This week Boris and I launched our first podcast in Spanish. It is possibly the longest-prepared podcast in history.
For the past ten years—ever since we exchanged life in the jungle for life in civilian society—we have started almost every morning the same way: drinking coffee together in bed. Those quiet conversations have become our daily ritual. We talk about the news, politics, our lives, the reintegration process, its challenges and frustrations. And every so often one of us would say, We should start a podcast. Why don’t we just do it?
It is almost funny that, despite repeating that idea for a decade, we never actually did it. And now that we finally have, our very first episode is about a question that has accompanied us for years: Why is it so difficult for former combatants to speak?
Is it because of years spent living clandestinely? Because many of us operated in the cities under assumed identities, forced to lead double lives and hide who we really were? Or because, in the guerrilla camps, we were discouraged from talking about our pasts or our families? That was one of the reasons we adopted noms de guerre: our previous identities gradually faded into the background.
War is hardly the ideal setting for sharing your inner world. Military discipline was accompanied by political discipline—something many people outside the organization never fully understood. Political positions were communicated by the Secretariat, the seven-member leadership of the FARC. The rest of us were expected to remain within those parameters. Even during the peace negotiations in Havana, expressing a personal opinion could feel risky. When journalists asked for our views, we navigated an invisible set of boundaries that often seemed undefined, yet were always present.
But perhaps none of these explanations tells the whole story.
Ten years into the reintegration process, many former combatants have built businesses, completed university degrees, raised children and created entirely new lives. Yet most of us still avoid the spotlight. We rarely volunteer to speak publicly.
When Colombians encounter former combatants, it is usually through institutional channels such as the Agency for Reincorporation and Normalization (ARN), where we appear in carefully produced videos about successful reintegration projects, expressing gratitude and explaining their initiatives. Or we appear in alternative media outlets with a specific interest in peacebuilding.
Our own voices, however, remain surprisingly absent.
We believe that one important reason lies in something rarely discussed: the enormous emphasis the FARC placed on modesty.
It was not merely a cultural habit; it was part of our formal code. Article 7(a) of the FARC Statutes, which listed the duties of every guerrilla fighter, stated that one must be “honest and truthful with the movement, selfless in the struggle, and modest.“
That single word—modest—shaped everyday life far more than outsiders might imagine.
Nothing was ever celebrated as an individual achievement. Everything belonged to the collective. We did not say, I built this, I solved that problem, or I accomplished this mission. We said we. Personal recognition was discouraged, and individual accomplishments dissolved into the community.
The ego was constantly dismantled.
Looking back, there is something refreshing about that. Outside the guerrilla movement, one sometimes encounters egos of astonishing proportions. Compared to that, the insistence on humility had its virtues. Yet it also comes with a cost.
When individual identity is consistently subordinated to the collective, people gradually become invisible. They stop talking about themselves. They hesitate to express personal opinions. They become uncomfortable receiving recognition. They prefer to remain unseen, except perhaps within the intimacy of their own families.
There was another lesson repeated constantly: no one is indispensable. That, too, is true. No individual is indispensable. But when you hear it every day for years, it reinforces the same tendency toward self-erasure. Combined with the collective ownership of every achievement, it becomes surprisingly difficult to step forward and speak in your own name.
So why start this podcast now?
Because we believe former combatants have something worth contributing.
Most of us are neither the vulnerable subjects that some institutions portray nor simply the perpetrators others reduce us to. We carry elements of both, but we are also much more than either label.
We lived for years without television, without social media, immersed in war and in nature. We learned how fragile life really is, how essential water, forests and community can be. We endured experiences that are almost unimaginable in today’s world, and those experiences shaped perspectives that deserve to be heard.
Not because they are better, morally superior and not because they are necessarily left-wing. Simply because they are different, which should be enough reason to share them.
This podcast is our attempt to overcome a deeply ingrained hesitation—to speak openly, as individuals, about politics, history, everyday life, and everything in between. After years of silence, we believe it is finally time to join the conversation.
PODCAST IN ESPANISH
More information here: https://tanjanijmeijer.blog/la-segunda-dosis/
