The Other Kind of Violence
by
Justin Podur
Dissident Voice
March 3, 2003
“Violence
in Colombia” is such a popular topic of study that there are hundreds of
articles, books, and essays with that title. Some, written by people who call
themselves ‘violentologists’, are very good, and very serious. Others are less
so. Most all of them focus on the conflict between the armed forces and the
guerrilla insurgency. Many also discuss the implications of the drug trade and
drug trafficking. The more serious ones discuss the problem of paramilitarism.
The best ones of all discuss the role of multinational interests, including the
United States and multinational corporations, in fueling the conflict.
Almost none of them, though,
tell the story of the quiet, appalling violence that poor people live through,
and would continue to live through even if all of the ‘violence’ that makes
Colombia famous were to suddenly disappear. But there is violence being done
here. And a good ‘violentologist’, someone who is interested in fighting
‘terror’, might find a whole host of violence and terror far from the
battlefields.
In Cali, Colombia, last
week, a 16-year old girl named Paola delivered a baby. Paola got to Cali the
same way many young people do—by being displaced from her home town by
paramilitary threats. More than 2.5 million Colombians have made their way,
mostly to the outskirts of the larger cities, in this way. She was already
pregnant when she was displaced.
In Cali, Paola found herself
without financial resources, family support, or anything—either for herself or
for her baby. She walked to the office of a government office-- ‘the peace
management office’, as it is interestingly called. She walked there for two
reasons: 1) she didn’t have bus fare and 2) she was told by the office when she
called that it was healthy for pregnant women to walk.
Paola delivered her child at
a Cali hospital, and friends of hers scraped together some money to purchase
clothing for the baby, as well as syringes and rubber gloves for the hospital
staff (not provided by the hospital). One of these friends, Maria Eugenia,
tried to register Paola. When Maria said Paola was displaced, the hospital
staff said: “sorry, but everybody says that they’re displaced so they don’t
have to pay.” The fee? More than $200 US, a fortune for a displaced young
Colombian woman. When Paola’s friends asked what would happen if she couldn’t
pay, the staff shrugged. It was clear that Paola and her baby wouldn’t be
allowed to leave the hospital until their bill was paid. The trouble was that
the government’s health coverage for the displaced pays the first $20 and no
more—an innovation introduced in Colombia’s latest budget.
In the end, Paola escaped
from the hospital for the same reason that we know her story. Among her friends
were activists who were able to pull together enough money to bail her out (of
a hospital) and to send an email out to supporters outside. There are at least
2.5 million stories like Paola’s, happening every day.
A 16 year old displaced
woman who has just given birth to a baby can be locked in a hospital for not
having money to pay for the delivery because health coverage for displaced
people has been cut off.
Are there ‘counter-terror’
operations in the works, to deal with this? If you are waiting for ‘health care
for young mothers as counter-terror’, you could be waiting a long time.
One example of the
‘counter-terror’ that does exist happened just before Paola’s baby was born, on
February 23, 2003. On that day, in a rural community called Meseta in Choco,
two young indigenous men: Evelio Sanapi Sintua (23 years old) and Fernando
Antibia (21) left on a hunting trip at 6am. When they didn’t come back the next
day, the community formed search teams. One search team found an army patrol,
who reported that two indigenous had been captured. When the search team talked
to the officer in charge, they were told that the men had been killed, and that
the bodies could be found in another municipality.
Another example: the
national oil company, ECOPETROL, is in a process of collective bargaining. As
part of the negotiations, the government has barred union leaders from company
premises, and on February 21, the army occupied the oil refineries of
Barrancabermeja and Cartagena, injuring hundreds of workers.
A third example: Since
February 14, the army has been shelling communities in Northern Cauca—in the
municipalities of Jambalo, Toribio, and Corinto, and part of Caloto. The excuse
is the presence of the FARC, but the mostly indigenous population has issued a
bulletin stating that they would rather not be shelled. That population is
being targeted not for any FARC presence but because they have successfully
built their own ‘life projects’,
land reforms, and structures of governance that are autonomous from the
government. Like the workers at ECOPETROL, they are being punished for their
resistance.
These kinds of violence
aren't unique to Colombia. All over the
world, there are young mothers who have not had the health care they need on
account of privatization, IMF recipes, profit-driven public services, and the
humiliation of the poor. There are
other governments that deploy their armies to shell communities, break unions,
and assassinate innocents. The
‘violentologists’ are doing a disservice to Paola, Evelio and Fernando, the
workers of ECOPETROL, the peasants of Cauca, when they ignore their stories--
not only because this is a huge source of violence that hasn’t been studied
enough, but also because it might have some relationship to the other kinds.
Justin Podur is a regular contributor to ZNET, and maintains their Colombia
Watch pages. He can be reached at: justin.podur@utoronto.ca