Even Silence Has an End

by Ingrid Betancourt

  The guards looked on with consternation. We could hear our neighbors’ commentary through the wall: The military prisoners wanted to join in and go on strike as well.

  The prison gate opened. We expected reprisals. Arnoldo came in, surrounded by two other guards, dragging a hemp sack covered in dust.

  Some captives immediately went up to excuse themselves, trying not to fall into disgrace. “Arnoldo, I’m really sorry. You have to understand.”

  The guerrilla stopped short, raising his hand. “Commander Sombra informs you that the prisoners have the right to protest and that the FARC guarantees that right. He asks you to protest quietly, because your shouts might alert any chulos who happen to be in the area. Here are some cans of tuna to be distributed between you. Commander Sombra orders the child to be removed from the prison because he isn’t a prisoner. He will live freely among us, returning from time to time to see his mother. We’re going to care for him and feed him well. You will be able to testify to this.” He dumped the hemp bag on the table and took the baby and all its things, then went away again, double-locking the gate, leaving us speechless.

  The baby was growing and filling out before our eyes. Clara would take him, play with him for a few minutes, then hand him to the receptionist as soon as he began to cry. One evening it was Guillermo the nurse who brought him. We asked how they intended to care for his little arm. We demanded to know. He claimed that the baby had completely recovered, but we knew that was not true. Clara stopped the discussion. She thanked Guillermo for all he’d done for the baby and declared, “I wish you had been his father.” There was a chill, and then everyone went back to their business.

  I often thought about the child. In a way, by agreeing to be his godmother, particularly in this jungle, I felt bound to him. When Arnoldo came, I would spend a few minutes interrogating him. I wanted to know how they were treating the baby’s diaper rash and the heat rash he had all over his body, and more than anything I needed to know what sort of diet he was getting.

  “We’ll make a man of him,” answered Arnoldo. “We give him strong black coffee in the morning, and he loves it.”

  That gave me the shivers. I knew it was a fairly common custom in Colombia. The poorest families could not afford powdered milk for infants, so they filled their babies’ bottles with coffee.

  I remembered a little girl I’d found in a cardboard box inside a garbage can in the north of Bogotá. I was on my way back from Congress, looking distractedly through the car window, and was startled to see a small hand emerge from a pile of rubbish. I jumped out of the car and found this little baby girl bundled up in a filthy blanket that stank of urine. She had fallen asleep with a feeding bottle in her mouth, full of black coffee.

  Her older brother was playing nearby. He told me that the baby’s name was Ingrid. Far less would have sufficed for me to see this as a sign from fate. I immediately called Mom to ask her if she had any room in her shelters for homeless children, for Ingrid and her brother who were sleeping on the street. . . .

  A bottle of black coffee for an infant. This was a result of extreme poverty to be sure, but also of ignorance. I explained to Arnoldo that coffee was too strong a substance and not suitable for a baby, that he must try above all to get some milk. He looked at me, offended, and said, “That’s just bourgeois bullshit. We were all brought up like that, and we’re doing fine.”

  Arnoldo had made it political. I knew it was useless to insist. For little things and big ones, too, we were at the mercy of the guards’ moods. Ferney had warned me: I had to wait for the right moment, use the right tone and the right words.

  I’d failed miserably.

  FORTY-SIX

  BIRTHDAYS

  Unbelievably, September was nearly upon us. A painful cycle was beginning again. On the radio, tropical music was already announcing the Christmas season. I could not resign myself to the horror of being away from my children on their birthdays for the third year.

  I wanted to celebrate my daughter’s nineteenth birthday, and I dreaded that yet again I would do something wrong. I wanted to make a cake for Melanie, so I monitored Arnoldo’s mood, looking for an opening to make my appeal.

  But with each passing day, Arnoldo was becoming more tyrannical and disparaging, refusing to linger for a second to exchange a few words. And I did not want to make a big deal out of it. I knew that my plan had every chance of failing. Yet I also sensed, in an irrational way, that if I managed to celebrate my daughter’s birthday once again, it would be a good omen. The idea took hold of me, and I waited for an opportunity.

  And then there was a moment of respite from my frustration. Sombra decided we were to have our teeth examined. Shirley, who’d had some nurse’s training, had been appointed the dentist. I seized the chance to ask for her help.

  “I can’t promise you anything. But I’ll try to sell him on the idea for you to come and cook with us one afternoon. When is your daughter’s birthday?”

  But the days went by, and they didn’t come to take me to the rancha.

  I woke up on the morning of September 6, 2004, with a dream-kissed vision of my daughter before my eyes. I was glad I hadn’t spoken to anyone about my idea—no one could mock my failure. Learn to desire nothing, I told myself over and over again, to banish disappointment.

  But after lunch the creaking of the hinges alerted me.

  Behind Arnoldo came La Boyaca, looking sullen. She was holding an enormous cake. Arnoldo shouted my name.

  “It’s for you. Commander Sombra has sent it.”

  The cake was nicely decorated and had written across it, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MELANIE, FROM THE FARC-EP. I jumped for joy, like a little kid, and spun around to share my emotion with my companions. Keith turned on his heel, furious. I recalled a conversation I’d had with him months earlier: Our daughters were born two days apart. The others brought their bowls, and I called to him, insisting he join us, too.

  We still had some chicha left from our strike, so strong it was frightening. This was the perfect time to enjoy it.

  Before slicing the cake, I raised my glass and said, “Today we are celebrating two important events: the birth of Lauren and the birth of Melanie. May God give them courage to be happy despite our absence.”

  When our little celebration was over, Keith gave me a hug. He looked at me, his eyes moist and his voice thick when he said, “I’ll never forget what you just did.”

  On the radio news, the lead story was the deployment of troops in the Amazon as part of the Plan Patriota. The generals were going after Mono Jojoy, the report said; they were breathing down his neck, and he was sick and having trouble keeping up the pace. Mom was interviewed. She asked President Uribe to suspend operations and agree to negotiate with the guerrillas. She was afraid we would be massacred.

  I also heard Fabrice, my ex-husband, interviewed on Radio France. I was happy to hear him. I was thankful he was an incredible father, and I knew that his fortitude helped keep our children going. However, this time he seemed very sad. He insisted on his right to fight for us at a time when doing so was perceived as a French intrusion into Colombian affairs. He wanted to send me a message. He wanted to give me hope, but as he spoke, he burst into tears. It broke my heart. I understood then how bad our situation was.

  We began to prepare for departure, sorting through our things, choosing what to take. With the Plan Patriota, if the soldiers got any closer, we would be made to march into the jungle to shake them off.

  I had never made any real marches. Orlando, on the other hand, was a veteran of marches that lasted for weeks. He said they had marched in pairs, chained together at the neck. When one fell down from the weight and fatigue, he would pull the other one down with him. The equipos they’d set off with were extremely heavy, and they had to throw out their treasures along the way to make them lighter. Their greatest fear was in crossing the tree trunks that served as bridges, because if you took a wrong step, both of you were in danger of being strangled or drowned.
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  With Lucho, we decided to prepare ourselves as best we could, above all to be in good physical condition to flee, in the event we were caught in the crossfire between soldiers and guerrillas. We had agreed on a set of signals to be able to rush off together at the slightest alert, in the hope of catching up with the army if the opportunity arose.

  I spent mornings climbing up and down my footstool and carrying the equipo on my back, full of the things I planned to take with me. I hadn’t favored any one item over another, because I knew I needed everything. However, I made a list of the things that were emotionally important to me, that helped me carry on. Some of them I clung to as to my life.

  The first of these was an envelope with a series of letters that Sombra had brought to me that had been delivered through the offices of the church. In my packet there was a long letter from Mom, which I read every day.

  She had written it hurriedly, following a phone call from Monsignor Castro, who told her there was a possibility of contact with the FARC. Mom wrote, “I was angry with the Virgin Mary, because she wasn’t listening to me. I had told her, If you don’t give me any news of my daughter by Saturday, that’s it, I won’t pray anymore.”

  Mom received a call to tell her that the proof of life had arrived Saturday before noon. She’d been startled on hearing in the video that I asked her to say the Rosary with me, every Saturday on the dot of noon. She saw these coincidences as a sign, an answer, a protective and active presence. As for me, I made this Saturday prayer the high point of my week. Consuelo and Gloria never failed to remind me when it was time.

  Reading Mom’s letter had become part of this almost mystical routine I enacted to drive away the demons that had invaded my life. When I read it, I entered a world of goodness, rest, and peace. I heard her voice, echoing in my mind as I read the words she formed in her lovely handwriting. I followed the pauses in her thoughts, the intonation of her voice, her sighs and smiles, and she appeared there before me. I saw her in the splendor of her generous nature, always beautiful, always content. With this little scrap of paper, Mom stopped time. I had her all to myself, with each reading.

  This letter was more precious to me than anything. I wrapped it up in some plastic I’d rescued during the most recent shipment of gifts, after a fierce, ridiculous struggle with one of my comrades who wanted it, too. I sealed it with sticky labels from deodorant bottles, to keep it dry, if ever I fell into a river. I’d done the same with the photographs of my children that she had included in the letter, and the drawings from my four-year-old nephew, Stanislas. He had portrayed my rescue by the Colombian army, with a helicopter taking me away even though I was still asleep—and of course he was the pilot. There was also a poem from Anastasia, my sister Astrid’s seven-year-old daughter, written with her inventive child’s spelling, in which she asked her grandmother not to cry, to dry her tears, because her daughter would return to her one day, “in a moment of craziness, a moment of magic, a moment from God, in one day or three years, it doesn’t matter. She will come back!”

  Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I’d spread all my treasures out in front of me. Gazing at my children’s photographs for a long time, I observed their faces, the expressions in their eyes, their haircuts, their features that sometimes looked so much like their father’s and sometimes so much like mine. I analyzed those instants that had remained frozen on a scrap of paper, and I found it so hard to look away. It was painful, wrenching. This luxury did not weigh a thing. I had folded it in such a way that it would fit into my jacket pocket. If ever I have to leave at a run and abandon my backpack, I’ll have saved my letters. And if they kill me, at least they’ll know who I am.

  There were also the jeans that Melanie had given me. They were too heavy, but I was reluctant to leave them behind. When I wore them, I became myself again. And through them I was clinging still to my daughter’s love. I couldn’t let go. Worse yet, there was my jacket! It was fairly light to be sure, but so bulky. Finally there was the dictionary. It weighed a ton.

  Lucho offered to carry my jacket so that I’d have room for it. Orlando agreed to take my jeans, Marc my Bible.

  I was ready for the march. However, as the weeks went by, nothing happened. The rumors seemed to be just that—rumors. We settled back into our boredom, which now, with the dreadful prospect of a march, seemed like bliss.

  It was my son’s birthday. On that Friday, October 1, 2004, when the gates opened, I hurried over, sure that Arnoldo had come to take me to the rancha. But he was there for another reason.

  He told us to prepare our bags as lightly as possible. We would be marching until Christmas. We would take supplies. There wouldn’t be much food. “Sombra is also sending you bottles of vodka. Enjoy them—it’s the last time you’ll see any. Drink some before we leave, and it’ll give you a boost to start the march. I warn you: It might be really tough. We have to walk quickly, and for long stretches. To console you, here’s a piece of good news: You’re having pork at lunch. You’ll have a good meal before leaving.”

  Off in the distance, I could hear pigs squealing. Poor beasts, the guerrillas preferred to force-feed us than to leave anything behind for the military.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  THE BIG DEPARTURE

  OCTOBER 1, 2004

  I had thought I was ready, but when it was time to leave, I began to reconsider all my choices. I wasn’t the only one. The barracks turned into a veritable bazaar. At the last minute, everybody added other things to his load. Then we all started thinking about taking our mattresses. Lucho convinced me to take mine under my arm, bound tightly with string, and I agreed, unaware of the burden I would have to carry.

  I repacked my bag completely, and once the pack was closed, Lucho lifted it up to gauge the weight and said, “It’s too heavy. You won’t make it.”

  Too late. Arnoldo was already there with the stewpot, brimming with food.

  “You have thirty minutes to eat, wash your bowls, and be ready to leave with your equipos.”

  We didn’t eat—we stuffed ourselves. Obsessed by the thought of filling our stomachs, we couldn’t taste anything we swallowed. We drank the vodka in the same way, just to add calories, not even taking the time to taste the liquid that went straight down and burned our throats.

  I immediately felt as if someone were hitting me in the ribs. While I was rinsing out my bowl, shivers went up and down my spine. I’m getting sick, was all I had time to think.

  Lucho had his hat on his head and his equipo on his back. The rest were already lined up. I heard Orlando say, “They’re going to chain us, those bastards, you’ll see!”

  Lucho looked at me anxiously. “Are you all right? We have to leave right away! Come here, and I’ll help you on with your backpack.”

  When the weight of my pack finally pulled on my shoulders, I thought Lucho had hung an elephant around my neck.

  I leaned forward instinctively, but it was a position that would be hard to keep up while walking.

  “I told you so. Your equipo is too heavy.”

  Of course he was right, but it was too late. The others were already leaving.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been training. I’ll manage.”

  Arnoldo gave the signal to depart. The armed guards slipped in between the prisoners, carrying backpacks that were twice as large as the ones I had seen on the guys from the southern front. I left last, glancing behind me. There were things scattered all over the prison, lifeless objects, leftovers. It looked like a Bogotá slum, with dirty clothing hanging from scraps of rope abandoned in the trees, sheets of cardboard, and empty cans everywhere in the mud.

  This is what the soldiers will find when they get here. A tropical concentration camp. The guard who’d waited to escort me must have read my mind, because he exclaimed, “There’s a team that’s going to stay behind to pick everything up. We’ll bury it all, just in case you left your names scratched on the boards.”

  I should have thought of it, of course. I should have left some
clues to put the army on the right track. The guard realized that instead of getting me to talk, he had given something away. He bit his lips, and in a hoarse voice, adjusting his hat on his head, he barked, “Come on, get a move on! We’re falling behind.”

  I jumped, to obey and made a superhuman effort to take ten steps forward. I couldn’t understand what was happening. And yet I had trained, I was physically fit. My pride forced to me to march as if there were nothing wrong. I went by the group that had not yet left. This must be the cleaning team. One of the girls was leaning on a sort of railing that they had probably set up recently. She was playing with one of Sabba’s little kittens, the fruit of her love affair with Tiger.

  “What you going to do with the cats?” I asked the young girl as I went by.

  “I’m going to take the kittens,” she answered, lifting up her hat to show me where a second kitten was hiding.

  “And the parents?”

  “They’ll manage on their own. They’re hunters.”

  I looked sadly at the kittens; they wouldn’t survive.

  On my right was the pig pond and the place where we’d had our first caletas, on the hill. The river was ahead, swollen with the rains, the current rapid. They had also built a bridge; it wasn’t there before. Sombra was leaning on it and watching my progress.

  “Your load is too heavy. We’re going to camp not far from here. You have to empty out your backpack. Don’t even think of taking that mattress!”

  I had put the mattress under my arm, without thinking. I felt ridiculous. I was sweating profusely, overwhelmed with a sticky fever.

  I staggered across the bridge. The guard asked me to stop, took off my backpack, and fitted it on top of his own, behind his neck, as if he had just lifted up a feather. “Come on, follow me. We’ve got to hurry. It’s going to be night soon.”