In Hell
Colonel
Luis Alberto Villamarín Pulido
In Hell
This book has been dedicated to you -kindle reader- because it reflects a drama, which unfortunately has still, not been written in its entire truthful dimension.
© Luis Alberto Villamarín Pulido
© Ediciones Luis Alberto Villamarín Pulido
Bogotá Colombia
Email: Lualvipu@latinmail.com
Lualvipu@hotmail.com
Design:
Artes y Gráficas Creativas
Bogotá Colombia
April 2005
ISBN 958- 96082-1-3
Without author’s written authorization, this book can not be reproduced, neither partially or totally, nor other pressed or electronic form nor used to audio or film activities. All the copy rights belong to the author. It was done the legal deposit.
Index
From Bike-Riding Dreamer to Hired Assassin
Baptism by Fire: Guerrilla Warfare
Introduction
This book is based on the spontaneous and hair-raising, Johnny’s verbal testimony. He is a former guerilla who belonged and spent almost 13 years inside many of the Farc1 fronts.
In Hell, summarizes and records for historic memory, experiences of a Colombian peasant guy. Johnny was 12-year-old, when he left his mother’s home and was engaged to the oldest Latin-American irregular armed and terrorist organization.
Johnny’s narration articulates the dramatic and exciting storm of facts, hidden or masked; around the daily events inside harsh Leninist systems. This violent way of political life was the cultivated in the Farc by Luis Alberto Morantes, a. Jacobo Arenas2, its instigator and founder,
The documental testimony reflects unsuspected profiles about the revolutionary war that is besieging Colombia since five decades ago, as a logic consequence of the audacious management that Pedro Antonio Marin, a. Tirofijo or Manuel Marulanda Vélez gave to this terrorist organization.
Furthermore, the situation has become worst, due to the corruption of several politicians whose actions or omissions have allowed that the extreme level of violence comes until unsuspected extremes.
40% of Colombian guerrillas are thousands of young peasants whose individual inoffensive appearance, described with amplitude and precision by Johnny, reveals flagrant violations on International Humanitarian Laws and Codes of actual and potential victims.
In Hell is written in first person keeps the emotional overcharge and explains the final guerrillas ambition, sometimes enhanced by Colombian ingenuousness that believes in innocent peace, despite the evident integral Farc’s strategy seeking the seize of political power, by the combination of all the means of struggle.
Reader finds and understands here, how and why, guerrillas commit all sort of crimes in name of the ethereal armed socialist revolution, e.g., kidnapping, children recruitment, illicit drugs traffic, terrorism, massacres, lies derivated from Marxist-Leninist dialectical, and it establishes links of local, regional and national communists bosses with their armed branch.
Other Farc’s aberrations are: premeditated judgments as a result of felonies, inexistent concept of women’s dignity, forced abortions, and persistent elimination of wounded mates.
All of these are characteristic signals of the conflict’s degradation, and the intentional oblivion for the laws of the war and fundamental rights of civilian population, despite guerrillas say all time that they are committed fighting to liberate poor people from rich and capitalist oppression.
Initial publishing of 30,000 copies of En el Infierno (Spanish version), plus 25,000 more copies, translated to English under the title In Hell, shows the painful and astonishing psychological hit, this terrifying chronicle is causing among its readers.
As author I invite you to judge and give your verdict about this evident truth, because while absurd Colombian war continues, thousands of Johnnies are swamped into the mud of irrational violence.
Colonel Luis Alberto Villamarín P.
Author
Chapter I
FROM BIKE-RIDING DREAMER TO HIRED ASSASSIN
This bitter stage of my life is due to the strange twists and turns of fate. It is the tale of how, in less than three months, a teenager inhabitant of rural Colombia living in the agrarian third world middle class became a blood-thirsty murderer.
My father was a farmer and my mother a housewife. Unfortunately, when I was child my father was murdered during senseless rural violence between Liberal and Conservative parties. I cannot remember much about him, but I cannot forget being told how he died, because he paid with the life his political affiliation and personal creeds.
To complete the tragedy of my orphanage, some years later, adding violence to violence, my former comrades, those who with deceits joined me into the subversive movement, butchered my mother in retaliation for my having deserted the guerrilla.
But those are merely some sort of little footnotes in front of the real story. I was born in May 16, 1969, in Colombia-Huila3. I attended a public school through the four grades and I was always an average student. My first great dream was to become a world-famous cyclist, like Colombians Rafael Antonio Niño, Martín Emilio Cochise Rodriguez, José Patrocinio Jiménez or Alfonso Flórez who won in 1980 the international Tour de L’Avenir in France.
I lived to ride my bike and race. I wanted to be someone important, and to leave behind the drudgery of rural life, cause and reason, of the majority of the inexplicable tides of violence, that had affected our country since the birth as an independent republic. So pedaling along Huila’s back roads on my dilapidated touring bike, I tried to fulfill the childhood dream of being a cyclist world-champion4.
I participated in a young cyclist race in Gigante-Huila, between September 23 and 26, 1981. I got the third place in the general classification, and I was awarded with a special trophy, which is still at my mother’s house.
I suppose during the long years of my absence, that by misfortune were the last of my mother´s painful existence, the trophy offered her some source of pride.
But, competition’s organizers suddenly told me:
—If you want to continue racing in our official competitions, you had to get a professional bicycle—
But my mother thought that her sons and daughters should get an education instead.
My mother and I were still arguing about the bike when I finished fourth grade, and went to a family owned farm in the rural village of Galilea at the East of Colombia-Huila. That trip would be the prelude of an odyssey.
The hair-raising drama of my existence began on December 6, 1981, at about ten in the morning, when Darwin, Duvar and Marleny appeared there. They were three members of the Farc’s 17th Front, then known as Isaías Pardo Company. I was the only one in home at the time. I offered them agua de panela5 which the unexpected visitors drank gladly.
Then they sat down and started to clean their weapons in front of me, and intentionally they allowed that I took their armament on my hands. Patiently they taught me, how to distinguish between a .30 carbine, a MP-5 gun-submachine, and a G-3 rifle. Later, I realized that such show-room reinforced with wide explanations, was a premeditated act, because that day, they were deliberately trying to accelerate my Farc’s engagement.
Many times during her speech, Marleny praised guerrilla’s life, and insisted that I joined the armed revolutionary movement. Her offers seemed promising. I was confused, so, I felt they treated me with respect.
She said for example:
—Edison: Come on....Join to Farc movement. You will not be remorseful. That is good. Teenagers like you, incorporated to our armed movement are the country’s future. For the 2000 year, you will be 30 year-old, the best human being’s age.....¡Look at and analyze my case!: War is as undertaken that to come here to fight against the official army, I left my little daughter Mary Luz in Puerto Toledo, Meta6. She is a baby. Right now, she is three-year-old—
Skill offerings were a sea of premeditated goodness, surrounded with nice words. The purpose was to match another unwary. Then, none of them told me the truth about the wretched existence, that Farc members live in the jungle or in the wilderness.
I neither suspected nor imagined, how my life would change, from dreamer bike-rider child to a hired-assassin. I became foolish servant of a politic party and an organization out-of-law, during almost 13 continuous years of existential turbulence. Due to y dream of becoming a celebrity has been denied, I joined the Farc guerrillas, in fit of adolescent rebellion against fate.
Like most thirteen-year-olds, I was immature and bit unstable. I perhaps shared the common adolescent feeling of being misunderstood, and the desire to be grown-up and admired by the world.
I also wanted to avenge my father’s death. So I fell into a dark criminal world, disguised as a class struggle belonging to a Communist revolution.
I agreed to go with those three guerrillas after my mother’s birthday, on December 8th. So, we decided to meet again in December 10th before noon.
—Do not forget to bring a pair of boots. You will need them so much— said Marleny with persuasive tone.
On December 8th, all the family met on the rural home. I did not say a word to my mother about that, but my sister Gabriela, forever serious and clever, realized what I was up, and warned her. With her maternal wisdom and love, my mother tried to persuade me, not to be foolish. She also told me how much she would suffer if I were to go.
—Tomorrow we come back home, or better we are going to Neiva, where your aunt Rosalia’s place. If you want to go ahead in the life, you must to study. You must not think on Evil’s things. Elder people in Huila know that belonging to guerrillas is like being in hell. We are poor but honest people. In our family we have never had bad guys or black sheeps. Follow your elder brother’s example. He is working with the National Army. Right now he is a Non Commissioned Officer— asserted my stressed Mom.
—¡I can´t do that, because I have already given my word to them, and I am going to honor it!— I replied arrogant.
I really did not know what I was doing. I was still disappointed because of the bicycle. My pride was hurt, and I was acting out of vanity. It was a hasty decision that will deeply regret for the rest of my life.
My mother left for Neiva tearful, downhearted and sad. I waited on Galilea until December 10. Guerrillas arrived as planned. La guisandera7, prepared lunch for us. My family was neither rich nor poor, but, as people say, we had modito de vivir8, because we grew coffee, cocoa, beans, and fodder for the cattle.
So I thought that my mother could buy the bike, but she did not want give me this gift. I did not understand, that the family had more obligations, that an alone and unemployed widow could not cover, because she also was the mother of several children.
Five or six years later when I was a guerrilla, I understood that peasants are who receive less money in the chain for commercialize their products, because the great earns, are taken by merchants. Those are the strange laws of offering and demanding.
We talked about my future, while waited for lunch. Darwin took the word to say:
—Edison: your life will change. Your first destination will be a revolutionary training school, where you will stop being a useless child, and become a new man with ideas and enough reasoning, to understand and project changes about the Colombian life—
According to the peasant customs, we ate sit down on the floor of the hall. Without say good-bye to la guisandera, because she knew all about the situation, and naturally she was not agreeing with me, and the incorrect way that I treated Mom, we left to the revolutionary training school, which turned out to be a crime school.
That night we slept in the open. We set up camp at El Silencio, not far from village’s school. Guerrillas hung hammocks and covered them with sheets of plastic. I did not have hammock, so they showed me how to cut fern fronds, which I placed under one of their hammocks. I slept there to keep from getting wet during the night.
It was the first time I had slept on the ground, like a dog without owner, with no mattress or other bedding. The unique protection against the cold night and winter effects was a sweat-smelling old blanket. The main fear was the high risk to be attacked by a poisonous snake.
On December 11, we arrived at a picturesque farmhouse hidden in the mountain, belonging to Ofelia Matíz an old-peasant woman. She had three young sons in the armed movement. At this place, we had breakfast there, and then continued walking eastward.
During a short rest in the afternoon, over a green and extended pasture-ground, Duvar took a copy of the Farc’s regulations out of his backpack, and with overbearing attitude, and meanwhile reinforced the statements with quickly movements of his left hand; he said more or less the next words:
—You join the Farc movement for no specific time. You do it forever. Or you get killed or socialist revolution triumphs—
Then I realized that things were not as the guerillas had pretended back in Galilea. Duvar read bits and pieces of regulations, outlining what Farc calls fighter’s crimes against revolutionary movement.
He explained those crimes to me, in a dark, threatening tone:
—Edison: ¡Forget your family, your brothers and sisters!... because since right now you belong to the Farc. Here you cannot enter for proof or for game with fire. It is for fighting against the oligarchies to liberate Colombia. We hate all sorts of traitors. If any day you escape, we will search you for, and the next step is kill you—
Remembering my mother’s persuasive warnings, I understood that I had made a terrible mistake. But I decided: I have to brave it out. What else could I do... So I continued walking with them.
Duvar was sure that he had made the psychological impact he was trying to do. So he added:
—You will pay with your life for crimes against the revolution, like spying, ratting on any of us, cooperating voluntarily with the enemy, killing a comrade without authorization from Central Command, or stealing economía9 from the organization-
At that time Duvar, said that if a guerrilla had to assassinate a family member for protect the rest of the group, he should do it, without thinking twice. That was a revolutionary value.
And as he spoke, I nodded my head in agreement, so I mechanically repeated loud out:
—¡Yes!… ¡yes!… ¡yes!—
—Ok young man: Since now you will not be more Edison Torres. Your pseudonym of war10 will be Johnny López. If you do not like it, and you want to change it, you need to have authorization— asserted Darwin.
As single as that, I was rebaptized by the Farc. They did not ask me if I accepted or nor this name. By repetition and the law of the custom, I never tried to change it, although during clandestine activities in Bogotá and Neiva, I used several false IDs with other names, given by them.
We walked until five in the afternoon by wet and soiled with mud paths, built by jeopardized peasants forced by Farc’s bosses to do that. Then, we arrived at an empty hideout for the Farc’s youngest members.
Such hideout was la caleta de los niños11, because, a few months earlier, right there, the Farc had incorporated some children of my age, who at that moment, were not there by security measures.
I must have looked scared, because they tried to reassure me, telling me that participating in the struggle of the poor against the rich, allowed a man to fulfill him, and the revolution destiny.
Then Darwin also stressed that:
—Insubordination, theft and betrayal (desertion) led to execution—
Those guerrillas carried rice, pasta, and beans in their backpacks. We cooked our dinner over a fire. After that, we gathered ferns and strung tarps over them, to shelter ourselves as we slept. Right then, I thought that I was living a strange world of paranoia and dramatic change on my life, which overpasses boundaries of the incredible.
On December 12, before restarting the journey we had an amusing discussion. Early morning, we all bathed in a spring. Marleny undressed in front of me. I pretended not to see her, but I looked out of the corner of my eye. I wanted to see what a naked adult woman looked like. I was beginning to be a teenager, and naturally, who was experimenting physical and psychological changes, related with masculine behavior.
—¡Do not be morbid jovencito12! Why are you seeing me with big malice?. Have you never seen your mother en bola13?... It is the same thing!— Marleny cried out.
Duvar and Darwin laughed minimizing the— for them— funny scene.
Since that day difficulties increased. We had breakfast and packed our lunch in plastic bags. This is a guerrilla’s tactic used during long movements. It allows earning time and avoids that during eventual army’s persecutions, guerrillas are hungry or dilating the walking, while they prepare their meals
Nobody spoke during the walking, while I was remembering Marleny’s naked body, specially her beautiful hips, hoping that next day she will nake again.
I missed my home and family, and that was all I thought about as we tramped along. At noon we stopped to have lunch, and I felt even more homesick. Everything seemed strange to me.
Through the rain, we continued our ascent up the mountain range. Each step was increasingly treacherous and demanding. We passed close to El Dorado, a little village, located at the boundaries between Huila and Meta departments, but we continued walking.
That night we slept at a place called El Quebradón. Soon Duvar gave me a hammock, afforded by Efrain a peasant who regularly helped Farc’s guerrillas. Marleny showed and explained me, how to hang it, without leaving signals on the trees. We passed to sleep early but I could not.
I cried a long time remembering the family, bicycle races, days before Christmas, the New Year parties, popular festivals in the town, going to Catholic mass on Sundays with Mom, and friends at school. But fearful by the unpredictable consequences, I did not exteriorize my feelings.
Without doubt, neither people, nor acts, nor the place, were according to a teenager. So I knew, I was in hell, verifying Mom’s warnings, but I once again was confused. So, I thought that I could not come back.
We woke-up early the next day to continue the hard journey. I had changed into dry clothes the night before, but as we were setting out, Duvar told me to change into wet clothes, because this day would rain again, and I would need dry clothes to sleep in the next night. As we walked through the mountains, the temperature dropped, and I thought, I was going to get sick from wearing damp clothes.
When we crossed La Línea, the mountain border that separates two departments, weather was freezing. Yet I did not heard the birds sounds, neither tropical forest, because we were at the southwest of El Páramo del Sumapaz, where only I can see particular vegetation that grows up on places located trough more than 4,000 meters over the sea level. Those are extended places, under Farc’s control, due to systematic official absences.
That date, I was designed the cook for the group. But I had never cooked before. I could not even start the fire. Darwin helped me a little, but Marleny was who ended up cooking dinner. We hung up the hammocks but I could not sleep. The cold weather made my fingers stiff. That night, I barely slept an hour.
Like my three walking-mates were antiguos14, word used in all Farc’s fronts, identifying experienced guerrillas, that night they talked far from me. I walked by myself and could not hear what they said. Biological clock went off at 5:30 on December 14. I began the fifth consecutive day with them. Again I had to put los chiritos mojados15 on, and beginning a new day of physical and emotional sufferings.
I tried to expose my thoughts to Duvar, but the old-timer, took the advantage and said:
—Do not worry chino16. Sooner than later, we overpass La Línea. In a few hours we will be at camp, where the weather is nice—
I felt some little sort of tranquility with this information. I was somewhat encouraged, thinking there would be new people at the camp, especially kids of my own age. Due to cold and unceasing rain, we did not advance. As it was impossible cooking, we ate nothing.
That night Duvar ordered us to make our fern and plastic ten on the ground. I was on the edge of the tent, so I was colder than everyone else. Marleny took place amidst the two adult guerrillas, and so, I was restricted of the anxious pleasure to stay close to an adult woman.
That night the three guerrillas stayed up until ten or eleven, discussing about a boy who had been executed for informing of his comrades. Darwin had murdered him close to Potrero Grande, a small village near Colombia-Huila. Themes treated that unforgettable night by them, marked me for the rest of the life.
Duvar commented:
—Pay attention comrades: el pelado17 that we murdered last December 8th was gambling like a cat and a mouse with us. But circumstances allow us to do the work, thanks to our new ingreso18, who postponed, joining us two days later—
—This case has the good, the bad and the ugly. The good: the guy came at his home to celebrate the holyday19, and he did not suspect that we were waiting him. The bad: to kill him, we had to go eastward to Potrero Grande, and then walking back west, to take contact with Johnny. As you know, I did not want to strangle the victim, because I prefer shooting sapos20. But I strangled him; avoiding noises produced by the shots of the weapons— added Darwin.
But, I was too astonished when Marleny asserted:
—And the ugly one: The dead’s tongue was out. Nevertheless, I was familiarized with similar facts, I was terrified when Duvar handled his knife and cut it off—
—Do not tell us that you belong to a better family!— asserted Darwin anger.
—No, no, no, is not that!… Truth is that I have a daughter. Comrade Edilberto21 is her father. Her name is Mary Luz. She is coming to be four-year-old. I would not like, that she should live that. I would prefer that she were a bitch22—
Trying to distend the uncomfortable atmosphere Duvar said:
—Do you think that Johnny heard our conversation?—
I dissimulated being deeply asleep.
Quickly, Marleny answered:
—Noooo!.... He is already asleep. Poor sucker. He is kind of out of it... That kid is so spoiled; he is not going to be very useful. But all of us, know that Alonso will straighten him out—
I was very frightened. Perhaps I am on the wrong place…. I am in hell, as Mom wisely warned.
I continued to pretend to sleep as they bragged about their exploits. Finally they dozed one by one. None of them was on sentry. I was enabled to escape, but the calculated threatens of Duvar if I escaped, avoiding that I decided to do that. I was afraid, because they could kill my mother.
A thousand of thoughts whirled through my head. I thought about the horses and cows, back on the farm; about cycling, and about my bed, that for so poor what it could be, it surely would be better than that cambuche23.
I missed having three meals per day, and clean clothes. Then, I realized that I was already a potential criminal. I already felt guilty about being a guerrilla, even though I had not done anything yet.
I inclusively remembered very much the famous Colombian song Noches Plateñas24, sang by Garzón y Collazos duet, meaning the beauty of nocturne national rural landscapes with the sky full of stars.
I did the comparison between the three guerrilla’s narration and the probability of newcomer years, and I concluded that from a child bike-riding, I was becoming a criminal in projection.
Maybe the vague memory of my father being killed by the Conservatives, simply for being a liberal, pushed me to join the guerrillas for avenge his death. But I did not know who to take revenge on, and neither, I understood why I was participating on criminal actions.
On December 15, we put on our wet clothes and started out again. Duvar told me:
—More or less two o’clock in the afternoon, we will leave La Línea’s barren and then we will begin to enter at jungle terrain—
We continued the movement and cambuchamos25 at 4:30 p.m, previous warning that next day we will get the campsite. We came across a miserable little house in the jungle where Panfila and Rigoberto, a poor elderly peasant couple, lived.
By their attitude, they demonstrated sympathy for los muchachos, particular idiom used by Colombian peasants nicknaming guerrillas. We made dinner and shared it with them. Then we slept in the hallway. It was the first time I enjoyed some degree of comfort, since my journey through the wilderness began.
As we set off again on December 16, Marleny reminded me that we were close to the campsite. I had no idea what to expect. I tried to visualize what it might look like, imagining full of happy, and busy, young people.
—How would the camp be organized?...Who would be there?....What would the people be like?....Like robots?.... The commander’s name, was Alonso?... what would the people be like?....Would they be killers, like present comrades?...—
Perhaps curiosity pushed me to hurry and go to see for myself. Everyone in Huila including my family, still talked about the civil war that broke out between members of the Liberal and Conservative parties. Would that kind of feeding hatred be part of this camp?.... But at least, I thought I might be more comfortable. I might sleep better and be warmer.
As is usual we had lunch at noon, and continued our trip. Despite the mud, by effects of human warmed temperature and change of altitude, our clothes were dried. At 2:00 p.m., we met a group of guerrillas.
Darwin identified them as the camp’s advanced guard. Then we met two more guerrillas dressed in police uniforms. They were accompanied by a thirteen-year-old girl. She had just been incorporated into the Farc movement.
They were Carlos and Henry, carried a rifle and a carbine. The girl’s name was Liliana. She carried a revolver. Trespassed this kind of clandestine rural checkpoint, we continued on together and after 20 minutes we finally reached the camp, were several new recruits from Huila, Tolima, San Juan del Sumapaz and Cabrera-Cundinamarca were sitting around.
With excited senses I saw small wooden bridges, plastic tarps, tents, trenches, palisades and trails which, beneath the forest’s dense cover, could not be detected from above.
On our way to el rancho or el casino26, we passed the perimeter guard, a thirteen-year-old boy named Ferney. My comrades excitedly greeted the rancheros27. As it turned out, one of those workers, Tula would later accompany me on many raids and executions.
Victor Mayorga was there, too. His nickname was Alexander el gocho28, because he had lost an ear to a tropical disease caused by an insect’s bite called picadura del pito.29
—Wait here! — Duvar said— I am going to talk to comrades Edilberto and Alonso—
—What’s up compañero? 30— Some guerillas who standing around greeted me asked while offered some coffee in a small pot.
—All is good my friends— I answered timid and astonished.
With the unconditional affability of our peasants, a young girl named Aurora said:
—I am here to help you with anything that you need—
—Thanks, thank you so much— I answered.
Then I was led by Duvar along a narrow path to a well-built shelter where I met Alonso, Edilberto and Rosario, the new Edilberto’s woman. Right then, I understood that although Marleny had a baby-daughter whose father is Edilberto, she did not live with him.
They said something like:
—¡Hola compañero!—
—Good afternoon señores31— I replied
—Señores, is a word belonging to civilian life. So since now, you must to forget it— corrected Rosario who added— Proper word is comrades—
Months after that, I corroborated that comrade is the denomination given by subordinates to their chiefs inside Communist organizations, for example, in the Farc.
Alonso spoke with a heavy regional accent from Antioquia32:
—You are going to be one of our fighters. That is why you joined the Farc movement.... Has somebody explained to you how things work around here?—
Yes comrade— I replied astonished, using a new word in my vocabulary.
—Nelson: ¡Come on here! —Rosario ordered using the handy-radio.
Almost immediately, a young man fit and fast-walking appeared in front of la caleta33. He was more or less 26 year-old, charged as a deputy squad leader.
—Take Johnny with you!. Anéxelo34 to your squad. Give him instructions to take a bath, bring him a uniform, and talk to him a little....Tomorrow, he will be working out with the other recruits—Alonso ordered while Edilberto and Rosario listened accurately.
Inside the small campsite covered and hidden by the green forest, I washed the short and the pants, but as I had never done that, two clothes were obviously still dirty, with the consequent Nelson´s reprimand:
—You can´t waste the soap, neither be careless with the items that since right now are patrimony of the socialist revolution—
On really, I never used more those clothes, because next day some guerrillas took them. Then they washed and cleaned correctly the clothes.
A whistle rang. Aldemar offered me his caleta to sleep that night inside his cambuche35, and gave me a small pot to receive the rations. After dinner, I heard another whistle, which signaled mandatory political instruction, euphemistic way to define brainwashing for ancient and new guerrillas.
Speaker told us about los estatutos de las Farc36, particularly Normas de régimen disciplinario37. Neyder was one of them. He is a guy with high school studies, who remained some years in Cuba and Rusia, sent there by the Farc to study in some political courses that allowed him, enriching Communist political and ideological lines.
Edilberto explained and instructed us on the daily routine at the camp. We would wake-up every morning at 4:50 a.m., we would hold along the trenches from 5:00 to 6:00 a.m.; we would have breakfast at 6:30 a.m.; we would clean the camp until 7:00 a.m.; we would receive military training until 11:00 a.m.; and until dinner, we would conduct administrative work with seasoned guerrillas. And, we would receive political instruction before going to rest.
For the first time I awoke in a guerrilla camp on December 17. We had to pack all our gear. I put the few things I had in a bag, because I had not received the usual green canvas knapsack yet. Then, Aldemar guided us how we dug in behind a tree, which swarmed with mosquitoes, for an hour and a half. It did not go any abnormal situation, but I was afraid, thinking on what could happen if the National Army came there.
We went for breakfast, which consisted of soup with wheat fritters called cancharinas and hot chocolate. During the period designated to clean the campsite, I knew that latrines are called chontas, and understood that the Farc’s cultural fashion of permanent cleaning, combines security measures for do not leave traces, with personal cleanness avoiding diseases.
At 7:00 a.m., the new-comers lined up to begin military training exercises. Alfredo, the drill instructor, asked Gildardo an old-timer to show us how to respond to commands Attent....hut!, imitating military drills. We had three hours of such exercises, and positioning with ten minutes breaks every fifty of work.
Since that first contact with guerrilla’s life in the wilderness, I am hazardous why the Farc criticizes so much military institutions, while inside the camps they live an environment of Stalinist Militarism and besides, they talk all times about political tasks and military actions.
Finally, the awaited moment came to know our terrible boss. Standing before 14 new recruits, arrogant Alonso began his instruction, by loading the carbine. He opened the chamber, put a cartridge in place and snapped it closed, ready to fire. He always does that to intimidate his audience, or perhaps to hide his spiritual limitations by means of intimidator attitudes.
What I was going to imagine then, that by imitating barbarian Alonso and despite the risk to cause an accident, remaining the pistol with cartridge into the chamber ready to shot, it would save my life more than one time. The theme of Alonso’s exposition was the seriousness of betraying the armed movement:
—I don’t lie to you. Five new recruits will be court-martialed tomorrow. They have been charged with cowardice and desertion. I want to warn you, so that you won’t be scared when you see them, and so you do not make the same mistakes—
After a brief pause he continued:
—There will be no military training tomorrow because we will have two court-martials and, if possible we will finish up with the other three the day after. War is coming and, in war court-martial usually ends with firing squads. So, ask the old-timers how things work around here and be ready—
At the end of the intimidating declaration, we lunched lunch rice, agua de panela and boiled green plantains. None enriched protein meal. I was missing home’s food. Meanwhile I kept hearing Alonso’s words in my brain.
All the 14 recruits were scared, because we did not know who the victims were. One by one, we drifted over the old-timers to find out what they had to say about revolutionary courts-martial and firing squads.
Marleny answered our questions solved our doubts and she openly confessed that:
—We have five youngsters in detention that would probably be shot—
Our fear turned to panic, and until today it remains.
At 9:00 a.m, in December 18, the court-martial began. We were all gathered in a wood-framed room, roofed with palm fronds and a plastic sheet, when three children, ages 12, 13 and 14, were dragged in.
Edilberto spoke first, arguing:
—They had betrayed the revolutionary movement, and, they consequently had to be court-martialed. They had deserted, which is betrayal of the revolution and punishable by execution. My desire is that we vote for execution, because death is the only possible reward for betrayal. Guerrilla affairs are permanent navigation between life and death—
The Front’s commander appointed one of its members to preside over the court. They also appointed the defense counsel and the prosecutor. A jury was selected among the guerrillas. Those are the rules of the game up in the mountains. The guerrillas use twisted rules to administer their own brutal justice.
Edilberto was straightforward. He ordered us to vote for the children’s execution. He did not suggest options; he simply gave the order, looking for get consensus to kill the boys. The old-timers cautioned us, that everyone accepts what the chief commander says. It is the only way to survive. That is what I thought at the time, and now I know I was right. I coincide with Edilberto:
—Guerrilla’s affairs permanently navigate between life and death—
Alonso was appointed prosecutor in name of the bosses group. Possessed of more authority than the normal one, he read the accusations and categorically charged the defendants guilty, ordering their execution.
The defender tried to save them using simple-minded arguments. Execution was a foregone conclusion already sanctioned by manipulated prior general consensus. The thirteen new guerrillas and I raised our hands in approval. We obviously feared to be the next court-martialed. We had no exit.
The rustic defense counsel completed the horrible show, because with the limited conditions of an illiterate peasant, the defender argued weak reasons trying to save them before imminent sacrifice, which had already been decided and approved for a preexistent consensus.
Court-martial ended at four o’clock, and we all went to lunch. Victims were taken to the mess with nooses around their necks. Nelson and John Freddy were the two guards stood behind them. Both of them held guns on their heads, if the nooses failed in case of escape. It was the first time that I saw guerrilla victims tied up that way, but it would soon become a common sight. I would find myself in that position later.
Children could not eat. They looked dazed and saddened, guilty of something they did not understand. I learned they were originally from Vegalarga Huila, where I had some relatives. So I thought that they perhaps belonged to my family. I could not eat meals that day. I was disgusted, scared and nauseated.
At 4:30 p.m, the grand jury returned with the verdict, read by Alonso:
—¡Guilty! ....Executed them!—
Pedro, the youngest guilty lost the control. His desperate cries trembled on my soul:
—¡Mom, mom, mommy!, Save me!..... Do not kill me please!. Do not kill me!.... I beg you….Do it for my mother..... Do not kill me!—
Other two guerrillas remained silent and their eyes filled with tears. The rest of us just watched the ghastly scene. The command thought it they shooting the victims it might attract Army patrols, so Albeiro, one of the old-timers, and his squadron took the children to a nearby mountain and hanged them.
We did not eat that night due to the horrifying impression.
—I am afraid— I commented to Arnulfo, other of the recruits.
—Me too, but the better for us is pretending tranquility, because tomorrow they kill more of us, and we need to be well-looked by them since the first day—Arnulfo answered while he washed his hands in the small river.
After the cultural hour in the last daily meeting, Edilberto said:
—What we did today was an act for keeping high revolution’s morale. We must rid ourselves of spies. The three boys executed today were enemy agents. They were sent by the enemies to leave our information, and as soon as they got it, they escaped-
We knew that they were lying, and Edilberto, right now head of Tirofijo´s personal guard, only needed an excuse to murder the boys.
Sure that he had imposed his volunteer, Edilberto added:
—We must get ready for war because the enemy is getting close. So tomorrow, we will hold two more court-martial against apprehended deserters. I hope this experience serves as an example for the recruits, to avoid that you make the same mistakes—
That night I was as posta38 from 10:00 p.m., until midnight on the same path, which the boys had taken to their death. Albeiro’s squadron had stripped the boys before killing them and brought back their clothes to be washed and used by other guerrillas. The Farc wastes nothing. I was scared, so, I closed my eyes but all I could see were guerrillas returning from the hangings, carrying the boys’ clothes.
I could not sleep that night, but I learned the hard way how to wake up on time. Months ago when I was at home, I used to be lazy about getting up in the morning. But having witnessed the punishment given for getting up late— one of the charges imputed to those poor boys— I learned to wake myself up very early.
On December 19 at 7:30 a.m., and using the same procedures of the day before, guerrillas carried out another court-martial.
This time the victims were Olguita a thirteen-year-old girl and Walter a fifteen year-old boy. He was talking nonsense and gibberish.
Some of the guerrillas said about him:
—This dummy talks without asking his head for permission—
Although it seems incredible he was there. When I saw him for first time, I realized Walter was retarded and I thought that it was a horrendous crime taking him to a court.
Life is of little value to guerrillas, and for Alonso and Edilberto, that boy was just part of a strategy to make Central Command believe, those camp commands were good revolutionaries.
The peasant boy was charged with spying, because having once said:
—I am depressed and wanted to run away, as I believe, all Farc’s members are thinking—
Sometimes he said:
—I want to make a trap for the guerrillas, bringing here los chulos39—
Olguita was accused of desertion and fornication. According to them she used her body to distract post guards, allowing the Army into camp. Those were obviously trumped-up charges- gossip motivated by jealously and resentment of some of the men the girl had rejected. The verdict of the grand jury was predictable, and the two were condemned to death.
—Nelson: Prepare your squadron...Take with you, three of the recruits, because they are going to learn how things work here—Alonso ordered.
I was chosen among the recruits. We arrived at the execution site and stripped the girl. She was so frightened that she defecated. She was also menstruating, and blood ran down her legs.
Alonso carried out the execution with a business as usual attitude.
—Johnny and Ferney: Adjust well the ropes around the neck of this bitch, but be cautious to prevent her for sticking out her tongue. While Leoni take her from the hair, you must walk each side, and with strength, yanked the rope and her—