Colombia: Lessons in Language and Violence

I left my apartment for dinner, less than a block from the U.S. Embassy in Bogota. There was an explosion. Bomb, I thought immediately. A sudden change in the flow of street traffic confirmed the suspicion. A missile, launched from a taxi parked on the corner where I buy the morning paper, had rocked the embassy.

Dressed to blend into the crowd--dark colors, a small cap and umbrella--I stood in the street surveying the damage. Slight.

Earlier the same March day, in Ciudad Kennedy, a burgeoning barrio of 1.5 million people southwest of Bogota’s center, student protests canceled class at the school where I teach 7th- and 11th-grade English.

One of my classrooms at Instituto Nacional de Educacion Media, Barrio Kennedy (INEM Kennedy) has scarred, bent desks, glass missing from the windows, birds nesting in the holes in the ceiling and one knobless door that slams shut in the breeze. Someone painted a large orange hammer and sickle with the initials of the communist youth movement and wrote “Republica Popular de China” on it.

I’ve worked here for almost nine months now and, with less than three remaining, regardless of bombs and strikes, I wonder how I will ever leave. After establishing relationships with the children and other teachers, a second self has developed. Fed, washed, rinsed and surrounded by Colombian culture 24 hours a day, I begin to speak, laugh, sing, gesture--and think--differently.

Colombia’s acute extremes are more easily felt than written--warmth and beauty alongside fear and hatred. This is a culture given to the senses, filled with sounds, scents, tastes and touches.

Riding in the teachers’ bus one day traffic was heavy and Euclidio, the driver, pulled up and over the divider between the highway and the frontage road to avoid a jam. A very Colombian maneuver.

His driving gave my colleagues a chance rise to try their English vocabularies after the Adrenalin dropped. “Cheap thrill?” they asked.

“Yes,” I said, pleased to realize they’ve mastered a key concept of Yankee culture.

These teachers, my colleagues--leftists included--treat me cordially. University graduates, working two or three shifts to get ahead, they are proud, competent, honest and indignant with the vagaries of U.S. policy in Latin America. Newspaper accounts of Panamanian Brig. Gen. Manuel A. Noriega’s former usefulness to the United States, even while smuggling cocaine stateside, have fueled their fire.

“In the past, I always defend United States,” said a quiet colleague, after reading an article outlining the alleged U.S. Central Intelligence Agency-Contra-cocaine link. “But I cannot defend these men,” pointing to the names of three U.S. Administration officials.

“Indefensible if true,” I say, still thinking about English vocabulary as well as politics.

About an hour into the conversation she asked, “Why did you choose to come to Colombia?”

“Colombia’s in the midst of change. And I’d like to play a part.”

Earlier in the year, returning to the workroom after class, I was informed that the April 19 Movement, an insurgent group, had telephoned the main office announcing a possible visit to the campus. When they come, they arrive armed, secure the grounds and assemble the students for a pep talk, encouraging them to join the revolution.

No one rolls out a red carpet but no one calls for help. The government knows better than to respond with force.

Bogota spreads horizontally, a patchwork of suburb, slum, industry and farming. Drug addiction, domestic violence and street crime--consequences of poverty and overcrowding--often affect the lives of 6 million residents. Troops patrol various parts of the city at all hours. Campesinos arrive daily, fleeing political or drug-related violence in rural areas faster than jobs or services can be provided. Seeking security, they find ignorance, malnutrition, fear and, of course, more crime and violence.

Urban factions of revolutionary groups operate throughout the city, especially in the poorer areas like Ciudad Kennedy, where anti-U.S. sentiment is rife.

Abused, abandoned children, gamines, sleep in twos or threes inside doorways on pieces of cardboard, wrapped in plastic bags, often in a glue-sniffing stupor.

“It used to be Americans couldn’t come here (Ciudad Kennedy) at all. Now you’re here, so things must be better,” my colleague said. I couldn’t disagree with the logic but “things” are hardly better.

Poverty is a compelling reason to be active in Colombian education. So is the joy of teaching students to love language, individuality and freedom of expression amid a climate of timidity, fear and pressure to conform. So is the possibility of changing their perception of Americans, simply by demonstrating an appreciation for Colombian culture. Education is the dream that flies overhead, like a magic carpet, promising a better future.

I had no idea that the children, especially the younger ones, would be so enthusiastic, motivated, eager and fun. They show a gratifying level of respect and at times their affection is almost overwhelming. The older students are also attentive, involved and polite, although they are more likely to challenge what the teacher says.

They ask pointed questions, leaving no doubt about their sentiments. They want to know why we treat law-abiding Colombians like criminals upon their arrival in the United States. They don’t see the logic in punishing honest citizens for the crimes of a tiny minority. After all, they say, the drug problem originates with a large U.S. demand filled by only a few Colombians.

I reminded the students that every country suffers from organized crime and made reference to a letter mentioning the Mafia in my home state.

“Mafia in Colorado?” one student asked.

“Sure,” I said, setting myself up for a hit, “there are Mafiosi everywhere.”

“Not here,” one fired back, bringing down the house with laughter.

Giovanny, one of my seventh graders, asked me how I felt when I saw graffiti saying, “ Fuera o vaya de aqui Yanqui ladron! “ (Get out, Yankee robber!)

“I think I might feel the same if I were Colombian,” I told him. “People are simply uninformed. Many gringos think all Colombians are drug dealers and many Colombians think all gringos are drug addicts.”

Gloria, one of my first Colombian students, once asked me, “If you’re from a country of well-to-do people, why do you enjoy teaching with people of a lower class?”

I explained that all three children in our family were teachers; we had been raised to want to be involved. And I reminded the students that every day they were teaching me more about Colombia than anyone and that they were largely responsible for el ano mas rico de mi vida --the best year of my life. Besides, they had learned a great deal of English and could feel proud of themselves. They liked hearing that.

They should be proud, considering the odds against them. Less than 50% reach 6th grade and by 10th grade only the cream of the crop remains, mirroring a larger social injustice. Scrawled on the bottom of a sixth grade student’s failed test were his words, “Adios INEM! Adios mi futuro! “

My students scoff loudest when I say, “Not only is teaching the most revolutionary work you can find but I might be more revolutionary than some of you.”

A challenge lies within the opportunity to influence such hearts and minds here--the universal expectation that teachers can help create a more just society. If you could see their faces, you’d agree.