Paraquito
My first years of life were the happiest. We lived in a no man's land, isolated from society and the government, where the only authority I knew was my parents. I couldn't conceive of a life away from our little farm, knowing from a young age that I had been born in the place where I would die. In the countryside, life is not easy, but if it is honest, everyone lives from what they work, here the titles are worth little and the guarapo is shared. I was far from imagining that only a few mountains separated me from the worst brutalities. My eleven years did not allow me to suspect how much cruelty germinated in these lands of God.
I always remember the moment in which I was touched by the war, before that I had always felt it as if it were a mosquito, one of those that lurks around you but never bites you. It was a terrifying event, from which I never got over it, feeling like life was charging me for all those years of inexplicable tranquility in an area ruled by filth. My father was the bridge with which the war reached me, the day they killed him while they yelled at him paraco son of a bitch. I still think of the helplessness I felt while those pimps destroyed my father's body, accusing him of the worst insults while they boasted of his silence, a silence with which he said goodbye and asked me to take care of my mother and my life.
From that day the world ceased to interest me. Having lost all hope in the future after that violence grenade exploded in my face. It was as if reality had intervened in my life and had taken from me that innocence with which my parents had raised me. I no longer understood the world, much less did my mother. She was the most affected, as her eyes no longer reflected the kindness with which I woke up every morning, they now only showed resentment and anguish. So much so that if she heard a strange sound, she would start crying right there and beg me to escape, because she would tell me that they were surely coming to recruit me.
Whenever she sensed that someone was prowling the house, she begged me to run away. Knowing that my mother only lived for my joy, it prevented me from arguing with her. However, one morning everything was different, she woke me up with just a whisper and she told me to hide, that it was too late to escape. When I looked at her eyes, I only perceived fear, because she had the same look as when my father was killed. I got up as best as I could, it was barely dawn, I leaned out the window carefully and managed to see how two hooded men were approaching our house while another was looking at them from the road. I hugged my mother and asked her to calm down, I tried to reassure her while I told her not to worry about me, that I would hide behind the house. I affectionately reminded her of the lie that we had practiced many times over the breakfast, in which she assured that for a few months I had been working as a messenger in Bogotá. I gave her a light blessing and walked over to the back door of the house, carefully opening it and blowing her a kiss as I closed it.
I hid in the undergrowth while she listened attentively towards the house. The wait seemed eternal, I did not understand why it took so long to knock on the door, could it be that they were planning something? Could it be that they had seen me leave? Each one of the scenarios that occurred to me was worse than the previous one, the anguish was eating me away, I didn't know if it was better to run away or enter the house. Until I finally heard a knock on the door, I heard how my mother received the men and asked them to sit down. After a few ironic laughs, they asked her if she already knew why they had come, to which she answered yes, that it had not been enough for them to leave her a widow so now they came for her joy, for that son who cheered up her day. After a few seconds, they only responded that the dead man was not theirs and that it was better not to confuse them with the guerrillas, because those mistakes are paid with blood. When they asked about my whereabouts, a sigh was heard, I felt the sadness with which my mother told them that I had been working in Bogotá for a few months and that there was not a second in which she did not miss me. To which they replied that, if she believed them stupid? As a few days ago they had seen me in the house, so she better think carefully about her answers, because they didn't want to leave me an orphan.
Hearing that threat, I couldn't contain myself and preferred to open the back door. I warned them that they didn't need to hurt her, that I was ready to join them in her fight. To which they replied that I should rather thank them, because if it weren't for them, I wouldn't have the opportunity to avenge my father's death. An answer that only confirmed what I had feared for many years. Despite my efforts, I was becoming another link in the cycle of violence that some continue to call Colombia. I remember that I left the house with watery eyes, but yes, freshly shaved. I wanted to leave my mother the best memory of me, as I wanted her to remember me like this, without a beard, as she had always liked it.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The first day I felt like I was camping, they gave us chocolate with arepas and they only asked us to take care of the prisoners of war, I remember that an indigenous child was among them. His look reflected all the hardships that were experienced during captivity, he looked defeated, not wanting to continue fighting.
When our first rifle was delivered to us, I felt embarrassed, I didn't think it would weigh so much. Before they gave it to us, my commander smiled as he yelled at us that, in the jungle, the rifle is like his mother, he is the only one that sees for you day and night. I now understand why they told us that the one who is not good for killing is good for being killed. That same day I met Luis, a boy from the neighboring village. In a few days we became friends, he seemed calm to me, without any kind of malice. We had gotten used to talking until we fell asleep, our lives were almost the same, just that his father was waiting for him at home.
I still remember the day that everything changed, it was after they told us about the final test. Since that day my friend Luis was never the same, but I get it, it is not easy to assimilate that one is not the exception, that one is also going to have to kill. During the night he tried to escape, he almost succeeded, except for a deputy commander who saw him running. When the superiors found him, it was noted how much they enjoyed killing him, since they couldn't always kill a newcomer, much less give a "lesson" with his passing.
They assigned me to kill a stoner who had been captured days before in the town. When they assigned it to me, I just thought about how absurd the double standards of these armed groups were, with which they always defended their duty to torture and kill whoever they wanted, excusing themselves with the phrase that they were doing a proper social cleansing from the addicts of the town, while they were also selling drugs.
The final test is done in front of the entire company, around 40 people. The objective is to demonstrate the chaste, or as they call it, the finesse. Since the day I was assigned to kill, I stopped sleeping, as I couldn't stop thinking about Luis. In how the blood had run through each of his garments, while in the distance the cheers of the squad that celebrated the complete indifference towards his life could be heard. I preferred to listen to our companions and deceive myself saying that killing is like smoking, only the first one is difficult. Well, after all, one gets used to the taste of death.
--------------------------------------------------------------
My childhood was very different from that of other children. I never learned biology or mathematics, but I did learn how to handle a rifle, dismember and torture. A destiny that I do not wish on anyone, but that over time I came to accept. Being my past and my present, although I only hope that it is not also my future.
Although I tend to assume, not all my colleagues have been recruited by force, as was the case with me. Many of them see the paramilitaries as a company, the one with which they will escape the poverty in which they were born. And despite the fact that it sounds absurd, I feel that the few job opportunities are what have turned the war into a tempting offer for them. As nobody is born with the desire to kill, but the need facilitates it.
Likewise, and despite the fact that my colleagues always hide behind the paramilitary “philosophy”, in this jungle only brutalities are committed. Well, it is enough for me to remember the death of the indigenous child to ask myself if we still deserve to continue breathing. The murder of a child who did not even speak Spanish, for the mere fact of living in a land conducive to coca production. Whose spirit was extinguished in such a way that one night, very well knowing his fate, he threw excrement at the commander. I felt as if both of them were closing a deal that they had agreed to for many years. As the shit lasted longer in the air than my commander shooting him. The saddest thing was seeing how history repeated itself before my eyes, remembering how some indigenous people had preferred to commit suicide rather than become slaves to the Spanish. Only now it was even worse, because now the perpetrators were the same Colombians.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Throughout my life as a paramilitary I have observed all kinds of prisoners. And regardless of their origins, they all had the same particularity, they never knew if they would get out of there alive. To tell the truth, nobody knew, since everything depended on how docile the commander woke up that day. The ones we killed, were mostly buried in the mountains, but sometimes we left them lying around in towns, as if they were a sign of authority.
I never got used to the commanders, because every 6 months they either ended up killing or capturing him. Almost always killing, and not just the guerrillas, sometimes the paramilitares themselves. It's just that no one can trust anyone there, because as my mother used to tell me, the living live off the fool. In the jungle words lose value, because death is the only queen and mistress of this jungle of violence.
When drug trafficking got involved, we put up with extortion and kidnapping. Something for which we are grateful to the guerrillas, since there is nothing more punctual than a "vaccine" for a frightened peasant. For those who do not know the term, the vaccine is nothing more than a monthly fee that the farmer is asked for its protection against the guerrillas. Which turns out to be even funny, since it was the same guerrilla that created the system, arguing that they were the ones who protected the farmers from the real problem, the government.
And what they say is also true, that from time to time we agreed with our trusted policemen to "cease" some of our drugs, in order to calm the waters. Well, we knew that the government needs results, another thing is that they were not representative, but that is the least of it, the important thing is that they can show their chests in front of the media. And so, everyone is happy, we hand over crumbs of our earnings while they decorate a commander. It is that this is the only way that everyone sleeps peacefully, because that has been the Colombian antidote to this infinite war. As we need to accept that it is better that drugs are illegal, because it is the only way to make more money. And the least of it is violence, because in countries like this, cannon fodder is an unnegotiable resource.
--------------------------------------------------------------
I always remember the day we visited the school on a remote path. They welcomed us like royalty, while they sang our hymn and danced to our songs. All the influential people in the area were present, from businessmen to famous politicians. The most important moment of the evening was the reign, where the girls paraded by force, without really understanding why they did it. The saddest thing about this story is that in this parade nobody won, because a life in the jungle awaited the unfortunate "queens", knowing that the commanders would make them their wives, a nice euphemism for not saying sex slaves.
These girls were asked to help in the kitchen during the day, but at night they had to let their "husbands" touch them. For many of them, the ordeal did not end there, since they were most frequently played by others from the company. Also, in order to prevent their pregnancy, they always installed them an intrauterine device known as a T, since everyone knew very well that a baby is not good for war.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Over the years I began to understand why the paramilitaries wanted children in their ranks. Well, they are easily manipulated and there is an inexhaustible workforce, as there are countless sectors abandoned by the state where job opportunities are nil. Where they take advantage of their ingenuity and lack of judgment to force them to carry out the most risky tasks, such as planting and collecting the famous antipersonnel mines. Well, it's not for nothing that 1 out of 4 paramilitaries are minors. And I understand it, because from the army helicopters they only see us as running spots. They care little that some of them are children who can hardly hold a gun.
And the saddest thing of all is that it is a reality that continues to occur in Colombia for the mere fact of continuing with a war that has been lost for many years. Well, it is enough to say that the amount of coca plants and the purity of cocaine have been increasing to be able to conclude that the death and suffering of many Colombians has been in vain. It is that we are talking about a war in which more than 450,664 people have died and in which around 45% of those have been caused by paramilitares (1), a more recent movement but much more deadly than all of the previous ones.
01 of October 2022
Andrés Sossa
(1) Infobae. (2022, June 29). Infobae. Retrieved from Colombia: https://www.infobae.com/america/colombia/2022/06/29/comision-de-la-verdad-revela-que-los-paramilitares-asesinaron-a-mas-ciudadanos-que-la-guerrilla/