Guardian weekly: First person 620

Banished to Bogotá

Alvaro Pascuas is one of the three million or more Colombians to have lost his home over the last decade due to the country's interminable civil conflict. Today, Colombia is estimated to have the largest population of internal refugees in the world after Sudan. Like Alvaro, most of the displaced come from the countryside, where the government's presence remains weak and the law of the gun still rules

It was just after breakfast when the soldiers came. There were four of them in total, all dressed in army fatigues and Wellington boots. The leader was probably about 20 years old, maybe 22, but no older. He was the only one who ever spoke. The others couldn't have been more than 16 or 17. They just stood there behind him, silently cradling their machine guns.

I was talking with my nephew William when I saw them coming down the path towards the farm. One of the cows was sick and needed medicine. We were discussing which of us was going to walk down to the local village to buy some. There and back it's about a three-hour trip and the day was already getting hot, so neither of us really wanted to go. So we decided to flip for it. The winner would stay and prepare lunch while the other went.

Before we got to decide, though, the soldiers appeared. I knew straight away that they were members of the FARC [the largest of Colombia's left-wing guerrilla groups]: the way they dressed, the way they talked, it was obvious. There are lots of FARC in the hills behind where I live. The whole area around there is zona roja [literally a red zone, or guerrilla area].

They stay mostly in the forest, but everyone knows who they are. Working as a farmer here, you have to pay a tax to the FARC, you see. They call it a vacuna [vaccine], but it's really just a war tax. They come every month to collect it. Every head of cattle is valued at 5,000 pesos [about £1.30]. I have 30 cows in my herd, so that's 30,000 pesos every month I have to find. There's also a sale tax of 30,000 pesos for every cow you sell.

Once I sold two cows to a man in the village, but he never gave me the money. When the FARC came to collect it I told them I didn't have the cash, but they didn't believe me. They tied me to a tree and stripped my clothes off. Then they cut the bark with a machete and a stream of electric ants ran out and started biting me all over. They let me go after five minutes, but the welts from the bites took a fortnight to go down. I've heard of them keeping some people for up to an hour, if you can believe it. I've heard of folk dying that way.

In truth, part of me had been expecting the FARC to appear. William and I had talked about it a lot. The whole thing started about three months ago when a foreign photographer – American or something – came to my farm and asked if he could take some photos of the valley. I guessed it was for a magazine or a calendar or something. The valley I live in is very beautiful, very green, and I liked the idea of foreigners seeing my view. So I said: "Sure, take as many as you like." When the FARC heard later that a foreigner had been around and I hadn't reported it, they got mad. Kidnapping a foreigner is good business for them, you see.

Then, about four weeks later, the army turned up on my doorstep. The commander asked if he could use my farm as a base for his unit, but it was more like an order than a request. I couldn't exactly say no. They stayed for about three weeks, fighting all the time against the guerrilla in the hills behind. William and I couldn't do anything. We had nowhere to go, so we just stayed in the house. We were stuck in the middle of it, the sound of gun fire around us all the time. Then one day the army packed up and went.

That's when I expected the FARC to come and hassle me for letting them stay, but they didn't. Then, about a fortnight ago, a crack mountain battalion turned up. Again, they camped on my farm without giving me any choice. These guys are the army's hardest; they're specially trained to track down and kill guerrilla insurgents. Even the FARC are scared of them. The battle lasted for just under a week. They say they killed half a dozen men, but I don't know. You can never be sure they're telling the truth.

It was about a week after they left that the four FARC soldiers came. Immediately the leader started swearing and shouting insults at me. He said I was a collaborator. He also said that they'd been very lenient with me. They forgave me the photographer, he said, and the first army battalion. "But we don't forgive people three times," he said. Then he told me to leave my farm and clear off for good. He said he'd shoot me if I didn't go right then and there.

I asked for six hours – time enough to sell some things and get some money together. I didn't have a cent, you see. In the countryside, we hardly use money. "What is it about the words 'right now' that you don't understand?" he said. Then he pulled out his pistol from his holster, pointed it at William and shot him in the forehead. He crumpled to the floor right in front of me. He killed him just like that, as if he were putting down a dog.

I turned on my heels and got the hell out of there. I couldn't think of anything. I just charged down the path. I was crying hysterically and was absolutely terrified. I don't remember seeing anyone. It must have been about half an hour before I reached the main road. They told me to keep out of the village and so I jumped on the first bus that came past. I had no idea where it was going. I just knew I had to get out of there. The driver saw how distressed I was and didn't make me pay. He dropped me in the bus station of a bigger town about four hours drive away.

I sat on the bench, totally stunned. A woman came up to me and asked if I was all right. I told her briefly what had happened and she said she was driving to Bogotá that night. She had a truck and asked if I wanted to go with her. I didn't know what to do, so I went. The next morning she dropped me at a busy junction near the centre of town. She gave me a rucksack and this jacket that I've got on now. That was two days ago, nearly three, I suppose.

I've spent the last two nights sleeping on the street. I don't know anyone here in the capital, not a soul. I spoke with one man who gave me this bag of lemons to sell. But they're too ripe. No one will buy them. He said I should go to the fruit market and buy some papaya to sell on the street. But how can I buy papaya when I don't even have a single peso?

In Bogotá, it's not like the countryside. There, everyone knows everyone and if someone is in trouble then the neighbours always help out. People in the city only care about themselves. I've asked everywhere for a job; in restaurants, on building sites, but no one will give me the time of day.

Here, everyone is so proud. They could see someone dying on the floor and they'd just step over them. I sometimes wish the FARC had killed me too. It would be better than arriving here and being rejected and humiliated. You are displaced and then in the city they kill you slowly.

Night-time is the worst. Sitting there in the cold and dark, I think to myself: "This isn't fair. I have land, land I've bought. And now I have nothing." And then, come morning, the whole depressing process starts again: Where to go? What to do? How to get something to eat?

Yesterday, I seriously toyed with the idea of hitching a lift north and joining the auto-defensas [the private paramilitaries set up to counter the guerrillas]. But I decided I've had my fill of violence.

The government says there is peace here in Colombia, but if you live where I do, then you know that's rubbish. They keep what is really happening a secret. The politicians say the war is being won, but no one is winning the war. It just keeps on going. There are only losers. Personally, I don't think either side is really interested in winning. There are too many economic interests with something to lose if it stops. It'll never end, in my opinion.

And do you know what's worst? I've no idea what they did with William's body. I don't know whether they buried him or threw him in the brook or just left him there rotting in the farmyard. I just don't know. How am I going to explain it all to his mother?

• Alvaro Pascuas was interviewed by Oliver Balch

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