Thursday, August 27, 2009

Jacquelina's story - La Historia de Jacquelina

El articulo en español aparece al final del texto de inglés.

Sifting through the mound of family's daily washing which all but covered the double bed Jacquelina aged 19 tells me how she doesn't want to get married yet. “Not until I have finished studying and trained in something....If things went badly what would I do, I couldn't leave if I didn't have my own job.”

                                                                   
She tells me about her dad as i edge on to the bed, slowly becoming visible as the clothes get stacked into eight piles, one for each family member. She was nine the day the paramilitaries arrived in La Gabarra and took control through the barrel of their guns. Hundreds were murdeded but her family stayed. Her dad a fisherman in the river Catatumbo. His life and livelihood the river. 

His daily catch diversified from the fish the length of his arm, fish that fed his family. He took on the gruesome task of fishing parts of mutilated body out of the river. He would later bury the remnants of touch, smell, sound, sight, taste, spirit, along the banks of the river. 

                                           ~

She is bored at school. A few years ago she had friends with whom she would play sport, organise fiestas and practice dances. Baseball is her favourite sport. But these girls all left school early, pregnant. She is the only one of the ground left and none of the others want to do anything fun. She goes to school, attends classes and comes home. Bored. 

                                           ~

Her dad was taken by a group of paramilitaries one cloudless beautiful early morning. Her mother searched for him, for the shadow of him, from the hour of making the arepas to the hour of washing the kids after much play in the unpaved streets. As dusk passed her rapidly by, she found the courage to visit the paraco in charge in his office. Her mother, with dignity, asked if he knew why her husband had been disappeared. It hadn't been an order and the paraco was feeling generous that cloudless starfull evening. He ordered her husband, not yet a shadow, to be turned out on to the streets. 

                                          ~

She loves physics and maths but struggles with chemistry. Snap. She has friend in the town council and is hopeful that once she finishes college she may be able to get a job there, starting at the bottom and working her way up, learning skills and earning a salary as she goes.

                                          ~

Aged 10 her and her mother found a dismembered body on the river bank.  Arms, legs and head cut off, the chest wide opened. She describes me the details calmly, no big deal, as we sit resting in chairs outside in the front street, washing all folded and put away now.

                                           ~

She tells me how she bashed into someone earlier, a teenager from one of the delegations who have came on this Pilgrimage, the political – cultural -religous journey that brought 300 of us to La Gabarra. She tells me how embarrased she was but that the lad had responded with a lovely smile and made her laugh. 

                                            ~

She was too young for her to be taken as a “girlfriend” by one of the paracos. “Lots of teenage girls had to be the girlfriend of one of them. They did horrible things to them. I don't want to think about it.”

                                            ~

Some of the teengage lads from CISCA walk past a few minutes later. In the dark street she thought it might be one of them. I call them over with the excuse of asking what time we are meeting for the final rehearsal before the perform their drama piece about displacement, death and life. I look at her and she shakes her head, not one of them. They move on.

                                             ~

She overhears a man in a shop that morning. He is angry with us. This is not a commemoration but a celebration of death. He spits the words out. She translates him. Anger, impotence for what happened. Impotence for what may happen again.                                                       

                                                                       

               "In spite of the hard hits we endured, we can still smile."

She is really suprise that so many people have come to take part in this event to remember the 10th anniversary of the massacres in La Gabarra. “It's awesome that people have not forgotten what happened to us here. And others are happy too even though they didn't take part in the march this morning. They were waiting for the mass to begin. I saw a big group of people from the village in one corner. And they later went to the bridge and took part in the act there too, throwing flowers into the water. ” 

She liked what the bishop had said in the mass. People that forget their histories run the risk of repeating it. Me too. 

La historia de Jacqueline

Arreglando el montón de ropa para lavar de toda la familia que cubría la cama doble, Jacqueline, de 19 años, me cuenta que todavía no quiere casarse. “No hasta cuando haya terminado mis estudios y aprendido algo … Si las cosas van mal, ¿qué haría, no podría salir si no tuviera mi propio trabajo.”

Me cuenta de su padre en cuanto me acerco a la cama que poco a poco aparece debajo de ocho pilas de ropa, una para cada miembro de la familia. Ella tenía nueve años cuando los paramilitares llegaron a La Gabarra y tomaron el control a través de sus fusiles. Cientos fueron asesinados, pero su familia se quedó. Su padre, un pescador en el río Catatumbo. Su vida y su medio de vida fueron el río. 

Entonces sus pescas cambiaron, ya no eran sólo el pescado del tamaño de un brazo, el pescado que alimentaba la familia. Asumió la espantosa tarea de pescar del río partes de cuerpos mutilados. Más tarde enterraría los restos de tacto, olor, sonido, vista, sabor, espíritu en las orillas. 

Ella se aburre en la escuela. Hace algunos años tuvo amigas con quienes jugaba deportes, organizaba fiestas y practicaba bailes. Baseball es su deporte favorito. Pero las muchachas dejaron la escuela temprano, embarazadas. Ella es la única que queda y los otros no quieren hacer nada divertido. Ella va a la escuela, asiste a clases, y regresa a casa. Aburrida. 

Una hermosa mañana despejada su padre fue llevado por un grupo de paramilitares. Su madre lo buscó, buscó su sombra, desde la hora de marcar las arepas hasta la hora de lavar a los niños luego de muchas horas de juego en las vías destapadas. A la hora de caer el sol juntó la valentía de buscar al paraco encargado en su oficina. Su madre, con dignidad, preguntó si él sabía por qué había desaparecido su marido. No era una orden, y el paraco se sintió generoso esa noche estrellada. Ordenó que soltaran a su marido, todavía no una sombra. 
                                           
A ella le fascina la física y la matemática, pero lucha con la química. Tiene un amigo en el concejo y espera que cuando termine el colegio vaya a encontrar un trabajo allí, empezando desde abajo y escalando con su trabajo, aprendiendo habilidades y ganando un salario.  
                                          
Cuando tenía diez años, ella y su madre encontraron un cuerpo desmembrado en la orilla. Brazos, piernas y la cabeza cortados, el pecho abierto. Tranquilamente me describe los detalles, no parece nada serio, nosotras descansando en sillas afuera sobre la calle, con la ropa doblada y ahora guardada. 
                                          
Me cuenta cómo antes se tropezó con alguien, un joven de una de las delegaciones que vinieron para la Peregrinación, el viaje político-cultural-religioso que trajo a 300 de nosotros a La Gabarra. Me cuenta lo avergonzada que estuvo, pero que el joven respondió con una sonrisa hermosa y la hizo reír. 

Ella era demasiado joven como para ser “novia” de un paraco. “Muchas jóvencitas tenían que ser novias de ellos. Hicieron cosas horribles con ellas. No quiero pensar en eso.”                                          
                                           
Algunas de los jóvenes del CISCA pasan unos minutos más tarde. En la calles oscura ella piensa que tal vez es uno de ellos. Los llamo con el pretexto de preguntar por la hora en que quedamos para el último ensayo antes de la presentación de su obra de teatro sobre desplazamiento, vida y muerte. La miro y mueve su cabeza, no es uno de ellos. Siguen su camino. 
                                          
En la mañana escucha a un hombre en una tienda. Está enfadado con nosotros. No es una conmemoración sino una celebración de la muerte. Escupe la palabra. Ella lo traduce. Rabia, impotencia por lo que pasó. Impotencia frente a lo que pueda ocurrir otra vez. 

Está realmente sorprendida que tanta gente han venido a participar en ese evento para recordar el décimo aniversario de las masacres de La Gabarra. “Es bacano que la gente no ha olvidado lo que nos pasó acá. Y otros también están felices a pesar de que no participaron en la marcha esta mañana. Estaban en el polideportivo esperando a que empezara la misa. Vi un grupo grande de gente del pueblo en un rincon. Y luego se fueron al puente y participaron en el acto allí también, tirando flores al agua.”

Le gustó lo que dijo el obispo en la misa. Gente que olvida su historia corre el riesgo de repetirla. A mí me gustó también. 
                                          

Monday, August 24, 2009

In your country, is there also war?

Helicopters overhead, vallenato tunes reaching my ears from all direction, children squealing as they bathe together, the cluck of chickens searching for any sign of food in the bare yard, soldiers pass through the village, buying lunch, just an average day here. I go to use the toilet at 6am to find a solider showering there. His helmet on the wall where I wash my hands. I am in the municipal of El Tarra, one of the most heavily militarised municipals in the region, with an estimated one thousand soldiers present.

Two weeks ago the Colombian government gave the USA permission to use seven military bases for US soldiers from which they will carry out military operations both inside and outside of Colombia. The argument given for this unconstitutional agreement is anti-drugs and anti terrorism. In Catatumbo I have met young people with far smarter answers to these arguments than foreign military in their territory. 

Yesterday I watched a group of children and young people prepare small sketches. One of the groups portrayed the paramilitary invasion in to their community ten years ago. As the armed men broken into the house shooting, the daughter feigning death, heard her parents being slaughtered. Filled with revenge she escaped and went to join the guerillas. Filled with bitterness, knowing the army had allowed the paramilitaries to carry out many massacres, she fought against the army. And yet in her improvisation, the desire for no more deaths overwhelmed her in a moment and she took out the white t-shirt, held it high above her head and cried out “why cant we just have peace, peace for my country?”

And in this piece she told me a simple reason for why many young people continue to join the guerrilla groups. One of many. 

Another is the near impossibility to learn new skills, get good work. Fighting is one current option to get paid work: army, police, paramilitary, FARC, ELN. Another popular option is raspando, picking coca leaves to make cocaine. 

Bullet Holes and Aguilas Negras Graffiti: Classroom occupied by the paramilitaries in 2002 in the village of Filo Gringo. 

While in a shop the owner immediately started asking us if we knew of opportunities for his son to become a professional solder. His son had heard there was a shortage and wanted to train. Did we know of any veterinary courses that had programmes to support students from poor backgrounds. His nephew wanted to work with cattle. Did we know of a way to get on a mechanics course. Another nephew thought he could make a living if he got good qualifications. 

We did not know. 

If the Colombian government really wanted a anti-drugs policy they would know where these sons and nephews could get support to study. They would be trying to open doors for young people so they can follow dreams and not get drawn in to the conflict and coca.

They are not.

They are permitting a foreign army to become involved in the internal armed conflict thereby exacerbating the confrontation and diminishing the possibility of peace. They are giving military bases to the USA from which attacks could be launched on neighboring democratic and progressive governments. They are giving US soldiers full impunity for crimes that they may commit.

After the rehearsal, one of you teenage girls asked me:

“y en tu pais, hay guerra tambien?”

“in your country, is there war as well? ” 

The following day a boy asked me:

"el conflicto alla, donde vives, es mas fuerte que aca o menos?"

"the conflict there, where you live, is it worse than here?"

Conflict is such a part of everyday life that kids assume that it is normal. Twisted brutal reality.

Yet it is staggeringly beautiful that while they improvised much conflict and murders in their sketches, that they also had the vision to improvise peace, performing the possible.

Written on 11th August