Una Mujer Desplazada Cuenta Su Historia/A Displaced Woman Tells Her Story

Photos by Jim Stipe on location in Quibdo, Colombia for Catholic Relief Services

Rosa Emilia Cordoba sat on the wooden bench in front of me and matter of factly put forth a story of sheer terror.

She spoke of how her village neighbors in the jungle of Colombia, grabbing children and loved ones, ran to the church buildings for refuge—only to have that become their death trap.

Rosa spoke of her youngest daughter receiving a rifle blast through her home's door frame. At first she didn't realize she had been shot, but her pain increased and later at a hospital, after examination, they still could not find a bullet. Four years later, the bullet, having entered through her arm had been discovered to have traveled to her upper leg.

Was this possible? Could a bullet do that? I chose to believe Rosa. She described her daughter’s pain and the loss of her hearing after being so close to firing guns.

It was this man, the man they called el Aleman, the German, who had shot through the door and wounded her daughter that day. He engineered the ambush of the village church, and later said he had no idea all of those people were inside. He tried to blame the priest for gathering them there. Ultimately his barked orders and ruthlessness was the cause of her family’s flight from a village she called home. She saw her mother and son killed and escaped with her life and with her wounded daughter.

There Are Many Kinds of Villainy

This man was not a part of FARC, he was a paramilitary leader hired to clear the land of inhabitants, probably on the payroll of a large multi-national corporation intent on raping the land of any natural resources they could find.

Rosa arrived here, in Quibdo hoping to start again. She works in the kitchen of this cafe washing pots, making soup, frying fish for a meager existence. She wanted to once again recover her former livelihood as a café owner. For now, going back to her village was not in the cards. Life for the desplazados in Quibdo will never be the same. Their story a small footnote to the larger epic of the displaced persons in Colombia.

The dominant issue of my trip to Colombia has been displacement and its effect on society. The government of Colombia has passed laws that make payments of reparation available.

The Government's Money for Housing is Inadequate

Ms. Cordoba told me that the money simply is not enough to rent a safe dwelling comparable to her former home. She has never tried to get money from the government. For now she is marking time until she can save enough to go into business again for herself. Her goal, what gives her hope for the future is a common one for any parent, she wants a better life for her children.

I often wish, since I went on this trip, that I had a way to get in touch with those I met along this journey. Rosa's story touched me, her strength in the face of a tragedy and resoluteness to make her life better. Fortunately organizations like CRS, and our counterpart in Latin America, Caritas are there to give a hand up to those willing to make a new start. I feel humbled that I play a part of a global effort in the name of love.

G.

© Copyright 2009 Guy Arceneaux All rights reserved

Desplazados, Abogados, A Human Rights Case Made Clear

Tuesday, June 17th Quibdo, Colombia

A meeting was set up in this building that Tuesday morning, desplazados and the lawyers representing them were to brief us on a successful human rights training program. That sounds promising, so we stop in La Campesina Café beforehand for some coffee.

This is a cooperative café run by women who have been displaced. The café gives them a chance to make a steady wage, and help them gain some stability. The morning sun pours into the open space decorated with colorful murals.

A week in two days

We sit and are offered some juice, coffee and sweet rolls. It is a chance to collect our thoughts before the meeting. I have only been in this country since Sunday evening and the intensity of Colombia and our mission here is afecting me on many levels, my sense of time has been stretched. The hustle of the café provides a background to collect my thoughts as the staff goes about preparing for another busy day of providing nourishing meals to the busy people of Quibdo.

The meeting is held in a basement room, dank and screened on one side, but open to a view of the Atrato River which flows behind the building. The table is crowded with a large group of mostly men, some of them in suit and tie. The abogados (lawyers) have been filing denunciations and petitions on the behalf of the desplazados.

The lawyers are working for social justice

A smartly dressed young lawyer, Antonio, introduces us to the people gathered here as important people for a powerful organization in the United States. Spanish was becoming more easily understood now that I had been immersed in the language, but I was worried that he was giving the assembled desplazados the idea that we were able to bring about some change because of our affiliations.

When one of the young guys at the meeting is asked what the program has done to help him, he shows a piece of paper with his name on it, it is a certificate from the human rights training he went through. The value of the training is in the empowerment it gives to these young desplazados.

They may not have a great deal of school learning, but they are very well spoken about their rights as citizens of Colombia. Knowledge is power, and it becomes an important part of their new lives.

Some of these young adults have been here since they were children and may have been part of the group that pressed into Quibdo in 1997. The government housed them in El Coloseo (a stadium) for two years and provided no food or water. Now many are living in some of the public housing developments we’ll visit tomorrow before our departure for Bogota.

My sympathies can't right a massive injustice

As they spoke about the situation they were in, I chastise myself. My assumption is that these people, with little education, cannot be speaking in the strings of multi-syllabic phrases used by social justice advocates. But they are, and it’s not rote memorization. It’s practical knowledge to them, the key to their fight for the better life they deserve.

I see the hope in their faces, I feel inadequate, they are well-versed in this complex legal situation. I struggle to keep up with the non-conversational Spanish. I spent several weeks before my trip translating Spanish documents on these topics. It made me a better listener. But it was something that demanded the rapt attention of a student. The more I pay attention, the more I feel the need to do something meaningful to help.

Not just my Spanish speaking and Spanish listening—all senses are needed to comprehend!

I also wanted to absorb the nuances of body language of those around me, again I got the overwhelming feeling that we were the focus of their hope at this point in time. We must be able to help them, I was aware of my own powerlessness in the face of the saga of the displaced.

As my feelings overwhelmed me, the rains began to fall outside the screened open end of the room, the sound of pounding of water on the flowing river. Like a baptism, I imagined it absolving me of responsibility for the hopes of these earnest, smart desplazados. An illusion I can no longer harbor or indulge.

G.

© Copyright 2009 Guy Arceneaux All rights reserved