Picturing Peace: Murals and Memory in Colombia

Bill Rolston and Sofi Ospina

Introduction

Two hours by bus from Cartagena and half an hour by motor bike along unpaved roads, nestling in the Montes de María is the village of Mampuján. On 10 March 2000 a group of armed gunmen from a paramilitary group, Héroes Montes de María, entered the village with the intention of massacring inhabitants whom they accused of assisting FARC guerrillas. In the previous month the armed group had killed more than 50 people in nearby El Salado. But for some reason, the plans were changed in Mampuján. Instead of a massacre, the armed group ordered 620 villagers to leave under pain of death.1 The paramilitaries then went on to the neighbouring hamlet of Las Brisas where they killed 11 people. A decade later, as part of the Justice and Peace process, the Superior

Court of Cundinamarca arraigned the leaders of Héroes Montes de María and issued a judgment, sentence 34547, which authorised reparations for the people of Mampuján and Las Brisas. This was the first sentence to emerge from the Justice and Peace process. The judgment was not enacted immediately, so the villagers had to continue to agitate, including organising demonstrations in

Cartagena and lobbying in Bogotá. Eventually 105 houses were rebuilt; at the people's request they were simple structures. The bridge has been rebuilt, but there is much development to be tackled.

There are few services in the village. The village 'plaza' is an unpaved area of empty land. Yet at one end of the plaza, on the side of the largest building in the village, is a huge colourful mural, painted by Bogotá artist Guache in collaboration with local people (see figure 1). Delivered as part of the process of symbolic reparation, it is clearly the pride and joy of Juana, the community leader who shows us round. It depicts a history of suffering and final victory for Mampuján - attacks

1. J. Ruiz Hernández, Vivencías: Narraciones comunitarias de la historia y el desarrollo de la ruta jurídica en el marco de la sentencia 34547 de Justicia y Paz, a partir de las experiencias de Mampuján (Maríalabaja, US Department of Justice, 2013), p. 18. during the Spanish conquest and La Violencia in the 1950s, as well as the villagers being forced out by the paramilitaries in 2000. But it also notes the judicial success and the return of those formerly displaced.

Figure 1: Mampuján, mural displaying history of conflict, painted by Gauche and local people.

At the other end of the country is the region inhabited by the Nasa people, an indigenous group. On a road through the mountains of northern Cauca from the old colonial town of Popayán and near the small town of Toribío is a mural commemorating the massacre of Gargantillas. On 26 March 2011 a group of local youths convened for a workshop organised by an alleged FARC militant who offered them food and money. The Colombian military and anti-narcotic forces attacked the meeting, killing 16 indigenous youth, including minors.2 Soon after the massacre, the government reported a major blow against the FARC. However, the military had dressed the dead youths in FARC combat uniforms and reported them as guerrillas killed in action. This was denounced by the Nasa community as a case of 'false positives'. The mural commemorating the massacre is an amateur affair, its effect lessened by the disrespect shown by others; the depiction of dead teenagers and

2. http://comunidadsiriri.blogspot.com.co/2014/03/dolores-que-se-niegan-al-silencio-y-al.html blood-stained shirts is overlaid with pro-FARC graffiti, election posters and advertisements for music performances (see figure 2). Yet, it is clear that the mural holds pride of place in the heart of

Floralba, the mother of two of the dead, as she explains its symbolism to us.

Figure 2: Gargantillas, commemorating the massacre of local young people, painted by local people (detail of mural).

These two displays, at either end of Colombia, raise a number of pertinent questions about the role of symbolic representation in relation to bloody conflicts. Why do the mothers of Gargantillas want to be reminded as they travel this road regularly of the trauma which befell their families? Why should a mural be valued in a village lacking many amenities? Where does this urge to respond to unbearable suffering through symbolic representation stem from? And who ultimately is the message on the walls directed at?

These are the questions we sought to answer in a survey of political murals throughout Colombia.

In October 2015 we travelled from Buenaventura to Putamayo, from Cartagena to Cali, not forgetting the two major cities of Bogotá and Medellin. We conducted fieldwork in 10 different locations and interviewed 20 muralists and 25 representatives of victims' groups and women's groups which painted or commissioned murals, as well as peace and human rights activists. Many of our respondents had reservations about their identity being revealed in print. Before presenting our findings, we will turn first to give a brief recount of the conflict in Colombia followed by a discussion on victims and memorialisation.

The Colombian Conflict

The roots of the most recent period of conflict in Colombia are in the dispute over political power between Conservatives and Liberals between 1946 and 1958. Known as La Violencia, its effects were felt most keenly by the peasantry. In the 1960s insurgency groups were born in reaction to the timidity of social reforms during the transition process particularly in rural areas. One insurgent group, FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia - Colombian Revolutionary Armed

Forces), made its base among the beleaguered peasantry. Another insurgent group, the ELN

(Ejército de Liberación Nacional - National Liberation Army), mobilised middle class youth and sympathizers of liberation theology. For the next half century these and other insurgent groups (for example, M-19 and Quintín Lame) were at war with the Colombian state. In parallel, from the

1970s some right wing ‘self defence’ (autodefensa) groups started evolving into paramilitary structures in different regions, frequently with official backing from wealthy landowners and politicians, to directly combat the guerrillas. In 1997 the disparate paramilitary groups combined and consolidated as AUC (Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia - United Self-Defence Forces of

Colombia).3

The height of insurgent power came in 1998 when President Andres Pastrana began peace talks by conceding that the FARC could have a 42,000 square kilometre Zona de Distensión, a demilitarized

3. M. Ronderos, Guerras recicladas: una historia periodística de paramilitarismo en Colombia (Bogota, Ed. Aguilar, 2014). zone in which they could operate unimpeded by government military intervention.4 Both guerrillas and paramilitaries became involved in the illegal drug trade both as a form of fund-raising and as a means to territorial control.

In 2002 President Álvaro Uribe took over, and embarked on a policy to defeat the guerrillas militarily. Financial support arrived from the United States; for example, Plan Colombia provided

$4.7 billion, 75 percent of which was allocated to the military and police.5At the same time between

2003 and 2006 Uribe ostensibly negotiated the disbandment of the AUC. Some paramilitary groups did not disband entirely while others segued effortlessly into criminal gangs, known as bacrims

(bandas criminales, criminal gangs) where they continue to hold sway in many areas.6

Uribe's successor, President Juan Santos, switched policy radically by recognising the existence of internal conflict and its consequences. In 2011 he signed the Law of Victims and Land Restitution and in 2012 serious peace talks began which directly addressed many of the political priorities of the FARC, not least the question of structural reform. By end of 2015 progress had been made. The creation of a peace tribunal was envisaged with the mandate to investigate, judge and impose sanctions on perpetrators of serious crimes, whether guerrillas, state agents or civilians responsible for providing financial or other support to the armed groups.7 Later agreement was reached for the creation of a truth commission, a missing people’s unit, and a special jurisdiction for peace and reparation measures and in January 2016 the creation of a tripartite mechanism led by the UN

Security Council to oversee the implementation of peace agreements.8 As of the time of writing, the peace talks with the FARC are still ongoing; the parties seem to be well on the way to reaching agreement on sensitive issues such as disarmament and the cantonment of ex-combatants. On 30

4 . J. Rochlin, 'Plan Colombia and the revolution in military affairs: the demise of the FARC,' Review of International Studies-(vol. 37, no.

8 March 2016 the Colombian government began peace talks with the ELN, the second oldest insurgency group. Some resistance to both peace processes has been voiced by right-wing ex-

President Uribe and his allies.

The main impact of the protracted armed conflict has been on civilians.9 The death toll between

1958 and 2012 is estimated to be at least 220,000, of whom 82 percent were civilians. There were

27,023 kidnappings, 25,482 by guerrillas and 2,541 by paramilitary groups. The guerrillas were mainly responsible for laying land mines which claimed the lives of 2,156 people and wounded

8,454, the highest landmine casualty rates in the world.10 There were an estimated 150,000 selective killings, committed mainly by paramilitaries. This figure also included at least 1,400 'false positives', innocent civilians killed by state forces and labelled as guerrillas in order to increase the army's body count.11 4,744.046 people were displaced when at least 8.3 million hectares of land and

350,000 properties were abandoned or seized. More than 11,700 people were killed in 1,982 massacres, the bulk of which were committed by paramilitaries. The paramilitaries were also responsible for decimating the UP (Unión Patriótica - Patriotic Union), a left wing political party with partial affiliation with FARC, between 3,000 and 5000 of whose members were murdered (see figure 3).12 The military and paramilitaries together 'have been responsible for 70–75 percent of non-battlefield killings (such as the executions of civilians and surrendered fighters)'.13 Some of these atrocities have been portrayed in murals as was pointed out in our introduction and will be considered again in the presentation of our findings in various regions of Colombia.

13 Figure 3: Calle 26, Bogotá, memorial to murdered Unión Patriótica members and supporters.

Victims and Memorialisation

Given that protracted history of violence and its consequent legacy for many, it is not surprising that calls to memory - memoria - are common in contemporary Colombia. There are two centres of memory in Bogotá and others throughout the country. The word arises repeatedly in conversations with victims' groups. It also appears frequently in murals, as at the Universidad Nacional in Bogotá

(see figure 4). Figure 4: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá: 'Let's remember'.

Even if not explicitly stated, memoria is often implicit in many murals about conflict and peace, murals which exist to remember and honour the dead. Such murals are often shrines, ‘created by regular, everyday people who feel a need to commemorate the loss of life, to call attention to how the life was lost, and to consecrate the place where the unthinkable happened’.14 The last function is most important when the mural is site-specific.

But more than simply a site marker, the memorial mural broadcasts a powerful symbolic message.

It speaks to the truth of what happened and acknowledges the injustice involved. It creates ‘a place for grieving, publicly recognizing suffering ... acting as a permanent reminder of a crime so that it may not be repeated'.15 These memorials play the role of 'providing first and foremost a framework for, and legitimation of, individual and family grief'.16 But there is more involved. Explicitly or otherwise the mural memorial acts as a call to justice directed at a range of audiences –perpetrators,

16 society at large and ultimately the state. As Jelin puts it, ‘the meaning of the past that is being fought about is, in fact, part and parcel of the demand for justice in the present’.17

This begins to explain why memorialisation takes on such a public form. After all, the experience of grief and trauma is highly personal and individualised, leading one to expect that dealing with the experience ought to be an intensely private affair. But atrocities during political conflict often require a different, more public register. One reason for this is the often highly public nature of the original injustice; in the case of Mampuján, for example, the inhabitants of an entire village were forced out at gunpoint; the massacre of teenagers at Gargantillas involved special military forces, helicopters and all the characteristics of a full-scale military operation. The original injustice can be compounded by the public nature of the silence or denial afterwards. The state, the media and other powerful institutions in the society can unite to deny that injustice occurred by rejecting the account of the victims, survivors and relatives; this is especially true if the action involves state forces or non-state actors operating with the approval of the state. Lies are circulated about the dead – they were guerrillas; they opened fire first; there are no disappeared – they probably are in hiding because they are guilty. Those who continue to insist on the truth – whether relatives or human rights activists – are themselves dismissed as overly sympathetic to terrorists. The intense frustration resulting from silence and denigration is that their ‘rights claims remain politically irrelevant or ineffective if they are unheard and unseen by others who do not recognise the claimant as sufficiently human’.18 This public judgement of irrelevance requires that the claims to truth and relevance need to be loudly broadcast in the public arena.

The memory work of victims, survivors, relatives and their supporters can be an intense battle waged against those who reject their memory of the atrocity. Their challenge is directed at society in general and sometimes more specifically at the state. The demand is that the state be an active participant in the memory work of victims and survivors; otherwise the invisibility and

18 marginalisation of the victims and survivors continues. 'Memory efforts that are not publicly visible do not exist... When people in new democratic circumstances confront the past, such a confrontation must find cultural expression. Recognition in a purely formal sense - through apologies, for example - is not enough.'19

It is not enough for the state later to simply own up to their role in silencing truth after atrocity. The demand of the victims and their supporters is that the state play a full part in the acknowledgement of the original injustice and the rehabilitation of the memory and dignity of the victims.20 While victims can erect private memorials, murals or shrines endlessly, persuading or coercing the state to lend its support in memorialisation brings a level of societal acknowledgement which in itself begins to feel like something approximating justice.

Victims groups are in a subaltern position, as defined by Gramsci, namely a group under the hegemonic domination of a ruling class so that it is unable to participate fully in the making of history and culture.21 As such these groups are seeking to articulate their memory from the bottom up in the face of the state articulating official memory from the top down. The contest is skewed.

For a start,

Defenders of vernacular culture ... are 'ordinary people' whose interest lies in protecting

values and memories based on their own firsthand experience of events or narratives of the

past and views of reality developed at a local level in small-scale communities.22

On the other hand, official 'memory invariably synthesises and simplifies diverse and potentially contradictory narratives.'23

23 The state's approach to memorialisation may differ radically from that of subaltern groups. 'The state primarily sponsors the preservation of memory in tangible objects and structures – museums, commemorative monuments, memorials and public statues – not in intangible, traditionally rooted, popular, community-based expressions such as festivals, songs, performances, rituals and ephemeral markers.'24

Finally, while there may be times when the needs of the state coincide with those of subaltern groups, if that is not the case, the state has the greater power to ensure its version becomes the official one. For those engaged in memory work from below there are numerous goals: to preserve the site of atrocity, to give voice to injustice, to seek voice, acknowledgement and justice and to ensure that atrocities are not repeated in future. For its part the state may have its own goals: to cover up its role in previous atrocities or to harness the power of memory to serve its current political needs. The task facing the subaltern group is to move the state ‘from denial to reluctant dialogue’ by one means or another.25

But, why should visual representation, including murals, be so important for subaltern voice and resistance? This question has been meticulously researched throughout Latin America where struggles over memory and memorialisation have been common and frequently intense.26 Further light can be shed on the answer through considering research findings on the trauma of the

Holocaust. People had expectations about human decency which were obliterated in the camps; such a fundamental shock was difficult if not impossible to assimilate.27 This can have catastrophic consequences in relation to what we regard as memory. Memory requires assimilation before it can be classed as experience; trauma ensures that the person cannot move on to the point of looking

27 back on the experience because he or she is still caught in the middle of the event. ‘The original traumatic event has not yet been transformed into a mediated, distanced account … Trauma is failed experience’.28

There is a further consequence. As writers such as Halbwachs have argued, memory requires language; all memory involves a dialogue, at very least with oneself.29 The failure of memory is also a failure of language:

The presence of trauma is indicated by the coexistence of an impossibility of assigning

meaning to past occurrences, by the ability to incorporate it in a narrative ... To transform an

occurrence into 'experience', even those who lived through it must find the words to convey

it...'30

But where does one get the words to explain something so brutal? Edkins argues that 'the language we speak is part of the social order, and when that order falls apart around our ears, so does the language. What we can say no longer makes sense; what we want to say, we can’t. There are no words for it.'31

Holocaust survivors testify that it is not just that the events are difficult to describe to an audience which has not witnessed or experienced them. The inhumanity of the system and its guards goes without saying. What disillusioned victims most of all was the effect the events had on their own humanity.32 Faced with 'choice' between two evils, inmates had in fact no choice but to tolerate or support evil. Given that the system had dehumanised them as much as it did its originators and administrators, they concluded that they had reached the point ‘of really knowing the truth about

32 people, human nature, about death, of really knowing the truth in a way that other people don’t know it’.33 There were no words to convey such knowledge.

Tautological as it may sound, the antidote to memories of horror is to find a mechanism for communication to take place whereby somehow or other the event is assimilated and takes on the character of experience; in short, that trauma is transformed into memory. Where language has been shown to fail as such a mechanism, artistic expression can fulfil the task. As Scarry concludes, 'pain does not simply resist language but actively destroys it, bringing about an immediate reversion to a state anterior to language...'34Artistic expression may be the first step for victims and survivors in rebooting their sense of humanity and dignity.

Victims in Latin America, in particular women, have used the language of artistic expression as testimony. For example, in Chile, women created arpilleras, textile pictures which at one and the same time told the story of horror and brutality and acted as a form of resistance.35 As Agosín argues, the women found that words were insufficient to describe 'so many thoughts of pain, of anguish, or rage and impotence'; there was not 'enough paper in the world to tell what those years have been like.' In this context arpilleras offered 'the women a new way of thinking about and representing the stories that could not be told in words'.36 In similar vein, when indigenous women in Peru testified to the Truth Commission they did so through presenting a large arpillera.37 Women in Mampujan have also used an identical art expression to narrate their traumatic displacement and in November 2015, their group, Weavers of Dreams, won the Colombian national peace prize for

37 their efforts.38 The quest for justice can provide victims and survivors with a voice. And one way to find that voice is through art.

Activist Art: Murals and the Quest for Justice in Colombia

Politico/memorial murals are at the interface where victims' agency meets art practice. Victims turn to art, including murals, to make their case. We need to consider now the other side of the encounter, why street artists in Colombia engage in politics - not simply commenting on politics but aiding transformation. Where is the space for this encounter?

Some street artists do not engage in a specifically articulated political way at all. While sociologically it may be argued that even the simplest street art is political in that it is a statement by marginalised and alienated youth that they exist and have commandeered some personal space in the public arena,39 the fact is that most street art in Colombia is not political either in the sense of having a clearly thought-out political message or of being linked to a wider politicised social movement. Most of the estimated 5,000 street artists in Bogotá,40 for example, are content to tag or to produce ornate and imaginative ‘pieces’ in which they reprise and develop the international movement of spraycan art.

Other street artists drop political references into their otherwise mainstream street art or go further and paint on themes that are global but not directly related to the political violence in Colombia.

Thus in Bogotá anti-capitalist, pro-ecological, feminist or pro-animal rights themes can be found in the murals painted by grafiteros such as DjLu and crews such as Toxicamano.41

Some approach political issues head on, but in a relatively cerebral, programmatic way. The campus of Universidad Nacional in Bogotá provides a prime example.42 Although the capital was affected

42 by the conflict, it did not suffer the mass enforced displacement of peasants that rural areas suffered, the murderous control of the paramilitaries in other places, or the experience of being caught in the middle as guerrillas and state forces battled for territorial control. So muralists in Bogotá have had relative luxury and safety for political commentary.

Some street artists exploit the interface, either in an individual capacity or through working in collaboration with local victims’ groups or other social movement groups on specifically

Colombian themes. There are thus in Bogotá powerful murals on themes such as ‘false positives’, the massacre of thousands of Unión Patriotica members, and femicide. A prime example is the case of Beligerarte, a crew whose goal is to seek to persuade grafiteros/as to consider the political role of graffiti while at the same time convincing social movements that there are different, more imaginative ways to communicate their political ideas and mobilise support. Such interventions have to be glaringly obvious. They are struggling to be heard not just in the face of the silence and dismissal of the justice claims of victims but also in the midst of the visual noise of the urban landscape.

The venue for the traditional artist is galleries and museums – controlled spaces where the

art itself does not need to speak very loudly because all attention is focused on it. Political

art has a dauntingly large venue: the street, the marketplace, the mass media. This is an out-

of-control space where one competes with the cacophony rather than retreating into silence

and solitude. Political art, responding to this space, is often brash and loud. Subtlety is

sometimes not its strong point.43

The murals of Colombia are not confined to the capital. However, it is striking that there are strong regional differences in the quantity, quality, themes and articulation of the murals. Ultimately these differences rest on the differential relationship of each place to the protracted violent conflict. The space for mural painting, and in particular the interface between murals and victims' groups, is starkly different where the area is dominated by paramilitaries, where it is dominated by guerrillas,

43 where these forces battle it out for territorial control, or where there is no outright domination of either of those two armed factions. For example, the occurrence of massacres by paramilitaries and/or state forces may encourage memorialisation in a transitional period; alternatively such memorialisation may be suppressed because of the continued links between paramilitaries and state forces in an area. We will now examine the range of political murals in five places: Bogotá,

Medellín, Barrancabermeja, Mocoa and Toribío.

Bogotá44

The capital city of Bogotá is the most prolific site for mural painting in Colombia, involving local and international writers.45 Most of the murals and graffiti produced are not specifically political, but Bogotá, along with other places in Colombia, is relatively unusual in global terms in that there is a clear link between graffiti and political articulation. In most places globally, graffiti painters are engrossed in style or are disillusioned about politics. Evidence of such graffiti exists in Bogotá also, but beyond that there is a clear affinity between graffiti painting and political commitment. For example, grafitero DjLu has painted a number of pieces depicting homeless men in Bogotá, painstakingly using complex stencils. The effect is eye-catching, so much so that it takes some effort for the viewer to divert the gaze to some of the other things happening in his work: insects with automatic weapons instead of wings, a champagne glass with a miniature automatic rifle as the stirrer, a dollar sign where the central upright is an automatic weapon rather than parallel lines.

Apart from the careful empathy with which the topic of homelessness is treated there is a wider critique of capitalism and militarism almost hiding in full view in these murals.

There has traditionally been a tension between writers and the authorities about painting on public walls. In 2011, a 16 year old writer, Diego Felipe Becerra, known as Trípido, was shot dead by police in Bogotá. The mass reaction from writers which followed led to intervention by the progressive mayor. The city authorities agreed to allow, even encourage and support, murals, while

45 muralists agreed to be 'responsible' about where and what they painted.46 In December 2015 the

Bogotá City Council adopted a project to establish an annual ‘Street Art Day’ on 19 August to recognize the work and significance of street art in the city.47 There are numerous tributes to

Trípido and his trademark cat Felix in Chapinero and elsewhere but the larger and more impressive tribute is the proliferation of legal murals resulting from the dialogue between grafiteros/as and the city authorities.

And in Bogotá there is nowhere more impressive than Calle 26. Known as the 'Axis of Memory'

(Eje de la Memoria) the street displays an array of impressive murals on a range of themes - the murder of 3026 union members, of 3600 Unión Patriótica members, of Jaime Garzón, a TV political humourist, lawyer and peace activist, in 1999. One mural spells out the message of hope

(esparanza) and another declares that 'la paz es ahora' (peace is now). One mural speaks directly to the ongoing peace negotiations and is sponsored by Constituyentes por la Paz con Justicia Social;

'paz con pan' it states (peace with bread). Not everyone receives these murals well. Thus in 2014 a right-wing neo-nazi group vandalised the mural commemorating the murder of Unión Patriótica members.48

Overall Bogotá provides space for more direct political messages than many other parts of

Colombia. This is because of its relative distance from the most violent regions of the country.

There were anti-paramilitary slogans in Bogota which were not possible in rural areas: 'Uribe paraco' ('Uribe paramilitary'), for example. And Beligerarte, one of the most politically direct and articulate groups, has produced murals against Uribe, criticising Santos, against militarisation, including the presence of US bases, and about political prisoners. Another graffiti crew, Inzane

Toyz, has painted a mural on the topic of 'false positives', people killed by state forces who are then

48 passed off as guerrillas, and another on the topic of femicide, specifically the brutal murder of Rosa

Elvira Cely in June 2012.49

The largest concentration of politically articulated murals is on the campus of the Universidad

Nacional. They are periodically whited out by the university authorities, only to be replaced within a short time by the next generation of political murals. In autumn 2015 the themes tackled ranged from Latin American left-wing heroes such as Camilo Torres and Che Guevara, through the rights of indigenous peoples, to women's rights, as well as references to memory and justice in relation to the Colombian conflict. Groups such as JUCO (the youth wing of the Communist Party), Grupo

Estudiantil Anarquista, FEU (La Federación de Estudiantes Universitarios) and Marcha Patriótica are among those whose names and emblems are attached to the murals. Most of the murals on campus are painted by students. Elsewhere in Bogotá there are many graffiti writers and groups painting on political themes or including political references in otherwise apparently straightforward graffiti: Toxicamono, MAL, Gauche, etc. And Bogotá boasts a number of female writers, grafiteras, such as Bastardilla.50

Medellín51

Medellín is starkly different from Bogota. There is a long history of violence, beginning with Pablo

Escobar and his drug cartel. Later the city was wracked by the rise of the paramilitaries and the ongoing confrontations between the guerrillas on the one hand and the paramilitaries and state forces on the other over control of territory within the city.

One area, Comuna 13, in many ways represents the cockpit of this confrontation. For the paramilitaries and state forces it was seen as an area overly sympathetic to the FARC, so it experienced a number of major military incursions, in particular Operación Mariscal (21 May 2002)

51 and Operación Orión (16 October 2002). The end result was that the military and paramilitaries forced the guerrillas and their civilian supporters out, leaving Comuna 13 under unchallenged paramilitary control. After the 'disbandment' of the paramilitaries, there has continued to be a strong bacrim (criminal bands) influence in the city overall.

This has had an effect on the mural and graffiti scene in the city. There are hundreds of writers involved in painting everything from tags to murals of species endangered due to illegal trafficking.

There are grand spraycan pieces painted during the periodic Pintopia event with city council support. And murals about indigenous and Afro peoples can be seen.

But it is in Comuna 13 that painting is a relatively risky occupation.52 Grafiteros tell of young bacrim members driving by on motor bikes checking them while they work. And there are still those in the area who sympathise with the paramilitaries and who would be aroused by any anti- paramilitary messages on the walls. There is a counter-force, however, that of young people in the vibrant hip hop youth culture in the city. Comuna 13 boasts Casa Kolacho where young people are taught rap, graffiti, breakdancing and dj skills. The crucial point is that these endeavours are not seen as escapist or apolitical but as a highly politicised response to conflict and in particular to the role of the former paramilitaries in continuing conflict. In short, the rappers and grafiteros of

Comuna 13 see themselves as a radical force against bacrim control.53

In relation to murals, that opposition is sometimes expressed explicitly as in one mural which insists that there never again be military intervention in the area (see figure 5). But the political message in the murals is usually more oblique. In one, a map of South America doubles as a mask on a person's face in a message of resistance. Even more oblique is the set of murals commemorating Operación

Mariscal. A bird represents a military helicopter, a Black Hawk, and a family of elephants with white handkerchiefs stands as a metaphor for a grieving human family (see figure 6). The

53 metaphors and symbols speak to those who know how to read them and can be missed or ignored by those who do not.

Figure 5: Medellín. 'Military intervention never again.'

Figure 6: Medellín: commemorating Operación Mariscal, painted by Seta and others. Barrancabermeja54

Barrancabermeja grew out of the oil boom in the Department of Santander beginning in the 1920s.

The first oil refinery, and currently the largest in Colombia, was built there and the USO, Unión

Sindical Obrera, grew as the industry did. The ELN operated in the area from the 1960s and radical priest, Camilo Torres, a founder member of the ELN, was also based in the town for a period. Later in the late 1990s the paramilitaries emerged as a powerful presence in the area. They were guilty of a number of massacres, such as that in the Miraflores district of the town in May 1998, when seven locals were killed and 25 were disappeared. There has thus been a complex web of power and violence in the town involving the paramilitaries, the guerrillas, state forces and the union.55 The paramilitaries still exist in the form of criminal gangs, and although broken into factions who on occasion end up killing each other, are still a force to be reckoned with. The union is still an important force in the town. And the memory of Camilo Torres is still popular; there is a college named after him and a statue on one of the main roads. One mural, near the university, pictures

Torres along with Luisa Delia Piña who as a political and community activist from the 1960s worked with Camilo Torres, became the first female municipal councillor in Barrancabermeja and died in 2005 (see figure 7).

55 Figure 7: Barrancabermeja: memorial to Camilo Torres and Luisa Delia Piña.

Given the tension, mural painting faces restrictions. Painting memorials to Camilo Torres or to USO officials who have been murdered is done with one eye on the lookout for trouble. Some murals have been destroyed after completion, such as a memorial to five men massacred by Red 007, an intelligence section of the Navy, in La Esparanza district. The extant mural memorials to murdered

USO officials such as Fermin Amaya killed in 1971 by a soldier inside Ecopetrol, and Manuel

Gustavo Chacón, killed by the army in 1988 are inside the USO compound and are thereby afforded some protection (see figure 8). Figure 8: Barrancabermeja: memorial to murdered union officials, Manuel Gustavo Chacón and Fermin Amaya.

One group in particular, Hijos y Hijas por la Memoria y contra la Impunidad, has displayed ingenuity and courage in relation to organising cultural resistance in various barrios in town. This has included murals on Afro identity and on tolerance and the above-mentioned mural in La

Esperanza.

Mocoa56

Mocoa is in Putamayo on the edge of the Amazon region. Violence has been present in this region where the mafia started to plant coca in the late seventies. The FARC started to attack laboratories of the drug dealers and eventually controlled drug trafficking in the area. As the struggle between guerrillas and paramilitaries to control coca production escalated, ‘cocaleros’, campesinos who live in areas controlled by the FARC, were attacked by paramilitaries who accused them of being FARC collaborators. The massacres of El Placer and El Tigre committed in Putumayo are cruel

56 testimonies of these attacks on civilians. The FARC recruited child soldiers and many women were victims of sexual violence by the armed actors.

There are not many murals in Mocoa, but there is a strong influence of a women's network as

'memory entrepreneurs', Tejedoras de Vida (Weavers of Life).57 They have commissioned murals such as ‘Muro de la Verdad’ (Wall of Truth) to depict women disappeared and killed as result of the armed conflict (see figure 9). The murals in Mocoa and Villagarzón list the names and circumstances of women killed in the conflict in the region or demand to know the whereabouts of the disappeared (see figure 10). Every November 25th, women’s organizations and relatives of the

174 women victims portrayed in this mural gathered at the mural-site in Mocoa to pay tribute to their memory and to call for an end to armed conflict.

Figure 9: Mocoa: in memory of women casualties.

57 Figure 10: Mocoa: 'Where are the disappeared?'

Toribío58

The town of Toribío is the centre of a resguardo (reserve) of the Nasa indigenous people. They are a highly politicised and well-organised indigenous group, fiercely proud of their independence, who have been at the forefront of fighting for their identity, protecting the environment and opposing the effects of neoliberalism and the proposed Free Trade Agreement of the Americas. They are key activists in indigenous resistance in Colombia, which is characterised as follows by Avilés:

Armed resistance, land occupations, marches, alliances with other social movements, and

judicial politics have all been employed by indigenous peoples to protect their lands from

cattle ranchers, to ensure that their languages are taught in indigenous schools, and to resist

the incursions of armed actors and the encroachments of transnational corporations upon

indigenous territories... some communities have chosen not to be displaced or victimized by

armed actors, pursuing an 'alternative path that is neither fight nor flight'.59

59 As guardians of their culture, identity and environment, the Nasa people seek to protect all three through their devolved political structures as well as their indigenous guards. This entails from time to time taking on the state and multinationals; in addition they have suffered as a result of the political conflict.60 In July 2011, the FARC left a bomb on a chiva (a truck-like bus) at the police station which killed four local people, injured 103 and demolished 400 houses. The axle of the bus ended up at the wall of the local church and has since been incorporated into a memorial to the victims. In November 2014, the FARC killed two indigenous guards who had removed a billboard honouring Guillermo León Sáenz, alias Alfonso Cano, the FARC supreme commander killed by the

Colombian army in November 2011.61 State forces have killed locals, including the massacre at nearby Gargantillas. The paramilitaries, convinced that the Nasa people are sympathetic to the guerrillas, have also carried out murders. This last point is significant: superficially there would seem to be an affinity between Nasa beliefs and the left-wing ideology of the FARC. But in fact, the

Nasa are fiercely proud of their independence, determined to side with no military group from outside.62

Toribío suffered numerous raids and attacks, an experience which could have led to demoralisation if not for constant efforts of the community to maintain local pride and solidarity. One such example is a minga muralista (mural festival) in 2014, where Colombian and other muralists gathered in the town for over two weeks, painting dozens of murals.63 Many of these murals acknowledge and display the indigenous culture (see figure 11), recognise the significance of the indigenous guards (see figure 12) or speak out against military incursions in the town.

63 Figure 11: Toribío, indigenous identity and resistance, painted by Jafeth Gomez

Figure 12: Toribío, mural portraying an indigenous guard. Conclusion: victims, art and transformation

Laplante makes a statement which is by now axiomatic in relation to transitional societies:

‘Revealing the truth of past crimes supposedly protects against cycles of retributive violence and the repetition of dangerous patterns of behavior.' She then continues by asking an apparently simple but disarming question: 'But how?’64 The answer lies not in the institutions of transition per se, but in the agency of those who use the opportunities provided by such mechanisms and indeed the space provided by transition to seek acknowledgement and justice. Above all, it rests on their vigilance to continue to ensure non-repetition of the past.

The problem is that one effect of conflict is the creation of a particular view of victims. For example, in the case of Kosovo, women victims were relegated to a limited number of discrete categories: the passive refugee, the waiting wife, the rape survivor.65 More generally, Christie concludes that the ideal victim must be 'weak enough not to become a threat to other important interests’.66 In this interpretation, passivity is the essence of victimhood; the ideal victim lacks agency.

The victim as agent can be viewed as a nuisance, even a threat. Yet victims who assert their right to acknowledgment, who pursue truth and justice, are playing a socially constructive role which goes beyond the immediacy of their personal troubles. In as far as they succeed in naming and communicating injustice, they are not simply attempting to hold the state responsible for the past but challenging the state to live up to democratic ideals in the future. Victims may make demands on the state in an adversarial and combative manner, but in as far as the demands are realised, they are contributing to the emergence of a society which goes beyond injustice and impunity.

66 Thus victims who establish memorials are not simply stuck in perpetual melancholia. On the contrary, memory work triggers agency, not stasis. In refusing to let the memory of abuse die they are ultimately harbingers of a society radically different from the one which gave rise to the abuse.

Their memorial is built on the premise that ‘a different world is possible’, one based on human rights and justice, and their challenge to the state is to be at the forefront of establishing and guaranteeing such a society. In this sense, memorial murals, although looking back to the past, can have a very clear role in conflict transformation. Firmly planted in the present, they link the past and the future.

This is where murals can play a crucial role in transition. As Mani argues, 'restoring culture and art after the devastation of conflict serves an essential humanising and deterrent effect'.67 There is evidence that this message has got through to the Colombian state. In 1995, reparation to the citizens of the town of Trujillo included a symbolic element. Part of the compensation for victims of a massacre was the state's financing of a park and a mural painted by a Kurdish/Dutch artist. Ten years later Article 8 of the Justice and Peace Law 935/2005 on the Demobilization of Paramilitaries allowed for symbolic reparation as a way to restore the dignity of the victims. In 2011Article 141 of the Victims’ and Land Restitution Law 1448 /2011 used the same concept of symbolic reparation to establish a national day of memory and solidarity with victims.

These developments fit neatly with other international developments. The Inter-American Court increasingly recommends symbolic reparations68 and the United Nations has issued advice regarding satisfaction for victims. Satisfaction, it is stated, should include truth recovery, prosecutions, the search for the disappeared, the return of abducted people and of bodies, public

68 apologies, plus 'commemorations and tributes to the victims'.69 In short, along with material outcomes, symbolic ones are seen as important. No matter what this says of the ability of states in future to willingly give more space to victims' voices than previously, it underlines the fact that the grassroots work of victims' groups, women's groups and artists in Gargantillas, Mampuján, Mocoa and elsewhere in Colombia are thus playing a crucial role in realising the best practice as envisaged in the international human rights community. Through their agency they may help to heal not simply their trauma but that of the nation.