My name is Carlos Arturo Bravo and I was born in Colón Génova, Nariño. I lived in El Guayabo, with my dad and five brothers. We dedicated ourselves to cultivating coffee, yucca, and beans. But on September 7th 2002, three days after turning fourteen, my life changed.
It was three in the afternoon and I went to play soccer with a friend. He came over to invite me and then I went over to his house. “Wait”, he said, “I’ll be right back. I’ll go get the ball from the coffee farm”. I waited and waited. About fifteen minutes later, I felt an explosion and, all of sudden, shrapnel was falling all over the place. It hit me full on and even lifted me in the air. I got up and walked home. I can’t remember what happened after that.
My family explained that it had been grenade that had belonged to the FARC, a munition left behind which hadn’t exploded at the time. It had blown my friend to pieces.
The accident has made everything harder for me. I wanted to work in construction and I now I won’t be able to. And I can’t do the things I used to do at home either. It’s hard to get a job, because people won’t hire you if you have a disability. “This is one of the victims”, they say, “and if something happens we’ll get the blame”. The idea was to move to Bogota and reintegrate into the community, set up a business so I could help my mother, but I haven’t been able to yet.
*Excerpts from the book
“Voices, Stories of Violence and hope in Colombia” 2009
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