Political Consciousness Pt1 - When The Silence Breaks

“If the body is not a thing, it is a situation: it is our grasp on the world and the outline for our projects.”
Simone de Beauvoir

Everyone has an origin; we all have conditions that make us who we are, experiences that shape us, the things that make us happy, those that make us sad, angry, etc. every second of every minute is another point added to the line that is our life, and as I look back at my own life and try to dissect the factors that have shaped my political identity, I can recognize several transformative events that each marked a before and after. These stories carry a lot of weight and I want to be careful in how I present them, and tell you how they all correlate and are linked to a central theme that will not be surprising to anyone paying attention to what I have been saying: Capitalism (ˈkæp aɪˈtelaɪz ɛm)!

ACT 1: An Unexpected Road-trip:

February 5th, 1995. My classroom faced the outside of the building, and from the window I could see my house, directly across a very narrow street, 20-30 steps away. But this morning, at around 9ish, I also saw my mother crossing over and briefly chatting with my teacher, who immediately asked me to pick my things up because I had to leave. That was confusing, but in my normal circumstances, there's no universe in which I could be sad after being pulled out of school early; I was delighted.

That delight was short-lived however, as we were going back to my hometown for an emergency trip: Grandpa has passed, I was told.

With the excitement out of the way, we embarked on what was supposed to be a 7-hour drive that turned into 15 hours after getting stuck in traffic on the infamous Colombian road passage known as "La Linea"; and after finally making it to Sevilla, and navigating the chaos and state of disbelief, we made it to the funeral. It wasn't just one coffin, there were three of them, and when I looked in my grandfather's, all I could see was his pale, motionless face, and the cause of death staring right at me: a bullet hole, right in the middle of his forehead. This wasn't an accident, or a cardiac arrest like my mother wanted me to believe, I could see it, and even though I didn't know it then, I had just started putting together the longest and most complex puzzle I'd ever take on. Grandpa has passed was technically correct, but Grandpa was executed point blank carried the context that was missing.

You see, my grandfather was a gentle man; one who quit smoking after accidentally burning me with one of his cigarettes once, he couldn't forgive himself and left it aside (At least when I was around), he would pick me up when I visited on vacation, take me out for bike rides, and give me the occasional extra cash you don't normally disclose to your parents. He was an accomplice, but he was also a role model, someone who cared about his people, and by his people I mean everyone else around him. He loved everyone and was loved by everyone... Almost everyone.

Arturo Arango, El "Abuelitico".

Arturo, that was his name, was a politically involved individual, city council, departmental assembly, and many other things, and this wasn't the first time his life had been threatened. In October 1985, my uncle, Quique, came along for the ride with him to visit farm workers in the town's outskirts; and after a full day of work helping out, talking to friends, and participating in community, when driving back, Arturo, feeling tired, asked him to take the wheel; they did so without leaving the vehicle, which would prove a fateful move, as they were being tailed by a motorcycle whose passengers were tasked with ending Arturo's life, but after the swap, shooting the driver yielded the wrong outcome: Quique did not make it.

Quique, says the family lore, was the one who told my mom she was expecting me, on that very same day he'd leave to not come back; and because of that, and the greater implications, I count that day as a tragic political event that was naturally how I was going to start my own life.

ACT 2: The School With No Principal:

In 1996, I made it to the highest rated high school in Colombia, after having achieved the highest score in the entry test from a group of nearly 1000 people. I was incredibly proud, as this school had all the things I wanted: it was public, it offered trade and skills trainings normally unavailable to kids our ages, high standards, and as a bonus, two of my friends already went there so not everything would be new. I loved it there at first, even if it would prove a challenge for my neurodivergence in the future.

Nonetheless, I had always loved learning, and so I did: Computer labs, electronics, chemistry, foundry, metal works, electricity, the lot; and through all of this, with public school in Colombia in the 90s also comes the street, vices, and knowing people from all origins. I came from a very sheltered period due to my neurodiversity, but also because I grew up with everything being close to me. High school turned the sensory experience to 11, but it also sparked something I had not experienced before outside of my family and close circles: A sense of belonging.

I met incredible people, peers and teachers, was introduced to some of the coolest things I have ever seen, I was introduced to history shows told as stories rather than academic journals, I was introduced to the concepts of logic, and the precisions of engineering. I was in "artistic" paradise, and that institution was once threatened by the sudden dismissal of beloved principal, Hernan Bustos, after standing his ground when the city came to take school property to expand the adjacent avenue, and build an office that would most certainly rot away in the years to come and take space away from the students.

After removing Bustos from office, the district did not appoint a principal in fears of having to have yet another confrontation, and the school was left with an interim who was notoriously in favour of whatever the city wanted, and like that the school lost the battle. But not without a fight...

One 1998 morning, after noticing turmoil, we were encouraged by other schoolmates to leave the classrooms and come out to the streets, something big was going to happen. the anticipation, and the incredible gut feeling after learning that fellow students had decided to start a student strike in order to be heard by the city and present our case. The strike wasn't meant to last days, but instead it was supposed to be a direct action protest to show that even though we were young, we could be loud. And loud we were; a large number of us sat down on the street blocking all car traffic in both ways, making it so it was no longer children yelling from the sidewalk. The city no longer could ignore us: Riot police arrived, and charged without hesitation; their routine started, their evacuation ballet: tear gas, high pressure water jets, armoured vehicles, and an intimidation force that finally, after several hours, was able to get the best of us and clear the streets. We were between 10 and 16 years old. Good job, government guy!

A government that will attack children to "restore peace" is one of the things I was not expecting to find out first hand at age 11, and that was yet another one of those moments that shaped my political mind and fed that idea that things weren't right. That the government taking things away from those who needed them, only to give them away to those who wanted them, was yet another blow to a child, whose ideas based in logic and order were starting to present more and more questions. The political mind awakened.

On Part 2, I will tell you how I connected all these things together, and how I figured out how to move forward. It included computers, paper, ink, and fleas...

This story is a window to peek inside a small side of my life. These stories are memories that have shaped me as an individual, but also as part of a greater collective. We all have stories, people, circumstances that have made us into who we are today. Recount your story, and think of every moment that has had an influence, what was the context, what effect did it have in you? How have you changed because of it?

Thank you again for making it all the way down here! If you think we should be friends, drop me a line at [email protected] and let's get in touch! Want to read more from me? If you're not subscribed already, type your email in the form below and sign up for my newsletter!