What Happened Between Colombia and the United States

Trump, I don’t particularly enjoy traveling to the U.S.—it’s a little boring. But I admit, there are things I admire. I like visiting the Black neighborhoods in Washington. Once, I saw a clash between Black and Latino communities there, with barricades. It seemed absurd to me—they should be united, not divided.

I’ll also admit I’m a fan of Walt Whitman, Paul Simon, Noam Chomsky, and Arthur Miller.

Sacco and Vanzetti, who share my blood, are unforgettable figures in U.S. history. They were workers’ leaders, executed in the electric chair by fascists. Fascists like the ones who exist in my country, too.

I don’t care for your oil, Trump. It will destroy humanity in the name of greed. Maybe one day, over a glass of whiskey—which I’ll accept, despite my gastritis—we could discuss this. But I doubt it, because you see me as part of an inferior race. I am not, and neither is any Colombian.

If you’re looking for someone who refuses to back down, that’s me. You may try to use your economic power and arrogance to stage a coup, as was done to Allende. But I’ll resist you. I’ve resisted torture before, and I’ll resist you now. Colombia doesn’t want enslavers next door—we’ve had enough of them. We fought for our freedom. What I want for Colombia are neighbors who value liberty. If you can’t stand with us, we’ll look elsewhere. Colombia is the heart of the world, and you didn’t understand that. This is the land of yellow butterflies, the beauty of Remedios, and colonels like Aureliano Buendía—of whom I am one, perhaps the last.

You may kill me, but I’ll live on in my people, who were here long before yours in the Americas. We are people of the winds, the mountains, the Caribbean, and freedom.

You don’t like our freedom—fine. I don’t shake hands with white enslavers. I shake hands with white libertarians, the heirs of Lincoln, and with the Black and white farmers of the U.S., at whose graves I cried and prayed in a battlefield. I reached that place after walking through the mountains of Tuscany and after surviving COVID.

They are the U.S. I respect, and before them, I kneel. Before no one else.

You can try to take me down, Mr. President, but the Americas and humanity will answer you.

Colombia will no longer look north. We look to the world. Our blood carries the legacy of the Caliphate of Córdoba, a beacon of civilization, and the Roman Latins of the Mediterranean, who founded democracy in Athens. Our blood carries the resistance of enslaved Black people. Colombia was home to the first free territory in the Americas—before Washington, before the United States. I take refuge in the songs of African freedom here.

My land is one of ancient goldsmiths, dating back to the days of the Egyptian pharaohs, and of the world’s first artists in

You will never dominate us. Our warrior, Bolívar, who rode these lands crying for liberty, stands against you.

Our people may be cautious, humble, and kind, but they will reclaim the Panama Canal, which you took from us with violence. Two hundred heroes from all over Latin America lie in Bocas del Toro —now Panama, once Colombia— killed by your forces.

I raise a flag, and as Gaitán once said, even if I stand alone, it will fly high, carrying the dignity of Latin America. This is the dignity of the Americas—something your great-grandfather, an immigrant to the United States, could never have understood, but mine did, Mr. President.

Your tariffs don’t scare me. Colombia is more than a country of beauty; we are the heart of the world. And I know you appreciate beauty as I do, so don’t disrespect it. It will show you its sweetness.

Starting today, Colombia opens its arms to the world. We are builders of freedom, life, and humanity.

You’ve raised tariffs on the fruits of our labor to 50%. Fine, I’ll do the same. Let our people grow maize —the maize that originated in Colombia— and feed the world.