Playarrica: How to survive the guerrillas, at five years

How does the last hug feel? The last word? The last sigh?, Death feels so close, that even after 18 years I can feel it breathe very close to my neck.I feel cold, very cold when I remember the sound of the rifles shooting towards my house;I didn't die that day, but I'm sure a part of that 5 -year -old boy died that night.Violence is a common denominator in a country like Colombia, where our soul and the desire to live in every corner dock;Even so, I don't stop believing that it is worth having hope in the vague idea that someday, this filthy country will change.But then I remember that peace has divided us more than what war did it, I start to wander in the idea that people seem not to know forgiveness, and I have even come to think that people are sick for pursuing hatred.The history of the lands of the Sacred Heart, is full of dark episodes, of resentthat hurts more to lose a football match, than to lose his own...

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Section 1 stories are not how you taught me grandfather

Do you remember how they started the stories you told me as a child? Do you remember what they started within a magical kingdom? You told me that they were led by a royalty, which generally entered a love story where the prince fell in love with aWoman, whom he knew in strange circumstances, that they seemed to be expected of the unexpected, as if by hazards of destiny, (or of you that you had to create a story for me), said woman was consigned to meet the prince.But before being together forever, they passed one and a thousand battles of which, either, neither of them, was losing, as an allegory to the basic law of stories: the protagonists never lose or die.I remember grandfather that in the end, both end up marrying a master ceremony, full of joy, of magical creatures and an eternal spring happiness.Cliché grandfather history.Repeated history.Entity history.That other stories tell me, that I don't even believe love.Grandfather, I have died twice in my life: one, when the war took me in his arms and did not rush me, he only threw me against the infamy of the world, and checked me with the reality of being born in a country with guerrillas, corruption and total state abandonment.Abuelo died that day and survived, but years later, like that prince, I met love, for the first time I gave my heart, body and soul to a woman who seemed to be expected of the unexpected, and in the end, nothing ended like yourstories, love released me to the precipice of madness, and I died for the second time.I'm not sure grandfather, if I survived, or I'm in purgatory.

And in that order of ideas, if there are two things about the stories of the magical stories that cannot be adjusted to Colombia is: one, a magical kingdom, violence ended the enchantment of forests and the countryside, you can no longerMerode between the mountains, because the monster of the rifles can snatch us life, or condemn ourselves to a destination worse than death: being turned into a semi -port man, who wanders blood armies.I don't want that grandfather, I don't want the monster to take us, or me, or me.Do you know what else does not fit the stories?Your love stories grandfather, or at least I, stopped believing that love is the antidote to all evil.In 2001 the war took away my naivety at 5 years, and in 2019, love snatched my hope at 23.

Grandfather, do you remember that Rica beach was not exactly a castle surrounded by magic and beautiful plains?, Rather it was more similar to the typical Tolimenses peoples: small, full of wonderful peasants who work side by side with the earth to survive, with ainfernal heat that not only melt the pavement, but also the ideas of the head that fall as bubbling plasticine.Perhaps the closest thing I had with the kingdoms of the stories, is the distance of its location and the lousy state of the road.It takes about 6 hours to arrive from the musical capital (that, if the road is in “good condition”), the road begins to behave badly after the municipality of Rovira, where the road becomes a trail that breaks the mountainsPolvoriel and the bus begins a warrior dance in which it wobbles from one side to the other, where on the left has the abyss that gives to the bottom with the torrential waters of the Cucuana River, and on the right it is less than 20 centimeters from the rockof the mountain that is upholstered by millions of branches and leaves that turn to give a “chóquela” to the bus.On the road only one car fits at the same time, then they can imagine that when two run into, one must be close to the rock and the other cornering to the abyss to give way to each other with the other.About two hours of journey, there is a great collapse that has not been repaired for years, on heat days you can pass without problem, the earth is compact, the road can be seen and the cars pass without difficulty, but in the time ofTempestive rain The earth begins to move, the road disappears in the middle of the mud and the only way to pass is through a transford, where the bus that comes out of Ibagué leaves travelers before the collapse, then people must get off,Take their bags, boxes, fruits and vegetables, the farm animals that move or anything else that one takes travel;They must put it on the shoulder and cross the lodazal, running the danger that the mountain falls apart at any time, and then take another bus that is on the other side of the collapse, which takes everyone to the destination, yes, full of mudto the crown.

And so it is the vast majority of the kilometers of that powder and abandoned via, grandfather, you remember that when you want to behave well, it lets us reach the town without problems, but when it enters its time of rebellion, it makes the Cucuana enraged that it takes partsof the road and forces to make two or three transfers, to cross the river, to get into the mud and live with the constant fear that, in any false step in the middle of so much sway, the bus ends up going to the cliff.

Time passes inside the bus, and we get used to living under the suffocation of the two colossi surrounding the bus, two green giants that accompany us throughout the trip, the febrile mountains that guard the traveler as guardians of the distant lands ofRica Beach.I have always believed grandfather that there is a teleportation portal in the last stretch of the road, because it makes a tremendous turn closed to the left, and from one moment to another, what is seen through the window is no longer the river or the rock, but houses, town houses made some wood, others in bahareque and the newest in cement, whose facade was embellished with colors product of an intervention of the governorate, which seem more like a balurdo makeup to some war wounds that were embeddedNo remedy to the houses.The road ceases to be a trail, and becomes an old asphalt constituted by giant paintings one followed by the other.In all entrance we receive a can sign that says “Welcome to the Playarrica district, inspection of the municipality of San Antonio”, Playarrica?Or Playa Rica? The correct name is the first, the two words in a row and with double R, but I like to write it separately because I can tell him of affection "beach", because his name has two lies: the people have no beachnor is it rich.A little beyond the entrance of the town is a scar marked in their land, which once was the gasoline service station today is a spicy of rubble that left the ravine that passes, after an avalanche took everything toits passing a decade ago.Sometimes I think the people are cursed, had to go through three guerrilla shots, and then, when it was rebuilding from the war, an avalanche cut a part of it, leaving it with wounds of which, today, it is not recovered.As if a dark people of Allan Poe were being carried out in life, where misery and pain cover the place as a crow that the eyes of its inhabitants every day.Sorry grandfather, I think I exaggerated.

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Beach is not bigger than a small neighborhood of Ibagué.It has two ways to which they are popularly known as the street on top and the street below.I know, they did not try hard to name the streets.Grandfather I like the street from above, because it is the main road that travels the town from the entrance, and then pass through the center, where all trade is located: bakeries, coffee shops, shops and hotels.The road then passes through "New People" a kind of semi neighborhood that occupies the other half of the town, and that flows into the Pablo VI school;Place where you, grandfather, you were the rector.From then on, the road leads to Roncesvalles Tolima.

The street down is shortof bells and for being the main site of prayer of the place.Under the church the road flows into two options: a road to the cold waters of the Cucuana River, or a road to the cemetery, located on top of a mountain where you can see the colossi of the mountains, the flow of the river and the village.The below ends in a union with the road, at a point where a playground is located with specific letters that form the phrase "I love playarrica", as if a curite in the heart wounded by thedevastation, it was.

A few meters before joining the way down with the one, there is a huge fossil that lies abandoned to its fate, without state intervention, forgotten as one of those bad memories that one would like to bury in the tombs of exile and never let it out.The ruins of what was once a powerful police barracks, today is nothing more than a monument to the contusion that a bomb cylinder can leave.The brands of the war are still recognizable on the facades of some houses, where the bullets of the guerrillas rifles were embedded and the caps of the 12th point of the ghost plane of the army are company.Memories are quite similar to bullets, hosted in the depths of the soul, metastasis like a cancer that corrodes us, but does not kill us, but does not let us live either.

Section 2

A red car, with iron pedals inside, a black steering wheel that lodged some batteries that gave energy to small yellow bulbs that simulated being the lights of a toy car, which served as fun as a funny blond boy with blue eyeswhose age did not spend five years.The sun was hiding behind the green mountains that surrounded the Cucuana River, while a large number of people gathered on the main court, the screams fueled a classic Saturday afternoon, full of football, enthusiasm and goals.José Vicente Canon, or as they said in the “Nené” town, or as they knew him in the “Jota” house, he was playing in the front position in one of the teams that played the glorious prize of a bread bag and aliter of soda.The game advanced 2-1, being the Jota team that was losing, but by randomFalcao;The ball rose through Aíre and fell strongly on the head of one of Jota's friends, who quickly stopped the ball on his right foot, and in a dizzying experience, he touched her partner who ran a little later fromHe, I take it with his unfair shoe for the time, but full of experience by the millions of games already played, and pushed the ball strongly to a small space in the upper right of the arch, the goalkeeper realized late from the attackImminent and its reaction was not the precise to stop that "riflonazo" that approached the speed of lightning and ended up impacting mercilessly on the white network that covered the arch.The score was tied 2-2, a final worthy of the highest world championships, the tension of having the responsibility on the win or losing was noticeable in the sweaty and dirty faces of those boys who played life on that cement court.A pass opens the game again, the archer of the opposite team makes a short pass to one of the players nearby, who immediately starts running towards the middle of the court, elevates the ball in a “gambeta”, and ends inThe chest of the player who was later, who lowers it quickly and runs with the strength and tenacity of a whole machine, gets rid of one, dodges another, hits the ball to evading a defense, Jota tries to runDespair of snatching the ball to avoid safe shot to the arch, but its speed was not enough to stop a leg that hit the ball with the strength of the great Theseus, which rose little but its trajectory was defined, it was a bull running with everythingHis weight to destroy his victim, as a kite was stamped against the network, giving victory to the team, and leaving Jota and his companions with a flavor in the mouth, which was mixed with tiredness and lack of Aíre.The game came to an end.No one lost, and nobody won.In the end they all sat down on the stands of the court and the bread bag and the soda reached for the two teams;that they were nothing more than friends of school that between laughs and chanzes played to be the next Messi or Ronaldinho.Jota sat down, took off his shoes and sweaty socks to give a break at his feet, said goodbye to his Spartans, and as always, they remained eight days later for another soda with bread.

The house where Jota lived was in charge of the court, in an entire corner next to a small alley to which "La Bajadita" told him, which served as a shortcut between the street below to the one on the top.His house was like every town home, built in wood, with zinc tiles, a diluted olive green, wooden gates gave access to the first floor, which was the only one who was built specifically, there were commercial premises, there were some commercial premises,Next to the patio was, adorned by a great tank that served as a laundry room, and in the back.Some stairs gave access to the second floor, I made in wood, where Jota lived with José Vicente Padre, known as El Profe, his wife Flor, his enemy niece, yes, like Virgil's narratives, and a blond child with clear eyes called Juan.Her nephew.

Jota entered the house, his father José Vicente and his mother Flor, they were watching television while Juan played with his red car pedaling around the place.Aeneida worked a couple of blocks above, it was the telecommunications operator of Telecommunications.The sun went down and the night claimed his reign.Jota had come out of bathing and heard that they hit the door, with slow steps he approached the wooden gate, removed the metal pin embedded in the wood and opened the gates of the house in par;On the other side was one of his friends with whom she had been playing football, his eyes was perplexed, his face was pale, there was a tremendous nervousness in her body."The guerrillas got Nené!"He told Jota in a low voice, "I looked are downloading the cylinders on the court," Jota left the house and approached a little, effectively found that subjects with camouflaged and rifles on his back, were lowering cylinders of some trucks andpiling them on the court where no more than 40 minutes ago, they had played a football game.“Look your family from the house and take them where Don Pablo, there are going to gather many people.Pass the night there, ”the friend told Jota.Don Pablo's house was half a block above, it was a well -known store of the town, which had basements where people could take refuge in case a shot was shot.Jota immediately went up to the second floor where his family was, his face carried a difficult news to explain, how to tell his parents that the guerrillas was in the town?, The wisdom and experience of the mothers played a bad pass, noHe could say a single word, Mrs. Flor saw him and immediately realized that something was happening, Jota could only say: "MA, you have to leave, the guerrillas are on the court," Doña Flor looked out one of the balconies ofThe house was able to verify that the guerrillas was there, its reaction was no different from that of Jota.

They spent seven o'clock at night, while the family argued about which was the best place to spend the night, a burst of shooting shots from the mountain of the Cucuana River impacted against the town.There was a sepulchral silence, the experience said that a guerrilla shot was imminent, and that at least what was left of that Saturday night, and the early morning of Sunday, it was possible that a fight between two sides be fought.Other shots left from La Garita, located on the street from within the center of the town.The garrita was surrounded by sand of sand that served as a armor in front of the bullets, and shelled the approximately six police officers inside.Police responded fire against fire, thus sealing the beginning of the contest against the 21 FARC Front that, as rabid bandits, shot them fierce from the mountains.

In the house, everyone started running looking for refuge.The greatest fear was for a bullet to impact the house, since being made of wood could easily cross the walls or zinc roof, and end up housed in the head of jota, or vicente, or flower, or Juan.Inside the room there was a black dining room, whose wood was quite thick, it was not the best refuge for the situation, but it was the only thing at hand, so face down they went down all under the protection of the dining room, in silence, raisingYou have to heaven so that God appeals to them, he remembers that they exist and does not allow any bullet that night, the life blinds them.The rifles and submachine guns shot each other, impacting the entire town;A deafening sound appeared to the distance, the heavy cavalry had arrived to relieve the load to the police, an armed army plane to the turbines, an old war fox, assembled in the United States that is known as an AC-47T withGau-19 mm Gau-19 Gatling submachotes that would spray a human being in two shots, positioned itself on the burnt-on skies, and as if it were the very angels of the Apocalypse, triggered hell on earth: the fury of their submachotesThey did not distinguish between a guerrilla, a policeman, an old man, a mother, a brother, a farmer, an animal.The bullets began to fall on the roofs of the houses, impacted the energy posts part of them in the middle, cuited the cement of the road, and reduced to ashes anything they touched, evoking the mortuary breath of the servants of Satan.Neither the guerrillas, nor the army that, in the midst of their combative, street innocent people, children, elderly, peasants with years of wisdom in harvesting the land, a loving mother, a working father, a brother, a friend ofChildhood ... The cruelty of war does not respect ideologies, we murdered all of that night, people from the left or right, center or apolitical, died without a reason.War does not care what you create, or who has affinity, when armed violence is enraged, both the guerrillas and the army ending being the same as.

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The ghost plane lasted about 20 minutes doing comings and goings, filling everything that was in its path with lead.By approximately 7:50 pm, the plane is removed by leaving a scheme of destruction, fear and death behind.Jota, Vicente, Flor and Juan, leave the dining room below, and as a soul that the devil carries they went to the first floor to get out of the house and go to where Don Paul, but by cruelty of life, as if God sometimes leftLeaving his macabre side and playing with us like his sad puppets, the shooting of the submachine guns began again, but this time, taking the family on the street, without major protection than faith, Mrs. Flor began to hit the door ofThe house of the neighbors who knew them as "the Coachos", where they immediately opened and offered a inn to spend that bitter night.There are situations that remain in the memory of every child, and the one that was about to occur would last embedded in the remembrance of Juan.After entering the house, they entered a room where there were two beds on each side of the room, with a benjamin hanging by a white cable from the roof, and that did not stop moving in all directions, loading the light with him,Leaving a place and then lighting it to the sound of the bulb movement.In one of the beds was a kneeling man, hugging his two daughters, one of them stared at him, oblivious to the situation, to the savage of destruction out, to the bullets that did not stop sounding, and with aLow but forceful voice asked him in the midst of his innocence: "Dad, are we going to die?".

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Section 3 newspaper in the ears? Rica Tolima Beach, June 16, 2001, 11:00 pm

When I sat down to write, I had no idea how to narrate this part.How enough words gather to describe the noise of the submachine guns, and sound, and sound without stopping for more than 14 hours.On television and in the cinema it would be easy to demonstrate it through sound games, which allow to reconstruct the tense environment of the situation;But in the lyrics, it is a much more complex issue to describe sensations, sounds and even the same tenacity of the moment.It is one thing to see a war film and feel stinging for some scenes of bloodsplooConcrete listening like bullets bounce on the walls, almost at midnight, in a town far from the city, feeling death through all surroundings, and the silence of people who cannot do anything other than pray in their minds, while outside the others are torn apart.I do not find the appropriate lexicon to narrate the fear that feels under a bed, in a dark room, with five or six people next to it, and all, praying to God that not between a bullet and starts an arm, one leg, one leg, one leg, one leg, one leg,A skull.

The night began to reach its critical point, both in time, and in fear.As if the minutes hug the uncertainty, like the blind man who walks only in the footsteps of his Lazarillo.The police gave themselves to their few ammunition to respond to the furtive attacks of the guerrillas, who shot them with rifles, submachine guns and grenades to a few police officers who were only charged, a box of ammunition for a pair of Galil type rifles, one or another 9 mm endowing gun recharge, and the recesses inside the underground tunnels of La Garita, which they used to take refuge from the lead storm that the guerrillas threw them without mercy without mercy.

A friend of Jota hits the door of the house, Jota leaves and opens, his friend in the middle of tiredInside the guerrillas will fly the police post.They are already carrying the cylinders, so they look for where they get because they fly it, they fly ".Jota enmude, he could only tell him some rough thanks, of those that usually occur in the emergency rooms when a loved one dies, and the doctor on duty leaves the operating room to tell the relatives that the patient passed to a better life.People thank in the midst of anguish and pain, but they are mentally in another place.Jota knew that the decision to fly the barracks meant that there would be a terrible explosion, and that he, and his family were hidden in an old concrete house, no more than three blocks away from where the building was located to bombard.Death smiled, it was possible to collect innocent souls in an easy way.Sulting the other soul to God is satisfactory even for the same grim;that he would only have to sit down as the cylinders exploded while everything around was incinerated or flewing through the expansive wave.Jota I don't say it, he didn't think about it, he did not contemplate it, but deep down, somewhere in a pessimistic idea, he was aware that God that night, had abandoned a beach.

Jota entered the room where his neighbors and his family were.He gave them the news in the calmer way than his divagant and scared mind allowed him.There was no answer, nobody murmured, no one said.Nobody knew what the correct answer was, they didn't even know if there was really a possibility of hitting an answer.If they stayed, they ran the risk that the explosion was part of the house and kill them or left them badly injured, or, if they made the decision to leave, they would run the risk of a bullet interrupted their passage.Whatever the decision, something had to risk.They decided to expose themselves, run half a block to get to Don Pablo's house, where were other refugees, among those aneid.Yes, like Virgil's Aeneid, he had already said.They took the few belongings that could, one or the other vulture, bags and blankets to spend the morning, they were assembled with faith, they entrusted to the Most High, and opened the door, but the ghost plane had returned with their riders, invoking the Tartarus again, dropping their tons of bullets on an already injured, bleeding and scared.

Jota, his family and the neighbors took refuge in the room again, clearly listening to the bullets of the plane's metrals impacting on the concrete plate of the house, while outside the noises of the rifles increased, the guerrillas and the guerrillas andThe police were determined to end at full cost, which made the conflict rise to the point that the guerrillas made the decision not to wait any longer and fly the police post, to see if they could lower the moral of theirenemies and take the people as a claim of the revolutionary struggle imparted by FARC 21 Front.

In the house the atmosphere was not the best, everyone was in a nervous collapse because the option to go out to take refuge elsewhere was no longer viable.Just stay there and wait for everything to be fine.The noise of weapons was raised to a thousand percent, you could hardly speak because the sound was strident.Jota recalled that in his preparation as a soldier, when he served in Tolemaid.He stopped from the chair and began to look for the newspaper, somewhere in that house there should be, even if it is a scheme.In a forgotten drawer, under thousands of cachivaches he found a small leaf of an old newspaper, wet it in the dishwasher of the kitchen and ran back to the room, I took his nephew Juan, sat on the bed andHe put wet paper in his ears, so that one, no longer listens to the bullets, and two, when the position was bombarded, the noise of the explosion did not damage his ears.Jota also put paper on his ears, and gave his relatives and neighbors balls to protect themselves.

It ran more than midnight, the guerrillas distracted the police shooting them from the mountain, while another group was carrying the cylinders inside and outside the construction of the police post.Approaching one in the morning they detonated the loads.What was once a colossus three -story building, with reinforced concrete walls, a basement, rooms, study rooms and an armory, reduced to a fractured and calcined skeleton, whose remains spread throughout the town, covering everything around them with white.The explosion rumbles the ground as a middle scale tremor.His power not only was enough to damage the vital structure of the police post, but also the houses he had at his two sides apart.No one cried, nobody shouted.When death is so close that you can hear the sickle blinding souls, silence is the only defense.

4th section, tell me a story.Rica Tolima Beach, June 17, 2001, 7:00 am

The previous night was over.Half town was literally on the floor, not only because of the morals that was totally destroyed, but by the houses and structures that lay morbundas on the ground.The explosion of the cylinders had left a great scar to cure the sequels years.Guerrilla bodies that had lost the battle were thrown as part of the scenography.The police were refugees in La Garita.All intact, without any low, yes, tired, almost deaf, with fear, dirty, and on the verge of a heart attack.Sydheds, nor rifles, nor guns sounded.There was no trace of war music, as if someone had taken the sound to the environment.Only the song of the birds and the water of the Cucuana river was heard that ran freely to the bottom of the town.

Jota, Vicente, Flor and Juan had survived.The house where they were resisted without problem the hug of the explosion.All at home were fine.Jota and Juan were sleeping in a matt.Flor and Vicente slept in the room, but they were already awake and drinking a fool.Someone hit the door of the house, and it seems that he had eagerness, because his hit was repeated and strong.Flor opened the door, it was a high -guerrilla command that brought two men loading one injured, and demanded that they let him enter to serve his comrade fallen in combat.Flor without any choice let them in and offered them, together with the neighbors, hospitality for their problem and a hot red.A growing fear was in flower's head, the guerrillas used to take young boys for their ranks, so he hiddenly went to the back courtThe room and hid them after a large wooden door, covering them with a thick blanket.Then he left as if nothing, to the place where the guerrillas were, who spoke calmly with the other guests of the house, while attending the health of their colleague.

The blanket fulfilled his work of keeping who carries it hot, so it was expected that the temperature under it would increase, which led Juan to try to get out of there to flee from the heat.Jota to try to calm him down and prevent him from leaving, sat on his legs and began to narrate everything that had happened, and that he was happening, in a way that Juan, to his scarce five years, understood."Do you remember the stories that my dad and my mother tell you before sleeping?" Jota told him, Juan only answered with a dry yes.“Well, we are in one of those stories without a story that you like to listen, outside is the wolf, and we are like the sheep that the wolf wants, and this blanket that is covering us is magical, makes us invisible for the wolfI can't find us, but if you leave, magic will not work and the wolf will find you and will take you, do you want the wolf to find you? ”,“ No, I don't want, ”Juan replied with aShy voice, "Then you must stay very still, while the wolf leaves, so that we can go out and play for a while," Juan was still under the protection of his uncle, who continued to tell him stories to explain what he would see when he came outof the house.Jota preferred to keep a child's innocence, camouflaging him the tragedy of war, in a story full of fairy and giants.The heroes are sometimes not so far from reality, sometimes they are simply in the middle of six police officers who survived the massive attack of the guerrillas, or in a friend who runs to the house to warn that everything will go to hell but stillThere is time to take refuge, or in a neighbor who poses in the midst of a rain of bullets, or in a mother who awakens her children so that the guerrillas do not take them, or in an uncle who in the midst of fear sacrifices her sanity togive your nephew a story that calms it and preventing them from killing them.The guerrillas left the house for about an hour and a half after.

Aneida managed to leave Don Pablo's house, where the night spent, he arrived where his relatives were, from whom he had separated from the beginning of the guerrilla shot.He told Flor that in a nearby house they were waiting for them for breakfast and be able to spend the hours, or days, to miss the conflict.Flor told her to advance, to take Juan while she, Jota and Vicente went home to get some clothes and some belongings.

Around 9 in the morning Aeneida leaves the house with Juan taken by her hand, who is amazed when traveling the streets of the town with rubble on the floor, but is not afraid, her uncle had already explained that a couple of giantsThey were fighting, and that in the midst of their dispute they had stepped on some houses and had damaged the people, but there was nothing to fear, the giants were no longer.However, Jota did not prepare Juan for what was about to happen.About two blocks from arriving at the house where they were heading, the ghost plane made its last appearance, but this time it was determined to end everything once, so it unloaded with no mercy its machine guns over the town, withoutrealize that out, on the street, there was a child with his aunt.Eneida took Juan and lay on the wall of a nearby house, who had a concrete outgoing that, as a hand sent by God, protected them both from the plane's bullets.Aneida began to hit a metal door strongly while shouting with all his might "open they will kill us, for God's, they will kill us!", And in the blink of an eye a person opened the door of the house,Letting the two beings who were alone and thrown to their fate under the lead of a righteous winged iron warm.The door showed some red stairs with a lot.In a corner there was a family surrounding a woman of no more than 20 years, who had a hundred a bullet impact of the ghost plane, which did not stop leaving blood, her family cleaned her with a water cloth that they took out ofAn oxidized vessel that had next door, and in front of all prognosis, the young woman, was still alive.The confrontation resumed, the guerrillas from their trenches in the mountain returned the attack on the plane and the police who, at a start of revenge, took their weapons to end the conflict that had already extended by much.

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The bullets ceased around three in the afternoon.The police were captured and then, inexplicably, they were expelled from the town, leaving the guerrillas with the total control of the territory.For more than 15 years Playa did not see the police or the army again, the FARC created their own rules, their own way of living, their own administration and their laws of justice, whose punishments were generally contemplated in a shot in theHead on the slopes of the Cucuana River.

Section 5 You will die grandfather.Today I want to share our Ibagué History, October 3, 2019

Do you remember how the history ended?.I know that I told the story as if it were other people, but we both know that we and I.Today, grandfather, you are no longer the rector of the school, you are a pensioner of the teaching who survived death, I remember that with my grandmother Flor, my uncle Jota and my aneid aunt, we went to the beach two days after the guerrilla shot ended, the Velotax bus was able to return to the town and we left everything we had behind: work, people, farm, our wooden home on a second floor, and we left for a new life in the Tolimense capital, while you, grandfather, you stayed for two more years in the town, trying to educate your students, struggling to defend your teachers, and preventing the school where you worked for many years, would collapse.I also know, grandfather, that one night while you were going on your bicycle a guerrilla took you and took you to the bad river, where they kneel you, they put your mouth of the sink in the head, while one of the leaders of the leaders of theFarc told you that that night, you just have to choose between two options: stay, to continue fighting for your school and die defending your cause, or, just the sun came out, you should leave everything and never return.Today I am glad that you will make the second decision, because otherwise, I would have grown without a father, and I don't know, where would I be now.

Life has changed a lot after almost two decades when the horrible night ceased.Grandfather, today Jota is a great dentist, Eneida has her family in the city of Bogotá, and you, live with my grandmother Flor and with me in Ibagué.I cannot tell you that fear left, still awake at night listening to the planes and bullets, I still move between dreams lucid to that night when I lost part of the innocence that a child is at 5 years old.I wonder grandfather, what was beach.We never return.I have read that the people left their time of violence behind when former President Juan Manuel Santos signed the peace treaty with the FARC, they say there is no danger to return.But grandfather, we both know that we no longer belong to that place, that the wounds that left the passage of war in you and me are very great.I don't feel ready to face the face face to face.However, he does not dare to say that there is no forgiveness.Grandfather you told me to hate is something simple, so most human beings do it, but forgiving requires more commitment and much more devotion to justice.Today, like you, I have no hatred for those who almost murdered us that night, nor does it uncomfortsolution.Maybe if we forgive, the reward is to prevent other people from passing what we spend, and I think that for you grandfather, and for me, that answer reassures us.I don't know how long it will spend so you can see this country free of violence, but I'm sure, and I don't want you to die grandfather, today I want to share our history.