“Words can be a weapon, but they can also be a healing, reconciling force.” In his laudatory speech, Tom Koenigs pays tribute to the peace efforts of the award recipients, Jineth Bedoya and Mayerlis Angarita.
Original language: German
Dear friends, distinguished Ambassador, and above all: dear award recipients!
“Language can be the last bastion of freedom.”—A quote from Heinrich Böll. Finding the right language, finding the right words to express the horror, the experiences and suffering, one’s own pain and the pain of others—this is the theme that connects the two award winners. These are their mottos: Mayerli’s “Narrar para Vivir” (To Tell Stories Is to Live) and Jineth’s “No es hora de callar” (Now Is Not the Time to Be Silent). Words can be a weapon, but they can also be a healing, reconciling force.
Patricia Ariza, founder of the “La Candelaria” Theater and the “Festival de Mujeres en Escena por la Paz” (Women’s Festival for Peace) in Bogotá, said: “Peace must be lived, told, and sung about.”
Do we now have peace in Colombia that we can sing about? One year after the signing of the agreements between the FARC and the government? One year after the country’s largest guerrilla group laid down its arms? One year after the end of the armed struggle and the continuation of the political struggle by peaceful means—with words instead of bullets? No. It’s like in Augusto Monterroso’s novel—the shortest novel in the world. It consists of only eight words; I’ll read it aloud in its entirety: “Cuando despertó, el dinosaurio todavía estaba allí.” When she woke up, the dinosaur was still there.
The dinosaur is still there. The brutal violence, the physical violence, including sexual violence, and the daily threats are still there. This is also the case for our two award recipients. In Colombia, they must be protected by bodyguards and armored cars. It takes courage to be a human rights defender in Colombia. Since the peace agreement was signed, more than 170 human rights defenders have been murdered. All of the victims were advocates for peace, for the “Sí” vote in the referendum. Then they fought for the implementation of the treaties, for agrarian reform, for the return of land, for a voice in decision-making, and against discrimination. The struggle for peace continues—and has been going on for over fifty years. The war claimed many victims: there are more than six million displaced persons, that is, internally displaced people; people who have lost their land and their homes. There were more than 340,000 deaths in the war, and more than 85,000 people disappeared. There were more than 30,000 kidnappings—and, of course, countless bereaved family members, traumatized individuals, and surviving victims.
Giving a voice to these people—and especially to the women among them—is the great achievement of the laureates. Jineth Bedoja, the much-admired journalist, broke her silence about her own suffering and the crimes committed against her after many years: “No es hora de cajar.” In 2009, she knew it was not the time to remain silent any longer. With this step, she gave many victims the courage to speak out about their own suffering as well. And Mayerlis Angarita, like Jineth herself a victim of violence and threats and a survivor of loss, founded the organization “Narrar para Vivir” (Telling Stories to Live) with 840 other women in her region. Both women rely on the power of language. They use words as a weapon to seek justice, but also as a healing force. The word, the account, the narrative in the struggle for truth, for justice, for reparations, and as a reminder so that these crimes will never be repeated.
There is great interest in Germany in the Colombian peace process and, consequently, a sense of solidarity that the award recipients will also encounter during their visit here in Berlin. The support provided by the government, civil society, NGOs, and churches for Colombia’s struggle for peace, remembrance, and reparations has a great deal to do with language—and with literature as well. We have all read García Márquez—his novels, his chronicles, and his reports. The title of his memoirs, *Vivir para contarla*, sounds like *Narrar para Vivir*—only in reverse. To set the record straight regarding Mayerlis: she was there two years earlier.
German interest today is linked to rediscovering the language of the victims and, thus, to our own history as well. After the crimes of the Nazis, the Holocaust, and the war, everyone remained silent at first. The perpetrators were silent, of course, but so were the victims. Like Ignaz Bubis, a Jew and a victim, a camp inmate, who didn’t speak about the camp for forty years—not even to his wife or his daughter. Not a word.
It took time for the victims to find their voice. And for them to be heard. That is a difficult process. Of course, the perpetrators remained silent. They remained silent right up until the very last trial; not a single one spoke. Only gradually, after decades, have we finally come to understand that silence—that suppressing and concealing the truth—is not an alternative, not a path to reconciliation or to mending the social fabric. What was long a point of contention here is suddenly no longer so. That is why the debate continues. In Europe, this is by no means a given—just think of Spain, for example. Nor is it in Latin America. In El Salvador, amnesties were granted and silence has prevailed to this day, with devastating consequences for the social fabric.
We are following this debate in the Colombian peace process, including the victims’ associations, among them Jineth. They fought their way into the negotiations in Havana. They pushed their way in and took center stage to confront the perpetrators. There are some deeply moving accounts of this. It’s a tremendous achievement! And as a result of these negotiations, three institutions have been created to stabilize and further develop this peace process. One is the Special Jurisdiction for Peace. Incidentally, the judges and prosecutors are appointed based on quotas, which is quite unusual—it would be almost completely impossible in our country. In addition, there is a Truth Commission and the Office for the Search for the Disappeared, since, as already mentioned, there are more than 85,000 disappeared persons. Very few of them are likely still alive—but where are their graves? This is something we are also familiar with from World War II.
The special judicial system is intended to be a lenient one. However, it has one prerequisite: the truth and the perpetrators’ confessions must come first. Not merely cooperation with investigators, as is the case in our criminal proceedings, but the perpetrators’ accounts in the presence of the victims and the perpetrators’ listening to the victims’ testimonies. This has already occurred in individual cases during the negotiations in Havana. It has led to very moving scenes. Let us hope that the Colombian special justice system has the power to bring about reconciliation. For it is from this exchange that peace emerges.
The victims have shaped the discourse, but the struggle continues. The victims must keep fighting to ensure they are not marginalized and do not suddenly find themselves sidelined among the joint plaintiffs. We know how difficult it is for victims to become involved in these proceedings. We saw this in the NSU trial. I believe Germany can learn a great deal from this. That is why Germany, the European Union, and the international community—above all through the United Nations—are supporting this process.
Using language, their own history, and the truth as weapons against violence and discrimination—but also as a healing force to restore dignity—that is the contribution of the award recipients to the international struggle for human rights. I congratulate Jineth Bedoya and Mayerlis Angarita on winning the 2018 Anne Klein Women’s Prize and wish them continued success in their work for peace. We need you!
