With the rescue of four of Colombia's longest-held hostages last Sunday, there's an understandable amount of flag-waving and troop-supporting going on. However', the country can't let appreciation and gratitude—no matter how justified and well-deserved—blossom into full-blown hero-worship. The former entail awareness of what a group has done; the latter, a willful ignore of anything that tarnishes that gleaming, spit-and-polish image.
Make no mistake: Colombia should be proud of Operation Chameleon, its architects, and those who pulled it off without a hitch. Extracting four captives, held under heavy guard in the depths of a jungle straight out of a Conradian nightmare and returning them, safe and sound, to the bosom of their family after more than a decade? It was a masterstroke. Kudos, muchachos.
Unfortunately, this military victory came at a politically-opportune moment, and is being utilized as a political instrument at a time of a groundswell of public support for the armed forces. Before President Uribe leaves office, the Ministry of Defense is trying to push through reforms that will protect military personnel against civilian justice.
Under the current law—enacted in 2006, four short years ago—the National Attorney General is in charge of preliminary investigation of crimes committed by servicemen and –women, and that body decides if the accused will face a military tribunal or be subject to civilian justice. According to army chief of staff General Oscar González, the current arrangement infringes on both due process and the presumption of innocence of military personnel, robbing the military justice system of its role in the process. Proponents of the existing process point to past abuse by the armed services in matters of jurisdiction and a disturbing trend of impunity.
One could argue that this entire drama has become an issue due to one judge's ruling in a case nearly 25 years old. On November 6, 1985, a cell of the M-19 rebel group assaulted the Palace of Justice, seat of the Supreme and Constitutional Courts, and took numerous hostages. The army's attempt to retake the building included bombardment by tanks and armed vehicles, setting it on fire and killing hostages and guerrillas alike. When all was said and done, dozens were missing. An investigation into 11 of those disappearances, opened by the Attorney General in 2001, uncovered that they were abducted by the army and taken to the Cavalry School in the north of Bogotá. There, they were interrogated, tortured, and eventually murdered.
Colonel Alfonso Plaza Vargas (ret.), the first of four military offices to go on trial for the disappearances of 10 cafeteria workers and one guerrilla commando, was found guilty and sentenced to 30 years. The June 9th ruling threw the judge who handed it down into a hurricane of controversy. Uribe himself publicly criticized the Hon. Stell Jara for convicting "a member of the Armed Forces that was defending democracy." Due to death threats and a ridiculous degree of political pressure, a judge who did nothing more and nothing less than carry out her charge to the best of her ability and to the fullest extent of her understanding of the law fears for her career and her life and is fleeing the country to protect herself and her 12-year-old son.
Why, then, should Colombia allow military justice to police its own? The culture of the Colombian armed forces—and, to some extent or another, the culture of all militaries the world over—is a culture of impunity, of maintaining silence and closing ranks against civilians sticking their nose into what the uniforms consider "none of their business." In the case of Colombia, it's a systemic issue—Uribe, his VP Francisco "Pacho" Santos, the current Defense Minister Gabriel Silva, and countless others in the administration are the high priests and chief apologists of the Cult of Camo. By giving carte blanche to uniformed personnel, they perpetuate the impunity.
There is, of course, something to be said for the confusion of combat, when the air is filled with bullets and shrapnel, and the blood with adrenaline. There is a fundamental difference, however, between poor decisions made in the heat of battle and atrocities committed with malice aforethought after the dust has settled. Whether it's a case US Marines going house to house in Haditha slaughtering civilians after a roadside bomb kills a comrade, or a Colombian army officer blackbagging survivors of a guerrilla hostage-taking and taking them for a violent debriefing, there is no excuse.
The argument could be made that Colombia's military, given their history of their rampant abuse of the sacred trust placed in them by their people and their government, have not earned the right to exclusive jurisdiction.
Nor have they earned the privilege of righteous indignation at the besmirching of their honor. Whistle-blowers and those who shine light on dark deeds don't shame the military; actions unbecoming of the uniform—and the complicity of good men and women who do and say nothing—are what do that.
None of this is to say that I don't appreciate Colombian servicemen and –women. They've got one of the hardest jobs in South America and the majority carries out their duties with honor. That said, wearing the uniform doesn't absolve one of one's sins, nor does it turn wrong into right. Until something changes in this pervasive mentality, these reforms are premature, setting ack a decade of progress towards a more peaceful Colombia.
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