YERMAN- Part I

I was recently asked if the Colombian drug-violence had ever touched me and if so how. I wonder if there is any Colombian able to say “I have not experienced violence” or “I have not been a direct victim of it”. 

Next to all my good memories with my cousins, friends, grandparents, sisters, parents, and every person with whom I had the chance to grow up. I also remember the sound of the helicopters at least once per day, gun shots and even how, when I was around eleven years old, a man was shot on his chest four meters away from the bus station, where my older sister, two cousins and me where waiting for the bus after having visited my grandparents in Cali.

In this occasion I want to share another way in which violence, as a result of drug trafficking, touched me one more time, if not directly (as many could say), indirectly enough to leave long term effects among me and my community. 

The story has to start many years ago when we all were kids. I could say that Germán was my first male friend, if we were ever friends. He was the son of my parent’s friends (although the friendship of our father´s ended some months before German´s death and nothing has ever helped my dad to heal his heart and forgive his old friend). I remember that we went on holidays together a couple of times, once to the Caribbean, and many times to the river. Mauricia and my mom have been friends since I can remember, definitely not the best ones, but still friends. And I also remember how Mauricia always gave me presents for my birthdays until I turned fifteen.

The story ends many years later, It was Easter 2004. I was at home with my mom and my older sister… We heard someone screaming, we heard the neighbour running to our house, she wanted, as always, to be the first person to announce it. My mom opened the door and there she was, she almost couldn´t breathe but still managed to speak it out “They killed Germán, they killed Muricia´s son…”  (to be continued)


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