Even Silence Has an End (20 page)

EIGHTEEN

FRIENDS WHO COME AND GO

We had a new recruit. William and Andrea had captured a baby monkey. One evening when we had just set up camp for the night by the river, we saw a family of monkeys swinging from branch to branch in the treetops, stopping just long enough to throw sticks at us or piss to mark their territory. A mother with her baby hanging from her back clung carefully to make sure her baby was holding on. William shot the mother. The baby fell at his feet, to become Andrea’s mascot. The same bullet that had killed its mother had injured its hand. The little animal cried like a child and licked its fingers, not understanding what had happened. Now it was tied by a rope to a bush near Andrea’s
caleta.
Rain had begun coming down, and the little monkey was shivering, all alone, looking wet and wretched. I had a small flask of sulfonamide in my belongings that I’d managed to hang on to since the day of my abduction. I decided I would treat the baby monkey. The little animal was screaming with fear, pulling on the rope and nearly choking itself. Bit by bit I took its tiny hand, all black and soft like a human hand in miniature. I covered its wound with the powder and made a bandage around its wrist. It was a baby female. They had baptized it “Cristina.”

Once we settled into the camp, I asked for permission to go to say hello to Cristina. When she saw me coming, she would call out with joy. I would keep something from my morning food ration to give to her. She would grab it from my hands and run off to eat it with her back to me.

I heard Cristina shrieking violently one morning. The guard explained that they were bathing her because she smelled bad. Finally I saw her coming at a run, dragging her rope behind her and moaning with sorrow. She grabbed hold of my boot desperately, looking behind her to see if anyone was following. She then clambered up to cling to my neck and eventually fell asleep with her tail wrapped around my arm so she wouldn’t fall.

They had given her hair a military haircut that they called
la mesa
(the table), which gave her a flat head, and they’d dunked her in the water to give her a good rinse. Cristina’s bath became a regular torture. Andrea had decided that the little monkey had to get used to her daily grooming, like a human being. Cristina in response would shit everywhere, which made Andrea and William hysterical. Whenever she managed to escape, she came to me. I cuddled her, I talked to her, and I trained her as much as I could. When Andrea would come to get her, she would shriek and cling to my shirt. I had to force myself to hide my sorrow.

One day the guy who brought the supplies in the motorboat brought with him two little dogs that Jessica wanted to train. I never saw Cristina again. Andrea came one evening to explain that she and William had gone deep into the forest to release Cristina. It made me very sad; I’d grown so fond of Cristina. But I was relieved that she was free, and whenever I heard monkeys overhead, I would look up in the hope of seeing her again.

One night when I was again prey to insomnia, I overheard a conversation that made my blood run cold. The guards were joking together, saying that Cristina had been the best meal Jessica’s dogs had ever had.

Cristina’s story shook me profoundly. I was so angry at myself that I hadn’t done more to help her. But above all I knew that I could not afford the luxury of any attachment while in the hands of the FARC, as it could use one to blackmail me and alienate me further. Perhaps that was why I tried to keep my distance from everyone, in particular Ferney, who was often kind.

After my aborted escape, he had come to see me. He felt terrible about what his comrades had done to me. “Here, too, there are good people and there are bad people. But you mustn’t judge the FARC on the basis of what the bad people do.”

Every time Ferney was on duty, he managed to start up a conversation, taking care to speak loudly so that the entire camp could follow. His invariable topic was politics. He justified his armed struggle on the basis that too many people in Colombia lived in poverty. I answered that the FARC wasn’t doing anything to combat poverty—on the contrary, the organization had become an important cog in the system it was claiming to fight against, because it was a source of corruption, drug trafficking, and violence. “You are becoming a part of this,” I argued.

He was born nearby. He came from a very poor family; his father was blind, and his mother, a peasant, did what she could with a small acre of land. All his brothers had gone into subversive activities. But he liked what he was doing. He was learning things, had a career ahead of him, had friends among the guerrillas.

One afternoon he escorted me to work out in the gym Andres had built on the border of the camp. There was a jogging track, parallel bars, a horizontal bar, a hoop for practicing somersaults, and a beam three yards from the ground for practicing jumps. Everything had been built by hand, by removing the bark from young trees and fixing the bars to sturdy trunks with lianas. Ferney showed me how to jump from the beam to land properly on the ground, which I did—in spite of my fear—just to impress him. I couldn’t keep up with him when he did push-ups or other endurance exercises. But I beat him in some of the acrobatics and exercises that required suppleness. Andres joined us and gave us a demonstration of his strength that confirmed he’d had years of training. I asked to use the gym on a regular basis, but he refused. He did, however, allow us to take part in the guerrillas’ training, which started every morning at four-thirty. Some days later he had parallel bars put up near the cage for Clara and me to use.

Ferney had intervened in our favor. I thanked him.

“If you find the right words, the proper tone of voice, and you ask at the right moment, you’re sure of getting what you want,” he replied.

After a quarrel I had with Clara, Ferney came over to the fence and said, “You’re letting it get to you. You have to create a distance; otherwise you’ll go insane, too. Ask them to separate you. At least you’ll get some peace.”

He was very young—he must have been seventeen. And yet his remarks made me reflect. He had a generous soul and an uncommon sense of honesty. He had gained my respect.

Among the things I lost in the raid was the rosary I had made out of a wire that I had found lying on the ground. I decided to craft a new one by removing the buttons from the military jacket I’d been given and using bits of nylon thread I had left over from my weaving.

It was a fine day in the month of December, the dry season in the jungle, the best in the year. A warm breeze caressed the palm trees, filtering down to us through the foliage, bringing a rare sensation of tranquillity.

I was sitting outside the cage, in the shade, working furiously in the hope of finishing my rosary that same day. Ferney was on duty, and I asked him to cut me some little pieces of wood to make a crucifix that I could hang from my rosary.

Clara was getting lessons in belt weaving from El Mico, who would stop by to check on her progress from time to time. As soon as her teacher left, seeing that Ferney was bringing the little cross to me, she stood up, a tense look on her face. She dropped her weaving and threw herself at Ferney, as if she wanted to tear his eyes out.

“So you don’t like what I’m doing? Go on, say it!”

She was much taller than he was, and she was taking a provocative pose, thrusting her torso forward, which obliged Ferney to duck his head so as not to brush against her body. He gently took his rifle to put it out of her reach and withdrew, cautiously stepping backward, saying, “No, no, I like what you are doing a lot, but I’m on duty. I can’t come and help you right now.”

She pursued him for a dozen yards or so, provoking him, shoving him, lunging at him, while he continuted to move backward to avoid physical contact. Andres was alerted by the other troops and came to order us back into our cage. I silently complied. Maturity had nothing to do with age. I admired Ferney’s self-control. He trembled with rage but had not reacted.

When I shared my thoughts with him, he replied, “When you carry a weapon, you have a responsibility toward other people. You can’t afford mistakes.”

I, too, could choose how to react. But I was often wrong. Life in captivity had not removed the necessity to act in the right way. It was not about pleasing others or gaining support. I felt I had to change. Rather than try to adapt to the ignominy of the situation, I had to learn to be a better person.

Drinking my usual hot drink one morning, I saw a red and blue flash overhead in the foliage. I pointed to show the guard the extraordinary guacamaya that had just landed a few yards above us. It was a huge parrot, a vision of paradise with carnival colors, and it sat watching us, intrigued, from up on its perch, unaware of its extreme beauty.

What had I done? The guards sounded the alarm, and Andres hurried over with his hunting rifle. The bird was easy prey; it was no feat to kill this magnificent, naïve creature. A second later its inert body lay on the ground, a pile of blue and orange feathers scattered everywhere.

I took it out on Andres. Why had he done something so pointless and stupid?

He answered, spitting his words out like a machine gun, “I can kill what I want! Especially pigs and people like you!”

There were reprisals. Andres felt that I had judged him, and his behavior changed abruptly. We had to stay within six feet of the cage at the most and were not allowed to go to the
rancha
or walk around the camp anymore. The bird ended up in the garbage, and for weeks its beautiful blue feathers were scattered all over the camp, until the new rains brought the mud and buried them completely. I vowed to be cautious and keep quiet. I observed myself as I never had before, and I understood that spiritual fulfillment required a constancy and rigor that I needed to acquire.
I had to watch myself, to stop repeating the same mistakes,
I concluded,
keep my impetuous nature in check
.

The days had been warm. The streams had all dried up, and the river where we went to bathe had decreased by half. The young people played games of water polo in the river with the plastic balls they had saved from roll-on deodorants. They looked like miniature Ping-Pong balls, and they vanished easily in the water. The battles to catch them degenerated into free-for-alls that were always fun. I had been invited to play with them. We spent a few afternoons like children. Until the weather changed and Andres’s mood with it.

The rains brought bad news. Ferney told me he was going to be transferred to another camp. Andres had taken an intense dislike toward him, accusing him of being too kind and standing up for me. Disheartened, Ferney said to me, “Ingrid, you must always remember what I’m going to say to you: If they treat you badly, always respond with goodness. Never lower yourself, don’t react to insults. You must know that silence will always be your best response. Promise me that you will be careful. Someday, I will see you on television when you will get back your freedom. I am waiting for that day. You do not have the right to die here.”

His departure was wrenching, because despite everything that separated us, in Ferney I had found a sincere heart. I knew that in this abominable jungle I had to detach myself from everything to avoid more suffering. But I was beginning to think that in life there might be some suffering that was worth enduring. Ferney’s friendship had lightened my first months of captivity, especially the suffocating confinement with Clara. His leaving would force me to be tougher, to find greater psychological strength. I was even more alone now.

NINETEEN

VOICES FROM THE OUTSIDE

The radio that Clara had broken now worked only half the time. And the only broadcasts we managed to get were a Sunday mass transmitted live from San José del Guaviare, the capital of one of the departments in the Amazon, and a station that played some popular music the guerrillas adored and I was sick of.

One morning out of the blue, the guards called me urgently because the radio had announced that my daughter would be on the air. Standing outside the
caleta,
I listened to Melanie’s voice. I was surprised by how clearly she reasoned, how well she expressed herself. She was barely seventeen at the time. My pride in her was stronger than sadness. Tears flowed down my cheeks at the moment I least expected. I went back inside the cage, warmed by a feeling of great peace.

Another time when I was already stretched out in my corner under my mosquito net, I heard Pope John Paul II pleading for our release. His voice was unmistakable, and to me it meant everything. I thanked the heavens above, not so much because I thought that the leaders of the FARC would be moved by the pope’s appeal but because I knew that his gesture would lighten my family’s burden and help them bear our cross.

Of the few lifelines we received during this period, one gave me hope that I could recover my freedom—that was Dominique de Villepin. We had met when I was just starting my studies at the Paris Institute of Political Studies and had not seen each other again for almost twenty years. In 1998 recently elected president Pastrana decided to go to France before his inauguration; he wanted to attend the soccer World Cup. I knew that Dominique had been appointed secretary-general of the Élysée Palace, and I suggested to Pastrana that he call him. Dominique arranged an official welcome, and Pastrana called to thank me. Shortly thereafter Dominique and I renewed our friendship. He had not changed. He was as generous and as considerate as I had remembered him to be. From then on, whenever I went to Paris, I made sure to call him. “You have to write a book, you have to make sure your struggle to reclaim Colombia exists in the eyes of the world,” he’d said. I followed his advice and wrote a first book.

One evening at dusk, I was getting ready to put my work away. The guard was already rattling the keys to the padlock to let us know it was time to lock us up. In the nearest
caleta,
a radio had been squawking all afternoon. I’d learned to shut out the outside world and live in my own silence, so I heard it without really listening. I suddenly froze. I searched with my eyes where it came from, a familiar sound from another time, another world: I recognized Dominique’s voice. I turned around and ran between the
caletas
to place my ear against the radio, which was swinging from a post. The guard behind me screamed at me to go back into the cage. I waved to him to be quiet. Dominique was speaking perfect Spanish. Nothing he said seemed to have anything to do with me. The guard, intrigued by my reaction, put his ear up against the radio like me. The newscaster intoned, “On an official journey to Colombia, the French minister of foreign affairs, Dominique de Villepin, wanted to express his country’s commitment to ensure that the French-Colombian citizen be returned alive as soon as possible, along with all the hostages.”

“Who is it?” asked the guard.

“My friend,” I replied, moved, because Dominique’s tone betrayed the pain our situation was causing him.

The story spread like wildfire through the camp. Andres came to hear the news. He wanted to know why I was attaching so much importance to this information.

“Dominique has come to Colombia to fight for us. Now I know France will never let us down!”

Andres was looking at me incredulously. He was completely resistant to notions of greatness or sacrifice. For him the only thing that mattered was the fact that I had a French passport, and France—a country he knew nothing about—wanted to negotiate our release. He saw vested interests where I saw principles.

After Dominique’s speech everything changed. For better and for worse. My status as a prisoner went through an obvious transformation. Not only with regard to the guerrillas, who now understood that their booty had increased in value. But also with regard to the others. From that time on, the radio stations felt duty-bound to hammer home that I was a “French-Colombian”—sometimes as an almost indecent advantage, sometimes with a touch of irony, but most often with a concern to mobilize hearts and minds. I was indeed a dual national: Born in Colombia, raised in France, I had engaged in Colombian politics to fight against corruption. I felt as much at home in Colombia as I did in France. But it was above all on my future relations with other hostages that the support of France would have deep repercussions. “Why her and not us?”

I first sensed this during a discussion with Clara about our chances of getting out.

“Why should
you
complain? At least you’ve got France fighting for you!” she burst out.

The New Year started off with a surprise. One morning we saw the new commander from Front Fifteen arrive, the one who had replaced El Mocho Cesar after his death.

He was escorted by a tall brunette entrusted with a delicate mission.

“I’ve come to convey some very important news,” she said tensely. “You will be allowed to send a message to your families!”

She had a movie camera strapped to her wrist and was ready to film us. I looked down on her, uptight and distant. This was neither a favor to us nor important news. I remembered how shamefully they’d edited my previous proof of life. They had cut the parts where I described the conditions of our detention, the chains we had to wear twenty-four hours a day, as well as the declaration of gratitude to the families of soldiers who had died fighting to rescue us.

“I have no message to send, thank you all the same.” I turned on my heel and went back into the cage, followed by Clara, who grabbed me by the arm, infuriated by my response.

“Listen, if you want to do it, go ahead,” I told her. “You don’t need me to send a message to your family. You should do it. It would be very good if you do it.”

She wouldn’t let go of me. She absolutely had to know why I refused to send proof that I was alive.

“It’s very simple. They are holding me prisoner, so be it—there’s nothing I can do. What I do not accept is that in addition they manipulate my voice and my thoughts. I haven’t forgotten the way they treated us last time. We recorded twenty minutes, and they sent ten, arbitrarily choosing whatever suited them. Raúl Reyes makes declarations in my place, stealing my voice. That’s unacceptable. I refuse to play along with their tricks.”

After a long pause, Clara went to speak to the brunette. “I don’t have a message to send either,” she told the woman.

A few days later, Andres showed up, visibly excited. “There’s someone from your family who wants to talk to you through the radio.”

I never dreamed that this could be possible. He had set up a table with the machine beneath a sophisticated installation of thick cables arranged in a pyramid. The radio technician, a young, blond guerrilla boy with blue eyes, whom they called “Chameleon,” was repeating a series of codes and changing the frequency.

After an hour had gone by, he handed me the microphone. “Speak!” blurted Chameleon.

I didn’t know what to say. “Yes, hello?”

“Ingrid?”

“Yes?”

“Good, Ingrid, we’re going to connect you with someone important, who is going to speak to you. You won’t hear their voice. We’ll repeat their questions, and we’ll transmit your answers.”

“Go ahead.”

“To verify your identity, the person wants you to provide the name of your childhood friend who lives in Haiti.”

“I want to know who I’m talking to. Who’s asking that question?”

“It’s someone who’s connected with France.”

“Who?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Right. Well then, I can’t answer either.”

I felt manipulated. Why couldn’t they simply tell me whom I was talking to? And what if it was all just a trick to obtain information they would use against me at some later point? For a few minutes, I had believed I might hear their voices—Mom, Melanie, or Lorenzo.