A crane carries some of nearly 10,000 seized weapons, melted at Colombia’s National Steel Factory last November before being remade into rods to reinforce the foundations and columns of schools and hospitals.Guillermo Legaria/AFP / Getty Images
At first, S. ticks them off on her fingers, but she quickly passes 10: the kids from the neighbourhood, the kids from school, all gone. "Of the generation I grew up with, none are left. Five are dead. No, six. And five were recruited by the gangs. And some went to the bush to join the guerrillas because they had to. And some of them, their parents had to flee, so they went, too."
S. is shy but snazzy, in sparkly blue trousers and a swishy ponytail. She is a few days away from leaving for college, on her first airplane trip, to an interior city more than 1,500 kilometres from this town on Colombia's southwest coast. She has scraped up cash to pay for the first two semesters, and hopes to find work to pay for the rest; she is anxious, and determinedly hopeful. (The Globe and Mail is identifying her only by her first initial, because the unwritten code of her barrio promises exile or worse for anyone who talks to outsiders.)
At 19, she has surmounted almost unbelievable odds, growing up in the middle of one of the world's most brutal and long-running civil conflicts. She survived the guerrillas who came for her mother when S. was a child, and the land mines back in the village; survived displacement, and then evaded conscription by the paramilitaries and the drug runners who keep a hungry eye out for smart kids like her. Now S. is getting out, in search of a safer place.
Everyone in Colombia talks about peace these days; she finds it baffling. They say Colombia is on the brink of historic change: With peace talks in Cuba between the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (known by its Spanish acronym FARC) and the government now in their third year, people say the war could be over in months. The rebels, who for decades have fought for landless rural people and have funded their war with the narcotics trade, are worn down and cornered; the government is hungry to sign a deal so that it can pursue ambitions for international trade and First World-style growth and prosperity.
The talks are taking place with no formal cessation of fighting and under an official cone of silence, but there are clear signs of progress. There are already agreements on ending drug trafficking and on rural development. There are still complex issues to resolve – in particular, how to balance the need of justice for the war's seven million victims with FARC's need to be a legitimate political actor. Its leaders have no intention of going to prison, something that both public opinion and international law would seem to require. Still, people close to the talks say there could be a deal early this year.
But even if there is one, S. doesn't buy into the notion that it will make a difference. "All this talk about negotiations, it's cosmetic, to cover the violence that's really happening – we're in the middle of a peace process, but we're living in the centre of a war."
In many ways, a deal, once almost unimaginable, between the government and the Marxist rebels who have battled implacably for 40 years to destroy it, now seems like the easy part. Certainly S. can't see how it will change anything in her city. The day after a deal is signed, Colombia will still have the second-largest number of internally displaced people in the world (after Syria). Much of the land to which they may wish to return has been laid with mines. Even should there be a deal that says the FARC will get out of the drug business, Colombia will remain the heart of the global trade in cocaine, produced and trafficked by ruthless gangs eager to move into any space vacated by the rebels.
And far away from the chic and leafy streets of Bogota and Medellin, there will be cities like this one, where the main presence of the state takes the form of soldiers and low-flying helicopters, where the hospitals are bad and the schools are worse, and where a young woman is the only kid from her neighbourhood to make it to adulthood with her dream of something better intact.
The ugly process of tearing Colombia apart has gone on for more than 60 years.
Putting the country back together will be even worse.
A tangled, violent history
In many ways, these are very good times in Colombia. The country has the strongest economy in Latin America, with growth this year of just under five per cent. It's a free-trade partner of Canada's, and a major focus for the government of Stephen Harper. Canadian firms own and operate a third of energy industries in the country, and 40 per cent of the mining properties. Colombia's tourism industry is booming. There are neighbourhoods of Bogota that look like Brooklyn, and the city of Medellin keeps scooping up awards for its innovative responses to crime, public transportation and social inclusion. The country's president, Juan Manuel Santos, is pushing hard for entry into the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) as a final imprimatur of the country's renaissance.
But first, the war must end.
There has been fighting in Colombia, of varying degrees of intensity, for the majority of the past 120 years. The modern phase of the war dates from 1948, when populist leader Jorge Gaitan was assassinated, sparking a riot in the capital that left more than 4,000 dead. It inaugurated a period now known simply as La Violencia, when supporters of two elite political parties went to war in the countryside. A power-sharing agreement finally ended that conflict in 1957, but did nothing to address the root causes of the fighting: sharp inequity in land distribution; and utter neglect, by the state, of impoverished rural areas.
In response, leftist guerrillas, inspired by Cuba's revolution, launched an insurgency in the 1960s; the FARC and the National Liberation Army (ELN) took up arms in the countryside, while a third group, that has since demobilized, began underground operations in the cities. That, in turn, led wealthy landowners and members of the armed forces to create militias, who carried out a brutal "dirty war" counterinsurgency beginning in the early 1980s, with the tacit support of the state. Both the guerrillas and the paramilitaries were financed by the growing international narcotics trade. All sides carried out barbaric violations of human rights. Millions upon millions of people were driven from their homes. And more than 220,000 people have been killed.
There has been a series of efforts to end the conflict since the 1980s. Some were staged during ceasefires that fell apart; others dragged on for years but produced no deals.
Colombia's last president, Alvaro Uribe, set out when he was elected in 2002 to exterminate the FARC, who had killed his father during a kidnapping attempt. His efforts greatly diminished the guerrillas' strength and reach, but they survived, operating in small bands from bases hidden throughout Colombia's dense jungles, and supported by many of the rural poor. Some in Mr. Uribe's administration began to push for peace talks toward the end of his eight-year term. In 2010, Mr. Santos, who as defence minister had overseen the fight with the FARC, was elected the new president. Within days of taking office, he sent secret emissaries to the FARC, and startled the country by announcing the Havana talks in 2012.
The negotiations quickly produced an agreement on land reform – the very subject that has, ostensibly, motivated the guerrillas since the 1960s. There was also an early provisional agreement to end the drug trade, and on how the FARC can transition to become a political actor.
The FARC came to the talks serious about making a deal, says Ivan Cepada, a leftist senator: His father was killed by paramilitaries, yet he is an outspoken champion off peace. He describes himself as a "facilitator" of the negotiations, travelling to Havana, meeting with the FARC leadership, and carrying messages to and from President Santos. The Uribe offensives had left the FARC in an ugly stalemate, and while they were not defeated, they knew they would not win, he says.
At the same time, the Colombian government can't afford to pay an ever-escalating bill for large-scale military operations, especially since the United States is not providing the level of funding it did when the war was more overtly tied to the drug trade. And the entire idea of a civil war is at odds with how Colombians see themselves today. "War is an anachronism," says Mr. Cepada, and Colombia will struggle to progress much further until it ends.
He also says that a generational change in the guerrillas is driving the talks in Havana: "The founders have died, and the new generation grew up in a more urban environment; they see the regional context, where former guerrillas have been elected in repeated elections." Brazil's president, Dilma Rousseff, is a former Marxist rebel; as a student activist, Chile's Michelle Bachelet fought a right-wing dictatorship; and José Mujica, whose term as president of Uruguay ends in March, was a legendary urban guerrilla. "This is one of the few countries in Latin America not governed from the left," Mr. Cepada says – a new generation of FARC sees "a need for change."
The ELN is smaller than the FARC, but more political, its Marxism fused with liberation theology; it controls the territory that includes much of Colombia's mineral wealth, and has carried out a series of pipeline bombings that have sharply undermined the energy industry. But the ELN, too, appears to sense the way events are moving. This past week, its leaders said in a video message that they are considering joining the talks and may unilaterally lay down their weapons – Mr. Cepada called their participation "essential" for any deal.
Wanted: peace, and punishment
The central challenge in Havana now involves how to reconcile the intense demands for justice with the hunger for peace. Before the talks began, President Santos created an unusual "Victims' Unit," which, despite the fact that the conflict is ongoing, is already undertaking the task of making reparations – he called it unethical to make victims wait an unknown period for peace before they are compensated.
Of those seven million citizens registered as victims (or 14 per cent of the population), six million are displaced people driven from their homes by the conflict. Some have already had their land restored. Others are victims of human-rights violations: kidnapping, forced recruitment, assault, the death of a loved one. The majority of these were victims of the paramilitaries – but victims of all three actors in the conflict (also the rebels, and the state) have been taken to Havana, to address negotiators directly.
"There has to be truth – that's the first demand they make," says Paula Gaviria, the fiercely driven and empathetic lawyer whom President Santos tapped to run the new unit. "Victims of FARC say 'I'm for peace – even though for 10 years I haven't known where my son is. I'm generous. But tell me why. Where is he?' "
Victims, she says, expect repentance, expect "for these people to say, 'I'm really sorry.' Because they don't believe FARC yet." The state is so far funding the compensation efforts, such as de-mining land, and returning people to their homes, providing them with cash to rebuild their farms. The budget to date is $3.3-billion – and many victims want to see the FARC ultimately paying from its international bank accounts.
But will the guerrillas need to go to jail? Some 60 per cent of Colombians say they support the peace process, and that percentage is climbing, but most insist the FARC must be punished. That is something the FARC's leadership, which argues that the guerrillas have been carrying out an epic struggle for justice, refuse categorically to accept. The current conventions of international justice also dictate that the guerrillas must undergo some form of punishment.
"What will be the legal security package that, on one side is enough to incentivize those who will have to disarm, to do so, but at the same time meet the very high public demand for accountability, and also that of independent international and national tribunals?" muses Mark Freeman, a Canadian expert on international justice who was recruited by the government of Colombia to advise its delegation to the peace process. "There has to be real accountability, but not so much you could never reach an accord – finding that sweet spot is what we're working on right now."
The logistics of disarming and reintegrating the guerrillas will be challenging, he notes, and so will guaranteeing their safety: They are loathed in many sectors of Colombian society.
And it isn't just the guerrillas whose relationship with justice presents a problem: The conventions on international law that Colombia has signed demand that members of the armed forces who carried out human-rights abuses should be investigated and prosecuted, and arguably also the politicians who backed them. That idea is, not surprisingly, unpopular with the military and sectors of the elite, and contributes to their resistance to the peace process. Former president Uribe loathes the negotiations, and denounces them at every turn (and in wild rants on Twitter). Others in the elite, particularly wealthy landowners, believe that they will be forcibly stripped of much of their property as part of a settlement on land reform (although Mr. Freeman and others close to the negotiations say nothing of the kind is likely).
Given all that, Mr. Freeman says, it is astounding that progress has come as quickly as it has in Havana. But he cautions that it is a mistake to focus too much on the handshakes and the signatures. "The acid test is two years out: What does it look like in Tumaco?"
Drugs, bombs and dreams
When the tide is high in Tumaco, it licks at the wood steps at the back of S.'s home. Sometimes her family catches sight of drug boats in the tangle of mangrove trees; most days, there are kids out back grubbing in the mud for clams to sell, raising cash for their families. It's that or carry "packages" for criminals, S. says. Neither is a fit choice for a kid; most do both.
It's this kind of thing that makes her scornful of the peace talks. A peace process is not just about signing a paper, she says – people have to feel safe, and that their government can care for them. No one here thinks the Colombian state will provide for them, or offer them security, the way a gangster can. "The morals and values have really been lost here. The idea of living 'together' doesn't exist." Her family will never feel safe here, she says with a shrug of her small shoulders.
S.'s family came to Tumaco when she was a toddler – after the guerrillas mistook her mother for someone they mistrusted, and she narrowly escaped execution. They joined a steady flow of others who have come into this sleepy city on the Pacific coast, pushed off their land by fighting and the drug trade that fuelled it. The population in this region is almost entirely black, descendants of the tens of thousands of slaves abducted from Africa and imported to work the plantations; this has always been one of Colombia's most neglected corners.
In 1991, Afro-Colombians were given a new chance by the government to make claim to the land their ancestors were forced to work, and take ownership of it through collective title. But no sooner had they begun to organize to work that land than the traffickers moved in, forcing them to grow coca for cocaine. The mangrove coastline of a million small channels makes it ideal terrain for drug runners; cocaine moves from the interior up to Panama and on to Mexico on the nondescript boats of the local fishing fleet, or in speedboats that can make the trip in a few hours.
Human Rights Watch has called this region an epicentre for abuses of civilians. The military arrived to "retake" the region a few years ago. Today, there are helicopters constantly overhead and soldiers on foot patrols all through Tumaco – but that makes it a target for the insurgency, and bombs are planted almost every week, near police stations or on major roads.
Are they planted by the rebels? The traffickers? People in Tumaco just shrug at the question – there's no difference any more, they say. Many former paramilitaries, officially disarmed and reintegrated by the Uribe government starting in 2003, made a smooth transition to the bacrim – the local slang for bandas criminales, or criminal bands.
Not far from the plank shack where S. and her family live are streets of wildly incongruous Miami Vice-style mansions, all colonnades and reflective blue glass: trafficker money. In the countryside, the rebels forcibly conscript young people. In the cities, the bacrim tend to start with sweeteners (cash, new phones, nice sneakers.) But if the teenagers they want to act as couriers or to take family boats up the coast don't sign on willingly, the traffickers quickly resort to the same blunt threats as the guerrillas.
The fault line that runs beneath the Havana peace process leads directly here: The people who picked off S.'s classmates one by one, the people of whom her family lives in fear today, are not in Cuba – they're not negotiating, and they won't be part of any deal.
"Many of the actors here say, 'We're not bothered with what happens in Havana. We're independent and what they sign has nothing to do with us,' " says Karen Betancourt. She is a member of the tiny local elite, a human-rights lawyer, who today advises the state government about what a post-peace investment package must look like.
The plan she and her colleagues are designing includes sanitation, teacher training, basic infrastructure and money to help people transition from producing coca to growing less-lucrative legal crops such as plantains. Tumaco needs all these things. But Ms. Betancourt's animation as she sketches out the plan doesn't last long. "People won't want to go home," she says, because they are never going to believe they are safe. "Okay, we can't see their guns any more, but who can protect me?"
It's an entirely valid worry, says Pedro Valenzuela, the director of the Institute for Human Rights and Peacebuilding in Bogota. "The state doesn't have the institutional capacity to implement a deal. It's not about bad faith necessarily – it's that they don't have a clue." Nor, he says, is it entirely fair to expect otherwise, since few countries have ever attempted what Colombia must do. The military, overnight, will become charged with protecting disarmed guerrillas – a population despised by much of the public, by the ex-paramilitaries (who are still armed), and indeed by the military themselves. As well, there must be a huge push around the state's non-security presence – everything from schools and hospitals to roads and streetlights.
There is a historic precedent for this: When the Uribe government took back swaths of the country from the guerrillas in military operations, it invested heavily in creating a positive state presence there. But the needs here – where people in S.'s neighbourhood wait for the high tide to come and carry away their sewage; where parents like hers work six days a week to bring home $300 – are huge. And it's not at all clear the bacrim will hand over their territory without a fight.
S. expects that, peace deal or not, Tumaco will look no different when she finishes college. Nevertheless, she intends to come back, armed with a new education degree, and work here. She is making it out, she says, because of the support of a teen-leadership program, part of a Save the Children initiative funded by Canada to improve the dismal education system in Tumaco. It gave her a constant message that another future was possible, she says, and that the gangs weren't the only route to a better life. And it actively engaged kids in talking about the role they could play. "You need to teach children about peace, so that one day you have adults who believe in it," she says.
But what if the peace is just a half-peace, a deal that removes some players, like the ones that displaced S.'s family, but leaves the criminal actors in place, more vicious than ever as they lose the cover of the war? She says she won't believe the rebels if they sign a deal, and she doubts how much the government can do.
Then, with a shake of her ponytail, S. points something out: She has made things work, against the odds. Lots of things are possible. "You just need the will – and an opportunity."
And Colombia has at least one of those, today.
The Vive La Educacion project
Smart kids in his neighbourhood learn early, J. says. There are "invisible lines" all over the barrio. If you're going to cross them safely, you have to be able to look like you belong. "You gotta use your skills." Because kids are prime targets, says the lanky 15-year-old who grew up in a slum on the edge of Tumaco. If you're seen as an interloper or a spy, the bacrim might kill you. Best case, they will recruit you.
"Children are useful, because they can be criminals but they don't look like them," J. explains. "They're camouflaged."
Kids start working for the gangsters to bring home money for food – parents don't know where the cash came from, and they also don't ask, he says.
But not J. He has trained as a youth leader through the Vive La Educacion project, and he has big plans for getting out.
His mother, M., says she worries every minute she can't see her three kids – and since she works six days a week, 12 hours a day, as a cook (for which she is paid $300 a month), that is a lot of minutes. But her biggest fear isn't the gangsters. "It's that my children won't achieve what they're dreaming of – that our finances will get in the way." J. wants to be an engineer; His 12-year-old sister says she will be a pediatrician.
Vive la Educacion, run by Save the Children and the Norwegian Refugee Council, and funded in part by the Canadian government, aims to assist 120,000 young people over five years, in communities, primarily Afro-Colombian, in southwest Colombia that are traditionally the most marginalized and badly affected by the civil war.
One prong of the project tracks down kids who are not in school, explains John Sullivan, Save the Children's director in Colombia. It tries to engage them in building a future through some sort of education process, if not necessarily formal schooling.
"Our child protection team works directly with the city's most vulnerable kids, where they live when they are not in school: in tide-flooded slums, populated by heroic mothers and aunts and grandmothers trying to keep their kids fed while fending off all the abusers – the drug thugs, the fencers of stolen goods, the armed extorters of local businesses, the recruiters for the armed movements," says Mr. Sullivan.
The team's "main tools" are "empowering kids with a deep understanding of their rights, and helping them develop strategies of self-protection – how to navigate these dangerous actors without provoking them – while clinging to the notion that they have an actual right to build a future for themselves," he adds.
The second strand of the project focuses on improving the quality of the existing public education, which suffers both from neglect by the federal government, and from the displacement and disruption of the war. "We have kids who are there one day and then gone, kids who are badly nourished, kid who have seen so much violence and it manifests in bad behavior," says Narcisa Benavidas, an elementary school teacher.
Vive la Educacion trains teachers (many of whom had no vocation for education but wound up in schools because it was the only job going – yet still care about the kids in their classes) and tries to empower students and parents to engage with schools that can seem like alien institutions, says Odette Langlais, Save the Children's Colombia education coordinator. (Like Mr. Sullivan, she is from the Ottawa area.)
Early evaluation shows that math and language testing scores in the schools where they work are climbing, while their "Positive Parenting" training has reduced the level of physical violence kids face at home, Ms. Langlais says.
One key aspect of all of this is the African heritage of the majority of residents in the region, who are traditionally marginalized in a still sharply racist country. Vive la Educacion works to have their history included in the curriculum and their culture recognized and celebrated in schools.
J. says the program taught him "values," how to choose his friends carefully, and, most of all, encouraged him to try on different ideas of what his future might look like. But he knows money is still the big problem.
"I have to be prepared to be flexible," he says. "I might get a scholarship, and go to university, and go live in Cali or Bogota. But I might go to work to support my mom."