Women stood in doorways offering a smile. Children darted across the inclined road, engaged in what appeared to be a game of tag. Laundry fluttered on clotheslines and across balconies, like colorful flags waving hello. Peering down alleyways, intricate street art scrawled across the cement walls, their designs radiating the vibrancy of the neighborhood itself. Laughter, quick-paced conversations, and music wafted from open windows. Energy pulsed in all directions.
And yet, as I meandered uphill, Pablo recounted the events of October 16, 2002, when more than a thousand soldiers marched up this very street. Like green ants, they moved in rank, searching for the guerillas who’d come to run these hillsides. The air filled with the whirling of helicopter blades, and the explosion of bullets sprayed from their mounted guns. Metal pierced metal, ricocheting off homes and down side streets, striking whatever lay in their path, be it buildings or people, innocent or guilty. One solitary tank took up the rear, roaring its support of Operation Orion. Dozens died and hundreds were injured in this government-led, four-day attack on the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia.
With the neighborhood now so filled with life, I struggled to imagine this scene and the fact that drugs, gangs, and guerillas had at one point in time made District 13 the most dangerous neighborhood in the world. Its metamorphosis from discord to harmony, from fear to stability, seemed impossible, if not unfathomable. Yet, as I’d come to understand, that was the magic of not just this neighborhood, but of Medellín at large. A city once afflicted with chaos and bloodshed now stood as an urban epicenter filled with industry, entrepreneurship, art, and soul; and from Comuna 13 to San Javier, I would spend the day seeing, feeling, and experiencing this transformation first-hand, the resilient way in which Colombians have utilized their past to spark change, support peace, and move forward.
The FARC had initially taken over the city’s hillsides looking for new sources of revenue after the collapse of the USSR. But following Operation Orion, they fled further afield, leaving District 13 abandoned in its reconstruction. Without either guerilla or government support, the residents had to shoulder the responsibility of revitalization themselves. Utilizing individual talents and resources, everyone contributed, from painting to babysitting, cooking to mixing cement. Through their communal efforts, the rubble slowly dissipated and, alongside this physical rebuild, came a strategic cultural shift. To provide the next generation an alternative to violence and drugs, the inhabitants invested in youth culture, one piece of which was the creation of street art, which now covers almost every available wall.
These murals not only bring life to District 13, but they also beautify a once turmoiled neighborhood by recounting the very past that plagued it. At the top of one recently built escalator sits a work created by Chota 13 that hauntingly depicts the events of Operation Orion, both before, during, and after. A silvery-gray face draws your immediate attention. Dilapidated houses, and dice reading 10, 16, 2002 surround one cheek, down which tears fall. The other half depicts color and life, with brightly painted houses, each of which has an open door, welcoming neighbors, and visitors. This cheek creased into a smile, the eye just above, illuminated, shining with what felt like promise.
Other street art highlights dance and music, two additional components of the youth culture that the community embraced. Their importance can not only be seen but heard and felt as hip-hop’s rhythms pulse through the streets, the heartbeat of the community itself. Native wildlife and local traditions coat still more walls, using brilliant hues and detailed patterns to highlight Colombian folklore.
Then there’s “Esperanza,” a mural entitled hope, visible almost immediately upon arrival at the district. A woman pushes her hands together in prayer, her skin a combination of designs and images, including a lightbulb, human heart, and chess piece. A solitary dove flies above her shoulder. The colors, faces and animals encapsulate the neighborhood’s past, its efforts, and the future that awaits. As Pablo said, “These walls are telling the history they heard,” the images themselves along with the act of their creation embodying Medellín’s transformation.
From here, we ventured to San Javier, the westernmost metro station on Medellín’s B Line. Not entirely sure as to why a cableway stop proved worthy in a city filled with activities, we worked our way through the queue laid out. Paying our 70¢, a price waived when a rider donates 40 plastic bottles instead, we hopped onto available cars as their doors opened; many of us joined locals who’d boarded at earlier stations.
We traveled only one stop—to Juan XXIII—but wished to have ridden forever. Soaring high above, the journey provided an entirely new perspective of the city we’d just been within. Corrugated tin roofs, some of which were painted, shone in the afternoon sun. Brick buildings crawled up every hillside, their red walls perfectly complementing the green vegetation. The sheer size of Medellín became undeniable, the city’s downtown completely filling the valley.
Visit Intrepid Times to discover the ways in which this metro ride and the rest of my day in Medellin revealed the city’s incredible transformation.
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