Spring 2004
The spring of Junior year I studied abroad in Medellín at The University of Antioquia, or UdeA as it’s known locally. After a hectic couple years, it was a much needed break. I wanted to work on my Spanish and I had heard the women of Colombia were to die for. I was sold. Classes turned out to be a joke but it was a great way to work on my language skills anyway, since I spent many nights out at the Parque Lleras bars chasing locals.
I was leaving history class one day, when this girl named Isabella came up to me, curious to find out what an American was doing in ‘Social Class in Post-Columbian South America.’ I wove some story about being interested in freedom movements under colonial powers, being Indian myself, and we hit it off instantly.
At the time, she was dating a hang-gliding instructor and working part-time as his assistant. One lucky day, she offered to take me up with her for free. Being on a tight budget, I greedily took her up on the offer. The beauty of the landscape quickly suppressed any pangs of doubt. I was awed by the expansive development, 16 comunas and 271 barrios worth. From that vantage point I could truly appreciate the bustle of commerce, the cooperative organization of millions. It seemed to be a choreographed dance.
As I floated, I felt like I'd escaped from the depravity of everyday life. That hurried feeling, the anxiety and stress of innocuous deadlines and moronic obligations, completely faded away.
Back on land, I ecstatically tried to explain the feelings that overcame me in the air, flailing for words in Spanish. Isabella just laughed and asked why I thought she would deal with the hour and a half bus ride everyday if it weren’t the greatest feeling in the world. It was a fair point.
As our bilingual communication improved, we delved into trickier subjects. Eventually, she revealed to me her sympathies for FARC, the notorious Colombian militia, one of many in the world with the adopted moniker of The People’s Army. This came as a shock to me because I’d heard many students openly denounce the group. Especially in light of a massacre recently perpetrated by the revolutionaries, when an improvised bomb went off near a church in a jungle village called Bojaya, killing 79 people.
Isabella was quick to point out that she didn’t approve of violent direct action, but also that innocent casualties occurred on both sides and were a sad but perpetual aspect of war.
“It’s easy to use a single incident to make a whole movement look bad,” she said in her sultry voice, slowing down and simplifying the choice of words for my benefit.
“Like a strawman argument,” I replied in English.
“What?”
“Never mind, it’s a phrase we have in English, to describe what you’re saying.”
“Oh,” she went on, “well the FARC are fighting injustices that have happened in Colombia since a long time back, even before Gaitan was killed. It’s not so simple as good versus bad.”
Having done a bit of my own research upon the mention of his name in class, I knew Jorge Gaitan was an immensely popular Colombian politician, the kind that people actually believed might fight for them.
And like most such politicians, his life was cut short under mysterious circumstances. The man that supposedly killed Gaitan was dragged naked by a vicious crowd through Bogotá, and his dead body was left in front of the Presidential palace. Without any testimony from the assassin, the motive has remained a mystery but many Colombians retain a healthy suspicion that the CIA was somehow involved. It’s clear that the United States benefitted most from the event, as Communists were quickly blamed and the Pan-American Conference of South American countries shifted back towards an anti-communist stance. There’s no hard evidence, but given the CIA’s history in Latin America, it’s not exactly far-fetched.
“That was over 50 years ago Isabella. Things have changed.”
“Have they?”
“Of course, all around the world progress is being made, poverty is being reduced. FARC is only slowing things down.”
Isabella looked intently as she parsed the meaning of my words. My classical, Friedman-inspired understanding of globalization as a universal good amused her. She was so elegant and proud as she described to me the history of her homeland. She explained how FARC got its start when a Canadian— born, London School of Economics and Harvard-educated economist-turned-rancher proposed a plan called “Accelerated Economic Development,” many years ago in her country. (It reminded me of “No Child Left Behind” and the “Patriot Act.” How could anyone argue with those names?) Soon after he proposed the plan, the Colombian government began forcing peasants that served local markets off their land to make room for large-scale industrial agriculture geared towards export markets instead. In her eyes, FARC was simply an expression of rebellion against unjust policy, one that had continued to this day. It impressed me that her understanding was far more nuanced than I was accustomed to hearing from other passionate individuals. She didn’t display animosity towards either party, and spoke as if everything was in its natural order. Force matched with counter-force. It brought to mind a quote from Thomas Jefferson I had read in high school: “I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical.”