A Captive at Mercy of Colombian Rebels
Latin America: What started as a reporter's request for an interview with FARC guerrillas turned into a nerve-racking detention.
By T. CHRISTIAN MILLER
TIMES STAFF WRITER
BUTUTO, Colombia -- The subcommander's voice was hard and low, with no room for argument.
"You must wait with us here as detainees," he said.
With those words, my assistant and I, along with our local guide, became
captives of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia for 24 hours. The
FARC took
our wallets, notebooks and camera and kept us under armed guard in
a small wooden hut by the side of a broad, slow river in southern Colombia.
We waited. We
worried. And we got the smallest hint of what life must be like for
the hundreds of kidnapping victims held by the FARC in hide-outs throughout
Colombia.
We felt a nearly irrational urge to flee. We anguished for our families.
And we suffered a terrible uncertainty. My assistant, Mauricio Hoyos, a
Colombian, asked one
rebel how long until we were free. "Days, months, maybe years," he
said.
We also got an idea of the FARC, a hermetically sealed guerrilla army
that exists mostly in isolation from other leftist rebel movements. The
leader, Manuel
Marulanda, rarely grants interviews.
The young rebels who guarded us were well armed, well disciplined but
not particularly well versed in the Marxist-Leninist philosophy that supposedly
underpins the
38-year-old revolution.
But they clearly believed that Colombia's society, with more than 30
million poor, is deeply unjust. It was a conviction written on their young
faces and rough hands,
carried with a certainty, like a craftsman sure of his work.
"One begins to understand that there are differences, and one thinks
one should do something about them," said "Jhony," leader of the small
band of men who
guarded us, as he struggled to explain what made him join the FARC.
We had come to the FARC camp in search of answers. Just downriver, guerrillas
from the 49th Front had shot down a State Department-owned Huey helicopter
returning from a spraying mission. The pilots, foreign-born contractors
of Virginia-based DynCorp, were saved, but five Colombian police officers
were killed in the
battle that followed the rescue.
The U.S. has given Colombia nearly $2 billion in the last few years,
mostly in the form of drug fumigation planes, helicopters and troop training
to combat drugs.
Colombia produces 90% of the cocaine consumed in the U.S.
The result has been that the U.S. has inched ever closer to direct confrontation
with the FARC, which relies on drug crops for revenue. The FARC denies
any
involvement in drug trafficking, instead saying that it places a "tax"
on farmers of coca, the plant from which cocaine is derived.
We had sent a fax and e-mail to FARC headquarters, requesting an interview
about the helicopter shoot-down. We received no response but contracted
with a local
boat owner who said he frequently took locals to a FARC site upriver
from where the incident took place. The FARC, which acts as the local authority
in areas it
controls, handles complaints and dispenses justice from the spot.
Arrival Surprises, Angers Subcommander
When we arrived, it was clear that we had entered a fairly large FARC
encampment, with several hundred rebels at work in the jungle, hacking
down undergrowth
with machetes. There was a small house, surrounded by chickens, and
several smaller buildings that appeared to be shelters.
The subcommander was surprised and angered to see us. After a brief
consultation, he came back to give us the news that we were "detainees."
He told us that we
were being held for security reasons, because we were in a conflict
zone and because our press credentials had to be checked out.
But as he called a band of men to take us to a more secure site, he
sent us away with these words: "We are at war here with everyone. The army.
The police. And
the gringos," he said, looking at me.
Along with our guide, we were escorted to the abandoned hut that sat
in a clearing surrounded by orange and star fruit trees. Dozens of birds
warbled in the woods.
Butterflies fluttered everywhere.
There, the six guards took up positions and commenced to wait. They
did not speak to us, except to answer yes or no. Each wore a camouflage
uniform and had an
Israeli-made Galil rifle, a 9-millimeter Beretta and a vest with grenades
and a long knife. Jhony, the leader of the squad, had a walkie-talkie and
a sheet of paper with
codes; all sorts of FARC radio traffic could be heard.
They never mistreated or threatened us, though we were forbidden to
talk at night and had to ask their permission to move around the clearing.
They were always
respectful, polite and quick to offer help in the form of aspirin,
water or a spare blanket.
As the night grew dark, one of the rebels, a young man who appeared
about 15, brought out a portable CD player and two small speakers. There,
under the dim
light of a quarter moon, they blasted guerrilla songs with bloody lyrics.
"We killed two captains today. We'll kill four more military officers
soon. Why doesn't the media ever say these things? The government prohibits
them," went one
lyric.
Another was called "The Absent One." "Why aren't you home with your family? Why aren't you enjoying a toast with your friends?" the singer asked.
After we were served dinner--a simple meal of rice and fried meat--the
guards escorted us into a room in the shack where a black plastic cloth
had been draped, to
provide extra shelter. None of us wanted to enter because of the heat.
"Ask permission from the guard before you do anything," Jhony said. "Otherwise, I'm not responsible for what happens."
We spent the night stretched out on the wooden floor, fighting off the
mosquitoes and strange yellow flies that covered us with bites. We slept
on and off. The guards
would periodically shine a flashlight into our room to check on us.
Worries Grow as the Day Progresses
We were up the next day by about 5 a.m. The day crept along slowly as
I grew increasingly worried about whether the detention would make the
news. That might
bring in local authorities, the FBI and who knew who else, making release
more difficult.
The hardest part was the uncertainty. We were not sure until near the
end if they meant to hold us for ransom and, if not, how long it would
take before we were
released. Many of the FARC's victims have spent years in captivity.
The group makes millions from ransom every year.
The sun beat down, and the jungle buzzed with insects. As I sat immobile
looking out over the river, I realized with a sudden flash that I had no
idea when I would
next lie in a bed, or hold my wife, or see my young son walk.
I became furious. I wondered whether I should have done things differently, though I had previously shown up unannounced at FARC sites without problems.
I thought of Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter who was kidnapped and slain in Pakistan.
Mostly, I thought of whether my family would get a call from a stranger
telling them that I had been kidnapped. I would have no way to comfort
them. I had no way
to comfort myself.
Finally, around 3 p.m., a small motorboat pulled up, and out stepped
the commander of the 49th Front, Hector Ramirez, along with his assistant
and his white toy
poodle, Nino.
He talked with his men, then approached us with a smile. He explained
that they had verified our status as journalists and that they would try
to release us by that
afternoon, the following day at the latest.
As he walked away, he turned and smiled. "Please excuse the small inconvenience," he said.
It was like the hand squeezing my heart had suddenly relaxed. We had been promised freedom. And we knew there was an end.
The rest of the day we spent conversing with Jhony and others in his squad.
One of their biggest points of pride was that FARC soldiers are all
volunteers, receiving only food, shelter and clothing for their service.
Jhony seemed almost
disgusted that Colombia's military and right-wing paramilitary groups
receive pay.
"If you get paid, it's like selling your life away," he said.
Finally, at 4:10 p.m., Ramirez arrived to take us downriver. Jhony stepped
up and handed us our gear and wallets, counting out the money to show that
each peso
was being returned. Then he shook our hands.
"I'm setting you free now," he said. "Have a good trip."
We roared away down the flat brown river.
Four hours later, Colombian President Andres Pastrana canceled peace negotiations with the rebels, sending the country once again into all-out civil war.