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Posted by Slate on Nov 4, 2009 3:05:21 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:35:44 GMT -6
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General Morales was making the students nervous. He sat in the back of the room like a hibernating bear, one wrong footstep away from waking up in a truly foul mood. The students directly in front of him sat with their shoulders locked, and their gazes straight forwards. More than a few of them could have sworn they’d seen a glint of ferocious recognition in the man’s eyes; they were wishing now that they hadn’t listened to that band singer who’d come. School. Suddenly, it didn’t feel quite as safe as the jungle.
Alba Herrera-Cortez bravely taught on. This was supposed to be the senior class; younger students were mixed in, however, helping their older siblings and cousins. It was a basic reading lesson. Most of the older students at the Pax Academy were illiterate.
Half way through the lesson, Morales stood, and stalked unpleasantly off to haunt another classroom. Waves of relief rippled in his absence.
“How many of these kids are soldiers?” He asked gruffly, staring with distinct displeasure down at the omelets on his plate. Omelets. For lunch. They had been made in the home economics classroom by the students—which meant, of course, that some had been sitting around longer than others. The General took a lukewarm bite, and harrumphed.
“What does the President think of the proposal?” The blue-eyed American countered levelly, experimentally drowning his omelet’s top in ketchup. The General eyed this move critically. He did not approve of unnecessary condiments.
Harrumph, he said again, in reply.
Since April, there had been a nerve-wracking silence from the drug cartels. Worse than that: polite correspondence. No new hostages had been taken. Old hostages had been released, unconditionally: simply let go. One every two weeks, with the same message: ‘We want peace.’ The media, so long an advocate for the hostages’ freedom, was in a frenzy. He could not turn on the television or open a newspaper without seeing another former captive embracing their wife or husband: kissing their children.
‘We want peace.’ Clever, really. By releasing them one by one, the cartels still kept the others as shields. The people and the media, however, were captivated by the stunning generosity of it. After long years of the usual back-and-forth jerk of negotiations, the bodies dumped to be identified later, it was easy to forget that generosity had nothing to do with it. There would be months still until the last hostage was released. Plenty of time for them to change their minds—and their demands—as they always did. Or plenty of time to win the people over to their cause.
Donations from unnamed sources, the money laundered untraceably clean: enough so that the government could not confiscate the funds, but it was clear to everyone who their source was. Some of the cartels—or one of the cartels—or all of the cartels—were paying to rebuild the communities they had shattered. Homes were being rebuilt. Schools. Hospitals.
All in all, it was enough to make the government look like an ass. The president’s stance of non-negotiation was witling away his popular support day by day. Over cups of brandy shared across the General’s desk, a senator had pointed out to Morales an interesting fact. It might have been meant as a joke.
‘At this rate,’ the man had said, with a laugh, ‘they have enough hostages to last through the next election.’
It was not lost on the General that this had all started when Senor Swartz had come into their country, with his perfectly accented Colombian accent. The teenager noticed the General’s frown, and blinked up at him, fork in mouth. Harrumph, the General said. Any time he thought to prod deeper into the American’s doings, he found himself turning his thoughts to other matters. In this case: back to the proposal. A general pardon for all former child soldiers, so long as they were enrolled in school, and could pass the next few years without any criminal violations. A fairly reasonable proposal. Given the age group concerned, it was gaining much popular support.
“He thinks what he always thinks,” Morales replied, pushing the omelet across his plate. “We’ve spent decades trying to negotiate with these people. We are not playing their games any longer.” Even if they are playing us.
The boy swallowed. “I am sorry to hear that. Is there any chance I can meet with him?”
Morales’ moustache twitched above his lips as he stared the boy down. “He has more suspicions about you than interest, Senor Swartz.” The suspicions were mostly the General’s own, though he had never been able to find the words to voice them to the President. As far as their nation’s leader was concerned: the young American Senor was, like many men before him, simply a pawn in this game between the government and the cartels. It was for the young man’s own good, really, that he be kept out of things.
“How unfortunate,” the boy commented, and took another bite. “Concerning your embassy in Romania...”
“It will remain closed to refugees,” the General said.
“Israeli has opened theirs.”
“And America has closed.”
“Venezuela is considering matters.”
“Hmph! Because the President and Venezuela get along so well.” Venezuela. The President of that country was quite outspoken on the matter of the cartels. He favored negotiations. And, should their own President continue to resist, a trade embargo. Colombia had earned its reputation as a pawn of the Americans. Some other nations in Latin America would not mind reminding them of their proper geographic location.
“It could help with relations,” the teenager mildly pointed out. “A united South America—”
“Hmph!” A united South America was not something for the little New Yorker to suggest. Still. “I’ve already mentioned that to the President. If Venezuela does open their embassy’s doors...” Then they would see. Until then, there was no need to aggravate the rest of the teenager’s nation.
They continued eating in silence. The courtyard was bright, and hot. Since the first time they had met in April, the teenager’s burned skin had settled into a tan fit for the Colombian climate. Around them (but none too close to the General), the school’s children chatted and played. Like many schools in the area, there would be a long break between morning classes and the next session; many of the students would go home, and eat with their families. The gray-haired man scrutinized the new school building in front of them. The philanthropist had invited him here today to observe his pet project in action. It seemed decent enough, as schools go. Though he wasn’t quite sure why they needed so many televisions. And computers. And—what were they called, those white boards with the moving pictures? Fairly useless, whatever they were. It seemed to him that a board with simple markers (or, Heaven forbid, chalk) was good enough for any child.
“Pax.” He stated. “Why did you name it that?”
The teenager gave another of his unassuming blue-eyed blinks. “Because,” he answered simply, “I want peace.”
That answer greatly unsettled the General, though he did not think about it for long.
((ooc: Continued in revolution: ur doing it wrong.))
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Nov 6, 2009 3:18:27 GMT -6
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