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

by Ingrid Betancourt

  The order was given to move our tents to our old spots in the camp. From there it was impossible to see Lucho. However, in their obsession to forbid any communication between us, the guerrillas overlooked the fact that the other group’s chontos were only a few feet from our spot. It was awkward for them, but no one complained. Marc was the first one to realize. We spoke with signs; he promised to get Lucho.

  Lucho was very tense when he came. We spoke without closing the thirty feet or so that separated us, as if there were a wall between us. On a sudden impulse, I turned to the guard, the same one I had once grabbed by the neck to punish for being so vulgar.

  “Okay, go ahead,” he said. “You have five minutes.”

  I ran over to Lucho, and we held each other tight.

  “I won’t leave without you.”

  “Yes, you have to leave. You have to tell the world what we are going through.”

  “I won’t be able to.”

  “Yes you will. You have to.”

  I removed from my waist the belt that I was wearing and said, “I want you to give this to Melanie.”

  We held each other’s hands in silence; it was the greatest blessing we could receive. There were so many things to say to him! When I felt that the time was running out, I knew I must secure one last promise from him.

  “Ask me whatever you want.”

  “Promise me . . . that you’ll be happy, Lucho. I don’t want you to spoil the happiness of your release by feeling sorry for me. Swear that you will live life to the fullest.”

  “I swear that every second of my new life I will not stop working for your return, that’s what I’ll swear.”

  The guard’s voice brought us back down to earth. We flung our arms around each other one last time as tears streamed down my face, and I couldn’t have said whether they were mine or his. I saw him walk away, his back bent, his steps heavy. In his camp the tents were already being dismantled.

  We no longer saw the members of Marc’s group, although I imagine we couldn’t have been very far from each other. On February 27, three weeks after we said good-bye, Luis Eladio, along with Gloria, Jorge Eduardo, and Orlando, landed at the Maiquetía airport in Venezuela. Their release was a diplomatic triumph for President Chávez.

  In chains, curled up inside our mosquito nets, we listened to the broadcast, trying to visualize the images we couldn’t see. It must have been six o’clock in the evening; the twilight sky must be cooling the dusty Caracas air. I imagined the plane must be quite a big one. You could hear the song of the cicadas above the turbines of the plane—or was it around my caleta that the cicadas were singing?

  Lucho’s voice was full of light. He’d gotten stronger during the weeks leading up to his release; his words were clear, his ideas sharp. What must he be feeling at that moment? He was back in the world, and now the reality I was still living had moved into the past for him, as if by magic, with a snap of someone’s fingers. He will hit a switch to turn off the lights tonight, and he’ll have clean sheets on a real bed, and hot water just by turning the tap. Will he be immediately swallowed up into that new world? Or will he pause before he switches on the light and think about us, and think again about us as he lies down, and remember us when he chooses his dinner? Yes, at dinner he’ll be back here for a few seconds, I thought. Armando shouted from his cambuche, “We’ll be next!”

  I felt pain in my heart. No, not me. I wouldn’t be on the list of FARC’s releases. I was sure of that.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  THE DISAGREEMENT

  MARCH-APRIL 2008

  The march went on, aimlessly. We spent several days sleeping on a granite bed by the side of a lazy river, pestered by flies dismembering the stinking remains of fish caught among the rocks when the waters subsided. Then we crossed over to the other side of the river.

  “They’re going to get us some supplies,” explained El Chiqui, pointing his chin toward Monster and two other boys leaving with empty equipos. So we waited patiently. They allowed us to fish with hooks that they would collect again when night fell. This improved our rations. I would eat the bones and fins of the fish to assure an intake of calcium.

  One evening El Chiqui came to inform us that we had to pack everything up, because we would leave as soon as the bongo arrived. We made a short crossing and spent the rest of the night on a muddy riverbank. In the morning we were ordered to hide in the woods, not to speak or use radios or put up tents. At noon we saw our companions from the other group go by in single file behind Enrique. They were held on leashes like dogs by guards who walked behind, rifles pointed at them.

  I could not get used to the sight of a chain around a man’s neck. Our companions went by us, practically stumbling over us, but they didn’t want to speak or even look at us. Marc went by—I had gotten up to look at him in the hope that he would turn his head. He didn’t.

  Then we followed them. We, too, walked in silence, kept on leashes. Monster had just been killed by an army patrol; one of the young guerrillas had managed to flee and give the alarm. We were surrounded by the army.

  Our flight was exhausting. To get the army off our trail, Enrique ordered us to march in cortina,96 which meant we no longer followed each other but moved forward elbow to elbow in a single row in the same direction, like a front line.

  So we had to clear our own passage through the vegetation, being careful not to break any branches or damage the ferns. It was hand-to-hand combat with nature. Each of us was on a leash held by a guard. My guard got angry with me because I tended to go where my neighbor had already cleared the way, and so I fell behind and broke the front line.

  I was slowing everybody down; perhaps I was hoping, even unconsciously, that the army would catch up with us. As we clambered through the barriers of thorns, climbing over the white corpses of dozens of charred trees blocking our passage and fought our way through the creepers and roots of hostile vegetation, I pictured the sudden arrival of commandos, their faces smeared with colorful green paint.

  Every day I prayed for the commandos, even if the risk of dying was considerable. It was not just the idea that the bullets would spare me no matter what. It was stronger than that. It was above all a need for justice. The right to be defended. A vital aspiration, to reconquer my own dignity. But I couldn’t do much.

  This advance, this struggle against the elements with a chain around my neck, was all the more painful and humiliating because it forced me to invest will and ingenuity in “fleeing” from what I desired most: my freedom. And I hated myself for every step I made.

  More than once we left behind the edge of the forest to wander across the land of huge fincas that had been recently burned by the antidrug squads. A few head of cattle watched terrified as we went by, filling our pockets with guavas and mandarin oranges from the lush trees spared by the fire. Then we disappeared again into the thick cover of jungle. One afternoon in April, as we were going toward a wide river with tranquil waters and I was hoping for nothing more from life than a bath and a moment of rest, El Chiqui came up to me and pulled me out of the line we had formed to wait.

  “We’ve received a message from the Secretariado. We’ve been ordered to change your group.”

  I shrugged, only half believing what he said.

  “Get your things ready. We’ll proceed immediately with the exchange.”

  A few minutes later, I was sitting on the ground, filled with anxiety, trying as best I could to stuff my backpack with my belongings.

  “Don’t worry,” said William, standing behind me, “I’ll help you.”

  We followed El Chiqui across a small stream with a bed of pink pebbles and went up the steep slope of the bank. Camouflaged among the trees a hundred yards from us, the other camp, already set up for the night, was a beehive of activity. Enrique was standing with his arms crossed, looking daggers at me. “Over there!” he muttered, motioning with his chin.

  I looked over to where he had indicated, and I saw my companions gathered together. I
trembled with impatience at the thought of seeing Marc again.

  His tent was the first one in the campsite. He had already spotted me and was standing right outside his caleta. He didn’t move. He had a huge chain around his neck. I walked up. The joy I felt on seeing him again was not what I had anticipated. It was a melancholy joy, a happiness made weary by too many trials. He’s in good shape, I thought as I observed him more closely, as if to justify my resentment.

  We hugged, with restraint; we clasped hands for a moment, then let go, intimidated by rediscovering a closeness we’d never really achieved.

  “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I was afraid.”

  “Me, too.”

  “We’ll be able to speak now.”

  “Yes, I think so,” I answered, not altogether sure. The guard behind me was getting impatient.

  “I’d like to have my letters back.”

  “Yes, if you want . . . and will you give me back mine?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to keep them, too.”

  I was surprised. I had the letters in my pocket. I could simply hand them to him. But I didn’t. “We’ll see tomorrow,” I said, thinking that we would have to work at rebuilding the bridges between us.

  My companions went on with their occupations without a fuss. They kept to themselves, mindful not to disturb their neighbor or ruffle anyone’s susceptibilities.

  Over the coming days, Marc and I cautiously resumed our conversations. I felt the same great joy that I’d known before, sharing these moments with him once again, but I restrained myself, forcing myself to dose out my freedom to speak with him carefully.

  “Did you hear that Monster was killed?” I asked one day.

  “Yes, that’s what I heard.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. And you?”

  “It did affect me. I saw him leave the camp with his empty equipo. He was on his way to die. No one knows the place or the time. All the ones who were so hard on us came to a bad end. Did you know that Sombra was captured?”

  “Yes, I heard it on the radio. Rogelio died, too, in La Macarena.”

  “Rogelio? The receptionist at Sombra’s prison?”

  “Yes. He was killed in an ambush. He had gotten really nasty with us.”

  “And Shirley, the pretty girl who acted as a nurse and dentist at Sombra’s camp, what happened to her?”

  “I saw her not long ago. She’s in a group of soldiers with Romero and Rodríguez. They’re part of the convoy that’s ahead of us. She’s with Arnoldo now, the one who took over from Rogelio at Sombra’s prison.”

  This was our world now. These men and women who held us prisoner were our community, our social references.

  Marc and I started doing gymnastics together. We were constantly changing camp, but it was no longer a continuous march. We spent two weeks by a stream, three weeks by a river, one week behind a coca field. Wherever we went, we would find a way to set up parallel bars and something to make weights with. Our training routine had a precise goal, that of preparing our escape.

  “We have to flee toward the river. Then we have to go wherever the helicopters are,” said Marc obstinately.

  “The helicopters are constantly moving around. We can’t predict where they’ll be. We have to do what Pinchao did. We have to head north.”

  “That’s totally crazy, to head north! We’ll never have enough supplies to get as far as Bogotá!”

  “It’s even crazier to think we could reach the helicopter base. It’s never permanent. One day they’re here, the next day they’re somewhere else.”

  “All right,” Marc eventually agreed, “we’ll go to the river where the helicopters are, and then we’ll head north.”

  But our plans to escape were running into more and more difficulties.

  The business of the letters became a serious source of tension. I tried to avoid the topic, but he kept coming back to it. I gradually put more distance between us, limiting our moments together to our workouts. I felt sorry, but I couldn’t see my way out of this absurd confrontation over the letters.

  One evening after a discussion that was more heated than usual, one of the guards came to see me.

  “What’s your problem with Marc?” he asked.

  I replied evasively.

  Later William lectured me. “They’re the ones in charge here,” he warned me. “They can search you at any time.”

  I knew he was right. At any moment our letters could end up in the guerrillas’ hands. I decided to burn those I had in my possession, certain that Marc wouldn’t give me back mine. During one of the short marches that were now routine, I managed to burn a few without being seen.

  Or at least that’s what I thought, because one of the guerrilleras had watched me at it and notified Enrique. I was summoned. William took me to one side and said, “Don’t lie. They already know about the letters.”

  Enrique was short with me. “I don’t want any problems between prisoners. Give your comrade what belongs to him, and I’ll make him give you what is yours,” he said.

  Despite the humiliation the situation caused me, Enrique’s attitude gave me some peace of mind. He didn’t seem to be interested in the letters per se. He was delighted to be able to play the referee between Marc and me. It was his personal revenge for having me back.

  Marc, too, was summoned. We were in a different camp, right in the middle of a budding coca plantation, with fruit trees in the center and, along the periphery and at each corner, tall, solitary papaya trees. There were also two adjacent wooden houses and an open-air clay oven. They had put us off to the side of the plantation, in the woods. Enrique had pitched his tent right behind the wooden houses, in the garden, before the edge of the forest.

  Marc stayed talking with Enrique for a long time. When he returned, I went up to him. He seemed in low spirits, and he made me wait until he’d finished putting his things away before he would give me his attention. This whole business was really stupid. It would have taken just one word for the walls rising between us to crumble. His dark look stopped me from speaking, though. I handed him the roll of letters, and he took it without glancing at it. I thought about telling him that they weren’t all there, and I waited stiffly, unsure about how to say it. Misunderstanding my reason for waiting there, he said, “I’m sorry, but I’m keeping yours, too.”

  I could not understand why he wanted to keep my letters. What did he want to do with them? I had become increasingly suspicious.

  The next morning after breakfast, Enrique sent El Abuelo as courier. We had to take our equipos and go into one of the little wooden houses.

  “We’re going to show you some films,” he announced.

  El Abuelo convinced no one, because the order to take our backpacks with us could only mean something else.

  The group was divided in two. El Abuelo asked Marc to open his bag and took out all his belongings. He carefully inspected every single object and was particularly interested in Marc’s notebook, the one he used as a diary. He called me over.

  “Does this belong to you?” he asked, showing me the notebook.

  I stood where I was in the little house, refusing to cross the space between us. Another guard came up.

  “Get a move on. Can’t you see the comrade is calling you?” he said, exasperated. The little houses were built on posts three feet from the ground. I jumped down and walked over.

  “It’s not mine,” I answered.

  For a moment Marc seemed troubled, and then, as if to regain his composure, he said, “Can I put my things away now?”

  El Abuelo scowled at him. His two other companions were shouting and waving their arms in exasperation, outraged that they’d been made to wait there with their equipos, too. El Abuelo was irritated by Marc’s comment and their impatience. He was about to leave, his mission over, but then he changed his mind.

  “You! Open your equ
ipo!” he said, raging against Keith. There was a deadly silence.

  I heard the other guard shout, sharp as ever, “That will teach him to act like Rambo!”

  The other guerrillas who were standing near the oven, busy cooking, burst out laughing. Massimo was there with them. He came over to me as he watched the scene.

  “Ouch!” he said, shaking his hand as if it hurt. “What a viper’s tongue that guy has!”

  This wave of reactions left me with a bitter taste. What a waste, I thought, sadly, watching Marc pack up his belongings. I didn’t care for the letters anymore. His friendship was the only thing worth fighting to keep.

  EIGHTY

  THE SACRED HEART

  JUNE 2008

  I was overcome with melancholy. That I couldn’t speak to Marc—not because the guerrillas had separated us, but because of our own stubbornness—left me feeling disgusted with everything.

  Before we got to the campsite with the two little houses, when we were still on the march, Asprilla had brought me a big Larousse dictionary, the one I’d asked for from Mono Jojoy years earlier. I had known for a long time that it was in the camp. Consolacion and Katerina had first told me, back in the days when they were my guards, during my isolation and convalescence in Chiqui’s group, that the Larousse had arrived.

  Monster had been carrying it around. He had later let me leaf through it for a few days, in exchange for which he wanted me to explain the history of the Second World War. The girls were delighted to be able to use it, too, and together we had looked through the dictionary while they braided my hair. Once Monster died, I figured no one wanted to carry it.

  I waited for Marc to give some sign that he’d like to use it, but he refused to show any interest. Keith often asked for it, and we agreed that I would leave it for him beside my equipo while I was working out so that he could use it at his convenience. But his curiosity quickly faded, and in the end only William remained absorbed by it.

  One afternoon when I was waiting for William to finish using it and I was killing time fiddling with the dial on the shortwave radio, a man talking about the promises of the Sacred Heart caught my attention. Perhaps because as a child I often went to the Basilica of Sacré-Coeur in Paris, or maybe because the word “promises” had struck a chord, the fact remains that I stopped turning the knob to listen to what the man had to say.