#noticias de colombia

[aci25]

Un emocionado James Rodríguez no puede contener la emoción tras alcanzar su primera final de la Copa América

"Llevaba 13 años deseando esto".

Un emocionado James Rodríguez no puede contener la emoción tras alcanzar su primera final de la Copa América. Ha pasado por muchas cosas y le ha costado mucho llegar a esto.

Seis asistencias en este torneo 💪🇨🇴

[las-noticias-de-mai]

Críticas a Álvaro Uribe por agradecerle al presidente Petro una decisión que beneficiará a Antioquia

[cristinabcn]

FESTIJAZZ MOMPOX 2024: EXPERIENCIA DE JAZZ INOLVIDABLE EN LA JOYA COLONIAL DE COLOMBIA

FESTIJAZZ MOMPOX 2024: Unforgettable Jazz Experience in Colombia’s Colonial Gem Gerardo Marrugo González. Periodista, Editorialista, Entrevistador, Productor, Locutor. Escritor. Director Gral. de Información y Noticias Globales de LaAMdP.PRENSA ESPECIALIZADA Arrancamos con el FESTIJAZZ MOMPOX 2024, que se iniciará en menos de tres semanas.. We start with the FESTIJAZZ MOMPOX 2024, which will…

[blogdeminerva]

Plata para la paz también va a paso lento: Gobierno Petro apenas ha usado el 0,3 % de recursos

Eltiempo.com

El 13 de febrero la Presidencia de la República hizo la que es hasta la fecha la mayor destinación de recursos públicos del presupuesto del que dispone. Se trata de una adición por  470.497 millones de pesos destinados a la fiducia mercantil del Fondo Colombia en Paz (FCP), cuyo objetivo es garantizar el cumplimiento de los compromisos derivados del Acuerdo de Paz firmado con las Farc el 24 de noviembre de 2016.

Los recursos utilizados hasta la fecha están destinados a la reincorporación de los excombatientes a la vida civil. En esa subcuenta de la fiducia ya hay disponibles 53.000 millones de una apropiación total 317 mil millones. Eso significa que el Gobierno cuenta solo con el 16,7 por ciento del total de recursos, de los que ha usado apenas el 1 por ciento.

Por ejemplo, para los Programas de Desarrollo con Enfoque Territorial (PDET), considerados como ejes del Acuerdo de Paz y cuyo objeto es la superación de las consecuencias del conflicto en 170 zonas del país, hay una partida de 51 mil millones de pesos ya disponibles en su totalidad. Pero hasta el momento no se reporta ningún pago.

Llama la atención la baja ejecución que tuvieron también temas clave como los PDET, que ese año disponían de 687.000 millones, de los cuales apenas se comprometieron 68.000 y se usaron 7.000,correspondientes al 10 por ciento.

Enlace

[drchugue]

Variantes macrocriminales en Noticia de un secuestro (1996): violencia, locura y narcoterrorismo

Delgado Del Aguila, Jesús Miguel (2024). «Variantes macrocriminales en Noticia de un secuestro (1996): violencia, locura y narcoterrorismo», en: Sincronía. Revista Electrónica de Filosofía, Letras y Humanidades. Guadalajara, México: Universidad de Guadalajara. Año XXVIII, enero-junio, n.° 85, pp. 347-383. Disponible en http://sincronia.cucsh.udg.mx/pdf/85/347_383_2024a.pdf

[telerealrd]

Omar Rivera es reconocido por agencias de viajes

La Vega, República Dominicana – El empresario Omar Rivera Maldonado, fundador y presidente de Pachanga Tours, recibió un reconocimiento por parte de agencias de viajes y del público asistente al Carnaval Vegano 2023. El reconocimiento se debe a los 20 años de trayectoria en el mercado turístico, impulsando el turismo interno y motivando el surgimiento de nuevas agencias. Con su estilo distintivo…

[paulacorinna]

Entrevista: DANIEL PEÑA FIGUEROA: "AQUÍ LO RELEVANTE NO SERÍA MI EDAD, SINO LA RAZÓN QUE ME IMPULSÓ PARA POSTULAR EN ESTE MOMENTO DE MI VIDA A UN MAGÍSTER DE INVESTIGACIÓN ODONTOLÓGICA".

El profesional con tan solo 23 años desarrolló un artículo científico que sienta las bases para fabricar un dispositivo oral, el cual resolvería una incógnita en la movilidad dental que mejoraría sustancialmente el diagnóstico y el tratamiento de pacientes. 

Por Paula Corina Hernández M.

Daniel Camilo Peña Figueroa, egresado de la Universidad Nacional de Colombia, descubrió en su tesis de pregrado que no existía valor, método ni clasificación de medición adecuada para el desplazamiento dentario. En su nuevo reto como estudiante del magíster de Ciencias Odontológicas de la Universidad de Chile, profundizará en la creación de un artefacto oral, por medio de la línea de investigación clínica, aplicaciones diagnósticas y terapéuticas; Donde de tener éxito, no solo mejoraría la atención y detección de diferentes patologías, sino también las estadísticas de salud oral en Latinoamérica. 

El joven odontólogo rompe el paradigma tradicional que las personas suelen tener de los profesionales de la salud, pues tiene un estilo particular, entre lo que sería juvenil y descomplicado, precisamente, en su oreja izquierda tiene un piercing, pero dice que cuando atiende a sus pacientes le resta seriedad, así que de vez en cuando se lo quita. 

Entre sus características, también se encuentra la cercanía a las personas y la entrega en su trabajo. Es por ello, que en esta entrevista, el profesional habla de la labor que actualmente concluye en el Hospital Ramón María Arana, donde cumple un rol social relevante llevando la salud oral a zonas de difícil acceso. 

¿En qué momento sintió que su vocación era la odontología?

Curiosamente no sentí vocación en el primer momento en el que la estudié, porque no estaba dentro de mis planes. Sin embargo, en el proceso, exactamente al finalizar el primer año del pregrado, empecé a darme cuenta del impacto social que tenía la carrera. Si vemos, en la mayoría de los países de Latinoamérica, la salud oral es precaria. Eso quiere decir que se requiere una labor más rigurosa por parte de los profesionales de la salud, especialmente de los odontólogos, así que empecé a sentir interés por ser parte del cambio. Por otro lado, comencé a sentir pasión por las asignaturas, ya que había investigación, desarrollo de la motricidad y aplicaciones en la salud pública.

Teniendo en cuenta que un factor relevante en su formación es el impacto social, ¿cómo se refleja esto en su vida profesional?

Actualmente, trabajo en un hospital público en un pueblo rural de Colombia, en el municipio de Murillo, al norte del Tolima, pese a que toda mi formación universitaria fue en Bogotá. Allí yo soy el único odontólogo, no solo de este centro de salud, sino de todo el sector, lo que significa que están completamente a mi cargo las estadísticas odontológicas. Aparte de esto, desarrollo actividades de promoción y prevención de salud oral para toda la población. Algo muy importante de mi trabajo, es que se realizan jornadas de salud en zonas agrarias que presentan difícil acceso al casco urbano, donde nosotros como equipo, nos transportamos hasta allí pese a la complejidad y a los diversos problemas. El principal inconveniente que presentamos es que son vías abandonadas por el Estado, esto quiere decir, que es complicado llegar por cualquier medio de transporte, por lo que las personas se transportan normalmente a caballo, porque si hablamos de llegar a pie, son al menos seis horas para llegar al único hospital. Sin embargo, estas personas no solamente están limitadas por el precario acceso a la salud sino también de la educación, así que yo cumplo también la labor de orientarlos en su higiene para prevenir enfermedades. Sin embargo, este año concluirá mi labor en Colombia, ya que estudiaré el posgrado en el exterior.  

¿Cómo se siente usted con el hecho de que con tan solo 23 años iniciará un magíster el próximo año?

Lo relevante no sería la edad, sino la razón que me impulsó para postular en este momento de mi vida a un posgrado de investigación odontológica. Inicialmente, trabajé por resolver una incógnita sobre la movilidad dental,ya que yo observé que este valor no estaba claro y que no existía el método ni la clasificación de medición adecuadas, por lo que desarrollé un artículo científico que sentó las bases para la fabricación de un nuevo dispositivo odontológico que solventará dicha necesidad. Sin embargo, como era una tesis de pregrado, tuve limitaciones en cuanto a la profundidad de la investigación, así que fue con este afán que pensé en postular a la maestría en Ciencias Odontológicas en la Universidad de Chile, en la que, en efecto, fui admitido recientemente y donde iniciaré en abril del próximo año, así que me siento muy ansioso y expectante por los hechos.

Una vez desarrollado, ¿cuál podría ser el impacto de su dispositivo odontológico?

En este caso, va pensado más para odontólogos que para pacientes. Sin embargo, sí afecta directamente en la atención de estos. El artefacto busca facilitar y estandarizar objetivamente la manera en la que se puede medir la movilidad dental, diagnosticar de manera más acertada patologías como las enfermedades del periodonto y hacer un tratamiento más efectivo, en consecuencia, si se tiene éxito, la odontología clínica, la atención y las estadísticas de salud oral mejorarían sustancialmente.  

¿Quién es Daniel Peña cuando no está ejerciendo la odontología?

Desde pequeño dediqué gran parte de mi tiempo a las disciplinas artísticas. Siempre me gustó dibujar, pintar cuadros al óleo y modelar esculturas en plastilina, lo que, sin saberlo, me ayudó posteriormente a ejercer mi profesión, ya que la odontología clínica requiere de un notable componente artístico y motriz en lo que refiere a la precisión de lo estético y funcional. Además, desde los nueve años tomé lecciones de piano, por lo que en mis tiempos libres soy intérprete, realizo conciertos, recitales en cafés y en centros culturales. Incluso, en mi vida universitaria eso fue lo que me ayudó a solventar algunos gastos. También, estudié producción musical en paralelo a la odontología, en la academia DNA Music, con el fin de poder crear y difundir mi propia música, así que constantemente estoy publicando canciones en diferentes plataformas, con mi nombre artístico DMÜS. Asimismo, desarrollé habilidades en la fotografía artística, lo que me llevó a ganar algunos concursos de talentos y consolidarme como fotógrafo independiente con mi compañía de medios audiovisuales, Condor Films. Además de todo esto, siempre disfruto pasar tiempo de calidad con las personas que amo, especialmente, con mis padres, mi hermano, mi novia y mis amigos . 

Lee también:

[seryhumano]

Newsletter de seryhumano.com

Newsletter de seryhumano.com por @herrera_yosmar Ordenan que se suspenda la vacunación contra el covid en bebés y niños en #Argentina ¡Bravo! Hasta que el sentido común se asoma entre los jueces. #Noticias Viernes 2 de diciembre de 2022

Por Yosmar Herrera de Kiklikian Viernes 2 de diciembre de 2022 Juez Federal Alfredo López Newsletter de seryhumano.com Ordenan que se suspenda la vacunación contra el covid en bebés y niños en Argentina «Debe interrumpirse la inoculación de los menores hasta tanto se garantice el acceso a la información sobre efectos adversos, contraindicaciones, y riesgos conocidos y potenciales del…

[javier-pena]

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Word Count: 5k (so much for short drabble)

Rating: Mature

Summary: You work for the DEA in Colombia. Until one of your missions goes terribly wrong.

Warnings: hurt/comfort | attempted rape (nothing too graphic) | smoking | reader is being held captive | historical inaccuracies | period-appropriate sexism | difficult father-daughter relationship | canon-typical violence (kind of graphic) | panic and distress | brief description of wounds 

Notes: This is the first fic for my 10k follower celebration!!! Thank you, @lokischocolatefountain who requested “I’ll be here when you wake up” with Javier Peña. I hope you like it 🤭 This fic was very much inspired by Gabriel García Márquez' "Noticia de un secuestro" ("News of a Kidnapping") which I highly recommend if you're interested in what Narcos (Season 1) only covers in two episodes, namely the kidnappings of prominent figures in Colombia by the Medellín Cartel in the early 90s. As ever, huge thanks to Dani @alexturner who took the time to ask, "What does this mean?" and made me realize that I, in fact, don't know the answer to that question.

***

It’s night again. Or maybe it’s dawn. You don’t know. The blacked-out windows don’t let in any light. Your days are no longer structured according to the laws of nature (morning – midday – afternoon – evening – night), but according to the laws of your captors (wake up – bathroom – food – nothing – food – sleep). Maybe you’re awake all night and sleep all day. Maybe you only sleep for four hours and are awake for twenty. Neither your mind nor your body can tell the difference any longer.

Right now, for example, you’re in the “nothing” part of your day. It’s just you, rolled up on your mattress in your corner, and your thoughts, looping and looping, making you relive how you ended up here, in this room, somewhere in Colombia. And every single day, right at the end of “nothing” and the start of “food”, you come to the same conclusion: It’s all your fault.

It started with your childhood, you think. No, you can’t blame everything that went wrong in your life on your father, but he certainly did his bid – no matter what you did, it was never enough. Not even when you applied for a transfer to the embassy and you got selected, the youngest woman in DEA history who got an assignment like that. All he had to say to you was, “Huh”. So of course, you had to do better than that.

Here, in Colombia, you found yourself surrounded by men just like your father, old men in suits who sneered at you, confusing you with a secretary, asking you to make coffee and take notes. Old men with guns and enough war stories to fill a book, calling you “little lady” and pinching your cheeks. Old men that were just there, leering at you from corners and doorways. And they all had the face of your father.

Still, no one forced you to raise your hand that Thursday afternoon your floor ran out of coffee, the same afternoon Noonan called you all to a meeting and asked for a volunteer. “Dangerous assignment,” she said, “likely to get you killed.” You should have listened to her. But the looks on all those faces when you raised your hand and said, “I’d be happy to do it,” were worth it. Almost. Because, ultimately, it was the beginning of the end.

One of the men on guard duty today swears loudly and another one growls at him to be quiet. Sometimes they forget there’s a life outside those blacked-out windows and they’re not the only people in this city. You forget that too, but then you hear the voices of people living their lives, the sound of a car backfiring, a dog barking somewhere. If one of you makes the wrong noise, surely, you’ll be discovered.

The three men with you today (tonight?) know that, and so do you. They’re playing cards by the light of a dirty kerosene lamp, sitting so closely together their knees are touching. If they stretched out their legs, their feet would be touching your mattress. The room you’re in is barely big enough for one person, let alone for four. It’s the only room you’ve seen in months, apart from the bathroom they take you to once or twice a day. It’s across a small hallway you haven’t seen because they blindfold you. Every time, for every trip.

You can barely remember a time when not everything you needed to survive was dependent on another person. The autonomy you prided yourself on, your ability to achieve everything on your own, to survive everything on your own, those have been taken away from you. Could you even use the bathroom if no one gave you permission first? You doubt it.

You didn’t need anyone’s permission to go on that undercover mission that ultimately landed you in this tiny square room that is now your entire world. You were the fastest to volunteer, you fit the profile they were looking for: fluent in Spanish, low level enough to not be able to spill any secrets should you get arrested, pretty. It was supposed to be so easy. Infiltrate the Medellín cartel, gather intel, report back. There was even a plan in place to extract you should anything go wrong. And go wrong it did, and nothing was there to break your fall.

Before that, before you watched boys play cards all day, before your only window to the outside world was a small TV, there was one person who tried to get you to back down. You thought he didn’t think you capable of anything because you’re young, inexperienced and a woman, but in hindsight you should have listened to him. It doesn’t matter that the others called him an asshole and you thought he was trying to dissuade you because he was jealous. He knew what he was talking about and you should have listened to him.

The man closest to you lights a cigarette, his face briefly doused in a gloomy red light. You think of them as men because it somehow makes it easier, but he looks barely 16. Your room quickly fills with smoke and you try to suppress a cough so they don’t hit you again.

That’s how this all started, with you getting punched in the stomach.

Your undercover mission asked a lot of you, maybe too much. You were aware that it might be necessary for you to sleep with some of the men you were trying to get close to, and when they asked you about this back at the embassy, you wouldn’t have any problem with it... Until it was about to happen. The man touched you, breathed into your face smelling of cheap alcohol and expensive cigars, and in a moment of sheer panic, you fought back and blew your cover.

That’s it. That’s all. You ruined the mission because you couldn’t lie still for five minutes, and now you’re paying for it.

You know there have been attempts to find you and you know you’re not the only hostage. Right at the beginning, you shared a room with a Colombian journalist who, before that, had shared a room with a famous Colombian TV presenter. You know there are negotiations, you sometimes see on TV that a hostage is returned to their family. One time, there were shouts and sirens and gunshots, but they blindfolded you and put you in a truck. That’s how you ended up here, in this room.

At first, you focused on the stories of the people who made it out alive, not on the stories of the people who didn’t. You’re DEA, and even though you fucked up, you know those three letters are like a protective spell woven around you. Yes, they will hold you captive for as long as possible, yes, they will use you to fight everything you stand for, but they won’t kill you. The more time passes though, the more you doubt anyone is still fighting for your safe return. They might not kill you, but you also won’t be getting out of here.

With every day that passes, with every day you grow weaker and more tired, those men stare at you more and more. At first, they didn’t dare to look at you, ignored you when you tried to talk to them, acted like you weren’t there. Now you catch their eyes on you frequently, hungrily taking you in. They still don’t touch you – not like that, anyway – but they hit you when you’re too loud, they press their fingers over your mouth, the smell of cigarettes and gunpowder making you gag, and sometimes their hands wander, to the small of your back, to your side. Even if you make it out of here alive, you won’t make it out of here unharmed.

It's a different day. At least you think it is. You sleep more and more during your period of nothing, but it isn’t a restful sleep. If anything, it makes you more tired, wearier. You dread waking up and you dread falling asleep and you dread being awake. But something is different today, something has changed while you were asleep. There are only two men with you tonight, and they look at you more and more, their faces unreadable. It unnerves you more than their openly lustful gazes. You pretend to ignore them as best as possible, but it’s hard when you don’t want to turn your back on them.

A third man comes into the room, one you haven’t seen before. He’s big, broad, a tight shirt stretching over his belly, lines around his eyes, thinning hair on his head. He doesn’t look at you, just steps over the two boys and switches on the TV that comes to life with a static crackle. On your mattress, you come alive too, your heart starting with a painful lurch. Whatever it is, this can’t be good for you.

You barely recognize the face on TV. It takes you about a minute to make sense of what you’re seeing, so unfamiliar you’ve become with the ambassador you used to take orders from. She looks the same – it’s you who has changed. Her suit is still perfectly pressed, her hair is still perfectly styled, she still speaks into the cameras in that calm, no-nonsense voice. It’s you who you don’t recognize, you who doesn’t make sense anymore.

It also takes you a while to understand her, to make sense of what she’s saying. You hear the words “hostages” and “negotiation”, and you know she’s talking about you and whoever else there may be, but definitely you. It would explain your captors’ faces. Something has happened, some new development that’s inconveniencing them. Maybe this is it. Maybe you’re being set free. Maybe even tonight. The thought makes you feel light-headed; you have no idea who you are outside of these four walls and that mattress.

“… end of negotiations. We will no longer regard terrorists as equal opposites in this. Any American hostages they might still have, or pretend to have, will, from today onward, be considered missing in action.”

What does that mean? Surely, they wouldn’t just … they wouldn’t just let you die, would they? You’re DEA, you can’t be missing in action, you’re not a soldier. The cartels can’t kill you, they wouldn’t do that. Just how the US wouldn’t abandon you, wouldn’t go on TV to sign your death warrant in front of a live audience. It doesn’t make sense.

You turn to your captors, as if looking for guidance, but they look just as lost as you. Even the big man. He keeps running his fingers through his thin hair, sweat beading on his forehead. One of the boys looks at him too, as if waiting for orders, the other is running the tip of his index finger through the dust on the floor. Why won’t they look at you?

“So we just kill her?” asks the boy who keeps staring at the big man. His name is Andrés Felipe. You know that because another boy let it slip once. You’re not supposed to know their names, and Andrés Felipe made sure that mistake would never happen again, but by then it was too late.

“Not yet,” the man answers. “We have to wait.”

Andrés Felipe groans. “What for? You heard that woman on TV. They’re done negotiating.”

“You don’t know that,” dust boy chimes in. “It could be a ruse.”

Andrés Felipe laughs at him. “As if you know anything about politics. You can’t even read.”

You look at Andrés Felipe then, truly look at him. You need the distraction. You need to pretend it isn’t you they’re talking about, as if your fate doesn’t depend on these three men. And there isn’t much else to do in this room but look. Andrés Felipe is young, younger than you, but older than dust boy. His face is free of wrinkles, free of the tell-tale signs of hunger and a tough upbringing in the favelas. He isn’t here because he needs to be, he’s here because he wants to be. Which also explains why he dares to speak up in front of the big man, whose maturity puts him in charge.

You don’t like Andrés Felipe, never have. Maybe it’s because knowing his name humanizes him and it’s easier to hate a human than some faceless, nameless villain. Maybe it’s because of the cruel glint in his eyes, or the way he beat up that boy who revealed his name. And now there’s his eagerness to kill you. There is no reason for you to feel any sympathy toward him.

“He’s right,” the big man says then. “Maybe they want us to kill all the hostages so they’ll have an excuse to send in the military.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Andrés Felipe responds. “Everyone would know they’re liars.”

“They’re not,” dust boy dares to speak up again. “Missing in action also means they can be found. If you’re missing, you’re not dead. If the missing people die –”

He can’t finish his sentence because Andrés Felipe slaps him. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The big man doesn’t come to dust boy’s aid. He just smirks. “Quit it, you two, we’re sitting tight until we get our orders.”

“I’m fucking done waiting!” Andrés Felipe shouts and you flinch. He’s too loud. Someone will hear him. And they don’t have any reason to keep you alive now. It’s easier to shoot you and then run. “All I’ve been doing is waiting. Do you think I don’t have anything better to do with my time?”

The big man shushes him. You wish he would hit Andrés Felipe, put him in his place, but he just crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I say we wait.”

You close your eyes and breathe in deeply. Andrés Felipe says something else in that sharp, nasally voice of his, but you refuse to listen. Nothing good can come of it. Either they will kill you or they won’t. You’re too weak to think about either of these options. And you’re not going anywhere until those orders arrive, so you might as well …

When you wake up, the room is quiet, and you immediately know something is wrong. Even before you feel the cool, sharp blade against your neck, and before you smell the stale breath of the man holding it, cowering above you.

“Not one sound,” he hisses, and you recognize Andrés Felipe’s voice, uncomfortably loud in the quiet room. It’s so quiet, too quiet with just the two of you. The sounds of him unbuckling his belt are like explosions against your eardrums. You fight the urge to tell him to be quiet, but then your brain catches up with what your body already knows, and you kick your legs and shake your head.

You almost don’t feel the cut of the knife, but you do feel the hot drops of blood on your neck. “I told you to be quiet,” Andrés Felipe hisses. “Just don’t move.”

But you do, you do move, at least your hands that you ball into fists. You don’t want your life to end like this, in some shack somewhere in Colombia with a knife against your throat and a criminal inside of you. This can’t be it. They have to put you in front of a firing squad at least, don’t they? Not like this. Please, not like this.

Andrés Felipe touches your lower belly trying to unbutton your dirty pants, and you flinch, a terrified groan escaping your lips. The knife cuts deeper into the soft skin of your throat. “Shut up, you stupid bitch,” he growls.

Then there’s blood. Everywhere. It’s in your eyes, your mouth, you breathe it in, you taste it on your tongue. Andrés Felipe collapses on top of you, the knife landing on the mattress with a dull sound. You try to get out from under the heavy body, but you can barely lift his shoulders before your arm starts to tremble.

“Hey.” You wipe the blood out of your eyes to find a man kneeling next to you, shoving Andrés Felipe’s heavy body aside so you can sit up. You don’t know who he is, you’ve never seen him before, but he has to be someone higher up if he dared to kill Andrés Felipe. Because that is what just happened, you slowly realize. Andrés Felipe is dead and you’re covered in his blood.

The strange man reaches for you and you flinch away. “Ma’am, my name is Javier Peña,” he says, his voice steady and calm as if he’s been in this exact situation a million times before. “I’m with the DEA. I’m here to get you out.”

“The DEA?” you repeat, the English sounds feeling foreign in your mouth.

He reaches for you again, touches your shoulder, and this time you don’t flinch away. “You’re safe now.” He squeezes your shoulder, then stands up and holds out his hand to you. You take it and push yourself off the mattress.

“What happened?” you ask, trying to ignore the dead body, half its face gone.

“Maybe we should discuss this –,” Javier starts, but you don’t hear the rest of the sentence. Suddenly it feels like there are cotton balls lodged in your ears and the whole world turns dark, darker than it already is.

Someone is carrying you. You think you must be outside because you feel a light breeze on your face. You don’t remember the last time you smelled fresh air, but when you breathe in deeply, you’re enveloped in cigarette smoke and gunpowder. It’s not unpleasant, you realize with a start. It comes from a heavy leather jacket you’re wrapped in, and from the man carrying you. They never would have carried you like this, carefully, as if you might break, so you know you must be safe.

When you next open your eyes, you’re inside again. The room is so big it startles you at first. But the longer you let your eyes wander, the more your brain adjusts to help you realize you’re in a normal sized living room, sitting on a leather couch, a knitted blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You must have just sat up because your head is spinning and your limbs are trembling, but otherwise you feel like you can finally breathe again.

“Feeling better?”

You’re proud of yourself for not jumping at hearing his voice. “Yeah,” you answer, swallowing to wet your dry throat. You feel an unpleasant tug on your skin where Andrés Felipe cut you twice. “Where am I?”

You turn to look at him. He’s sitting on the couch next to you but with enough distance between the two of you so you don’t touch. He’s holding a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, trying to hide the look of concern on his face. It’s something you will see a lot from now on, people looking at you as if you’re about to break.

“You’re in my living room,” he answers.

“Why not,” you have to swallow again, “why not at the embassy?”

He taps his foot nervously so his leg is jumping up and down, takes a drag. “Us coming to rescue you … that wasn’t exactly sanctioned by Noonan.”

“So you really are DEA?” you ask, even though there are a million other things you should ask first. Like if the press conference you saw on TV was really true. If Noonan and the United States were really prepared to let the remaining hostages die. But the longer you look at the man next to you, the more familiar he looks.

Javier nods at the same time as you burst out, “You tried to warn me, didn’t you? Back at the embassy? You told me I was in over my head with this. You’re the asshole!”

The surprise on his face is almost enough to make you laugh for the first time in months. “I’m the what?”

You open your mouth, but instead of an answer coming out of it, you start coughing uncontrollably. Your sides are burning by the time you’re done, but Javier is right there next to you with a glass of water that you accept gratefully.

“Let me take a look at your throat,” he says, watching you swallow down the cool liquid.

If you think about it, you haven’t been touched in months. You know you’ll flinch away before he even touches you, so you stiffen your muscles, determined to remain in place.

He must see it all on your face. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” you say through gritted teeth.

His fingers are rough against your skin as he carefully tilts your head to the side. You barely flinch but you whimper because the movement hurts more than you would have thought. He hums quietly before standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

You raise your finger to your neck to find the skin there sticky with blood. Whether it is yours or Andrés Felipe’s you can’t tell. But the unfamiliar feeling makes you tremble again. You wish you could stop that, or at least suppress it. You wish the world would start making sense again. You miss your small room and your mattress and knowing what comes next. You don’t even know if Javier is telling the truth, if he really is who he says he is. Yes, he looks vaguely familiar, but until a few hours ago, you had no idea what time of day it was.

“Hey, hey,” Javier says softly. He is sitting next to you again, closer this time, but he’s still not touching you. “Breathe. You’re safe. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“None of it makes sense,” you mumble. You’re not sure if he’s heard you, but you do feel the pressure on your chest lighten.

“You have two cuts on your throat,” Javier goes on, shaking a small bottle of disinfectant. “They don’t look too bad, but I’d still like to clean them. Is that okay?”

How do you explain to him that you just spent months asking for permission instead of giving it? How do you explain to him that you don’t know how to decide anything for yourself anymore?

Not sure what to make of your silence, Javier goes on. “You can do it yourself if you want to. I can show you –”

You tilt your head to the side. “No, please. I want you to do it.”

Javier stops shaking the bottle of disinfectant, grabs a cotton ball, and pours some liquid over it. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

He does hurt you. The second he touches the cotton ball to the cut, you want to scream. It burns so much you can hardly take it. But you grit your teeth and you don’t complain. Because you don’t want him to stop. You know it’s just the isolation and the confusion of the last hours and the fact that your world doesn’t make sense anymore, but the way he dabs the cotton ball across the cut, brow furrowed in concentration, makes you feel safe. And you can’t remember the last time you felt like this.

“You’re being so brave,” he mumbles, and surely you must have misheard or you must have imagined it, because he continues in a normal voice, “Tomorrow, you should go see a doctor. I don’t have any medical training and it doesn’t look too bad, but it can’t hurt to be safe.”

You raise your fingers to touch your throat and briefly brush his as he draws them back. “Thank you,” you say when you find your skin free of dried blood. The cotton ball in Javier’s hand is now a blotchy red. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Javier says, standing up to dispose of the cotton ball. “I think he cut you with a knife.”

“No, not that.” You sink back against the couch cushions and tightly wrap the blanket around yourself. “With Noonan and the hostages.”

Javier, who is standing in the open kitchen with his back toward you, stiffens. “It was just you,” he answers, pretending to clean some dust off the counter. “You were the only American hostage left. Because it took so fucking long to find you.” He turns to you, cringing. “Sorry. I meant it took us forever to find you.”

“You can swear,” you tell him, your cheeks tingling from the unfamiliar sensation of a smile.

He walks back toward you, and it’s as if you’re seeing him for the first time. He’s no longer the jealous man who was trying to get you to back off from a mission he told you you weren’t qualified for. He’s the man who risked his job – and his life – to save you. And you don’t quite know what to do with that.

To your disappointment, he sits down in a chair, not on the couch, and lights another cigarette. “We had your location eventually. But then, two days ago, the cartel released the businessman, the only other American being held. We had to give them three men in exchange, and the exchange almost went wrong. Someone high up in Washington must have decided that’s enough.”

“So it was true, what Noonan said on TV?” You feel hot and cold all over. “It wasn’t a ruse? They were prepared to let me die?”

Javier nods. “Yeah, but I wasn’t.”

Your heart stops for a short while. “Why?”

He shrugs. “You’re one of us.”

“You warned me. You told me not to go on this mission. I thought you were jealous.”

He barks out a short laugh. “No, I thought it was a stupid mission. Too dangerous. Not worth risking the life of one of our agents for. And it was putting all our other informants at risk too.”

You look down at your hands, barely recognizing them underneath the dirt clinging to your skin. “What happens next? Will you get reassigned?”

“I won’t get a medal, that’s for sure.” He takes a drag of his cigarette and his face lights up with a red glow. “Noonan will thank me privately but reprimand me publicly. And then she’ll send you home.”

“Me? Why am I being punished?” Your voice, still hoarse from disuse, rings in your ears.

He laughs again, loudly this time. “Darlin’, Colombia almost killed you. I wouldn’t call it punishment.”

Your heart kickstarts at the use of the diminutive. “I want to stay here. There’s still so much to do.”

He stubs out his cigarette. “What you need to do is take things easy. You just went through a horrible ordeal you haven’t even begun to process. Even if you do stay here, you need a break first.”

You want to protest, but you can’t find the strength. You feel weary, exhausted, like you spent the last month trekking through the jungle without a break. Your body is a heavy lump you hardly have control over.

The next thing you feel is Javier’s arms around you as he holds you tightly. “Hey,” he says again, and you could get used to the softness in his voice. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“No,” you mumble, trying to push him away, suddenly trapped in the memory of closing your eyes and waking up to a man holding a knife cowering above you.

Javier doesn’t take no for an answer. “You’ll sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You’re still not sure this is such a good idea, but there is no alternative you can think of, and your body is begging you to lie down on cool, clean sheets and forget the world for a while. You let Javier pull you up, and you manage to stumble not more than once as he leads you into a dark bedroom. He doesn’t switch on the light.

“I’m going to let you sleep in,” he tells you, sitting you down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to leave the door open in case you need me?”

“No, that’s fine,” you answer, weakly kicking off your dirty shoes. You just want him to leave so you can close your eyes.

He runs his hand from the top of your head down to your neck in a well-practiced, automatic motion. “I’m a light sleeper – just shout if there’s anything you need.”

You nod, and he finally steps back with a smile on his face. “Good night, Javi,” you say, your head hitting the pillow before you can stop it. He’s already at the door when you add, “And thank you.”

You can’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes when the sound of gunfire wakes you. It’s not close by, but the echo of it still reaches you, and before your brain has time to process, your body is already responding with a sob that shakes you from head to toe.

“I’ve got you,” Javier says, wrapping you up in his arms. You bury your face against his naked shoulder, trying to steady your breath, but you’re crying uncontrollably now.

“I’m sorry,” you sob.

All he does is run his hand up and down your back. “Shhhh, I’m here. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

His warm breath against the top of your head makes your heartbeat slow down, and you finally manage to swallow your tears. “I’m so sorry,” you repeat, feeling like you’re about to die.

“Come on, lie down,” he urges you gently, trying to lower you toward the mattress.

“No!” You cling to him desperately, but he pries your arms off him without much effort.

“I’ll be here, okay?” he soothes you. “Right in that chair over there.”

You don’t know what chair he’s talking about; you didn’t notice one when he led you into the bedroom, but you stopped noticing things a while ago. “Don’t leave me,” you beg.

He brushes your hair out of your face and places a soft kiss against your temple. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

When you next open your eyes, there he is, asleep in an armchair in the corner of the bedroom, the early morning sun dancing across his skin.

[ifeelgeek]

Hemos recibido una noticia terrible, pero tras mucho debatirlo hemos decidido no difundirla por tratarse de un tema sumamente delicado del que no estamos suficientemente interiorizados, que consideramos debe ser tratado con el mayor de los cuidados. Sin embargo, queremos tomar la oportunidad para recordar a todos la importancia de la salud mental y de un ambiente armónico y sano en los foros de rol, dicho esto les decimos que en caso de necesitar ayuda hay líneas de emergencia activas las 24 horas en cada país:

Argentina: 0800-999-0091 Bolivia: 168 Chile: 600 360 7777 Colombia: 106 Ecuador: 171 España: 024 México 800 911 2000 Paraguay: 147 Perú: 113 Uruguay: 0800-1920 Venezuela: 0212-416.31.16

[latinotiktok]

nunca dudé que argentina iba a eliminar a la banderita guebona de la hoja btw pero puedes creer que la forma en la que me enteré fue porque vi la noticia de drake perdiendo nosecuanta plata por apostar contra argentina y la seleccion argentina respondiendo con la publicacion esta de not like us. estoy convencido que el eje de la tierra está ligeramente rotado porque el peso del orgullo de los argentinos es un elemento más denso y abundante que el plomo y está haciendo un contrapeso importante. los quiero. los odio. gracias por mandar a sus casas a los explotadores de minas, por favor pierdan contra colombia, buenas tardes.

"los quiero. Los odio"

[alquimistaliteraria]

Lamento profundamente que hayas llegado a sentir que la única salida era poner fin a tu vida.

[Te recordaré en cada atardecer.]

-Carta abierta-

Querida Anto,

Hoy me siento llena de una tristeza profunda al saber, a través de tu hermana, que has tomado la decisión de dejar este mundo. Fue una noticia impactante y trágica. El dolor y la lucha que llevabas dentro de ti fueron demasiado para ti, y lamento profundamente que hayas llegado a sentir que la única salida fue poner fin a tu vida. Espero que ahora encuentres la paz que tanto deseabas y estés en el lugar donde realmente perteneces.

Sé que te has ido, sin embargo, hay un rincón de mi corazón que se niega a creerlo.

Durante estos últimos meses, tuve la oportunidad de hablar contigo, y aunque la distancia nos separaba, te sentía increíblemente cercana. Tenía un interés genuino en conocerte más, y lo poco que compartiste conmigo fue realmente significativo para mí. Siempre me pareciste una chica con un corazón hermoso, con una esencia intrigante. Me encantaba la forma en que te expresabas, tu sinceridad y el nivel de conciencia que mostrabas; realmente iluminabas nuestras conversaciones.

Aunque nuestro tiempo juntas fue breve, quiero que sepas que eras especial para mi. La abrupta interrupción de la relación que estábamos construyendo es dolorosa, y me encuentro en un lugar complicado, llorando por la amiga que llegué a querer y que ya no está.

Me habría gustado que ese viaje a Colombia se hubiera realizado y haber tenido la oportunidad de conocerte en persona, de compartir momentos juntas, y más que nada, de darte ese abrazo chiple de nutria que tanto deseaba compartir contigo. Al igual que las cartas que tenía para ti, quién diría que escribiría esta triste carta expresándote estas palabras y que ya no estarías más aquí.

Gracias por brindarme un espacio agradable y seguro donde pudieron fluir conversaciones sinceras. Te agradezco profundamente por la compañía a la distancia. Desarrolle un cariño enorme hacia ti. Eras fácil de querer. Y sobre todo gracias porque me hiciste ver que hay personas hermosas como tú allá afuera, con las cuales se coincide de manera inesperada.

Hice todo lo que estuvo en mis manos para estar presente, para ofrecerte apoyo y compañía hasta donde me lo permitiste. Me alegra haber compartido lo lindo y amoroso de mi en tus últimos días.

Tu ausencia deja un vacío que se siente profundamente, y siempre guardaré con cariño. Te extrañaré, sin duda. Espero estés donde tu alma es libre y ahí donde ya no existe el sufrimiento.

Quiero que recibas ese abrazo que tanto anhelamos darnos, lleno de amor y compasivo. Nunca serás olvidada, y siempre ocuparás un lugar especial en mi corazón. Fuiste alguien muy especial y tu vida era tan valiosa, ve en paz y sigue tu camino, lo hiciste increíble en esta vida.

Con amor,

By, Yls.

-Reflexión-

Muchas veces, quienes luchan con el dolor interno se sienten atrapados en la oscuridad, sintiendo que la salida es el silencio eterno.

Es vital que entendamos que la lucha con la salud mental no es un signo de debilidad, sino un reto que puede ser abrumador. Cada vida es valiosa, y debemos dedicar tiempo y esfuerzo a fomentar un espacio donde podamos hablar abierta y honestamente sobre el dolor, la tristeza y la esperanza. Honremos a quienes hemos perdido al comprometernos a ser más compasivos y a estar más atentos a quienes nos rodean. Recordemos que incluso un pequeño gesto de amor puede marcar la diferencia en la vida de alguien que lucha en silencio, y que realmente no quiere morir solo busca acabar con su sufrimiento. Recordemos que las decisiones de una persona, especialmente en situaciones de crisis, son complejas.

Aprende sobre la salud mental es fundamental, Informarnos puede proporcionarnos una mejor comprensión de lo que pueden estar enfrentando y cómo ayudar a otros en el futuro.

[idon-twannabeperceived]

Bueno la buena noticia es q ahora en la final no me va a dar ni un poco de pena Colombia. Argentina hacé lo q tengas que hacer, sin piedad.

[cristinabcn]

"INDIRA SERRANO" Deslumbrante Estrella Afrodescendiente de Colombia

Gerardo Marrugo González. Periodista, Editorialista, Entrevistador, Escritor, Director Gral. de Información y Noticias Globales. PRENSA ESPECIALIZADA Desde Colombia para el mundo, Gerardo Marrugo González, Director General de INFORMACION Y NOTICIAS GLOBALES de LA AGENCIA MUNDIAL DE PRENSA, en una entrevista muy importante porque promueve la representación, inspira a otros, aumenta la conciencia…

[marveleden]

Holi! Hoy traigo buenas noticias! Nos habéis hecho muchas preguntas, pero algunas se han repetido más que otras. ¿En qué consiste la maniobra 13-14? ¿Cuál es tu secreto de gimnasio? ¿Qué lleva la salsa especial? No puedo responder esas preguntas, son secretos de estado, pero sí puedo responder esta otra... ¿Fecha de apertura?

Planeamos abrir el día 05 de Octubre a las 00:00 (CEST). Eso quiere decir que será a las 19:00 en Argentina y Chile, las 18:00 en Venezuela, las 17:00 en Colombia y Perú, las 16:00 en México y, para los más despistados, las 00:00 en España.

¡Pero no he acabado todavía! Durante esta semana, la semana de lanzamiento, iremos publicando en el blog cositas sobre el foro, ¡así que no te pierdas nada!

Os recuerdo que nuestra particular reserva de PB sigue abierta, y puedes unirte a nosotros en Discord. 

[cerebrodigital]

Los universitarios presentaron el proyecto como innovador y sostenible que podría sustituir el uso del plástico.

Te contamos más sobre el proyecto aquí: