Even Silence Has an End: My Six Years of Captivity in the Colombian Jungle

by Ingrid Betancourt

  El Mocho stopped the vehicle on a hill. Down below, half-naked children played on the floor of a small house built in the middle of a cemetery of trees. Smoke rose wearily from the chimney. El Mocho dispatched a group of guerrillas to fetch some cheese, fish, and fruit. Fish? I examined my surroundings. I couldn’t see any rivers. At our feet stretched a vast expanse of green: trees as far as the eye could see. I did a complete turn, 360 degrees—the horizon was a single, continuous green line.

  El Mocho stood next to me, following my gaze. I was moved without knowing why. I felt that he was, too. He put his hands on his forehead to protect his eyes from the glare, looking far into the distance, and after a long silence he said, “This is the Amazon.”

  He said it with great sadness, almost resignation. His words echoed in my mind. There was something about his voice and his tone that this time really set me on the edge of panic. I looked out before me, incapable of speaking, my heart pounding, searching the horizon for a response. Yes, I was very frightened. I sensed danger. I couldn’t see it. But it was there, before me, and I didn’t know how to avoid it.

  Once again, as if reading my mind, El Mocho said, “That is where you are going.”

  SIX

  THE DEATH OF MY FATHER

  MARCH 23, 2009

  I am alone. I am here. No one is watching me. In these hours of silence that I cherish, I talk to myself and reflect. That past, entrenched in time, motionless and infinite, has vanished into thin air. None of it remains. Why, therefore, am I hurting so much? Why did I bring back with me this nameless pain? I followed the path I set for myself, and I have forgiven. I do not want to be chained to hatred or resentment. I want to have the right to live in peace.

  I have become my own master. I get up at night and walk barefoot. There is no one to blind me with a flashlight. My noise does not bother anyone, my behavior intrigues no one. I do not have to ask for permission, and I do not have to explain myself. I am a survivor. The jungle remains in my mind, even if there is nothing around me to bear witness to it. Except for the thirst with which I drink life.

  I stay a long time under the shower. The water is scalding, barely tolerable. Steam is everywhere. I can take water in my mouth and let it run slowly, warmly, down my face and neck. No one is disgusted by it; there are no sidelong glances. There is no longer anyone judging me. I am no longer accessible. I turn the faucet. I want the water to run cold now. My body doesn’t flinch. It has been trained by too many long years of freezing water.

  Seven years ago today, Papa died. I am free, and I weep. From sorrow and happiness, from bitterness and gratitude, too. I have become a complex being. I can no longer feel just one emotion at a time. I am torn between opposite emotions that inhabit me and shake me.

  I am my own master now, but I am small and fragile, humbled through force of circumstance, and all too aware of my vulnerability and inconsequence. My solitude relaxes me. I can accept my inconsistencies without worrying about other people. Without having to hide and without the burden of someone who mocks, barks, bites.

  Seven years ago, on this very day, I saw the guerrillas gather together in a circle. They looked at me from a distance and talked among themselves. We had settled in a new camp. The group had grown in number. Betty was joined by other women: Patricia, the nurse, and Alexandra, a very pretty girl with whom all the boys seemed to be in love.

  Ten days before that, there had been a warning that the chulos were on the river. We were on the run. We walked for days. I was sick the entire journey. Patricia and Betty stayed nearby to help. The road was wide enough for two-way traffic and linked the bank of one river to the mouth of another, miles away. In this labyrinth of rivers that make up the Amazon, the guerrillas had built a network of roads that they kept secret. They knew exactly how to use a GPS and computerized maps to find their way.

  At one point we had to cross a new river. I couldn’t see how we were going to do it. It was less than a month since I’d been captured. I had a few small things the guerrillas were carrying in a bag of provisions that I saw change hands throughout the journey. It had been set down on the riverbank, as if the bearer had had enough. I was about to take it when the girls pushed me roughly into the scrub. I lost my balance and found myself on the ground.

  “¡Cuidado, carajo! Es la marrana.” 13

  “¿La marrana?”

  I was expecting to be charged at any moment by a rabid pig, and I tried to get up as quickly as possible. But the girls held me down by the shoulders, increasing my panic.

  “¡Arriba, mire arriba! ¡Allá está la marrana!” 14

  I looked up to where one of the girls was pointing. Above our heads, through a large opening in the trees and high in the clear sky, was the miniature cross of a white aircraft.

  “¡Ésos son los chulos! Así es cómo nos miran para después ‘borrbardiarnos.’”15

  She mispronounced the verb for “bombard” as borrbardiar, like a child who had not yet learned to talk properly. They also used “look” instead of “see.” I smiled. Would the plane be able to spot us from such a distance? It seemed unlikely. But I felt that it was not even worth worrying about. For me what mattered was the realization that the military was continuing its search and that this marrana was the enemy for them—and therefore hope for me.

  We were moving deeper and deeper into the jungle, and each step was taking us farther from civilization. But the military was following our tracks. We had not been abandoned. After half an hour, the aircraft turned around and vanished from sight. Just as quickly the sky filled with large black clouds. Once again bad weather sided with the guerrillas. The plane’s engine faded. The girls handed me a black plastic sheet.

  Heavy droplets of rain made circles on the calm surface of the river. I heard the cry of a rooster, not far away, on the opposite bank.

  My God, there must be people around here! I was overjoyed. If someone saw me, the alert would be given and the military would come to rescue us.

  Young Cesar arrived looking proud. He had found a dugout to cross. On the opposite bank was a large finca.16 The forest had been cleared to create a huge pasture, and in the middle stood a pretty wooden house, brightly painted in green and orange. I was able to make out chickens, pigs, and a tired-looking dog, which started barking as soon as we emerged from the heavy foliage to get into the dugout.

  Cesar ordered us to cross the river well covered up, so that the “civilians” wouldn’t see us. The storm broke overhead, and I was soaked to the skin, walking under the rain for hours until it was pitch black. The guerrillas erected a tent in the middle of the road between two trees, just above the ground. We slumped into it, soaked.

  The following day we continued on foot to a spot where other guerrillas had obviously slept before. It was a pretty place. Clusters of colored butterflies constantly twirled around us. We were again close to the road, and I told myself that escape was still possible.

  But the next day, at dawn, we were told to pack everything up. During the night a large number of bags of provisions had been piled up beside the road; I had no idea where they came from. The guerrillas, already laden with their heavy backpacks, divvied up the extra provisions and, spines bent under the weight, carried them across the jungle on their backs.

  After an hour of walking, we reached the trunk of a huge tree that had fallen across the road, so we branched off onto a side path covered with crawling plants. The path wound unpredictably through the trees. I had to concentrate so as not to lose sight of the markers left by those who had gone on ahead to clear our passage. It was very humid, and I was sweating profusely.

  We crossed a small, half-rotten wooden bridge. Then a second, and a third. The deeper we went, the longer the bridges became. Some were more like roads built on stilts throughout the forest. I was distraught, because I could see how difficult it would be to grope our way along the path at night in the opposite direction.

  By nightfall we’d arrived at a sort of clearing on a gentle slope. A
tent had been put up at the top. In the middle of the wilderness, they had constructed a proper bed with a forked pole at each corner, some five inches from the ground to support the slats laid crosswise to hold the mattress. The mosquito net was fastened canopy-bed style to tall corner posts they called las esquineras.17

  It was in this camp that I saw the guerrillas in hushed discussion in a circle near the economato, the name given to the shelter where they stored the provisions.

  It was March 23, one month to the day since my capture. I knew that France had issued an ultimatum: I’d heard it on a guard’s radio. If I was not released, the FARC would be put on the European Union’s list of terrorist organizations.

  Since our arrival at the new camp ten days earlier, a routine had been established with the guard changes every two hours and the meal breaks. I had pinpointed the ideal moment to get away. Clara had agreed to follow me.

  They were talking among themselves and giving me surly looks. I assumed they had heard the announcement, and I felt a certain relief at the thought of their being under pressure to release me. In any event, it didn’t matter. In a few days I would be home, in Papa’s arms. I had set myself this coming Sunday as a deadline for my escape. I was convinced I would succeed. It was the beginning of Holy Week. I wanted to flee on Easter Sunday.

  I watched them talking; it was obvious they were worried. Young Cesar finally dismissed everyone, and Patricia, the nurse, came over to speak to us, acting as if she had been entrusted with a delicate task. She knelt in front of our caleta.

  “What have you been hearing lately in the way of news?”

  “Nothing special,” I ventured after a silence, trying to understand the reason for her visit.

  She was being particularly nice in order to gain our trust. She said she sympathized with our situation and made it seem as if she had come over to make us feel better. She explained we had to be just a little more patient, that we had already waited “a long time” and that now we could wait “a short time.” She said we would soon be released. I sensed she was lying.

  I could think of only one thing, and that was to mask any hint of our planned escape. But in fact that was not what was troubling them. Her eyes were not searching every corner of our caleta. She was calm and measured, examining rather my eyes, as if she were trying to read my thoughts.

  She went away again. I felt triumphant; she had no inkling of our plan! I thought she was annoyed at her inability to get anything out of us. But I was wrong. She was relieved. My father had just died. They were just making sure that I hadn’t found out. From then on, they prevented me from listening to the radio. They were concerned that grief might push me over the edge.

  SEVEN

  FALLING INTO THE ABYSS

  APRIL 3, 2002

  Three days after our second attempted escape, we were back at the camp, being shoved forward by the two guards who had captured us. Clara’s feet were swollen, and she could barely walk. I was mortified, furious with myself: My reflexes were too slow. I had lacked foresight. I had been careless. I thought of Papa. I wouldn’t be with him for his birthday. I wouldn’t be there for Mother’s Day. My daughter’s seventeenth birthday was next. And if I still wasn’t released, it would be my son’s turn. I so wanted to be there for his fourteenth birthday.

  The guards were pushing us. They were laughing at us. They had fired shots into the air when we got back to the camp, and the rest of the pack sang and cheered when they saw us. Young Cesar watched from afar, his eyes dark. He had not wanted to join in the celebrations our recapture had elicited. He motioned to the receptionists to take care of us. He was not the same man. I saw him in his caleta pacing around in circles like a wild animal in a cage.

  The camp nurse came over to see us. She searched through our belongings and gleefully confiscated all the things we cared about: the little cooking knife, the effervescent vitamin C tablets, the fishing hooks and line that one of the boys had given us. And, of course, the flashlight.

  She asked us a ton of questions. I remained as evasive as possible. I didn’t want her to deduce the hour or the path we had taken to escape. But she was clever. She made so many comments, slipping in trick questions here and there, that I had to concentrate hard and bite my lip not to fall into her trap.

  Clara was injured, and I asked the nurse to take care of her. She sensed that her interrogation could not continue and stood up abruptly.

  “I’ll send someone over to tend to you,” she said to my companion.

  I saw her walk directly toward the commander’s tent. It looked as if she and Cesar were having a heated discussion. He was a tall guy, very slim, and probably younger than she was. He seemed exasperated by what she was saying to him. He did an about-face and left her talking to herself while he marched up the slope to our caleta.

  He arrived, a grave expression on his face. After a long moment of silence, Cesar made a speech. “You did a really goddamn stupid thing. You could have died in that jungle and been eaten by who knows what. There are jaguars, bears, and caimans out there, just waiting for prey like us. You put your own lives in danger and those of my men. You are not to step outside your mosquito net without the guards’ permission. When you go to the chontos, one of the girls will follow you. We will not take our eyes off you.” Then, lowering his voice, in an almost intimate tone he said, “We all lose people we love. I’m suffering as well. I’m a long way from those I love. But I’m not going to throw my life away because of it. You have children waiting for you. You have to be sensible. It’s staying alive that you need to be thinking about now.”

  He turned on his heel and left. I stood there in silence. His speech was absurd. He could not possibly compare suffering like ours with his own, when he had chosen his fate and we had no say in ours. Of course he must have spent many dark hours living with the anxiety of being blamed for our escape by his superiors, or even of being put before a war council and executed. I was expecting him to be violent and ruthless like the rest of his men. But instead he was the one restraining them. The mockery that had been heaped on us by the guerrillas on the way back to the camp had dissipated in his presence. It was as if he had been more afraid for us than for himself. That evening they held another assembly in a clearing in the middle of camp. I could see them gathered in a circle. They spoke in hushed voices. Only the drone of their conversation reached me. But now and then someone would speak a little louder. I could tell things were tense.

  A girl was standing guard next to me, leaning against one of the posts holding up the mosquito net. It was the first time that guards had actually been positioned inside the tent; the conditions of our detention had obviously changed. The moon was so bright, and we could see as in daylight. The girl was following the assembly’s progress fervently, more practiced than I was at listening from a distance.

  She became aware that I was watching her, and, looking embarrassed, she shifted her rifle to the other shoulder and said, “Cesar is furious. They told the leaders too soon. If they had just waited, no one would have known. Now he’ll most likely be replaced as commander.” She spoke in a low voice without looking at me, as if she were thinking aloud.

  “Who told them?”

  “Patricia, the nurse. She is second in command. She would like to take his place.”

  “Really?”

  I was stunned. I could scarcely imagine there would be court intrigues in the middle of the jungle.

  The following morning Patricia’s “associate”—in FARC jargon meaning her romantic partner—turned up at our tent armed with some heavy, half-rusted chains. He stood there a good while, playing with the chains, taking pleasure in the clanking noise they made as he jangled them between his fingers. I was not going to stoop to asking him what the chains were for. And he was enjoying the mortification that the uncertainty of our situation was producing in us.

  He approached us, eyes shining, lips snarling. He was determined to put the chain around our necks. I wouldn’t let him.


  He tried to impose it by force. I resisted, sensing that he was afraid of overstepping the mark. He looked behind him. He was alone. He shrugged in defeat and declared, “All right then, it’ll be your ankles! Your loss. It will be more uncomfortable, and you won’t be able to wear your boots.”

  I was sick to my stomach. The thought of being chained up was nothing in comparison to the reality of it. I pursed my lips, knowing that I had no choice but to submit. From a practical standpoint, it didn’t make a great deal of difference. We had to ask permission anyway to make the slightest move. But psychologically it was devastating. The other end of the chain was attached to a large tree, and it was taut if we decided to remain seated on our mattress under the mosquito net. The tightness meant that the chain cut into our skin, and I wondered how we could sleep in such conditions. But most of all there was the dismay of losing hope. The chains ruled out escape. We would not even be able to dream up a new means of fleeing; the lead curtain had come down once again. Clinging to the irrational, I whispered to Clara, “Don’t worry, we’ll still manage to get away.”

  She turned toward me and screamed, “It’s over! You’re the one they want, not me. I’m not a politician. I’m nothing to them. I’m going to write a letter to the commanders. I know they’ll let me go. I have no business here with you!”

  She picked up her travel bag and riffled through it irritably. Then, at the peak of her anger, she yelled, “Guard! I need some writing paper!”

  Clara was a single woman in her forties. We had worked together in the Ministry of Commerce. She had helped in my first campaign when I ran for Congress and decided after that to go back to the ministry. I hadn’t seen her for years. Two weeks before our abduction, she approached me asking to join the campaign team. We were friends, but I really didn’t know her that well before.