Trump, I don't really like traveling to the U.S. much. It's a bit boring, but I confess there are admirable things. I enjoy visiting the Black neighborhoods of Washington. There, I witnessed an entire struggle in the U.S. capital between Blacks and Latinos with barricades. It seemed like nonsense to me because they should unite.
I confess I like Walt Whitman, Paul Simon, Noam Chomsky, and Miller.
I confess that Sacco and Vanzetti, who share my blood, are memorable figures in U.S. history, and I follow them. They were executed in the electric chair for being labor leaders, killed by the fascists who exist in the U.S., just as they exist in my country.
I don't like your oil, Trump. It will destroy the human species out of greed. Perhaps someday, over a glass of whiskey—which I accept despite my gastritis—we can talk frankly about this. But it's difficult because you consider me an inferior race, which I am not, nor is any Colombian.
So if you’re looking for someone stubborn, that’s me, period. With your economic power and arrogance, you can try to stage a coup d’état like you did with Allende. But I will die on my own terms. I resisted torture, and I will resist you. I don't want slaveholders near Colombia; we’ve already had enough of them, and we freed ourselves. What I want near Colombia are lovers of freedom. If you can’t stand with me, I’ll go 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, but also of the Aurelianos Buendía, of whom I am one—perhaps the last.
You may kill me, but I will live on in my people, who came before yours in the Americas. We are peoples of the winds, the mountains, the Caribbean Sea, and of freedom.
You don’t like our freedom, fine. I don’t shake hands with white slaveholders. I shake the hands of the white libertarians, heirs of Lincoln, and the Black and white rural youth of the U.S., at whose graves I cried and prayed on a battlefield I reached after walking through the mountains of Tuscany, after surviving COVID.
They are the U.S., and before them, I kneel. Before no one else.
Bring me down, Mr. President, and the Americas and humanity will respond.
Colombia will no longer look to the North; we look to the world. Our blood comes from the blood of the Caliphate of Córdoba—the civilization of its time—from the Roman Latins of the Mediterranean, who founded the Republic, democracy in Athens. Our blood includes Black resisters turned into slaves by you. In Colombia is the first free territory in the Americas, before Washington, in all of the Americas. There, I find shelter in African songs.
My land is the home of goldsmithing that existed during the time of the Egyptian pharaohs and of the world’s first artists in Chiribiquete.
You will never dominate us. The warrior who rode across our lands, shouting freedom, stands in opposition, and his name is Bolívar.
Our peoples are somewhat fearful, somewhat timid. They are naïve and kind, loving. But they will know how to reclaim the Panama Canal, which you took from us through violence. Two hundred heroes from all of Latin America lie in Bocas del Toro, present-day Panama—formerly Colombia—whom you murdered.
I raise a flag, and as Gaitán once said, even if I am left alone, it will remain raised with the dignity of Latin America, which is the dignity of America—something your great-grandfather didn’t know, but mine did, Mr. President, an immigrant to the U.S.
Your blockade does not scare me, because Colombia, besides being the land of beauty, is the heart of the world. I know you love beauty as much as I do. Do not disrespect it, and it will offer you its sweetness.
COLOMBIA FROM THIS DAY FORWARD OPENS TO THE WORLD WITH OPEN ARMS. WE ARE BUILDERS OF FREEDOM, LIFE, AND HUMANITY.
I’ve been informed that you impose a 50% tariff on the fruits of our labor to enter the U.S. I’ll do the same.
Let our people plant corn—which was discovered in Colombia—and feed the world.