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Authors: Ingrid Betancourt
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month at a cocktail party at the French embassy, and he thanked me for my unfailing support of the peace negotiations.
Finally the aircraft door opened. It was not the president who stepped out first, but his secretary. I suddenly remembered an incident that had slipped my mind until this moment. During the televised meeting with the FARC commanders nine days earlier, I had supported the idea that both parties needed to show consistency between their words and actions to establish trust between the government and the FARC. There was no doubt that my criticisms of the FARC had been sharp, but no more so than those aimed at the government. In particular, I had explained that a government complacent about corruption lacked credibility in the peace process. And I mentioned a scandal in which the president’s secretary had been accused of insider trading, and I said he should resign. But the two men were close friends. To make his secretary disembark first was a clear message to me from the president: He was furious with me for what I’d said. He made his secretary go first so that I would know that he had his full support.
What happened next confirmed my suspicions. The president brushed past me, not even stopping to shake my hand. Taking the snub without a word, I spun around, biting my lip. More the fool me. I shouldn’t have waited.
I walked over to my group, who waited for me, perplexed.
“We need to get going. We’re already really late!”
My captain was as red as a lobster. He was sweating miserably in his uniform. I was about to cheer him up with a kind word, when he said, “Madam, forgive me, I have just received a peremptory command from Bogotá. My assignment has been canceled. I can’t go with you to San Vicente.”
I stared at him, incredulous.
“Wait. I don’t understand. What order? From whom? What are you talking about?”
He stepped forward stiffly and handed me the paper he was nervously crumpling in his hands. It was indeed signed by his superior. He explained that he had just spent twenty minutes on the telephone with Bogotá, that he had tried his best, but that the order came “from the top.” I asked him what he meant by that, and letting out a long, almost labored sigh, he said, “From the president’s office, madam.”
I was flabbergasted as I began to grasp the implications. If I went to San Vicente it would once again be without protection. It had happened before, when the government had refused us an escort while we were crossing the Magdalena Medio, the banned territory of the paramilitaries. I looked around. The runway was now almost deserted, the last journalists of the presidential committee were boarding a half-empty helicopter, and three other helicopters, blades rotating, remained on the ground with no passengers to transport.
The general came up to me and in a loud, patronizing voice said, “I told you!”
“Okay, so what do you suggest?” I asked him, irritated. After all, if I hadn’t been offered transport in one of those choppers, I would have left for San Vicente long before and would already be there by now!
“Do as you originally planned! Go by road!” he retorted, and I watched him and all his military stripes disappear inside the terminal.
It wasn’t that simple. We still needed armored vehicles. I walked over to my security personnel to find out what the local team had arranged for our transport. They all faltered, not knowing what to say. One of them had been sent to find out what was happening and came back looking contrite. “The guys of the local team have gone, too. They were ordered to abort the mission.”
Everything had been orchestrated to prevent my going to San Vicente. The president probably feared that my appearance in San Vicente might reflect badly on him. I sat down for a moment to think things over. The heat, the commotion, my emotions—my mind was a blur. I wanted to do what was best.
What would become of our democracy if
Finally the aircraft door opened. It was not the president who stepped out first, but his secretary. I suddenly remembered an incident that had slipped my mind until this moment. During the televised meeting with the FARC commanders nine days earlier, I had supported the idea that both parties needed to show consistency between their words and actions to establish trust between the government and the FARC. There was no doubt that my criticisms of the FARC had been sharp, but no more so than those aimed at the government. In particular, I had explained that a government complacent about corruption lacked credibility in the peace process. And I mentioned a scandal in which the president’s secretary had been accused of insider trading, and I said he should resign. But the two men were close friends. To make his secretary disembark first was a clear message to me from the president: He was furious with me for what I’d said. He made his secretary go first so that I would know that he had his full support.
What happened next confirmed my suspicions. The president brushed past me, not even stopping to shake my hand. Taking the snub without a word, I spun around, biting my lip. More the fool me. I shouldn’t have waited.
I walked over to my group, who waited for me, perplexed.
“We need to get going. We’re already really late!”
My captain was as red as a lobster. He was sweating miserably in his uniform. I was about to cheer him up with a kind word, when he said, “Madam, forgive me, I have just received a peremptory command from Bogotá. My assignment has been canceled. I can’t go with you to San Vicente.”
I stared at him, incredulous.
“Wait. I don’t understand. What order? From whom? What are you talking about?”
He stepped forward stiffly and handed me the paper he was nervously crumpling in his hands. It was indeed signed by his superior. He explained that he had just spent twenty minutes on the telephone with Bogotá, that he had tried his best, but that the order came “from the top.” I asked him what he meant by that, and letting out a long, almost labored sigh, he said, “From the president’s office, madam.”
I was flabbergasted as I began to grasp the implications. If I went to San Vicente it would once again be without protection. It had happened before, when the government had refused us an escort while we were crossing the Magdalena Medio, the banned territory of the paramilitaries. I looked around. The runway was now almost deserted, the last journalists of the presidential committee were boarding a half-empty helicopter, and three other helicopters, blades rotating, remained on the ground with no passengers to transport.
The general came up to me and in a loud, patronizing voice said, “I told you!”
“Okay, so what do you suggest?” I asked him, irritated. After all, if I hadn’t been offered transport in one of those choppers, I would have left for San Vicente long before and would already be there by now!
“Do as you originally planned! Go by road!” he retorted, and I watched him and all his military stripes disappear inside the terminal.
It wasn’t that simple. We still needed armored vehicles. I walked over to my security personnel to find out what the local team had arranged for our transport. They all faltered, not knowing what to say. One of them had been sent to find out what was happening and came back looking contrite. “The guys of the local team have gone, too. They were ordered to abort the mission.”
Everything had been orchestrated to prevent my going to San Vicente. The president probably feared that my appearance in San Vicente might reflect badly on him. I sat down for a moment to think things over. The heat, the commotion, my emotions—my mind was a blur. I wanted to do what was best.
What would become of our democracy if
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