Celine Dion Ruins the Moment....Again.

So much can happen in one day that I realize I must be better at sharing what I experience on a more regular basis. That is, after all, why I decided to do this work – I feel a real responsibility to share the privileged insight it provides. Of course, the days go by filled with little interruptions, as now, two of my favorite brothers have wandered in. They urge me to put aside my computer and instead explore the fantastic possibilities of the granola that is on the table next to the hammock I’m currently resting in, trying to get over the nasty nasty bacterium that has kept me feverish, without appetite and a bit delirious for the past few days. I am glad for the visit as I haven’t felt up to doing much else than lay in the hammock. I am beginning to feel a bit disconnected from the community. Here's a photo from a week or two ago of the younger of the brothers, he loves the camera.
The brothers have left after a long visit and now back to the task at hand. After we pulled ourselves out of the topographical map that was the mountains just north of Medellín, we spent a couple of days in the city itself visiting with some of the other groups we provide accompaniment for as well as celebrating Mireile’s 25th birthday. Our first stop was to the Red Juvenil de Medellín (Youth Network of Medellín). The Red has a large house that provides space for offices, meetings, and creative pursuits and always seems to be full of revolutionary and inspiring activity. We said hellos and did introductions with everyone that was around and then headed out with two of the members to meet with Claudia Montoya, a human rights lawyer connected to the Red who had just days before been released from jail.

Claudia had been arrested on charges of rebellion and treason and government conjured witnesses said she had been seen dressed as a guerilla. In reality, Claudia’s only crime was representing social justice workers in a country that doesn’t see such work as a true priority. Soon three of the five witness were proven to be false and Claudia was finally released to house arrest where she waits out the judicial process which legally should last six months but has lasted much longer in many other cases. Meeting with her in her home, 4 days after her release, as her sister and nieces sat with us was surreal. In her early thirties and soft-spoken, she was lucky to have the legal training necessary to not be taken advantage of hile inside the prison system. Punitive justice is harsh in any country, but in one with an ongoing civil conflict it does not bode well to be labeled a dissident.

Thanks to a decent support network and even some international pressure, Claudia was released. Her case will continue to be closely monitored by human rights groups, including FOR. When I asked her if she would return to the same work, she gave me a tired smile and told me that it might be some time before she has the energy to return with the same vigor, but that she hopes to, some day. As for the members of the Red, they said that Claudia’s nighttime surprise arrest has them all a bit on edge. When they are engaged in late-night planning sessions, they jump at the smallest outside noise. The threat of false arrest is a constant fear for those involved in such work here in Colombia.
The next day, at my insistence, we took a ride in the “Metro Cable” which is a kind of gondola that goes from the outskirts of the Medellín valley straight up the mountain towards the poorer neighborhoods of the city. (I’ll try and attach a photo) It is part of the city’s metro system, an aboveground light rail system that continues to expand. This allows at least one more accessible corridor for the some of the less privileged residents of the city. Of course, as with any development, the houses and buildings that lay in the path of the suspended cable car were demolished. Progress comes not without its price.

We got off the metro at the Candeleria Church to stand with the Madres de la Candelaria, a group of mostly women who have had family members disappeared and also murdered by armed actors in the civil conflict. These women meet each Wednesday in front of the large Catholic church; roll out large banners that have color photos, names and date of disappearances. All of the photographs are of people who belong to the women that are there. They stand together, many with photos also hanging off neck lanyards, and chant together for the hour. My three teammates and I stood there in our FOR shirts and our obvious gringo posture and attempted to take in what these women were bearing witness to. Very quickly, I noticed a woman among the many photographs named Juanita Betancaur who was disappeared on my 23rd birthday.

The leader of the Madres gave me a quick hug as I introduced myself and then asked me to talk to a local reporter about our accompaniment. I found myself thrown into my first attempt to give a non-specific interview in Spanish, as FOR accompaniers we do not give opinions on events happening in Colombia. If you know me, you would be right to think that this particular type of restraint is a challenge and one I struggle with. I was immediately taken aback by the reporters correct pronunciation of my last name (usually I get “Hack”) and as the quick interview finished I was approached by a woman who wanted to thank us for our accompaniment.

I asked her name as we were enveloped in the larger group and she began to tell me the story of how her son was disappeared 17 years ago. Her family was also living in Segovia at the time of the horrific and indiscriminate paramilitary massacre of civilians in the late 80s. They displaced after the massacre and soon after her son was taken. Eight years ago, her daughter went out to run some errands and was never seen again. The remaining family displaced again, this time to Medellín, where she found the Madres. Our arms wrapped around one other as she, about a foot smaller causing me to bend down to better hear every word, told me what details she could bear to share. As I stood there, hunched over and shaking with silent tears, I would occasionally look up and feel overwhelmed with the realization that everyone standing as part of this large group has been directly affected by the widespread violence. Mothers, grandmothers, daughters, sisters and a few fathers and brothers, all crying out in unison for justice.

Even though many of their loved ones had been disappeared for years, the pain was evidently fresh and made new with every gathering. It seems that reopening that wound every Wednesday is perhaps one of the best ways to keep their loved ones alive, the moment the pain starts to fade into acceptance is the moment hope is maybe lost. When the hour was complete, the women began to roll up their many banners and invited us back to their nearby office. At the office they showed off their newest form of recognition, the Colombia Peace Prize for 2006, as well as did quick introductions of all the women in the room. Each woman stepped forward, gave her name and the name and date of her disappeared or murdered loved one. This too kept stinging tears running down my face. I, who have been so lucky to be rather unfamiliar with loss, now feel privileged to have these women present their stories and invite us into their process of grief, healing, action and ultimately, hope.

After our time with the Madres, we wandered back towards our hotel, stopping in at the Church of the Candelaria on the way. We lit some candles for the Madres and their loved ones and then I slipped off into a pew to sit with the emotion of the day. I found myself in truly deep prayer/meditation for some time, until outside in the square, the Indigenous Wooden Flute player that seems ubiquitous to all places I have been (from the Boston T station to Austin supermarkets) jarred me out of my reflection by deciding to grace us with his melodic interpretation of the Celine Dion Titanic hit “Our Love Will Go On”. Nothing kills a prayerful mindset quite like it.

The next day we made the winding and long bus ride back to Apartadó. In the days since arriving we’ve made a few hikes up and down the mountain for meetings in the city and in San Josecito. And now I am incapable of much more than laying in this hammock and trying my feverish best to recount the remarkable ways in which people continue to struggle for justice while inviting strangers to share in their struggle.