What the Truth Buried

There was no noise left in the jungle. The birds flew away, dropping their damp feathers onto my body. Only a faint ray of sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees and the thick fog.

I was sunk in my thoughts as I cleaned the rifle in my hands. I didn’t want to stay in that place, but I needed the notebook and the money. My mother had many debts, and I had promised to help her. Before I realized it, I was pulled out of my worries by the captain’s voice:

“—The colonel asked for an increase in results this week.”

“Results.” That’s what we called the dead.

That same afternoon, we left in a truck heading to the south of Antioquia. There were only five of us. They told us the job would be simple and that many men wouldn’t be needed. The captain coordinated everything with a civilian from the area; according to him, the man was in charge of “catching” informants.

“—Don’t worry, it will be an easy task,” the captain said, with that smile that always made you doubt whether he was telling the truth or lying.

After a couple of hours, we arrived at the place in question: an abandoned farm, where only vultures circled in search of carrion.

When we got off, I took a moment to look around. The atmosphere was strange; the cold made me tremble and the fog kept me from seeing clearly. Even so, I managed to distinguish the civilian in the distance—the one who had spoken to the captain. He signaled for us to come closer, and we did.

Once we were beside him, I noticed two young men tied to a post. The civilian said they were guerrilla informants, but I limited myself to noticing that one of them had a bag of stale bread at his side and the other had torn shoes. In their faces I could see fear, and I realized what was about to happen…

The captain untied them and ordered them to turn around while he asked their names, but before hearing their answers, the sound of the gunshots—echoing throughout the mountain—left me with a ringing in my ears. I looked toward the captain, and beside him lay the bodies of those young men, lifeless. I never learned their names.

“—Change their clothes,” he said, tossing us a couple of clean uniforms.

I couldn’t react. My partner told me to bring the old rifles from the truck. I went, grabbed them, and handed them over. Shock made me move on instinct.

After a moment, I could see what they had done to those young men: they were now wearing guerrilla uniforms, stained with their blood. Their thin bodies made the uniforms look far too big. In their hands they held the old rifles. The scene made my stomach churn.

“—Take the photo and let’s go,” the captain said bluntly.

We climbed back into the truck, and immediately the vultures that had been watching from a distance took flight and began circling their new meal.

The captain congratulated us:

“—Another day cleaning the streets.”

He sounded very proud—pride I couldn’t feel.

We went back to the shelter: a wide, torn tent with hole-ridden blankets, covered in the damp soil that served as our bed. I couldn’t sleep. The event kept replaying in my mind. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the faces of the young men, their bodies falling, their silence. The guilt weighed heavier than the rifle.

At dawn, I went to speak with the captain.

“—Good morning, captain,” I said with an unsteady voice.

“—Good morning, soldier. What do you need?”

“—Captain… the young men from yesterday…”

“—The informants? What about them?”

“—It’s just that… they didn’t seem like guerrilla members. I remember one had a bag with…”

The captain cut me off with a stern look.

“—Soldier, forget about it and stick to obeying. There are a lot of people involved, and talking too much could harm you.”

I felt a knot in my throat. I just nodded and walked away.

But I couldn’t stay silent. I knew how much I was risking, so I wrote a letter to my mother, describing everything in case something happened to me.

That same day, I went to the main base. I needed to talk. I asked to see the colonel. They made me wait for more than an hour under the harsh afternoon sun before finally letting me in.

“—Colonel, I’m here to report an… irregularity that occurred during the last operation,” I said, trying to stay calm.

“—Irregularity?” he asked mockingly. “Go on.”

“—The two informants… they weren’t guerrilla members, they were civilians. The captain didn’t verify it.”

The colonel remained silent for a few seconds, staring at me. Then he spoke coldly:

“—Listen, soldier, some things are better left unsaid.”

He immediately called two men who were nearby.

“—Accompany your comrade,” he ordered. “You know… give him the talk.”

His voice sounded kind, but we all knew what he meant.

They grabbed me by the arms and took me to an isolated spot, far from the camp.

From a distance, I could still hear my companions laughing at me, but their laughter slowly faded as we went deeper into the jungle. And I, naïvely, was still expecting that “talk” the colonel had mentioned.

But it never came.

My mind wouldn’t stop thinking about my mother. She doesn’t know where I am or what I’m doing with my life. The promise of giving her some money—I will never be able to fulfill it.

We arrived at a place previously marked; I looked around and could see the earth had been dug up. Ten round holes the size of an adult body; nine of them already had an owner. That’s when I understood everything.

They took my dog tags, emptied my pockets, including the letter for my mother. I had completely given up resisting. If only I had kept my mouth shut…

The gunshot echoed through the jungle, and everything went silent. The birds didn’t sing to accompany my death.

Loneliness would become a cemetery of memories that will never be heard.

They wrote in my report that I had died fulfilling my duty.