The mass media have dedicated themselves to reporting about the boos and spontaneous whistles of the people, in protest against the presence of Timochenko in one place or another. Reading such articles, when you have been permanently in the caravan that accompanies the FARC candidate, arouses a certain feeling of bitterness, not to mention indignation.
This is my personal impression on what happened the other day in Armenia. I think that to a large extent what happened is a reflection of the poisoning that has been done to the country.
An insurgent force fightings the State for more than half a century, which has to its credit an indeterminate number of combatants killed, crippled or disappeared because of the war, and to which an indeterminate number of casualties in the opposite ranks are also attributed, sign the peace, first of all, so that there are no more dead.
Last Wednesday I turned 59. Forty springs had already passed since I was 19, being a law student of the National University, when, emotionally destroyed by the loss of my first love, I met Aracelly one night, a 30-year-old prostitute, who introduced me to the other face of the world, in the happy nights we spent among cafés and motels in the Santa Fe neighborhood, in the capital of the country.