Valentina Martinez

As I sat in the back of the armored limousine, staring out the tinted windows at the passing streets of Bogotá, Colombia, I couldn't shake the feeling of confinement that seemed to follow me everywhere. At 15, my life was far from typical. Being the daughter of a prominent politician meant living behind towering walls and fortified doors, with security personnel always nearby, a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond.

Yesterday, as we made our way towards my school, the monotony of the journey was shattered by the sudden sound of a bursting tire. Panic surged through me as the limousine came to a halt, my heart pounding in my chest. Before I could fully comprehend the situation, a car screeched to a stop beside us, and three armed men emerged with grim determination etched on their faces.

My bodyguards sprang into action, swiftly drawing their weapons and positioning themselves to defend us. Time seemed to slow as I watched the tense standoff unfold, fear gripping me in its icy grasp. I held my breath, bracing for the worst.

But then, inexplicably, the men backed down and fled in their vehicle, leaving us shaken but unharmed. As the adrenaline slowly subsided, relief washed over me, mingled with a profound sense of gratitude for the swift action of my protectors.

Yet, even as we resumed our journey, the lingering sense of vulnerability weighed heavily on my mind. I longed for a life free from the constant shadow of danger, where I could walk the streets without fear and attend school like any other teenager.

But for now, this was my reality. A life defined by high walls and security details, where every outing felt like a journey from one fortress to the next. My father's position came at a high price, one that touched not only him but his entire family. And as we continued on our way, I couldn't help but wonder if there would ever be a day when we could break free from this prison of fear.