Who gave the order?

by Lizzie McMahon (Australia)

Making a local connection Colombia

The taxi was stopped at a red light. A swarm of people moved across the street banging pots and pans while chanting in unison. “Protesta. Siempre protestas en Bogotá,” mumbled the taxi driver. “¿Por qué?” “El gobierno.” The government. He felt no need to elaborate. That was all the explaining that was needed. Bogotá is as it sounds, imposing and grey. The kind of city that forces its people to be resilient, good humoured and creative. I met Sebastian, a bogotano, on the edge of the city centre. For every high-rise building there was a lucid street mural to challenge its presence. A reprieve to make sure you were not lost in the cinder blocks and stray dogs. A mural of an indigenous woman spread across the entire wall of a five-storey building. “Street art is everything in Bogota. It is a barometer for what is happening in the city, expressing the people’s unspoken thoughts,” said Sebastian while admiring the mural. There was an image that was rife throughout the city, pasted up on walls, traffic light posts and in shop windows. It pictured five former army generals in black and white head-shots. They reminded me of mug shots. Above each general was a red skull with a number attached, and in the left-hand corner the number ‘5763’ in big bold letters, with the dates 2000-2010 in smaller print. The headline was in black capital letters, ‘¿QUIÉN DIO LA ORDEN?’. Sebastian could see it had caught my attention. “Who gave the order? The number is the extrajudicial executions that happened during those years. People want answers. I told you, street art is the barometer.” We continued through the congested city and through Plaza Bolivar. The real action of Bogota is on the streets - there were small women with faces covered in deep wrinkles selling mochilas, woven bags made by the indigenous Wayuu; young boys held boxes of individual candies and plastic cups of lulo juice, hassling cars caught in traffic; men gather on small plastic stools smoking while chewing on coca leaves; and there are big pots on make shift tables filled with tamales. “Did you know more than fifty percent of Colombians work in unofficial jobs like this.” “Is that why they’ve been protesting?” I queried. “One of the reasons.” We stopped for a quick snack. Empanadas, deep fried and filled with shredded meat and rice, and ajiaco, a chicken, corn and garlic soup. As I lent in to smell the delicious pork wafting from a stand Sebastian grabbed my bag that had slipped off my shoulder. “No dar papaya,” he laughed. “Don’t give papaya. Don’t give people the opportunity to take advantage of you.” He placed the bag across his body. I could hear the protests constantly. I could see the smoke of tear gas rising in the sky and what sounded like gunshots. You could hear the unified chants of the people and feel its energy as the vibrations moved through the cement. Its power felt like a tide that could move with force, with or without you. More gunshots, more gas. The soundtrack of Bogota. “Do you think the government will listen to the people?” Sebastian paused, thinking of how to summarise the Colombian struggle to a gringo. Maybe he wasn’t sure of the answer, or maybe he was certain and couldn’t bring himself to admit it out loud. “I hope so,” was all he managed to say. The next morning, I woke to the news on the television. A boy had been killed by the police. Dilan Cruz was hit in the back of the head by a police projectile and died in hospital. He was 18 and just about to finish school. I spent the day processing my conversations with Sebastian and wondering if there was a cause that I would be prepared to die for. I couldn’t be sure, but I knew I was glad that there were people in the world who would, like Sebastian, who believed in a better life for his people. And then there are people who died before we knew their intentions. People like Dilan, who had no choice in the matter.