Nightmares in Colombia

With each attempt to stay afloat, my lungs burned with a desperation as if they would burst. I could feel the oxygen draining from my head causing blurred vision. The shore line now melding with the night sky. I’d always thought drowning an easier way to go, but was having second thoughts. The river was the only safe place at night, when they sent out search parties for me in the forest and campos. They were fully armed with rifles, machetes, and worst of all, were convinced I was their criminal. If caught, how long would they keep me alive I wondered: how many days, months of torture would I endure before they mercifully shot me? This thought keeps me on-the-run, willing to inhale filthy river water and perish slowly than to surrender. At least I chose to drown.

It's been almost a year I’ve been on the run, living like an animal in the ditches and groves, foresting whatever plants and fruit I can find, killing a wild rodent or occasional chicken I can manage to steal, although there never seems to be enough. I’m always hungry. My family still lives on the farm and only if the coast is clear, I return occasionally at night. A few of them believe me and will save food, if there are leftovers…we half-heartedly joke I look like Osama bin Laden with my long greying beard and dark sun-scorched skin. “How did I get here?” - the rhetorical question plays on repeat in my head like a psychiatric patient who knows they shouldn’t be in the asylum but can’t remember how they arrived.

Then it comes back…the blitz-investigation by police. They went door-to-door and posted an old-fashioned WANTED sign with a hefty reward of $50,000 pesos, dead or alive. I was a little offended at the price point, frankly, but knew I was a marked man. Even if people didn’t believe I did it, anyone in the pueblo would be inclined to alleviate their dire family straights with cold hard cash. Plus, the police said I was guilty, so their conscience was off the hook. Neighbors I’d known my whole life believed the lie. That hurt. What am I accused of? Double murder. And not just any random “Joe”. They’re accusing me of taking out my own distant relatives, who were knowingly involved in some shady deals. I don’t know who killed them, but on my son’s life I didn’t have anything to do with it.

I’m a peaceful guy of humble means who was taught the hard way to be honest. Always. I took beatings for my siblings even if I didn’t do it, just so they’d be spared another day. To lie in my family meant immediate lashings that lasted hours and worse, it meant you weren’t a worthy person. That was more shameful than the violence inflicted physically. You didn’t lie. Period.

When I started making money, and by money standards it still wasn’t a lot, I was working for one of the only employers for miles – he supplied work for over half of the farmers in our area. In the small pueblos it wasn’t a choice of who you want to work for, it was work or let your family starve. Any sane person with morals chose the former. I just happened to be good with numbers, so they promoted me.

I worked full-time since the day I was able to carry a grain sack on my shoulder -about 4 years old - surviving many bouts of sunstroke and near-starvation and only being allowed to study at school when my father didn’t demand my labor in the field. I missed months of school, but I studied at night. In fact, I missed the last three months of secondary school, but still studied and walked in for the final test. The teachers pulled me aside and explained that I might not do very well because I had missed too many classes. I told them I was here to take the test anyway. To their surprise, I earned the top score of any classmates and received a scholarship to study at college. When I got home, my father tore the papers up and said he wouldn’t allow it. He needed me to work in the field and that was final. My dreams of university disintegrated that day, so I went back to work.

Fast forward a few years, I married to get away from the family and start a more peaceful life. I wasn’t happy but at least I could make decisions for us. I started dealing in grains and crops, and eventually was in charge of tractor and land sales. I kept precise numbers and never faltered on the job, even when they had me working around the clock. Labor laws didn't apply in the pueblo. You either worked or lost your job. I used cocaine to survive the night shifts. I rarely slept.

The US government was interested in bringing down “King Pins” of the cartels in those days, so they staged a spectacular arrest in a large city near us where they got their guy. It was all over the papers. This changed the power dynamics in the pueblos and granjas in the surrounding areas. A power struggle incurred, leaving anyone who worked for anyone vulnerable. Upwards of twenty of my friends were killed, disappeared, found hanging on their farmstead or in parts along the sides of the road and in rivers. Why didn’t they just kill me? I’ll never know.

Everyone knew me in the pueblos and trusted me with their negotiations. I was fare and never took extra money for myself. When I could, I paid for family’s weddings, quinceañeras and birthday fiestas, which is why I think it took them so long to find accusations against me. The double murders of my relatives were the scapegoat they needed. An opportunity to convince the public otherwise.

After a year on the run, I was tired, hungry and going grey. They never let up their search and finally found my Achilles Heel…my infant son. The family informed me that military had arrived in the night and threatened to kill the baby unless I turned myself in. That was the end of my fight. I knew what was coming but I didn’t let the family see me cry. After they were in bed, I knelt on the floor of the bathroom and sobbed quietly…the utter relent of a father who tried so hard only to protect his family. The fight was over and it was time to accept my fate.

They came for me that same night, in unmarked police vehicles and a military convoy, as if I were some top-level assassin they’d been holding out for. The arrest was quiet but forceful. Handcuffed in the vehicle, the police laughed while telling me, “You know, you don’t have a single friend in this god-forsaken pueblo. Every single neighbor conspired against you to turn you in. And even if you aren’t guilty? No one here will ever believe you”. Those words still bring some solace because they weren’t convinced I did it either…but orders are orders.

The beatings began immediately. They were systematic with intensity and always aimed at the most vulnerable places: the temples, back of the skull, the face, ribs. The police use the cartels to do their dirty work in Colombia, so I was handed over to the X’s who are known for eating the human flesh of their victims. It’s actually a rite of passage into their gangs. I’ll spare you the details in my situation...

They moved me from town to town and to the mountains, blindfolded always. Being hung upside down for hours until I passed out became a normal sensation. I was waterboarded until there was no fight left. My body died so many times and was violently brought back to life, that the memories of this all meld together. Through it all, I kept one thing for myself: I never lied. Nor did I give information that would put someone else in my position. This frustrated my interrogators of course and made my situation worse. After four months of torture, I was handed over to a prison where inmates wait to be exported to “El Jefe”, for final questioning. They say you go on trial, but it’s pretty much a death sentence. Most don’t make it to the courtroom.

The first nights I didn’t sleep because, honestly, what was sleep after over a year on-the-run and months of 24-hour interrogations? I was threatened by cell mates and attacked, so the warden took pity and moved me to an individual cell. I became oddly comfortable knowing my fate in the capitol, so I resigned to watch movies and pray. Then one day, a voice down the hall came, “Enrique Emmanuel Lopez Garcia!” I ignored it. After all, I was finishing a great Hollywood movie and enjoying the momentary escape from this horror. It wasn’t until the warden directly knocked on my cell door and said, “Enrique! Get UP! You have a lawyer here to see you” that I gave it much attention. The thought of people intervening on my behalf at this point was the furthest thing from my mind. I was resigned to accept my death.

“¡HOLA ENRIQUE MI HERMOSO!”, the flamboyant lawyer introduced himself. “You are the luckiest son of a bitch in the world because apparently, the public LOVES you”.

Good God, was this joke of a lawyer for real?

“Do you remember Señor Flores?” he went on. “Well, he heard you were locked up and since he still has his government connections, he ordered your immediate release. They found the guys who killed your cousins. The papers here state clearly it wasn’t you. That said, (laughs audibly) your neighbors and family probably didn’t get the memo and still think you’re a criminal. Better to start over. New location. New Life. New You!” Then he got to work, pulling out a briefcase filled with signed government papers proving my innocence and necessity for immediate release.

Just like that, I was a free man. Before leaving, he whispered, “Remember, your neighbors will never believe you and you have no friends here. Get out while you still can.”

They dropped me off a few miles from the farm with only the clothes on my back and the documents. I walked, then ran as if I'd never run before...my lungs bursting with elation and desperation. How much time did we have to get out?

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GASP. I sit up drenched in my own sweat fighting for air, my vision slowly coming back into focus on the tangled composition of the hotel room painting. Good God, I feel like I just died. When the nightmares are this intense, I stop breathing and it takes time to orient and stop trembling. I’ll take a cold shower, do push-ups, and repeat the process until I calm down. For whatever reason, this seems to work.

My therapist says trauma from the past is stored in the body and never actually leaves your memory. Even if you “let it go” and meditate the rest of your life, your body never forgets. You have to actively train yourself to live in the present and not let the nightmares take control.

The cell phone says it’s Tuesday, 7:00am, forecast is mostly sunny, temps ranging from 75-80 degrees with warm winds from the south. It’s going to be a picture-perfect day. My new wife arrives on the 9am flight with our son who’s now in second grade. They share a beautiful bond. We’re planning a much-needed family vacation after my company merger went through this week. Today our only plans are a leisure outdoor brunch, some shopping at the mercado and cocktails at sunset. Second chances like mine are rare I’m told. I’m an incredibly lucky man.