Read Online Even Silence Has an End by Ingrid Betancourt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ingrid Betancourt
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presidential candidates had to accept that for security reasons their campaign strategy needed the government’s approval? If we agreed not to go to San Vicente, it would mean accepting suicidal censorship. We would lose the freedom to express ourselves on war and on peace, lose our ability to act in the name of the marginalized populations who did not have a voice. Whoever held power could quite simply appoint his successor.
One of the security men had managed to establish a good relationship with officials from the airport’s security division. There was a vehicle at the airport that might be made available to us for the trip to San Vicente. He went off to obtain more details and came back with the authorization.
It was a small, four-by-four pickup truck. There was room for only five people; it was a far cry from the armored car we’d been counting on. I turned to the group. Some laughed, others shrugged. My logistics manager, Adair, stepped forward, offering to drive. Without hesitating, Clara said she would come, too. Our press officer declined. He wanted to leave room for our cameraman and one of the foreign journalists covering the campaign. Two French journalists were deep in discussion. Finally the young female reporter decided not to come. She did not feel safe and preferred that her older colleague go with us, since he would be able to take some good photos.
A member of my security team took me by the arm and asked if he could speak to me in private for a few minutes. He was the longest-serving member on the team and had been protecting me for more than three years.
“I want to come with you.” He looked nervous and uncomfortable. “I don’t like what they’re doing to you.”
“Have you spoken to your superior?”
“Yes.”
“If you come with me, won’t you risk losing your job?”
“It’s bound to cause problems.”
“No, listen. This is not the time for more difficulties.”
Then, seeking his advice, I asked, “What do you think about the road? Do you think it could be dangerous?”
He smiled sadly. And, with a resigned look on his face, replied, “No more than anywhere else.”
Then, as if to tell me what he was really thinking, he added, “There are soldiers everywhere. It’s almost certainly less dangerous than when we crossed the Magdalena! Call me as soon as you get to San Vicente. I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that the return goes more smoothly.”
My team had plastered the vehicle with improvised signs spelling out my name and the word “Peace.” We were about to leave when the man from the security division who had secured the pickup for us rushed back over, visibly agitated. He was brandishing a set of papers and panting as he said, “You can’t leave until you have signed a discharge form! It’s a government vehicle, you understand, and if you have an accident, you’ll have to cover the costs!”
I closed my eyes. I felt as if I were in a slapstick Mexican movie. Clearly they wanted to do their utmost to delay our departure. I smiled, mustering some patience. “Where do I sign?”
Clara took the form. “I’ll take care of it,” she said kindly. “Hopefully, my years in law will serve some purpose!”
I laughed and let her handle things. It was already noon. The heat was becoming suffocating, and we couldn’t wait any longer.
We hit the road, the air-conditioning on full blast. Just the prospect of spending two hours in this small metal oven breathing artificial air was excruciating.
“There’s a military checkpoint at the exit to Florencia. It’s purely routine,” I said.
I had made this journey many times. The military cordon was always a rather tense moment. We reached it very quickly. Cars were lined up one behind the other, waiting patiently. Everyone would be searched. We pulled over, parked the truck, and got out.
At that moment my cell phone rang. I rummaged in my bag to retrieve it. It was Mom. I was astonished that her call had
One of the security men had managed to establish a good relationship with officials from the airport’s security division. There was a vehicle at the airport that might be made available to us for the trip to San Vicente. He went off to obtain more details and came back with the authorization.
It was a small, four-by-four pickup truck. There was room for only five people; it was a far cry from the armored car we’d been counting on. I turned to the group. Some laughed, others shrugged. My logistics manager, Adair, stepped forward, offering to drive. Without hesitating, Clara said she would come, too. Our press officer declined. He wanted to leave room for our cameraman and one of the foreign journalists covering the campaign. Two French journalists were deep in discussion. Finally the young female reporter decided not to come. She did not feel safe and preferred that her older colleague go with us, since he would be able to take some good photos.
A member of my security team took me by the arm and asked if he could speak to me in private for a few minutes. He was the longest-serving member on the team and had been protecting me for more than three years.
“I want to come with you.” He looked nervous and uncomfortable. “I don’t like what they’re doing to you.”
“Have you spoken to your superior?”
“Yes.”
“If you come with me, won’t you risk losing your job?”
“It’s bound to cause problems.”
“No, listen. This is not the time for more difficulties.”
Then, seeking his advice, I asked, “What do you think about the road? Do you think it could be dangerous?”
He smiled sadly. And, with a resigned look on his face, replied, “No more than anywhere else.”
Then, as if to tell me what he was really thinking, he added, “There are soldiers everywhere. It’s almost certainly less dangerous than when we crossed the Magdalena! Call me as soon as you get to San Vicente. I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that the return goes more smoothly.”
My team had plastered the vehicle with improvised signs spelling out my name and the word “Peace.” We were about to leave when the man from the security division who had secured the pickup for us rushed back over, visibly agitated. He was brandishing a set of papers and panting as he said, “You can’t leave until you have signed a discharge form! It’s a government vehicle, you understand, and if you have an accident, you’ll have to cover the costs!”
I closed my eyes. I felt as if I were in a slapstick Mexican movie. Clearly they wanted to do their utmost to delay our departure. I smiled, mustering some patience. “Where do I sign?”
Clara took the form. “I’ll take care of it,” she said kindly. “Hopefully, my years in law will serve some purpose!”
I laughed and let her handle things. It was already noon. The heat was becoming suffocating, and we couldn’t wait any longer.
We hit the road, the air-conditioning on full blast. Just the prospect of spending two hours in this small metal oven breathing artificial air was excruciating.
“There’s a military checkpoint at the exit to Florencia. It’s purely routine,” I said.
I had made this journey many times. The military cordon was always a rather tense moment. We reached it very quickly. Cars were lined up one behind the other, waiting patiently. Everyone would be searched. We pulled over, parked the truck, and got out.
At that moment my cell phone rang. I rummaged in my bag to retrieve it. It was Mom. I was astonished that her call had
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