Pale and distressed, the man had the look of a poet or doctor. He might have been 32. His face was sensitive, intelligent. From the black and white video it seemed clear that his hands must have been tied behind his back. The source of his distress was clear; his head was under a boot and a heavy knife was being drawn against his neck, like a violin. A thin line of blood and an inarticulate utterance followed it. The excellence of the audio became all too clear when the knife was re-applied with cutting force, and the head wiggled strangely and screamed. The Nova Scotia professor in our group was unable to sleep for two nights.
We had gathered in the bar of the Caviar Hotel in Bogota, Colombia, to hear a presentation by Jose Fernando Ramirez. He is an executive committee member of USO, Colombia’s national oil union. His bodyguards could be seen waiting outside in the sunlight. Jose had survived seven assassination attempts, the last one the previous Tuesday. The dark-tinted SUV we all crammed in to go to supper, like the bodyguards, was provided by the government, except the official “risk assessment” for Jose did not qualify the vehicle for bullet proof windows. I thought about that as I sat in Jose’s seat speeding through the city. I kept an eye out for high cylinder motorbikes.
The snuff film was a Chechnyan import. It was used by Jose’s employer at the refinery to send a message to the union. Also on the laptop we saw “mug shots” of the union leaders. The employer posted these to the paramilitaries, complete with full names, addresses; telephone, social insurance, and employee numbers; alleged links to the insurgents; and even colourful nicknames like Pinky, The Boss, and so on.
I was in Colombia to help the Federation of Agricultural Workers’ Unions, FENSUAGRO, celebrate 30 years of survival. OSSTF was an ally. With me from Canada, the U.K., Australia, Spain, and Ecuador were other unionists, organic farmers, academics, and “international accompanists” like the Christian Brigade. At lunch by the hotel pool, we were watched by soldiers with machine guns. Jose observed that the presence of internationals like us was an even stronger protection than bodyguards.
The previous month in November, the International Trade Union Confederation, based in Geneva, had released its Report for the WTO General Council Review of the Trade Policies of Colombia. It wasn’t pretty. Colombia remains the undisputed king of anti-unionism, accounting for nine out of every ten trade unionists killed globally. “In 2005,” the ITUC adds, “44 of the 70 trade unionists killed were working in the education sector.” The report stresses that the “involvement of state authorities needs to be underlined.”
Of particular concern for Canadians is the alleged involvement of CIDA and Canadian corporations in the repression of Colombian unions. According to the NGO, Mining Watch, CIDA has had a hand in re-writing Colombian mining law to allow for the diminishment of energy sector unions and the setting of fabulous royalty rates for Canadian and other resource extraction multinationals. These companies, in turn, sign “corporate security contracts” with the Colombian army/paramilitaries, which then take video, helicopter, and chainsaws out to measure community and union dissent.
As we pulled up to Jose Fernando’s home, we were met by yet another bodyguard, the last chill in our evening. Inside everything was warm. There were books, art on the wall, food and drink. The hospitality made us jovial. We played a game. The prize was a book of poetry by Jose’s old friend, a metallurgical worker assassinated two years previously. The room swelled momentarily with feeling.
Although assassinations take place in the city, most of the carnage is rural. Over three million Colombian peasants have been forced off their land, making Colombia second only to the Sudan for numbers of internally displaced persons. Most are women and children. Many are Afro-Colombian or Indigenous. As we found out, a trip to the country takes you through mountain towns scrabbled over by soldiers. When the bus blew out the first of two tires along the way, police watched our driver put on the spare. We struck tourist poses.
At our eventual destination, FENSUAGRO’s experimental organic farm, La Esmeralda, a military helicopter flew overhead as we walked among the sugar cane and the coffee plants. Every member of FENSUAGRO’s executive is on the paramilitary list for execution. Not so long ago, two workers on the farm were butchered by the army, their heads placed in their stomachs. The farm was temporarily closed.
As we were about to leave, Liz, the solitary Australian in our group, finally made it. Jose had had to help her extend her stay, visiting a government office that morning. She had made the mistake of mentioning FENSUAGRO when she got off the plane and was immediately whisked away for interrogation. Jose did not risk the trip to La Esmeralda with her.
Jose is a handsome, cultured man, a lawyer. His wife and three daughters are beautiful; the eldest, a singer, was heading to university. I had taken photos. Their faces were intelligent and sensitive, also faintly distressed. Thinking of his employer’s rogues’ gallery of photos, I asked Jose what his union actually bargained for. He replied, “Our lives.”- Roger Langen
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