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Three Days in Colombia

By Stanley Campbell

Three days in Colombia. I didn't think it would be enough time, especially for the money - including a lot raised by friends and family and a small gift from VVAW. But after three days with the Chicago tribunal after which we released a report decrying the massacre of nineteen villagers by the US-supplied Colombian army, I was glad and ready to return home.

Monday, December 11, 2000
Bogota has eight million vehicles and they're all on the same road at the same time. We had five important meetings the first day, and we spent at least an hour in traffic between each one.

We were running around telling officials the verdict of the tribunal: an air force helicopter dropped at least two American-made cluster bombs on the village of Santo Domingo, fired on people attempting to help the injured, and tried to conceal it afterwards. We were releasing the thirty-page report to the press on Wednesday and we wanted to give some of the officials time to respond.

The American embassy said thanks, but no thanks; besides, they were too busy helping Colombia buy American weapons to worry about a two-year-old massacre. $1.2 billion of approved tax dollars (and god knows how much through the CIA). Also, you should know that our tax dollars pay for the best fortress money can buy. The embassy is a beautiful edifice of power in tan limestone.

Our next visit was to Colombia's version of a human rights office, the "public" defenders - four floors of them, and staffed by the most attractive of secretaries. They said they didn't know it was a cluster bomb, American-made, and dropped from an American-made helicopter. But they'd like to see the FBI report (yes there was one, and it was released in May) and will get right on it, don't you worry (which means "stop bothering me: you're taking my time away from my secretary").

The UN human rights office was much more supportive. They said they'd reached the same conclusion as our tribunal. They are appalled that the worst offenders in the Colombian military visit our country regularly (to go to the School of the Americas in Ft. Benning, Georgia?). Hey, why don't we make a stink every time one of those generals applies for a visa?

The attorney general of Colombia said he was indicting three helicopter crews and an army major. And, oh yeah, he was outta here in January, so good luck seeing any prosecutions. This guy had two human dobermans working the phones while he was talking to us in his 24th floor office overlooking congested Bogota. I liked him. He was the only one who served us anything: coffee in fine china.

We had two more meetings with folks I just don't recall, but one was supportive. The other told us to investigate the guerrillas. (We would, but they don't get any American aid.)

I was pretty bushed. Most of the time I'd just sat, looked stern, and every now and then shaken my head in agreement with my twelve cohorts. Except at the American embassy. I just had to tell that smug employee that I have no chance of getting folks who want to quit into any recovery programs 'cause there's no money. I got a blank stare back.

My cohorts:
Two tribunal members out of the fifteen who ruled, one of whom, Bernadine Dohrn, might light a candle in your memory cells. She'd fought the war in Vietnam so hard, she ended up wanted by the FBI. Now she defends children's rights at Northwestern U.

Doug Cassell, legal counsel to the tribunal and American brainchild of the whole affair. Rockford folks might remember him for leading the legal intervention against Com Ed's Byron nuke license.

Alberto Guzman, a Colombian journalist who hasn't been home since 1980. I kidded him about his name and said I was gonna be on the opposite side of the customs line from him. He met his two estranged children (from a previous marriage) in a tearful reunion.

Dorothy, a young Catholic Worker from "Su Casa," along with a delightful nun from the 8th Day Center, two Franciscan priests, and a reporter from the Chicago Tribune (did anyone see a story?). We were shepherded and hosted by an assortment of young Franciscan brothers and sisters. And could they party!

Tuesday, December 12
Up at five a.m. to catch a charter flight to Saravena, the capital of Arauca (a departamento in northwest Colombia) and forty miles from Santo Domingo. Did I mention the civil war? The army had been fighting the ELN rebels (often called "Cuban-inspired" but now making cash from kidnapping) since the Sixties. It was this group the army'd been fighting outside Santo Domingo when they dropped the bomb.

VVAW's Barry Romo had gone to Santo Domingo last year to retrieve evidence that proved that it wasn't a truck bomb and that the shrapnel was the same in the ground as in the victims. Barry'd come up with a campaign to fund a flak jacket for one of the nuns, sweet Sister Carolina, the same nun who was now telling us where to go and how to get there.

So here I was, representing VVAW on this trip (thanks, guys!). When we landed in Saravena, we were met by Colombia's finest military forces, armed with our finest weaponry. We were ushered into an outdoor auditorium that held a thousand compasinos, people from neighborhood groups, and human rights activists. We were seated at a panel on the stage overlooking the whole stadium. On the floor of the stadium, sitting in chairs formed in the shape of a heart, were twenty-two of the survivors of the massacre in Santo Domingo. In the middle of the heart were nineteen empty chairs representing the victims. I cried.

What a wonderful program! A teacher from the local high school gave a talk on human rights, then came a performance of traditional music of the area, including harp, guitar, maracas and a vocalist belting out verses. A number of different musicians, young and old, complemented the program. We were introduced one by one, and I got to say something. I had struggled with the Spanish translation for hours.

My speech: I'm Stanley Campbell, representing Vietnam Veterans Against the War. As former soldiers in an unjust war, we wish to stand with the victims instead of the perpetrators of war and say "never again."

I wimped out and had someone translate it. We got very strong applause.

Afterwards we were treated to a traditional feast of baked potatoes, jucca plant, and slabs of beef. No utensils. No napkins. "Because this is our way." Vegetarians beware!

The final day: the press conference
In the richest downtown private club we hosted six television stations, four newspapers, a radio station, and two wire services. Good job on the press!

So I arrived home after only three full days in Colombia, South America. But I'd return at the drop of another cluster bomb. It'll either be peace groups or our drafted sons and daughters.