My twelve-year-old feet in pink puma sneakers stepped onto Colombian soil for the first time in 2006. My toes wriggled with excitement and my little legs couldn’t have moved faster to get past immigration. I couldn’t wait to settle into my new home in Bogota. Once my father finished locating and piling on our 10 suitcases filled with the next three months worth of our belongings, we were on our way to begin a new season of the Noel family saga. Edilberto, our family driver, picked us up from the airport and we made our way to a hotel in Rosales, one of the most upscale areas of the city. He turned on the radio to familiarize us with the rhythm of authentic Colombian accordions and the beautifully passionate voices of local artists. My heart swayed to the beating vocals of Juanes’ voice and I began to soak in his words. As I began to process his lyrics my upturned lips began to fall with each repetition of the chorus. “No te olvides de esto no, no, no. . . .Fijate bién donde pisasFijate cuando caminasNo vaya a ser que una minaTe desbarate los piés amor"Juanes sings, “don’t forget about this, look carefully where you step, look carefully when you walk, it shouldn’t be that a landmine destroys your feet my love.”The lyrics were a message for the millions of Colombians living outside of my safety bubble, reminding them to watch their steps for landmines. When I walked out of the airport I didn’t realize how lucky I was to step safely and firmly on Colombian soil. The reality for the rest of Colombians is a much more cruel one. The distinctive line that divides the rich from the poor in Colombia happens to be a delicate line between life and death where one step in the wrong direction can trigger an explosion that encompasses the reality of the Colombian drug war. The last 50 years of Colombian history have been categorized by an unquenchable demand for Colombian cocaine and an eternal conflict between the government and its guerrilla rebels. The rebels have planted death in nearly “10,000 potentially Suspect Hazardous Areas” as stated by HALO, an organization dedicated to relieving countries from explosive landmines. This is just one of the many consequences the drug war has on my country. The outskirts of my Rosales bubble were afflicted by pain and fear in the hearts millions of Colombians caught in the crossfire of the production of cocaine, a recreationally used stimulating white powder. Intrigued by Juanes’ words I asked Edilberto about Colombia’s past. He had served in the army during the years of Pablo Escobar, witnessing bombings, kidnappings, and homicides that characterized Colombia during those years. My beautiful Colombia was forced to play upon a game of twister; each step carefully calculated and each decision potentially fatal. During the palace of justice siege by the M19 (paramilitary group), Edilberto was called on duty to remove incinerated bodies from the premises. His eyes told more than his words as he spoke of that day. We were coming close to our hotel when I peered out the window and noticed a young boy no older than myself holding up a sign that read "soy desplazado, por favor ayudame, que Dios te bendiga," or in English “I am displaced, please help me, God bless you.” I asked Edilberto what "desplazado" meant. He explained to me that desplazados were the rural people caught in the crossfire of the war and forced out of their homes by the guerilla rebel groups and drug cartels. They come to the city and beg for money to start a new life free of violence. Most of the time the drug cartels and guerrilla groups threaten the civilians living in territory they want to acquire, they could either join them or leave. Four years later, after calling Colombia my home, my Rosales bubble began to thin out as I held a close friend in my arms telling her “it will be ok.” I knew it wouldn't, but how are you supposed to tell a 16 year old girl whose father had just been kidnapped by the guerrilla that it wouldn’t be ok? I watched her for six months receive letters from her father as proof he was alive and still redeemable for ransom.My Rosales bubble burst the first time my father had a gun pointed at his head and an SUV blocked his passage. Even after the years of Escobar our cities were still being inflicted by crime and kidnapping. I quickly realized the warm Colombian sun I had soaked in during my first hours in the city was infected by the wake of the Escobar years and the power of the addicting drug that dominated the world market.During my senior year of high school I pledged to myself that I would never be part of the demand that destroys the country I love so much. I was bound and determined to show the world that the powder they inhale is laced with the blood of innocent Colombians and the stomach acids of young drug mules risking their lives to bring cocaine to the nostrils of its ignorant consumers.I write this article not for recognition, but in hopes that one-day my beautiful Colombia will be seen for the natural beauty and rich culture that it radiates instead of the toxic cocaine it harvests. The truth behind this drug should be exposed at the hands of the consumers whose insatiable demand brings an endless flow of blood and tears to my people. Let Colombia be characterized by Cano Cristales, a river so magical it flows over five colors. Let Colombia be characterized by Santa Marta, the coastal city whose warm beaches are overlooked by snow-peaked mountains. Let Colombia be characterized by the smiles, voices, and feet of its people moving to the sounds of Colombian accordions and the hope for a violence-free country. This article was written by Sophia Noel. Please send an email to [email protected] to get in touch. Photo Credit: Jasmine Zhu