what was happening.

The colonel was outside talking to my security officers. When he saw me, he cut short his conversation.

“I’m very sorry, madam, but I have just received instructions not to take you by helicopter. It’s an order from the top, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Well, in that case, we must revert to Plan A. Gentlemen, can we leave right away?”

The silence of my escort team was palpable. Then the colonel stepped forward with the suggestion that I should appeal to his general, who was on the tarmac. “If anyone can give you authorization, it’s him.”

I spotted a large, surly guy issuing orders from the landing strip. Before I had a chance to ask, the colonel nodded; he was indeed the general.

The general’s aggressive tone was disconcerting. “There’s nothing I can do for you. Please leave the runway!” For a moment I thought he had not recognized me, and I tried to explain why I was there. But he knew very well who I was and what I wanted. He was irritated; he kept talking to his subordinates, handing out orders, ignoring me, letting me talk to myself. He surely was prejudiced against me, probably because of the debates in Congress during which I had exposed incidents of corruption among some high-ranking officials. Without realizing it, I had raised the tone of my voice. Cameras appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly we were surrounded by a group of journalists.

The general put an arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the terminal to get me off the runway and away from the cameras. He explained that he was acting on an order, that the president would be arriving shortly, that he had a hundred journalists with him, and that they needed the helicopters to transport them to San Vicente. He added, “If you want to wait here, he’ll walk past. You will be able to speak to him. It’s the best I can do.” I stood there, my arms dangling, wondering if I really ought to go along with this whole charade. A pack of journalists rushed over to film the landing of the presidential plane. Leaving was no longer an option. It would be interpreted as discourteous.

The situation was all the more embarrassing because the previous day we had asked to travel with the group of journalists going to San Vicente, and the president himself had refused. For the last twenty-four hours, the television news had been repeating incessantly that the region had been liberated and that the FARC had completely withdrawn. The president’s trip to San Vicente was planned to prove it. The government had to show the world that the peace process had not been a huge mistake, that it had not led to the loss of control of a sizable portion of national territory to the guerrillas. From what I could see, the zone was under military control; helicopters of the armed forces had not stopped taking off for San Vicente since our arrival. If Pastrana refused again, we simply needed to go by road as originally planned and not waste any more time.

The president’s plane landed, a red carpet was unfurled on the tarmac, and the staircase was placed at the aircraft door. But the door remained closed. Faces appeared at the windows, then quickly withdrew. I stood there, stuck between the row of soldiers on guard and the horde of journalists behind me. I had only one desire: to slip away.

Relations hadn’t always been easy with President Pastrana. I had supported him during his campaign on the condition that he implement major reforms against political corruption, in particular by amending the electoral system. But he’d broken his word, and I had crossed over to the opposition. He turned against my team and managed to fracture it by luring away two of my senators.

Nevertheless, I always supported him in his peace process. We met up again earlier that month at a cocktail party at the French embassy, and he thanked me for my unfailing support of the peace negotiations.

Finally the aircraft door opened. It was not the president who stepped out first, but his secretary. I suddenly remembered an incident that had slipped my mind until this moment. During the televised meeting with the FARC commanders nine days earlier, I had supported the idea that both parties needed to show consistency between their words and actions to establish trust between the government and the FARC. There was no doubt that my criticisms of the FARC had been sharp, but no more so than those aimed at the government. In particular, I had explained that a government complacent about corruption lacked credibility in the peace process. And I mentioned a scandal in which the president’s secretary had been accused of insider trading, and I said he should resign. But the two men were close friends. To make his secretary disembark first was a clear message to me from the president: He was furious with me for what I’d said. He made his secretary go first so that I would know that he had his full support.

What happened next confirmed my suspicions. The president brushed past me, not even stopping to shake my hand. Taking the snub without a word, I spun around, biting my lip. More the fool me. I shouldn’t have waited.

I walked over to my group, who waited for me, perplexed.

“We need to get going. We’re already really late!”

My captain was as red as a lobster. He was sweating miserably in his uniform. I was about to cheer him up with a kind word, when he said, “Madam, forgive me, I have just received a peremptory command from Bogotá. My assignment has been canceled. I can’t go with you to San Vicente.”

I stared at him, incredulous.

“Wait. I don’t understand. What order? From whom? What are you talking about?”

He stepped forward stiffly and handed me the paper he was nervously crumpling in his hands. It was indeed signed by his superior. He explained that he had just spent twenty minutes on the telephone with Bogotá, that he had tried his best, but that the order came “from the top.” I asked him what he meant by that, and letting out a long, almost labored sigh, he said, “From the president’s office, madam.”

I was flabbergasted as I began to grasp the implications. If I went to San Vicente it would once again be without protection. It had happened before, when the government had refused us an escort while we were crossing the Magdalena Medio, the banned territory of the paramilitaries. I looked around. The runway was now almost deserted, the last journalists of the presidential committee were boarding a half-empty helicopter, and three other helicopters, blades rotating, remained on the ground with no passengers to transport.

The general came up to me and in a loud, patronizing voice said, “I told you!”

“Okay, so what do you suggest?” I asked him, irritated. After all, if I hadn’t been offered transport in one of those choppers, I would have left for San Vicente long before and would already be there by now!

“Do as you originally planned! Go by road!” he retorted, and I watched him and all his military stripes disappear inside the terminal.

It wasn’t that simple. We still needed armored vehicles. I walked over to my security personnel to find out what the local team had arranged for our transport. They all faltered, not knowing what to say. One of them had been sent to find out what was happening and came back looking contrite. “The guys of the local team have gone, too. They were ordered to abort the mission.”

Everything had been orchestrated to prevent my going to San Vicente. The president probably feared that my appearance in San Vicente might reflect badly on him. I sat down for a moment to think things over. The heat, the commotion, my emotions—my mind was a blur. I wanted to do what was best.

What would become of our democracy if presidential candidates had to accept that for security reasons their campaign strategy needed the government’s approval? If we agreed not to go to San Vicente, it would mean accepting suicidal censorship. We would lose the freedom to express ourselves on war and on peace, lose our ability to act in the name of the marginalized populations who did not have a voice. Whoever held power could quite simply appoint his successor.

One of the security men had managed to establish a good relationship with officials from the airport’s security division. There was a vehicle at the airport that might be made available to us for the trip to San Vicente. He went off to obtain more details and came back with the authorization.

It was a small, four-by-four pickup truck. There was room for only five people; it was a far cry from the armored car we’d been counting on. I turned to the group. Some laughed, others shrugged. My logistics manager, Adair, stepped forward, offering to drive. Without hesitating, Clara said she would come, too. Our press officer declined. He wanted to leave room for our cameraman and one of the foreign journalists covering the campaign. Two French journalists were deep in discussion. Finally the young female reporter decided not to come. She did not feel safe and preferred that her older colleague go with us, since he would be able to take some good photos.

A member of my security team took me by the arm and asked if he could speak to me in private for a few minutes. He was the longest-serving member on the team and had been protecting me for more than three years.

“I want to come with you.” He looked nervous and uncomfortable. “I don’t like what they’re doing to you.”

“Have you spoken to your superior?”

“Yes.”

“If you come with me, won’t you risk losing your job?”

“It’s bound to cause problems.”

“No, listen. This is not the time for more difficulties.”

Then, seeking his advice, I asked, “What do you think about the road? Do you think it could be dangerous?”

He smiled sadly. And, with a resigned look on his face, replied, “No more than anywhere else.”