Slash and Burn Read online

  A soldier struck him in the face. He said he wasn’t the one in charge and knocked him to the ground. He said they could kill him whenever they liked. Which was a lie. But they weren’t in charge either. And they weren’t dying to kill children. In fact, some were relieved when they received the order to let the people be and go after the guerrillas that’d been spotted at a farm not far from there. Others felt nothing. It was a way of surviving.

  They told them to leave and not come back. The mothers asked where they were meant to go: their homes were there. There was no place else. But soon they wouldn’t have those either. Minutes later, the soldiers set fire to everything. To all the men’s work, all the women’s hours, all the children’s chores, the recently done-up doors, the passed-down walls. Everything they had sowed and that still stood tall after the invasion was turned to the ash she found when she came looking for them.

  The only sound in all that silence was her weeping, which she neither faked nor choked down because this time there was no one around to tell her to stop and no one to pretend for. She cried for her father and all they’d lost. She didn’t shed tears for her mother or her little brothers and sisters because she knew, without anyone having to tell her, that they were alive, someplace safe: the house they’d once lived in by the bay. And this is where she went. Alone, she followed the path her father had told her to take if some unimaginable thing were to happen, a thing he hadn’t described so as not to scare her, but which was without a doubt what she was experiencing right then.

  Her three older brothers, who’d also hidden in the hills while the helicopters fired at them, arrived along that same path a few days later. Unlike her, they were coming to say goodbye. They were off to join their father in the mountains, where they’d fight and stand up for the people. They wanted their mother to know this and to bless them in case they never saw her again. They also wanted to tell their brave little brother all the ways he could help, and to teach him some stuff they’d learned about working the land so that, from then on, he could take over. Then they left.

  Like her father, they didn’t say where they were going, but she knew how to find them. Whenever she wanted to see them, or whenever her mother wanted to send them word, she took the paths her father had told her about and went to their camp. The other men laughed nervously. They said if the national guard had gotten hold of her, they would’ve been lost long ago. She didn’t see what was so funny about it. She didn’t want them to see her as a traitor, not even in jest. They told her that wasn’t the case at all. As proof, they sometimes sent messages to their families through her. On those occasions, she had to go off-track and spend a few nights somewhere else before going home.

  Her mother got used to her absences and learned to take advantage of her time at home, getting her to draw plenty of water and do a household chore or two. It would’ve been pointless to make her stay. Once melancholy took hold, she’d walk those paths to be with her father, to sleep by his side, and to horse around with him a bit if he had the time. Just like before the invasion.

  4

  When she turned fourteen, three men came for her at her maternal grandmother’s house, with guns. They said her father had sent them to tell her he was ill, near death, and that he wanted to see her. They would take her to where he was.

  She recognized one of them, even though he’d shaved his head and his features had hardened since the last time she saw him: a year earlier, he’d been in one of the many camps her father had visited. She’d never seen the others but could place them from the description she’d heard from one of her neighbors. Just three days ago her neighbor had warned her to leave and hide in the hills or the gorges, because there were three guerrillas with rifles wandering the area and raping any women they found. They raped me then asked me where you lived, she said. They asked and I had to tell them.

  At the time, she hadn’t believed the girl. She thought it might all be a dirty trick since this was one of the neighbors she’d struck with guamas that time by the river. She couldn’t be sure that this, though long delayed and a bit excessive, wasn’t the girl’s way of getting even. Besides, she had a hard time believing that one of the men who’d organized and gone to the mountains to fight for them could be going around doing a thing like that. To her mind, it was soldiers who raped. They were always the culprits in the stories of assaults that she heard. And yet what her neighbor had said was true, at least partly. The boys had been at the camps. But as soon as they’d earned the guerrillas’ trust and their weapons, they’d set off by themselves to work toward their own ends. They made the most of the fact that everyone was busy running from soldiers and advancing their positions, to go to unprotected zones and take as many women as they could.

  They’d take the girls to the hills for three to five days. Then they’d bring them back and take others. They’d rape grown women in their homes and make them cook for them while they raped their young daughters. Later, it became known that one of the boys also raped elderly women. His compañeros abstained, one out of fear it would mean some additional kind of punishment at the final judgment (if it ever arrived) and the other because he found no pleasure in women who had no strength to resist and no future to compromise.

  Nor did the boy rape all the elderly women he found, or come down from the hills to search them out. It was more about the circumstances, about wanting something in return for their efforts, and knowing the woman would hate him for it. He’d never touch the girl’s grandmother, for example, because, even after he’d provoked her a little, she didn’t give him the sort of response that inspired him to humiliate. The granddaughter didn’t much interest him either. He recognized that she was pretty, but didn’t find her attractive—unlike his compañero, who hadn’t stopped talking about her since they’d struck out by themselves. She was too skinny for his taste. And he didn’t like her hair or her attitude. Had his compañero not insisted on having her, he would’ve passed her over. But he backed his compañero’s choice, and protected him as he tried to convince the girl to answer her father’s supposed call.

  She told them she wouldn’t go. If her father had to die, she said, there was nothing she could do about it. Unless they would do her the favor of bringing him here, to his home, where there was medication to treat him and people to look after him. Impossible, the boy said: she had to be the one to go. It was the right thing to do. Knowing her father was fine because she’d seen him a few days ago, she said she couldn’t, that she was in charge of collecting water for the house and for her grandparents. They’d seen it for themselves. She’d just filled the pitcher when they found her. She’d stopped a moment at her grandmother’s to rest.

  When the boy, who’d seen at the camp just how much she loved her father, couldn’t convince her to go to him, he put his rifle to her chest. He’d tried to persuade her, he said, he’d asked nicely, but she left him no choice but to take her by force. He said it was time she went with them, and that there was no need to worry, it would only be a matter of three to five days. They told her it was so she could make them tortillas in the foothills where they were camping, that was all. She refused. She couldn’t make tortillas. Her mom could attest to that. She was always scolding her for it.

  She responded calmly, but inside she was shaking. She knew what the boys were plotting, and she wasn’t about to allow it. She also knew she had to keep them entertained for as long as she could because, being deserters, it wasn’t in their interest to spend too long in one place. The punishment for deserters was just as severe as it was for enemies, if not more so. She knew because she’d witnessed it at the camps. She also knew the insurgents weren’t the kind to forgive a person who hurt civilians. She hoped that if she stalled the boys just long enough, someone would tell the guerrillas in the mountains and they’d come down and kill them then and there. But no one budged, either to tell anyone or to defend her. Not her uncles who were present, or the kids nearby, or the women watching from their windows: no one did anything except l
ook on in silence as she resisted what everyone knew was bound to happen, laying out obstacles to all the false explanations they gave her.

  The boy who raped elderly women got annoyed. He said they were running out of time and she should cut the nonsense and come with them immediately. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and got ready to grab her. But she threw herself on the ground to make it harder for him, even though, in reality, it wasn’t hard at all—her height and build, short and slight, were no match for the boy. What did complicate matters was the way she clung to the railings, the branches, and anything else she could reach. This gave her grandmother the chance to send a kid they hadn’t noticed before to tell the girl’s mother what was happening. She put up such a fight that her mother had time to reach them, with her six kids clutching her hands and her skirt, and ask what was going on and why they wanted to hurt a girl who’d done nothing to them and could do them no harm.

  The boys told her not to fret, to go home and look after her other kids; they’d bring her daughter back soon enough. Her mother asked them to let the daughter go and kill her instead, if it was blood they wanted. And she asked them to please kill all the little ones who were with her while they were at it, because none of them would manage without their mother. There’d be no one to feed them. No one to care for them. No one to watch over them. Best if they all met their end together.

  No, they answered. It was her daughter they wanted. No one else. Her mother grew furious when she saw them put the rifle to her daughter’s throat and said something to the boy that made him hold his rifle out to her and say, Go on, lady, take it. Kill me. I can see you’re real angry. You’ll burst if you don’t. Her mother said he’d best give it to her daughter. Seeing as her dad had taught her how to handle guns, she’d figure out how the rifle worked in no time at all and finish him off, even if the other two finished her off as well—that is, if they didn’t get scared and run away like the cowards they were. But he knew who he was giving the gun to. He said he was only giving it to her because she looked angrier than her daughter. He offered it to her again and she decided to take it. Even if she didn’t know how it worked, she could at least use it to hit him. She knew you didn’t need much to kill. She’d done it herself once, long ago. She hadn’t liked it, but she’d do it again if necessary. Then her daughter spoke. She told him to stop. She swallowed her pride like her aunt had taught her you should with certain men and begged them to leave.

  You’ve raped all the other women, she said. I owe you nothing, there’s no reason for you to hurt me, too. She was acting, in that moment, like she’d been told to with dogs: showing no fear, even though she could feel it in her fingers. She did what she could to stop her body giving off the smell of terror. She said she knew who they were and what they were up to. She even called the one she knew by his name. His cover blown, he replied that he was sick of fighting for her and that if he couldn’t take her with him, he’d kill her on the spot. He pushed her against the wall and made her spread her arms out in the shape of a cross.

  He gave her one last chance: she had until the count of three to change her mind. After saying the number one, he said, Only two left. After saying the number two, he loaded the clip. Then he said, Three. She didn’t close her eyes. She looked straight at him, without a single tear. He said, You’re a brave one, you fucking bitch. Her mother would’ve rather she said nothing, that she stayed quiet like the rest of them. Instead, she said: I’m not. But I don’t owe you a thing. There’s no reason for you to come bothering me, she continued. I don’t know why you want to kill me. He said it was because she didn’t want to go with him, even though he wanted her. How hadn’t she noticed, all those times she’d seen him at the camp? Hadn’t she seen him smiling at her? No. She hadn’t. She was just there to see her dad. She didn’t have eyes for anyone else or room in her heart for another. Not even then. She didn’t like men as men yet. They didn’t interest her and she didn’t plan on having a life with one, unlike the other girls in the area. She didn’t even pay any mind to the boy who routinely stopped by her mother’s house offering to help her with anything she needed, ingratiating himself, despite everyone in the village saying he was a good kid, strong and handsome, though being handsome didn’t mean much in the countryside, since it was no use at all for working the land. Her mind was still on dolls, though she didn’t have a single one because there wasn’t the money and everyone said she was too old to play with them.

  She didn’t mention the dolls or her other suitor to the boy with the rifle. All she said was that she wasn’t going with him. Then your uncles are coming instead, he said. He ordered his compañeros to tie them up and take them to the mountains, where they beat them and reminded them they were doing it because of her.

  Eventually, one of her uncles said, Enough. If you’re going to kill us, kill us. The suitor liked this show of courage. He said he would let them all go because he was brave, though the truth was that his quiet compañero, the one in charge of calculating how much time they could spend in each region, was just about to tell him they should move on someplace else if they didn’t want to get caught. They were being followed by the military, who thought they were guerrillas, and by the guerrillas, who considered them deserters. They couldn’t keep risking their necks on account of the boy’s whims.

  They said they had five minutes before they started shooting. They told them to run as fast as they could and to always remember that the girl was responsible for everything that’d been done to them. Neither her grandmother nor the rest of the family ever forgave her. They never again called in to see her, let her rest in their homes when she was on her way back with the water, or allowed her to play with their kids. They never again brought her mother and little brothers and sisters food. The one thing they did do was give her the message the boys had sent: that they’d come for her in three days and they didn’t want her acting up like the last time.

  She began to cry and didn’t stop. Not even when her village suitor found out and, determined to protect her, took his gun and posted himself in front of her house next to her brother, the one who had confronted the soldiers and been named the new man of the house. She only stopped crying after the arrival of her father, who’d come down on hearing what had happened in order to confirm that what he’d heard was true. He didn’t think his daughter was capable of putting up such a fight or showing such courage. He asked her several times if they’d done anything to her. She and her mother swore they hadn’t. Then you’re coming with me, he said. To the mountains. She asked how long for. About fifteen days, he said, while they tracked those guerrillas down and killed them. She shouldn’t bother taking anything with her, she’d be back soon enough. So she obeyed (and in the mountains, she waited). At the fifteen-day mark, they informed her that the three boys were dead and thanked her for the coordinates she’d given them.

  5

  She’s told this story to her daughters—the ones under her roof—many times. For as long as they can remember. She thinks it’s good for them to know what the world can be like outside the walls of their house, even though the neighborhood they live in is supposedly safe and the world is no longer what it was. The war is over. Her daughters tell her there’s nothing to fear, but she’s not so sure. Despite all the documents and the years that have passed, she thinks that sooner or later something will happen. And you have to be ready, to face it or to flee.

  Her neighbors—ex-combatants, like her—think so too. Every day they scan the news for a sign. They pay close attention to what people say, especially when they whisper. For a while, they train as if they were still in the mountains. They run, they roll on the ground, they crawl to keep in shape. This makes the people in the area nervous. It looks like they aren’t planning to keep their end of the peace agreement. The locals keep a constant eye on what they’re up to, watching for a sign that it’s time to leave. Many report them to the new authorities and accuse them of organizing an underground army. They claim the ex-combatants didn�
��t turn in their weapons in the disarmament, that they walk about with rifles on their shoulders in the neighborhood that was built for them after they came down from the mountains.

  Over the first few years, international observers and the new police force make frequent inspections of the area. To keep everyone calm, they tell them it’s routine. The ex-combatants know it’s the villagers who are worried. They don’t trust them—the feeling is mutual—not even when, after every inspection, the police and observers deliver reports stating no weapons were found. The villagers think the international observers and the new police force have sided with the ex-combatants. So they continue to spy on them. The ex-combatants know this. They decide to train in the hills instead, where the villagers won’t see them or get nervous—unless they follow them, spying on them under the pretext of feeding their cattle or looking for new land to cultivate.

  As the years go by, the accusations begin to dwindle, though the fear and distrust linger. Some of the ex-combatants sell the plots they’ve been allotted and set off in search of a new life, someplace where no one will know them or keep tabs on them. The ones who stay would rather their children kept out of the village. They prefer going elsewhere for their shopping and health checkups. They even send their children to a different school, until they realize it’s more expensive because they have to take more buses and their shoes wear out faster. Then they start sending them to the village school.

  On the day the children are given their grades, the other parents won’t sit near them. They warn their kids to do the same every day in class. They don’t want anything to set off the ex-combatants. They still believe they have weapons and that, at any moment, they could decide to finish what they started.

  The kids think their parents are exaggerating, but still don’t go down to where the ex-combatants live. They don’t go there and they don’t date their daughters, even if they think they’re pretty, like her own four girls are.