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

by Ingrid Betancourt

  I kept silent. His comment disturbed me. Then I answered, weighing my words, “We are all prisoners here. We’re all the same.”

  That made him angry. He felt I had criticized him, and he didn’t like it. And yet the last thing I wanted was to have him think I was lecturing him. I smiled and added, “You’ll have to tell me your story in detail. I really would like to know what you’ve been through up to now.”

  Lucho was behind me. I hadn’t seen him come up. He took me by the arm, and the conversation ended there. We were beginning to build some shelves. Orlando had managed to get some nails and borrow a hammer. We had to hurry, since we had the use of it only until the end of the afternoon. We set to work.

  That night the barracks rattled with everyone’s snoring. It was like the sound of a factory. The day had been intense, and everyone had gone to bed exhausted. I stared at the ceiling and, in particular, the wire fencing over it, a few inches above my nose. They had built everything so quickly that to get to the upper bunks we had to crawl and roll over to lie down, since there was so little space between the beds and the ceiling. It was impossible to sit up, and to get down from the bunk you had to let yourself go gradually, into the void, hanging from the fencing like a monkey until you landed below. I didn’t complain. At least it was sheltered, with a wooden floor that would keep us dry. The new window was a success. A warm breeze came into the barracks and cleaned the air, heavy with the breathing of the ten unfortunate souls crowded inside. A mouse ran along the beam supporting the wire mesh just above my eyes. How long would we have to live packed in here, on top of one another, before we were set free?

  In the morning Lucho and I woke up to an unpleasant surprise: All the shelves we had struggled so to build the day before were already filled with other people’s belongings. There was no more room! Orlando was laughing to himself as he looked at us. “Go on, don’t make such a face. It’s no big deal.We’ll ask for some more boards, and we’ll put some other shelves over there, behind the door. It will be better for you—you’ll have them opposite your bunks.”

  Gloria came over. She thought it was an excellent idea. “And we could make another shelf this side of the fencing!”

  I wasn’t too happy, quite simply because I thought it was unlikely that the guerrillas would give us any more boards. To my astonishment, at Orlando’s request the boards arrived that very same day.

  “You’ll have a lovely shelf! I’ll make a desk for you, fit for a queen!”

  Orlando went on making fun of me, but I was relieved, and my spirits improved. With Lucho they set about building a piece of furniture that could be both a table and a shelf. They also planned on putting together a little bookshelf for the corner where Gloria was. I wanted to help. But I sensed I was getting in their way.

  I went back out to the courtyard to set up my hammock while they finished the job.

  The place that had been allotted to me had now been taken by Keith, unaware that before their arrival we had agreed how to divide up the space. There was only one tree left where I could hang my hammock, but in that case the other end would have to be fixed to the chain-link of the enclosure. This entailed two problems. First of all, they might not allow me to hang it from the outside fence. Secondly, the rope on my hammock might not be long enough. Luckily, Sombra was doing his rounds of the barracks, and I was able to ask him directly. He agreed, and on top of it he provided the extra rope I needed. My companions looked at me askance. They knew that if I’d had to go through Rogelio, I wouldn’t have gotten anything. These were little things, but our lives were made up of nothing but these little things. When Rogelio brought us the evening stewpot and he saw that I had hung my hammock to the fence, a dark shadow passed over his eyes. I knew I had definitely fallen out of his good favor.

  A few days later, Tom, the oldest of our new companions, who had initially set up near Keith, migrated and came to hang his hammock over by me a few minutes later. He’d obviously had a falling-out with his compatriot. When he saw Lucho coming over to join us, he raised his voice, grumbling. We would have to share the same tree for our hammocks. I tried to explain to him that we all had to make an effort to settle together, because space was limited. Exasperated, he snapped back at me. Lucho took my defense, also raising his voice. Tom was easily irritable, in the midst of a cold war with his companion. I understood that he wanted to create some distance. It was also in Keith’s interest to see Tom go elsewhere. He went to the fence while Tom and Lucho were arguing, and whispered to Rogelio. The metal gate suddenly opened, and the man swept in.

  “Ingrid, are you shit stirring? Here everyone is the same. No one prisoner is more important than the others.”

  “But—” I quieted, instantly realizing this was not simply some misunderstanding over the hammocks.

  “I don’t want to know. You’re not the queen here. You have to obey, that’s all there is to it.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “I’ll chain you up so you’ll learn your lesson. You’ll see!”

  What I could see was that my companions, the ones who had inflamed Rogelio, were holding their sides laughing.

  Rogelio was delighted, too. His comrades in the watchtowers were following his performance. He spit on the ground, put his ranger’s hat back on his head, and walked out, strutting like a peacock.

  Lucho took me by the shoulders and shook me tenderly. “Come on, we’ve been through worse. Where’s your smile?”

  It was true. I had to smile, even if it was hard. Then he added, “They’re just making you pay. I heard what you said when the guy told you that you were the jewels of the crown . . . I don’t think you’ve made a friend.”

  In these early days of cohabitation, we shared everything, even tasks, which we distributed as equitably as possible. We decided to sweep the barracks, the wooden walkway, and the toilets. We made brushes for cleaning the bowls using shreds of T-shirts. Every day we’d clean the facilities in teams of two.

  When it was our turn, Lucho and I got up at dawn. In the beginning we had argued, because Lucho categorically refused to let me clean the latrines. He insisted on washing the toilet shed all by himself. This was a job that required a lot of elbow grease, and I didn’t want him to exacerbate his diabetes by overexerting himself. There was nothing I could do. He always pretended to get angry with me and would block my way. So I fell back on the barracks and cleaned them vigorously, because I knew that as soon as he was finished with his chore, he would come and take the broom from my hands to finish my job. This whole business amused no one except Lucho and me. It was a sort of game between us to prove our affection. But it seemed as if our companions didn’t appreciate our way of doing things. Criticism became a popular sport. What I wanted most was to build on this fledgling harmony, but that was becoming increasingly difficult. Each of us had a story of pain, spite, or vexation. None of it was really serious. It was just that little things were blown out of all proportion, because each of us was suffering in one way or another. Any odd look or misplaced comment was taken as a grave offense and became a source of resentment, to be chewed over obsessively.

  Add to that the way each individual’s behavior toward the guerrillas was perceived. There were those who had “sold themselves” and those who “remained dignified.” This perception was a product of speculation, because all it took was for someone to speak to the receptionist to be accused of dishonest collaboration with the enemy. In the end, sooner or later, every one of us had to ask for something we needed. If you “obtained” what you had asked for, the others were filled with pathological envy at not having been granted a similar favor. We all eyed one another with suspicion, caught in our absurd divisiveness in spite of ourselves. The atmosphere had grown heavy.

  One morning after breakfast, one of our new companions came to see me, looking as if he was in a foul mood. He wanted to talk.

  I had just that minute begun a lively conversation with Lucho, Gloria, and Jorge. They wanted me to give them Frenc
h lessons, and we were getting organized. The intrusion annoyed my friends, but I followed my companion, knowing we would have plenty of time to continue discussing our project later.

  My companion said that he’d “heard” that when they arrived, I’d remarked that I did not want them to be with us. Was this true?

  “Who told you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does, because that is a malicious and distorted claim.”

  “Did you say it, yes or no?”

  “When you arrived, I asked how we would all fit in. I never said that I didn’t want you to join us. So the answer is no, I never said that.”

  “Well, it’s important, because it hurt our feelings.”

  “Don’t listen to everything people tell you. Rely on what you can see for yourself. You know that since you arrived, we have all done our best to make you feel welcome. As for me, it’s a pleasure to talk with you. I enjoy our conversations, and I would like for us to be friends.”

  He got up, calmer, held out his hand in a cordial gesture, then apologized to my companions for having taken me away for a few minutes.

  “That’s the way it works: divide and conquer,” said Jorge, the most cautious among us. Then, tapping me on the back of my hand, he added, “Come on, madame. We’ll start our French lessons, and that will force us all to think about something else.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  ROLL CALL

  NOVEMBER 2003

  I began my day with an hour of gymnastics in the space between Jorge’s and Lucho’s bunk beds, making the most of their being at the far end of the barracks, where I wouldn’t bother anyone. Then I would go and wash in the shed, at the exact hour I had been granted in the strict schedule we had drawn up for the use of the “bath room.” The entrance was covered with a black plastic sheet; it was the only place where we could get undressed without being seen. We would all get together before lunch—Lucho, Jorge, Gloria, and I—and sit cross-legged on one of the lower bunks, good-humoredly working on our French lessons, playing cards, and inventing projects to work on together for the day when we would be free.

  When the lunch pot arrived, it was chaos. In the beginning, people tried to be courteous. We would go up with our bowls in our hands and help one another. The men let the ladies go first, observing rules of etiquette. But, over time, our conduct gradually changed.

  One day someone decided that we should line up. Then someone else ran to get to the front as soon as the clicking of the padlock could be heard. Another day one of the biggest men insulted Gloria, accusing her of elbowing her way so she could help herself to more. What should have been a time to relax became a pitched battle, each of us pointing fingers at the others for wanting to have the best part of this revolting pittance.

  The guerrillas had dozens of pigs. We could often smell the roasting meat in the camp, and there was never any for us. When we mentioned this to Rogelio, he brought us back a stew pot with the skull of a pig on a bed of rice. The pig had so many teeth it looked as if it were smiling. A laughing pig, I thought. A swarm of green flies came as its personal escort swirling around it. It was disgusting and that was what we were fighting over. We were hungry and suffering, and we all began to behave the way the guerrillas treated us.

  I didn’t want to be a part of this. I found it really distressing to be shoved by some and watched over by others, as if they were about to bite every time someone went near the pot. I could see their reactions, their sidelong glances, their bullying strategies. So we eventually agreed that it would be wiser for me not to go near the pot. I stayed in the barracks, and Lucho took my bowl and brought back my rice and beans. From a distance I observed our behavior and wondered why we reacted this way. Rules of civility no longer applied. A different order had been established, one that appeared meticulously egalitarian, but in fact allowed the more aggressive and stronger among us to prevail over those who were smaller and weaker. The women were easy targets. Any protest on our part—once we were irritated and hurt—became an easy object of ridicule. And if one of us was unlucky enough to weep uncontrollably, the reaction was pitiless: “She’s trying to trick us!”

  I had never been a victim of overt sexism before. I had arrived in the political arena at the right time—discrimination against women was frowned upon, and women’s participation in politics was promoted as a breath of fresh air in a world rotting with corruption. Confronted with this alpha-male behavior made me think I could now understand why the Inquisition had managed to burn so many women at the stake.

  One morning at dawn, when no one was up yet, the receptionist stood directly outside the window, together with another guerrilla, who stood just behind him as if to support him in a mission that, judging by how stiffly they stood, must be one of some importance.

  Rogelio shouted in a voice that caused the entire barracks to jump out of their beds, “¡Los prisioneros! ¡Se numeran, rápido!” 34

  I didn’t understand what that meant. Count? What did he want from us exactly? I leaned over to speak with Gloria, who slept below, hoping she would have the answer. She had spent more time with Sombra’s troops, and I imagined she must know what Rogelio was asking. It must be some routine I was unfamiliar with. “We each have to say our own number in turn. It’s to count us. Jorge, who is right against the fence, will begin by saying ‘One,’ and then it will be my turn, and I’ll say ‘Two,’ and Lucho will say ‘Three,’ and so on,” explained Gloria, whispering hastily for fear of being told off by the guards.

  We had to count! I found this monstrous. We were losing our identity—they refused to call us by our names. We were nothing more than cargo, cattle.

  The receptionist and his acolyte were getting impatient when they saw how confused we were. No one wanted to start. Someone at the back of the barracks shouted, “Shit! Start! You want them to be pissed off at us all day long or what!”

  There was silence. Then, in a loud voice, as if he were in a military barracks standing to attention, someone shouted, “One!” The person next to him cried, “Two!” The others followed: “Three!” “Four!” Then, when finally it was my turn, my heart beating, my throat dry, I said in a voice that did not sound as loud as I would have liked, “Ingrid Betancourt.”

  And in the panicked silence that followed, I added, “When you want to know if I’m still here, you can call me by my name and I’ll reply.”

  “Go on, I don’t have time to waste!” shouted the receptionist, to intimidate the others.

  I heard a murmur in the back; some of my companions were grumbling about me. They found my attitude unbearable, thinking I was just being arrogant.

  But it was not arrogance. I refused to be treated like an object, to be denigrated not only in the eyes of others but also in my own. For me, words had a supernatural power, and I feared for our health, our mental balance, our spirits. When I heard the guerrillas refer to us as “cargo,” as “packages,” I shuddered. These weren’t just expressions. The point was to dehumanize us. It was simpler for them to shoot at a shipment of goods, at an object, than at a human being. I saw it as the beginning of a process of degradation, which I wanted to oppose. If the word “dignity” had any meaning, then we must not allow them to treat us like numbers.

  Sombra came to see me during the morning. He had been told about the incident.

  He said that roll call was a “routine procedure,” to make sure nobody had escaped during the night. But he said he understood my reaction and had given instructions for them to call us by our names.

  I was relieved. Waging the same battle every morning did not appeal to me. But some of my companions didn’t like it. They refused to acknowledge that there was a point in not submitting.

  THIRTY-THREE

  HUMAN MISERY

  I found I had a great need to isolate myself, which led me to withdraw into almost absolute silence. I understood that my silence might sometimes exasperate my companions, but I also noticed that there were moments in our discuss
ions when there was no point in being rational. Anything anyone said was misconstrued and distorted.

  At the beginning of my captivity, I had been talkative. But because I’d been rebuffed as much as I’d rebuffed others, my need for silence grew stronger. It was almost impossible to obtain it.

  One of my companions, who always turned up when he was least welcome, became a real burden.

  In a loud voice so others could hear, Keith told me stories of his very wealthy friends and his hunting vacations with them in places to which we mere mortals would never have access. He couldn’t help talking about other people’s wealth. It was an obsession. He’d proposed to his fiancée because she was well connected. His favorite subject was his salary.

  I was embarrassed for him. I normally retreated to my worktable halfway through his spiel. I could not understand how, in the midst of a drama like ours, anyone could continue living in his bubble, judging people’s worth by what they possessed. If there was ever a time to dispel this crass illusion, surely it was here, now, in the jungle. We had nothing left.

  Sometimes, however, I lost perspective on my own behavior. One day while the guards had a tape player going full blast, with a nasal voice waning shrill revolutionary refrains, I complained. The FARC was trying to develop a musical culture to accompany the revolution, as the Cubans had done with much success. Unfortunately the FARC didn’t have the same talent in attracting good artists. To my surprise, my companions responded in exasperation that they didn’t want to listen to my complaining. I was put out. I had to listen to their ramblings for hours, but I was not allowed any complaints of my own.

  Under normal conditions their reaction would probably have made me laugh. But in the jungle the slightest irritation could be very painful and I would overreact. These annoyances had accumulated in layers, day after day, month after month.