For decades, residents of the working class neighborhood of Comuna 13, in Medellín, Colombia have sworn that a garbage dump near the community also served as a clandestine burial ground for some of the city’s thousands of “disappeared”—victims of gangs, paramilitaries, and Colombian security forces during the country’s more than half-century civil war.
On December 18, Colombia’s Peace Court (JEP for its Spanish initials) finally confirmed these suspicions when investigators uncovered human remains during a search of the grounds. The grim revelation has renewed the debate in the city over paramilitary “social cleansings,” which claimed thousands of lives in Medellin and culminated in 2002 in “Operation Orion,” a joint armed offensive in Comuna 13 carried out by state forces and their paramilitary allies that left hundreds of victims.
It has also inspired a graffiti war in a city that has become famous for its street art.
On Sunday, January 12, street artists and activists painted a mural on an underpass in the city honoring the victims of conflict in Comuna 13. The mural also depicted a group of mothers of missing children who have spent decades insisting that authorities investigate “La Escombrera,” which residents have long claimed is “the largest mass grave in the country.”
“Las cuchas tenían la razón," (the old ladies were right), read the mural, using a slang term for “mothers” that can imply affection or serve as a pejorative depending on the context.
The work featured a portrait of Margarita Restrepo, whose 16-year-old daughter, Carol Vanessa, went missing in Comuna 13 in 2002 along with two friends. Neighbors say they were taken to La Escombrera by armed men the night they went missing.
The following day Medellin’s right-wing mayor, Federico Gutiérrez, better known as “Fico,” ordered the mural removed and sent city workers to repaint the underpass with grey primer. The decision was met with public outcry.
That night, Fico responded to mounting criticism in public comments, saying he “respects artistic expression,” but “another very different thing is disorder and those who simply want to generate chaos and make the city ugly and dirty.”
Artists, however, insist that Fico’s objections are more political than aesthetic. Restrepo pointed out that thousands of other murals have gone uncensored in a city that is known for its graffiti and vibrant arts culture.
Undeterred, activists and artists returned to the site on January 14 and repainted the mural, this time twice as big, amid impromptu celebrations.
“Fico tried to erase the victims of the urban conflict,” said Rafael Núñez, a young university professor who participated in the creation of both murals. “But we will not be silenced. So, we returned, and instead of just one side of the underpass, this time we painted both.”
The following day, the street art battle between city officials and graffiti artists exploded into a national story. Leftist President Gustavo Petro described the mural as “art as expression” that addressed some of “the worst humanitarian horrors committed in Medellin,” actions he described as “worthy of Pinochet, Videla and Hitler.”
Street artist collectives in Bogotá, Cali, and Pasto vowed to create their own versions of the mural in solidarity with the residents of Comuna 13, and the national news was dominated by stories of Operation Orion, and the graffiteros engaged in a peaceful battle with a mayor who has long been critical of peace processes in the country.
If Fico hoped that erasing the mural would decrease the visibility of its message, he was mistaken. Artist collectives in at least five other cities, including the capital Bogotá, have already made plans for similar murals.
A Dark History Emerges
Medellín’s Comuna 13 is known today as a tourist hotspot that draws visitors for guided tours of its vibrant street art, hip-hop parties, and a myriad of souvenirs that range from traditional Colombian clothing to T-shirts featuring Pablo Escobar. But in the early 2000s, it was one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in a city known worldwide for conflict and narcotrafficking.
Kanabico is an activist and part of the artist collective that painted the mural. “My mother was threatened by paramilitaries, that’s the environment we grew up in,” he said in an interview. “In the 90s sicarios [hitmen] were part of our everyday life. There were guerillas. There were paracos,” he said, using the slang-term for right-wing “self-defense” forces in Colombia that fought on the side of the government during the civil war and were guilty of grave human rights violations. “I chose art instead of violence. I chose to survive through cultural expression,” he added.
“In the early 2000’s, the government and the paramilitaries declared war on us,” said Kanabico. Operation Orion was the largest urban deployment of the military in Colombia’s history. Over four days, soldiers and their paramilitary allies went door to door in Comuna 13, purportedly looking for leftist rebels. But residents say the killings and detentions were often arbitrary.
According to Colombia’s Center for Historical Memory, the operation resulted in six hundred direct victims: displaced, wounded, disappeared, and dead. Seventy-five residents of Comuna 13 were killed and 105 disappeared. But in the years that followed, continuing paramilitary operations likely left thousands of victims, reports PARES, a non-profit organization that investigates peace-building in the country.
Don Berna, a top leader of the Cacique Nutibara Bloc of the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia (AUC), stated in public declarations in 2012 that his paramilitary forces used La Escombrera as a site to carry out interrogations, tortures, and executions as well as a dumping ground for people they had killed. The bodies were then covered by the plentiful debris that surrounds the site.
“This dark history must be confronted if we are to heal as a nation,” said Núñez, the professor and activist. “And victims must be given the chance to speak, to express their pain. He continued: “Fico has decided he wants to erase their pain. He has decided to silence their voices.”
Hernán Muriel is a communicator for social movements in Medellín and an independent journalist who participated in the creation of the mural. “For years, the country has enforced silence about the conflict,” he said. “What we need is open public debate. What we want to create is a political conflict of words and art. Historically these differences have been resolved through violence.”
“And in war, the first casualty is always the truth,” Muriel continued.
Art as Memory
The discovery of human remains at La Escombrera in December has also inspired criticism of then-president Alvaro Uribe, who currently faces criminal charges for witness tampering in an investigation into his links to paramilitary forces during his time in office.
In response, Uribe called Colombia’s Peace Court “liars” and “left-wing tools of [President] Petro.” The JEP was created in 2017 as part of the country’s peace deal with the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) to investigate human rights violations committed by all parties in the civil war, long before Petro was elected president in 2022.
Núñez says this kind of negation by politicians like Fico and Uribe constitutes “a revictimization of people who suffered grave human rights violations.” In Comuna 13, arts projects have served as a means to counteract this erasure and provide healing for the community. “We’ve worked on cultural projects as part of a larger goal of creating a record of these events for years,” said Núñez.
Kanabico and other community artists seemed elated that their message has resonated so broadly. They also deny accusations that their work is politically motivated. “Politicians have accused us of being financed by Petro’s political party, or ‘leftists’,” said Muriel. “This is a lie. All materials used have come from donations from the community here. And I think Fico messed up, because now we’re getting donations for more murals from all over the world.”
The mural was defaced on Wednesday, January 17, when unknown parties partially erased one of the images, an homage to an iconic photo of paramilitaries directing government forces during Operation Orion.
“Very interesting that’s what they chose to erase,” said Muriel, “the part of the story they don’t want told.” He continued: “I want to see murals like this on every corner of every city in Colombia. They want to silence us?”, he asked, laughing. “El arte no se calla.”
Art cannot be silenced.
Joshua Collins is a freelance reporter in Colombia focused on civil rights, migration, and the impact of crime upon human rights.
