AS I CROSSED the makeshift runway, hands high in the air so Buitrago’s soldiers wouldn’t shoot, a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions spiralled within me. I felt like I’d been knocked off a precipice and was falling through a vast chasm.
Of course, I’d never liked nor trusted either Javier or Fabián Díaz. But not liking people based on intuition is far different to how I felt now, knowing that they had deliberately caused Papá’s death. After such a betrayal, there was no patch in hell hot enough for their souls.
As for Trigeño, his betrayal was different, although far more agonising because I’d admired him, followed him and believed in him, almost like a father. He’d made me feel special and worthy, and seemed to recognise in me talents and strengths that no one else had.
I should have listened to Palillo; Trigeño had deceived me all along. Our entire relationship was a lie, and it rocked me deeply that anyone could be so callous, pretending I meant so much to them when I clearly meant so little. In truth, Trigeño had saved me at La Quebrada only because of the Díaz money I offered and because I had Colonel Buitrago’s ear. I couldn’t believe how wrong I’d been about someone I’d felt incredibly close to.
At the same time, I was truly proud of my decision not to kill Caraquemada. Trigeño had convinced me our war was between good and evil. But I saw now that it was just one big cycle of interconnected violence in a struggle for power, financed by cocaine trafficking. My quest for justice had been futile from the very beginning – what sort of justice can exist in such a corrupt, hypocritical system?
Killing Caraquemada would only have perpetuated the cycle of violence, entrenching me deeper within an unjust organisation that had no exit other than death. I’d mistakenly attributed Papá’s death to five individuals: a radio operator, two low-level commanders, the triggerman and their high commander, when it was the entire basis of the war that was to blame.
I now understood why Papá had been so stressed on the night we buried Humberto Díaz. At the time, I failed to fully appreciate the danger. Papá had done his religious and moral duty at great risk to himself. He’d recognised that risk, considered it worthwhile and, when the Guerrilla came for him, Papá probably knew why. That’s the reason he refused to run. His only thought was for my safety, sending me inside and telling me to ‘shut up’ in case I revealed my own involvement.
The Guerrilla had not killed Papá because I’d publicly associated with the Autodefensa recruiters. Owing to my immaturity and youth, I’d gotten it wrong. In the intervening years, learning that the Guerrilla didn’t usually kill for such trivial offences, I should have revised my interpretation, but guilt is not always rational or logical. Sometimes, an idea sticks so hard in your mind that almost nothing you see or hear afterwards can dislodge it.
I’d replayed Papá’s execution in my mind a million times, torturing myself with the thought that his horror-struck glances towards me were blame. However, in his final moments of life, Papá had accepted the consequences of his own decision and was showing his love by shielding me.
Knowing this changed everything. It made me feel calm. The relief was so great that I no longer wanted to kill anyone. I’d allowed one obsession to consume my every waking moment. I wondered how much of my anger came from self-hatred that I’d turned outward against others. Shedding my guilt allowed me to complete my acceptance of Papá’s passing.
I no longer thought of what I’d been doing as justice, instead I called it by its proper name: revenge. And upon renouncing my revenge, I felt immediately lighter, as though what had been driving me was not a powerful engine, but rather a loathsome burden.
There was a time I’d have given my life to avenge Papá’s death, but that was no longer the case. Instead, I wanted to spend my life building and producing rather than waging war and visiting destruction upon others.
Like Caraquemada, who followed the tenets of an outdated, inflexible doctrine unquestioningly, I’d followed rules and orders, believing myself courageous because I would kill for them and die for them too. Rather than forging my own true path, I had done the bidding of my superiors. Rather than doing my own thinking, I had let others do the thinking for me. And in doing so, I had made my life a lie, blindly doing the work of other men.
The resolution to give up killing for revenge was the first decision I’d made for myself as a man, but as I approached Buitrago’s Blackhawk, I could not have guessed how soon my resolve would be tested.