Not the abstract violence of the news—the FARC, the paramilitaries, the car bombs in Bogotá that felt like a faraway thunderstorm. No, the violence that arrived was a silence.
I was five when I learned about the mountains. Not from a textbook, but from the view on the road to my abuela ’s pueblo. My father stopped the dusty Renault on a precipice. He lifted me onto his shoulders—suddenly I was seven feet tall. as a little girl growing up in colombia