Colombia, 2009. We Begin Our Journeys Through the Window
Journeys often begin from the window. They seem like invisible doors, letting us be halfway inside, halfway out. That’s how I begin this story—from a window in Bogotá. The room is warm, with family memories on the wall. The reason for my visit: to document the disappearance of Diego Tamayo, a 26-year-old man. His mother, a thin, dark-skinned woman, looks out over the neighborhood of Soacha, her gaze drifting far away—toward sorrow.

Diego is one of hundreds of young men known as “falsos positivos”—disappeared by the Colombian army and later falsely presented as guerrillas killed in combat. These extrajudicial killings began around 2001. For each guerrilla killed (a positive result), soldiers received cash bonuses, days off, and promotions. So they began kidnapping young men, mostly aged 15 to 30, from Colombia’s poorest neighborhoods. They were taken—many to a city in the north called Ocaña—killed, and dressed up as guerrilla fighters to fabricate victories.

Seated in a blue armchair, Diego’s mother speaks in a voice that changes with each breath, as though her strength fades mid-sentence.
“We arrived at night. It was raining. Forensic Medicine in Ocaña had no one to help us recover my son from a mass grave. My daughter and I had to do it, along with the man who watched over the land. We started digging and a body appeared. They place a plastic bag over each one to separate them, then cover it with dirt, and then another body—and so on. Dieguito was the third. We had to spray him with chemicals and wait three hours before we could even get close. (…) I recognized him by a scar on his forehead. After nine months, I finally had my son with me.”

The family traveled 16 hours back to Bogotá with Diego’s body wrapped in plastic bags. They couldn’t afford a coffin. He was buried the next day.

I visited several homes, listening to stories of other young men. I still think about that 16-hour journey—from Bogotá to Ocaña—and the fear they must have felt. The parents’ journey. And my own. I think about what memory means, especially when the journey is not about returning home.

“These young men were criminals… they weren’t exactly out picking coffee on some farm.”

President Alvaro Uribe

September 8, 2008
Press conference, “Falsos positivos”, Bogotá, Colombia.