humblethorn

I had the privilege of meeting Bruce Olson in 1996 at the National House of Prayer in Washington D.C. He shared with us for hours about his life and work among the Motilone (Bari) people of South America. We had all, of course, read his biography Bruchko, but in the years following that book so much happened that he shared with us that night. Many of those stories are now available at his site: http://www.bruceolson.com 

Here’s an excerpt:

       By February, when the {guerrilla} national-level responsables finally confronted me and insisted I declare myself a committed member of their organization, I knew I couldn’t avoid the issue any longer. I explained, very simply, that I could not justify killing to attain social and political goals, so I could not align myself with them. At this point, my classification was officially changed from “political prisoner” to “prisoner of war.”

        Prisoners of war, I knew, were always executed. But before they could execute me, the guerrillas would make up a list of “charges” against me, publish them in the national media and then formally sentence me to death for “crimes against the people.” This was their usual strategy.

        The charges they came up with were creative. I was accused of murdering 6,100 Motilone Indians; of trafficking in cocaine and other drugs; of turning Indians into slave labor in my personal gold and emerald mines; of working for the CIA; of flying helicopters in army attacks on guerrilla camps; and worst of all, of teaching American astronauts to speak Motilone, so they could talk to each other in space without being understood by Russians. This last charge was my favorite. It had a certain romantic ring to it.

        As the charges were formulated, other prisoners — mostly kidnap victims being held for large ransoms — were brought in and out of the camps from week to week. I got to know several of them fairly well, and we tried to encourage each other as much as possible.

        One of these kidnap victims, a helicopter pilot named Franco, was moved in and out of several camps I was in. We developed a fairly close relationship over the months we were together. Unfortunately, Franco constantly argued with the guerrillas. His belligerent attitude made him extremely unpopular with them. It was as if he were looking for ways to get himself abused or killed.

        “Franco,” I’d tell him, “It does no good to argue with the guerrillas. You only hurt yourself. Try kindness.” But he’d fly into a rage, accusing me of “collaborating with the enemy.” Later he’d apologize and say I was right, resolving to keep his anger under control.  But it was hard. He was not a person who could accept daily abuse and humiliation without fighting back.

        Franco had a complete nervous breakdown after several months of captivity. When this happened the guerrillas, frustrated by his behavior, asked me to become his official “spiritual counselor.” They knew that Franco professed to be a Christian and saw this as a means of keeping him intact enough to collect the large ransom they’d been trying to negotiate for him.

        But Franco was not easy to counsel. For one thing, he kept going on hunger strikes . Four of them, all told. “I won’t be treated like this,” he told me before the first one. “They can’t victimize me. I’ll show them — I’ll starve myself to death! They won’t get their ransom. I still have some power over my own life!” I couldn’t persuade him not to do it, so he angrily announced his hunger strike to the guerrillas and was enraged even further when they paid no attention.

        By the end of the first night of his hunger strike, Franco came to me saying, “Oh, my friend, I’m so hungry! I can’t stand it! You’ve got to bring me something to eat. Can you sneak me something from your dinner? Don’t let the guerrillas know, whatever you do!”

        By this time the guerrillas gave me a little more freedom to move around in the camp, so I was able to slip most of my dinner into a plastic bag and hide it under my shirt until I could pass it to Franco later that night. He waited until he was in his hammock and wolfed it down. This went on every day of his so-called hunger strike. And he was always ravenous, so it got to the point where I was starving to death because Franco couldn’t get by on less than my full ration of food.

        Eventually the guerrillas started to worry about Franco’s health. One of them asked me, “Do you think he might die? How long can he live without food?” Most of the guerrillas had mixed emotions about it — they didn’t want to lose their ransom, but at the same time they fervently wished to be rid of him.

        Finally, a responsable came to me and said, “Franco’s hunger strike has lasted two weeks now. Can you do something to make him eat? We’re getting tired of this. He’s driving us crazy. We’ve decided to just go ahead and execute him if we can’t get him to cooperate. After all, he wants to die from starvation, so it will shorten his suffering if we shoot him now.” I decided humor might be the best solution to Franco’s problem. “Don’t worry about Franco,” I told the guerrilla. “I’m the one who’s starving — he’s been eating all my food!” The guerrilla laughed uproariously as I described how Franco had been getting plump while I wasted away from his hunger strike. It became something of a camp joke — though Franco never knew about it. After this, every time Franco announced another hunger strike, they gave me two dinners — one for me to “sneak” to Franco to keep him happy, and another for myself. We survived all four of his long hunger strikes this way. Franco was eventually released.