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Troy was a piece of cake
My boss had his birthday several days ago, and we (my office-mates and myself) decided to invite him for lunch this afternoon. Nothing too fancy, nothing too special: just an excuse to extend a little bit the regular pause. Diana proposed a small place near the office and we all agreed. It was quite close and I was happy we could walk a few minutes before going back to work, what would impede me of being all sleepy the rest of the afternoon. Those kind of boring things were passing through my mind. As we were ordering I received a phone call from my girlfriend (she always knows when to call...) telling me that Ingrid Betancourt (a French-Colombian politician who was kidnapped by FARC six years ago) and other hostages (some of them being in capture for more than ten years) were free. -Ingrid and soldiers? Released?-I asked in an obvious attempt to integrate my coworkers and my boss into my sudden emotion. -They have been rescued.-She said. My happiness turned into the usual sadness we Colombians experience more than often. -How many deaths? I asked almost automatically. I must confess I never have been a big fan of Mr Uribe. And I imagined a huge killing as the one in Ecuador, several weeks ago. -None, she said. -They must be hiding something, I said. She explain me what they were telling in the TV. Apparently, a group of Colombian army?s undercover agents had been able to mix so well with the "guerrilleros", that they had reach to foal the watchman of the kidnapped and put 15 of them into an army chopper. She had to be kidding me. - I call you back in a minute. Let me hear the news. One thing is certain.This is big. And there is no blood involved. The people I was having lunch with could not believe it. Outside, the cars started to horn. Soon I realized that the people in the restaurant had been receiving calls. We looked to each other in seek of answers. Everybody smiled. Finally: some good news. We ate quickly (or maybe we did not eat anything) and started to walk back towards the financial center of the city, where we saw some concentration of people. From the high buildings of banks and ensurance companies, people were throwing roles of register papers. It was sunny. Some of those roles hung down from the trees and other were flying from the windows of the offices. I tried to make clear the rescue details. I received many version. Many had crazy stories. Some said the chopper by which all of them were saved was heading to the United States... But it all pointed to the fact: "Zero killings". I took my camera out. By that time, boss and office mates were long lost in the walking and horning crowd. I knew I had only one image left (I have been lazy the last days, I had not charge the battery) so I decided to take it carefully . I was preparing myself measuring the light, when the "waring low battery" sign started to blink. I shot... When I returned to my parents house tonight. I had the whole version of the rescue: "effectivement" some brave Colombian soldiers disguised themselves as guerrilleros for months, even becoming close advisors to the sinister guy who was watching out for the people who were kidnapped. The set up a whole fairy tale, convincing that commander to allow the transportation of the prisoners via private chopper to a more safe place, somewhere, where the new chief of the FARC would be waiting for them. The sinister guy was not confident so the fake guerrilleros offered themselves to go in the flight to secure its destination. And the boss, then, agreed. He even felt secure to go himself. From them on, everything went well. An chopper of the navy was prepared according to the soldiers description and it arrived on time. The kidnapped stepped in, so as the Farc chief. They said goodbye to the guerrilleros and the remaining prisoners of the FARC (47 or so to go..) and took off. In the middle of the flight, the sinister guy and other true guerrilleros were neutralized. A voice spoke out: we are the national army, you are free. Its difficult to me right now to imagine a more exciting anecdote. Not even Troy ?s Horse was such a smart and risky strategie. Not even the Count of Montecristo reached that amount of elegance. Maybe Saving Private Ryan was as heroic as this one, but it definitively was not so successful: NOT A SINGLE KILLING (lets hope the version does not change ever). I wanted to picture that moment: maybe the only moment I have seen my city so happy because of a true valuable reason. And by that I do not mean a soccer game (the consequences of those have been pretty dramatic, as far as I remember) or a concert, but the celebration of life. A few minutes I told to myself: the picture is not good. Damn battery. But thats everything there is. As I write these words I think about my friends who will tell me what smart ass I think I am, that I am way to posh, that I should write in Spanish as I usually do. ThatBig Brother. No Davina.
Vor drei Tagen kam Post vom 'Bundesbeauftragten fuer die Unterlagen des Staatssicherheitsdienstes der ehemaligen Deutschen Demokratischen Republik' - kurz: meine Stasi-Akte - oder das, was davon bereits aufbereitet wurde. Die Tatsache, dass meine Briefe, die ich als 10-Jaehrige in den Westen schrieb, geoeffnet und fein saeuberlich archiviert wurden, hat doch einen gewissen Unterhaltungswert, und nun uebrrascht es mich auch gar nicht mehr, dass ich nie ein Autogram als Antwort auf meine Fan-Briefe an die Pet Shop Boys bekam... Nearly two years after applying to see files possibly held on me by the former Eastern German Ministerium fur Staatssicherheit - Secret Police (or "Stasi", as they may be bettter known), I recveived an unexpected letter the other day. It appears our family has been surveyed (no surprise there, then) since the mid-1970's, and even schoolgirl letters (mine) and mum's correspondence to a very old auntie were intercepted - and neatly filed in some office somewhere -perhaps like the one we visited in Leipzig back in 1980 - once a district Stasi administration centre, now a monument. The logical next step would be to apply to see the file of my dear departed father, who, although of working class origin, had more than his fair share of run-ins with the ruling party. Of course, chances are, I may discover something deeply unpleasant. But when we search for truth, is it right to hesitate just here? Should I dig deeper or let the past be?
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