I can’t stop thinking about a story Larisa told me at the end of November. I was about to leave on a work trip and the conflict in the Montes de Maria in the early 2000s was furthest thing from my mind, but I ended up carrying it with me through Central America and back.
I went back to Mampujan in the beginning of January. After rushing to get leave Sincelejo early, I waited for an hour for the bus to fill, my stomach already full of butterflies. During the trip, a suitcase fell on my head from the overhead compartment.
When I saw the email invite to Mamupjan’s 14th commemoration of displacement in my inbox, my first reaction was panic. After I engaged in some deep breathing to dissolve the ball of stress that had instantly formed in my stomach, I was able to continue reading with a mixture of happiness and regret. Regret because