LAST OF THREE PARTS

Martyrs in a battle for rights
[Mario Calderon and Elsa Constanza Alvarado]
LINDA DIEBEL/TORONTO STAR

TEARS FOR THE FALLEN: Mario Calderon and Elsa Constanza Alvarado were
shot by a death squad. Police found their baby son sitting between
their bloodsoaked bodies.

A loving couple die in a hail of bullets as barabarism by death squads
reaches horrific new heights

BOGOTA AT 2 A.M. on Monday, May 19, a death squad of armed men burst
into the apartment of Mario Calderon and Elsa Constanza Alvarado and
killed them, as well as her father, Carlos.

And when police arrived hours later, they found the couple's
18monthold baby son sitting between the bloody, bulletridden bodies
of his parents.

Imagining the child's torment is one of the hardest aspects of the
tragedy for Mario and Elsa's friends in the Colombian human rights
community.

That, and knowing that this married couple, university professors and
human rights advocates in this dangerous country, had talked of the
risks for themselves but never for their child. ``Their deaths have
moved the people of Colombia,'' says Omar Hernandez, a 29yearold
lawyer who worked with Mario and Elsa at a grassroots advocacy group
called the Centre for Research and Popular Education (CINEP).

``We are committed to continuing the love and tenderness they shared
with all of us.''

It's perilous to work for human rights in Colombia.

Last year alone, more than 1,000 people were executed by death squads,
whose barbarism seems to reach horrific new heights with each passing
year.

They kill women, children, the sick, the old, the stooped and the
frail. They decapitate people and gut them and scrawl gruesome
messages in blood on the walls.

``Be warned, Worms!'' they write. ``You will be next.''

The civil war in Colombia has gone on for more than 40 years. But few
people, either soldiers or guerrillas, actually die in battle.

Instead, there's a terror campaign against the civilian population and
especially against those brave enough to fight for change.

Everyone involved in the struggle for human rights in Colombia,
whether as teachers, lawyers, church workers, union organizers or
community activists, knows the risks.

Dying isn't a possibility. It's a probability.

Last year The Star told the story of Arsenio Cordoba, a young
democratic politician in his late 30s, who was gunned down while
leaving his offices in Apartado, in the northern state of Antioquia.

He belonged to the Patriotic Union, which has had 1,500 of its members
assassinated in the 10 years since it became a party.

Just a few months before, he had talked about the danger of being a
municipal Patriotic Union politician in the raw Uruba region,
foretelling his own violent death.

Today, on a Bogota morning in late June, Hernandez and others from
CINEP honor their martyred colleagues. There are tributes from friends
who fight back tears.

Giant portraits of the couple are slowly raised up the front outside
wall of the CINEP building. The headquarters for the organization,
which is publicly funded, is in an old house on a hill overlooking the
city and the pictures can be seen for blocks.

There's Elsa, 35, with her wonderful winning smile and sparkling dark
eyes, and her husband, Mario, 50, looking more thoughtful.

``Today we are celebrating their lives. It is a celebration of peace,
justice and life,'' says Rosario Saverdra, 50. She's an
environmentalist like her longtime friend, Mario.

``Their killings have touched a chord here. We don't want them to be
just two more deaths that everybody soon forgets. We must keep their
memory alive,'' she continues.

``For the honor of Colombia, we've got to stop these killings.''

A steady gray drizzle is falling.

Later, Hernandez, a family man, talks about his own fears and why
nobody has left the small, tightknit group since the murders.

For days after it happened, they were all in shock. Nobody knew who
might be next. You could feel the tension over longdistance telephone
lines.

It's dangerous enough talking by phone under normal circumstances if
events in Colombia can ever be called normal but, for some time,
nobody wanted to say anything.

``I decided to work with CINEP because I wanted to do something for
those who are unprotected and poor,'' Hernandez begins. ``I've always
been preoccupied with injustice and poverty and the people of Colombia
are suffering grave injustice.''

He is a large, frenetic man with a booming laugh and easy manner who
always seems to be doing 15 things at once. He's always trailing bits
of paper or writing telephone numbers on his hand.

The only time he ever seems to sleep is on the grinding old prop
planes that fly into Chigorodo, Apartado, Turbo or other towns in the
northern area he covers for CINEP.

He is married to Maria Constanza and they have two boys, Omar Andres,
7, and Daniel Felipe, seven months.

``My son, Omar, worries about me a lot. He understands what is going
on and he often asks me why they have killed so many of my friends,''
he says. ``My wife is not so much worried about me, as about everyone
who works for peace and justice in Colombia. She is a woman with great
spiritual force.''

He is thoughtful for a moment.

``Yes, of course, I'm afraid. I'm greatly afraid,'' he says, then
recites a Spanish proverb that loses a little in the translation.

``It is better to be and be scared, than not to be, and not be
scared.''

He adds: ``The thing that scares me the most is the constant
uncertainty, and the rage, never knowing who and why they attack and
kill us.''

Still, he would never consider taking his law degree from the National
University of Colombia and using it to try and get rich.

``Working here gives me the opportunity to work for the real things in
life,'' he says.

At CINEP, most people don't believe the killers will ever be caught.

There were five of them when Mario and Elsa were killed, all
supposedly carrying identification from the department of justice.
They entered the building when someone went out for a taxi and hurried
straight up to the apartment on the seventh floor. They broke down the
door.

Elsa's mother, who was also there, is in critical condition in
hospital with gunshot wounds.

``We don't know who did it,'' says colleague Camillo Borrero, a Jesuit
priest. ``In this country, nobody knows anything. Military
intelligence is investigating and, for all we know, military
intelligence could be behind the killings. I am afraid, yes.''

He knows the murders were a warning to all of them ``but we won't
stop. We have to fight harder.''

Colleagues, friends and family members remember the couple with
affection.

``Mario was such a joyful person,'' says his sister, Ana Calderon, 52.
She describes how he spent 25 years as a Jesuit priest, after making
the decision to go into the seminary very young, and finally left the
priesthood in 1991.

``I think he felt distanced from God and he wanted to build a home and
family for himself,'' she says. ``A year later, he met Elsa at CINEP
where they both worked. I think they fell in love right away.

``He was wonderful. He was honest and easy to talk to. He was
thoughtful and he had a great analytical mind,'' she says. ``He was
very curious and he loved simple things, like long trips in the
mountains . . . and they were both crazy about their little boy.''

For Mario, the child came late. He was almost 50. In fact, love had
come late. Everyone says he was serenely happy. A recent picture of
the couple shows them walking in a park Elsa in a short summer dress
and sunglasses, Mario in casual shirt and chinos, each gripping one of
their baby's little arms as he dances along.

``Elsa was a person who loved life,'' says friend Saverdra.

``She was sweet and funny and profound and Mario told me he fell in
love with her right away. She was very professional and, as you can
imagine, a wonderful communicator,'' she adds, referring to Elsa's
former job as CINEP communications director.

She begins to cry.

``Elsa had quit working fulltime, though,'' she says, ``because she
wanted to spend more time with her son while he was little.''