Even Silence Has an End

by Ingrid Betancourt

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  LUCHO’S RELEASE

  El Chiqui had warned us we’d be marching at New Year’s; this was only a temporary camp, despite the commotion there was that morning. It was not the signal of a new departure, since the guerrillas’ tents had not been dismantled.

  At around eleven o’clock, the girls showed up carrying paper plates with chicken and rice, nicely decorated with mayonnaise and tomato sauce. I had not seen anything like this in my nearly six years of captivity. Then, in the middle of the table that had been built the day before, they set down an enormous fish cooked in banana leaves. I was disconcerted.

  The guerrillas were calling to me, coming up to me with bags full of wrapped presents. Behind me my companions were shouting joyfully at the sight of this unexpected Christmas. I felt a sudden rush of anxiety. Instinctively I looked all around. The girls were getting ready to hug me, and it would be anything but gratuitous. That is when I saw Enrique, hidden behind the bushes. Once again the red light betrayed him. He was filming in secret with his little digital camera. I rushed to take refuge under my mosquito net, leaving unopened the package the girls had placed in a corner of my caleta.

  I switched on my radio, furious, to distract myself from the shameful charade that Enrique had cooked up. I was sure that this new footage he was making had no other aim than to improve the FARC’s image, for it had been seriously tarnished by the discovery of our proofs of life. The images of the human rags and bones into which they’d transformed us had given the FARC bad press.

  I was brooding over this when the radio program was interrupted by a news alert I heard: “The FARC has announced the pending liberation of three hostages.” Consuelo, Clara, and her son, Emmanuel, were going to be released! I leaped from my hammock and ran over to my companions, who greeted the news with hugs and smiles. Armando came up, swaggering. “We’re next!” A wave of well-being washed over me. “It’s the beginning of the end,” I repeated over and over, imagining Clara’s and Consuelo’s happiness. We prisoners shared a theory: If one of us got out, the others would follow. Pinchao had paved the way. His success had echoed within us like a signal. It must be our turn soon.

  We moved to another camp the next day, down the river, our tents bunched together, which meant the real beginning of a march. Guerrillas I hadn’t seen for a long time walked through our camp, carrying heavy wood on their shoulders. “Look,” said William, “those are the guards from the other group. They must be right nearby.”

  Christmas came, and with it the hope that we would all meet again. It was a hot day. As we were making our way back from the bath session, clinging to tree roots as we climbed a very steep riverbank, a torrential storm shook the forest and drenched us before we reached our caletas. Everything was torn by the raging wind and soaked through by a lashing, horizontal rain. It’s the dry season, I thought. It shouldn’t be raining. It almost made me forget my birthday.

  I had spent my time imagining what my children must be doing. I’d heard them call in, after midnight, together with their father, to wish me a happy birthday. It gave me great peace of mind to know they were all together. I knew they had read my letter, and I felt that something essential had been accomplished. They had heard my inner voice. There was a lightness and hope in their words. Wounds had begun to heal.

  Sebastian, Melanie, and Lorenzo were growing their wings, strong in their knowledge of my love. Mom and Astrid were as solid as a rock, building my resilience with the tenacity of their faith. And I liked to think that if Fabrice had been there with me, he would have lifted up my backpack and given me his hand and not let go.

  The day after Christmas 2007, we began marching again. Though I was carrying hardly anything in my backpack, my muscles seemed to have melted, and I trembled with every step.

  From the beginning, Willie had been very attentive. He helped me to fold up my tent, to close my equipo. He buttoned my jacket up to my neck and pulled my hat down over my ears, put on my gloves, and handed me a bottle of water.

  “Mind you, drink as much as you can,” he ordered, like a doctor; he left with a group after me but arrived first at the site of the new camp.

  When I got there, everything was ready for me. He had collected the belongings that others had carried for me, and he’d put up my tent and set up my hammock. I arrived at nightfall, very tired.

  I slept fitfully, anxious at the thought of the next day’s march, and I got my things ready before the guards called so that when Mom was on the air, nothing would distract me from her words. My sister was there again. I loved Astrid’s messages. Her judgment was always sharp, like my father’s. It’s been years since she had a Christmas, or a New Year’s, or a birthday party, I thought with a heavy heart. Along with Mom she had asked President Uribe to let Chávez mediate with the FARC once again. Armando had also heard their message, as well as his mother’s, who called in every day.

  “They’re optimistic. You’ll see, we’ll be next!” he said.

  I hugged him, wistfully. I didn’t think we’d be so lucky.

  We stopped the march on December 31. New Year’s was the only feast the guerrillas allowed themselves to celebrate. We came to a marvelous place, with a waterfall of crystal-clear water winding merrily through huge trees. We were a day’s walk from the other group. My companions found items belonging to Lucho, Marc, and Bermeo in the spots we were going to use after them to put up our tents and hammocks. William was pleased; Monster had given him a good location for his caleta, next to the water.

  I was hesitant, as I knew he didn’t like the rituals that connected us to the outside world. “William, I would like to ask you a favor.”

  He looked up, amused. “I don’t have time,” he answered jokingly. We had nothing to do.

  “Well, it’s Mom’s birthday. I’d like to celebrate it in one way or another. I thought of singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ but I believe the sound waves have a better chance of reaching her if there are several of us. To be honest, I don’t want to sing alone.”

  “You want me to act like a clown just to make you happy?” he said, unconvinced. “Go on, you begin!”

  We sang, in low voices, and it made us laugh, like two children up to mischief. Then he pulled out a little packet of cookies he’d saved from Enrique’s fake Christmas party, and we pretended to be sharing a cake.

  “It’s the last day of the year,” I told him. “Let’s make a list of all the nice things that have happened to us this year, to thank the heavens.” I smiled. In the jungle I no longer prayed prospectively, for what I hoped to come, but rather for what I had already received.

  “No, no,” said Willie. “I haven’t been talking to God for a long time. I’m mad at him, just as he is surely mad at me. You see, I am a Christian. I was raised very strictly and with high moral standards. I can’t start talking to him if I haven’t set things right.”

  “Look at it as a question of being polite. If someone does something for you, you say thank you.”

  Willie clammed up. I had just overstepped the bounds. I tried to backtrack.

  “Okay, let’s just make a list. Look, there was Pinchao’s freedom, and now there’s Consuelo, Clara, and Emmanuel.”

  “And we also have the release of the politicians from the Cauca Valley,” he replied bitterly.

  I knew that he was talking about their tragedy, so as not to have to talk about his own. Then, as if he were coming from far away, he said, “This is a very nice place. We’re lucky to be waiting for New Year’s here. Let’s call the place Caño Bonito.”

  It was a real ordeal to start the march again. We climbed a sheer mountain-side, sleeping several nights in succession on a steep slope, clinging to the earth like lice. We washed in a waterfall tumbling from the heights, splashing on enormous stones polished by the current. The water was icy, and the sky was gray. It made me dizzy to look down. If I slipped, I’d kill myself.

  Then we crossed a plateau that I immediately recognized—the granite rocks, the gro
und like slate, the small forest of dry bushes, the pyramids. Our companions had just been through there, walking across the same ground in the same place, and I looked down hoping they’d left some sign for me.

  Armando, who was ahead of us, came upon a small pink fluffy animal rolled around a tree branch. It was an odd-looking animal, with two long fingers ending in a single, long, curved claw. When the guard explained this was a Gran Bestia, I thought he was making fun of us. I had heard about the Gran Bestia on several occasions and was under the impression it was a monster, anything but the cute, inoffensive creature before us. Legend had it that the Gran Bestia had extraordinary powers, including one with which I was obsessed: it could escape from anywhere without leaving a trace. Once we made camp for the night, the Gran Bestia was firmly attached to a post and shut in a box. I sat down and stared at it until it was time for us to bathe. I had only looked away for a second when one of my comrades alerted us. The Gran Bestia had disappeared. The troop’s disappointment contrasted with my delight. I felt there was some justice.

  When we reached the bottom of the mountain, by a wide river, our caravan stopped abruptly. One of the guerrillas had stumbled over a strange instrument planted in the ground, in the middle of our track.

  The metal shaft was the visible part of a sophisticated device buried three feet beneath the ground. In all likelihood there was a battery connected to a solar panel set up somewhere among the trees, with a camera and an antenna. It was all contained in a metal box that the guerrillas initially took for a bomb.

  Enrique had it dug up very cautiously, then laid out everything conscientiously on an enormous plastic sheet. All the components had captions engraved in English, and he called for a translator to be brought over to decipher them.

  Maybe it would be Marc! On my way to the river to get some water, I might be able to see him. But it was Keith who volunteered. He spent hours with Enrique, going over all the matériel. Information reached us almost simultaneously. It was an American system used by the Colombian army. The camera was supposed to send images via satellite link. The system was equipped with a sensor that turned on the camera when it detected vibrations on the ground. If an animal or a person passed by, the camera would start filming. Someone in the United States, or in Colombia, had seen us go by, in real time.

  I was overjoyed. Not at the thought that the Colombian army might have located us, which for me remained mere speculation, but to know that my friends were only a few hundred yards from there and that we might be reunited.

  My other comrades, the captive Colombian soldiers, were furious. I could hear them talking among themselves, whispering with their backs to the guards, visibly exasperated.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Armando.

  “This is treason. This information shouldn’t get into the hands of the enemy,” he said, frowning like a policeman ready to give a ticket.

  We reached the river late in the afternoon. On the opposite shore, two hundred yards from us, we saw our companions from the other group taking their baths. I made huge signs with my arms. They didn’t respond. Maybe they hadn’t seen me. The riverbank on their side was bare, but not on ours. Or maybe their guard was a hard case.

  We came to a disused FARC camp a week later early in the afternoon under an apocalyptic storm, like shipwrecked sailors. Lucho and Marc’s group had already set up camp a few yards away. Enrique magnanimously opened some crates of beer that were sitting there, abandoned in the camp. While we waited for the order to set up our tents, I switched on my radio. The reception was terrible, but I clung to it in the hope of more details about Clara’s release scheduled to happen that same day. My comrades were doing the same. The broadcast lasted a long time, and when we had finished installing our tents, we could still hear an untiring Chávez greeting our companions.

  “There will be more releases,” he announced.

  It’s not my turn yet. I sighed, listening to a press conference where Sarkozy applauded the major efforts being made by thousands of people rallying to demand our freedom. He appealed for perseverance.

  Where were we headed? Probably nowhere. I felt as if we’d been going around in circles for weeks. We were marching, lost souls, in this impenetrable jungle, constantly on the verge of starvation.

  At the end of the month, we came to a camp that was already set up. I didn’t recognize it right away, but when I saw the volleyball court, I realized we had come back to the camp where we’d spent Christmas a year earlier, where Katerina had been dancing the cumbia.

  Everything had rotted. My caleta had been invaded by ants and termites. I found a bottle I’d left behind and a hairpin I’d lost. We set up our tents in a row on the volleyball court.

  Armando called to me, shouting. “Look, your friends are here!”

  Sure enough, behind a row of bushes not fifty yards away, Marc and Lucho’s group had set up camp. Lucho was on his feet and waving to us. I couldn’t see Marc.

  When the order came to prepare for the bath, I was ready immediately. To go to the river, we would have to go right by their camp. I was stirred at the prospect of greeting them. And Marc and Lucho were waiting for us by the side of the path, their arms crossed, their lips set. I wore my bath outfit, more patched than ever. My joy gave way to confusion. I could tell by their eyes that they were dismayed to see me in such a state: I had gotten used to myself like this, all the more so because I had no mirror. I felt suddenly self-conscious. They seemed in better shape, more muscular, and curiously enough, that hurt me.

  I did not hurry back from the bath. They were gone. With their bowls. I saw their guard busy handing out the evening meal. It was Saturday; I went back to my caleta and prepared myself mentally to listen to the messages after midnight. I checked that the alarm on the watch Cesar had given me when we first met had been set properly and prepared myself for the night.

  I had already heard my family’s messages at midnight when the radio interrupted its usual programming with a bulletin:

  “The FARC has announced that it will release three more hostages.”

  I leaped up, clinging to my radio; I could hardly get my breath.

  Lucho’s name was among them.

  I stifled a cry that caught in my throat. I fell to my knees under my mosquito net, my chain around my neck, thanking the heavens between sobs. My head was spinning from the emotion. “Dear God, did I hear properly?” The silence around me worried me: What if I’d misheard? All my companions must have been listening to the same program. And yet there was no movement, not a sound, not a voice, no emotion. I waited for the news to be repeated, stamping my feet with impatience. Lucho, Gloria, and Orlando were being set free.

  I rushed out of my tent at the first glow of dawn. Still chained around my neck, I strained to see the spot where I’d noticed Lucho the night before. He was there, he was waiting.

  “Lucho, you are free!” I screamed when I saw him.

  I was jumping, wildly enough to snap my neck, just to see him better.

  “Lucho, you are free!” I cried with all my lungs, tears streaming down my face, indifferent to the guards’ admonishments and the grumbling of my comrades, irritated by a happiness they could not share.

  Lucho waved no with his finger, his hand in front of his mouth. Weeping.

  “Yes, yes!” I answered, stubbornly, nodding fiercely.

  What? Could it be he hadn’t heard? I went on, more stubborn than ever. “Didn’t you listen to the radio last night?” I shrieked, miming my words to illustrate my question.

  He nodded, laughing and crying at the same time.

  The guards were beside themselves. Pipiolo insulted me, and Oswald ran off to the commanders’ shack. Asprilla came hastily and said something to Lucho with a tap on the shoulder, then ran over to me.

  “Calm down, Ingrid. Don’t worry, they’ll give him time to say good-bye to you.”

  I understood that they would separate Lucho from his group in the coming hours. They’ll keep me from talking to him.


  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.