Give Us Names

Today I attended a meeting, labeled the “Primer encuentro nacional de zonas de reserva campesina.”  In 1994, the Colombian government put into effect these zonas de reserva campesina in an effort to protect the land rights of farmers, indigenous groups, and Afro-Colombians.  In the 16 years since Law 160 was established, the number of victims of forced displacement has skyrocketed into the millions, clearing land for the numerous “megaprojects” that now dominate much of the Colombian countryside.  So today’s meeting is an effort to guage the effectiveness of these reserved zones and discuss ways that they can better be protected and developed.

The day started with a series of lectures from different experts in the numerous fields involved.  Then a nice Colombian lunch.  Followed by an intriguing set of what we in the States may refer to as “breakout sessions” or “small group discussions.”  I meandered in and out of different groups.  They focused on a particular topic, be it infrastructure, economics, or human rights.  The campesinos sat in a circle in their respective groups and testified to their experiences.  They spoke of land that was stolen so that large corportations could expand their plantations of African Palms.  They spoke of land that was taken to mine whatever ore sat beneath its surface (read about the recent situation in La Toma).  They testified of non-existent roads and teacherless schools.  They talked of warring drug cartels and the government’s war against the warring factions.  They said a lot of things.

The strange thing was that, eventhough I was sitting in a culture I don’t fully know, listening to people I haven’t met speak in a language I don’t quite grasp about situations I could never really understand, it all somehow felt familiar.  Like lines from a Woody Guthrie song or a Steinbeck novel.  In the end, they were talking about their patch of earth.  I passed by one of the groups and they were making a list on the wall.  It read of such things as putting teachers in schools, establishing rural universities, and investing in roads.   At the top of the list, it said something to the effect of “protect our land.”  I thought it fitting.  And today I learned that social movements aren’t built only on rallies and street protests, with people loudly demanding their rights.  Sometimes it’s quite words between farmers and lists on a wall.  Maybe just a whisper, “Give us a chance.”          

Last October, former president Alvaro Uribe signed a controversial pact, allowing the United States military access to seven Colombian military bases.  Yesterday, Colombia’s Constitutional Court decided in a 6-3 vote that the agreement was unconstitutional.  The court cited Article 173 of the constitution, which requires congressional approval to “permit the transit of foreign troops through the territory of the Republic.”  The agreement was never ratified by the legislative branch.

So, now the issue goes to a vote in the Senate, where it is likely to pass.  If approved, the issue will once more be brought to the Constitutional Court for final approval.  It is uncertain what the court’s decision will be.  However this issue works out, this has been an important showing of the checks and balances that exist within the framework of the Republic of Colombia.  And that’s encouraging.

I took my last couple bites of chicken as he fiddled with the TV antennas.  Two figures blurred in and out of recognizable shapes.  One wore a jacket the colors of Venezuala’s flag; the other a white button-up shirt.  Hugo Chávez surveys the crowd, looks over at recently inaugurated Colombian President Juan Manuel Santos and says, ”You say you have eliminated the word ‘war’ from your dictionary, well so have I…because we are one nation.”  I push my plate away as the restaurant owner sits down at the next table to watch the event unfold on TV.  “What do you think,” I ask him as I count out some bills.  He pauses.  “Well, unity is never a bad thing.”

Last night’s meeting between Santos and Chávez in the Colombian port city of Santa Marta is an interesting development in the relationship between these South American neighbors.  A week ago they were on the verge of war, now Santos claims, “We have decided to turn the page.”  

On September 7, 1821, the Venezuelan Simón Bolivar established the nation Gran Colombia, made up of present-day Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador, and Panama.  His dream was of a united America.  This dream was not to be, and it wasn’t long before separatist revolutions divided much of the country Bolivar sought to unite.  On his deathbed in Santa Marta in 1830, he spoke of his work as little more than “plowing the sea.”

Now, 180 years later, I watch Santos and Chávez shake hands in the city of Bolivar’s death.  Chávez reaches under the podium and pulls out a book.  “I have a gift for you,” he says as he places the book in the hands of the Colombian president.  Santos holds up the book to the cameras.  It’s a biography of Simón Bolivar, liberator of both countires.  I think about the consequences of such a gift.  I think about Chávez stating that “we are really one nation.”  I think about the restaurant owner and his words of unity.  I think about Bolivar, on his deathbed, watching his empire unravel while staring at the sea.  And I wonder what the future holds.

He laughs, runs over to the bench, and climbs into his father’s lap.  He takes another bite of the guava he plucked from the tree overhanging the yard.  His father kisses him on the head, and tickles him.  The laughter takes him again.  He jumps up from the bench and bounds out of the frame.  It was only a moment.  The twinkle of an eye.  Mere seconds under this sun.  But I watched the scene unfold on my camera days later.  This moment is now etched into digital memory.  This momentary happiness may outlive us all.

I think about the boy.  His father, Abelardo, has been displaced.  Aerial fumigations, meant to combat coca cultivation in the area, destroyed his crops of cocoa and yucca.  He could no longer scrape a living from this soil.  So, he left the farm in the care of his family and moved to the city in search of work.  We escorted him back home last week.  It had been two months since he last found himself in the arms of his family.

What fills a boy’s heart in the absence of his father?  This is the kind of cycle that perpetuates civil unrest.  This kid will grow into a man, and this man will have ideas and political philosophies.  How will he view a government that so severely affected his childhood?  What will he think of the United States and our War on Drugs?  This is no way to win loyalty and promote peace.

So, as we begin to tell Abelardo’s story, keep in mind that this is a tale that reaches into the years to come.  This is a story about the future of a country.  When we traveled to Abelardo’s farm, we met four beautiful children happy to have their father home.  But how does that happiness weigh against the sorrow?

You know those moments when a story ceases to be words on a page, images on a screen, or a voice in the air?

Last week, we made another trip into the country. Let me tell you, the campo ain’t no joke. There was one point that we found ourselves surrounded by jungle – thick and full of life. We were clawing our way straight up a mountain, sometimes on hands in knees, with calf-deep mud pulling at our boots. That’s when it lost its romance. That’s when the story became real.

But what we found was worth the journey. A large coca field lay on the other side of the mountain. It was fumigated two days before we got there, but the leaves were still that vibrant shade of lime green. Farmers walked its rows, expertly picking the crop, filling sacks with the coveted leaf. That’s when we discovered a sad truth: even after a field has been fumigated, there is a 4-day window to harvest the coca. So, the farmers bring on extra help, work long days, and don’t lose a bit of the crop. The fumigations have zero effect on coca production, whereas entire food crops are lost, sometimes forever. I’ve seen it with my eyes, it is not a system that works.

The farmers showed us how to pick the leaf, then we followed them as they carried their bags to nearby shack. This is what they call a laboratory, and it is here that the coca is processed from a leaf to a paste. They walked us through the process: a weed-eater is used to finely shred the piles of leaves; sodium carbonate and water are added to the leaves, allowing the cocaine alkaloid to be extracted; gasoline is added to the mix, then agitated, usually by stirring; the gas works as a solvent, absorbing the extracted cocaine alkaloid; the water and leaves are drained off; sulfuric acid is added to the solution; the residue that is left is filtered and dried to produce coca paste.

The traffickers will come to the farm and collect the coca paste, which is a welcome convenience for the farmers, who would otherwise have to transport food crops down the same muddy, jungle path that I clawed my way up. I left the farm shaking my head. To our government, these farmers are criminals. But I assure you, they’re not getting rich doing this. They don’t want to do this. They just want two things: to feed their families and work their land. Thanks to our “War on Drugs,” growing coca is the only way they can do that.