“Un pais de miedos” (A country of fears)

“Every Friday night, me and my friends meet up, we drink wine and smoke up,” the 45-year old man next to me says, as he turns the steering wheel towards the right. “I deserve it at the end of the week.” He laughs.

Carlos is a single dad. He lives in a neighborhood that is often labeled the most violent community in embattled Colombian city Medellin: Comuna 13. A photographer friend connected me with Carlos before I got to the city. As a journalist, I am interested in seeing the “real Medellin,” and Carlos wants to show me his city.

Carlos adopted Medellin as his city when he arrived here 15 years ago. Actually, he was born in the coffee land region of the country, but at a young age, he was displaced by paramilitaries. His whole village had to move to the city. After having worked in Bogota for 12 years, he decided it was time for a change.

“It is quieter here in Medellin,” he explains. “And the climate is great!”

Medellin.

Carlos’ life became slower when he moved from the capital Bogota to smaller Medellin, but it also calmed down because he ended his career as an actor and director for something more stable in order to care for his two children and one grandchild. Now, he works as a librarian and editor.

Spending time with Carlos is fun and it is extraordinarily easy. He is a young 45-year old who loves meeting new people, riding on his motorcycle and wipping his head to a good, old rock song. Only recently did he cut off his long, black mane. Short hair fits his job better, he explains. Carlos does not like most contemporary Colombian writers and he thinks Botero is overrated. He also does not understand why peace is often symbolized by a white bird. “I call them flying rats!” he exclaims when we spot several pigeons on another Simon Bolivar statue in the middle of a square. Carlos roars with laughter and leads me to an empanada stand.

After several hours of jolly but rather superficial sight-seeing, Carlos takes me to his house. When we drive through the gate, he points out a tall residential building, entirely abandoned on one side. The vacancies are due to the building right next to it, he explains. The short, white neighboring house is home to still active gang gatherings. “These meetings can end in shootings and the bullets fly everywhere,” Carlos adds, solemn now.

Inside a typical church in a town near Medellin.

Carlos himself did not live too far from “la violencia,” as the post-1945 civil war and subsequent mafia-controlled period until the 1990s is referred to until this day. Bullets would pass by his window as well. “I used to tell my kids it was fireworks,” Carlos explains. “But even kids are not so dumb. Of course, they did not believe me.”

Carlos’ two children, a 17-year old son who plays soccer with a passion and a 20-year old daughter who would love to study anthropology, and his three-year old grandchild, Nicolas, are the apple of his eye. Proudly he presents them to me, one after another, when we enter his home to have lunch. Carlos takes me around his small house. At the end of the tour, he spreads his arms and shyly says “this is it.” I smile at him. His daughter has prepared ribs with rice and pickled salad. While we eat, everyone anxiously asks whether I would like more, whether it is tasty and whether I am comfortable. Even Carlos seems a bit insecure. I have entered his house, and I can see his life with its beauty and imperfection. Finally, after a good hour of careful back and forth, everyone relaxes and we laugh as Nicolas excitedly and wrongly points out different animals in an album he has brought out.

When we step out of his house, Carlos and I have become friends. We continue the drive and he is now really eager to show the streets that he was unable to pass, the squares where “NNs,” unclaimed dead bodies, were piled only years ago and finally, he takes me to those barrios populares that he calls caliente, where they “kill without asking if they do not know you.”

It is difficult for him to speak about the violence. It hurts. Although not born here and a native for “only” 15 years, Carlos feels that Medellin is his city, a city he loves nearly as much as he loves his little family. It hurts him seeing the destruction that was inflicted and is still being inflicted onto the city, by power relations, social tensions, gang violence, institutional corruption and drug trafficking.

As we slowly drive through a harmless-looking street, Carlos warns: “This is a very dangerous place.”

Having observed and experienced petty crimes and xenophobic violence in megacities such as Johannesburg and Rio de Janeiro, I am about to ask what sort of danger is to be found in such hot spots, when suddenly, Carlos points out the window. “Mira,” he calmly says. “Un muerto.” I freeze. We pass a body on the street. A man is lying face-down on the street, his motorcycle helmet and jacket next to him. The body looks unharmed; he has not fallen off the vehicle. Something else must have happened. A crowd has already gathered around the body. Everyone just stands and stares down. Nobody moves; nobody speaks.

I do not finish my question about the kind of dangers one might encounter in this neighborhood, and we drive in silence for a while. “Well,” Carlos finally says. “Maybe he was drunk. Because usually they cover the body of a dead person out of respect.” He looks at me. “But from the position he was lying in it is very possible that he was dead.”

***

Later, on the way back towards el centro of Medellin, we exchange only few words. There is no need for more, only space for reflection. We are both exhausted, from giving and taking in. We smoke a cigarette near the Parque del Periodista, an infamous hang-out spot for the young and old, troubled and fearless to have a smoke and a drink. “You know Medellin better now than most people living in Medellin,” Carlos says. I thank him. He looks at me. “I thank you for coming. We live in a beautiful country here in Colombia, but it is also a country of fears. Colombia es un pais de miedos,” he says and we go inside to order a beer.

Jesus figure on top of the hill where Comuna 13 is located