@ b8a9df82:6ab5cbbd
2025-03-15 00:48:58
There are places in the world where history lingers in the air, where the past and present collide in an explosion of color, sound, and raw emotion.
Comuna 13 is one of them.
The people here are absolutely amazing. I have never experienced such kindness and warmth in Europe or the US as I have here in Medellín.
The generosity is overwhelming—not because they expect anything in return, but simply because they embody a culture of pure love and openness. Colombia, so far, has been one of the best countries I have ever visited—tremendously underestimated. My family and friends were worried about me before I came, fearing I’d be drugged or something bad would happen. But the reality? It has been nothing short of incredible.
Traveling the world, seeing and experiencing different cultures and people, is a blessing—a gift I will be forever grateful for. This is exactly what I always dreamed of: to explore the world with great company, immersing myself in new places, and soaking it all in.
But let me tell you a story that’s touching me deeply as I sit here in Medellín, watching kids play baseball.
They laugh, they run, they chase the ball through the narrow streets, between the colorful murals that stretch up the walls of Comuna 13. It’s an interesting choice of location for a baseball court because you get the sense that the entire community—every house, every window—can see what’s happening. There is an atmosphere of ease and peace, a stark contrast to what this place once was.
When @Rainier turned to me and asked, "Do you know what this place used to be?"
I had a slight idea but was too afraid to speak it out loud—because if it were true, it would be too brutal to believe.
When he told me, I was speechless.
This lively baseball field, these bright murals, this explosion of art and culture—this was once an execution site. A place where people were shot, their deaths meant to serve as a warning to the entire community. Here, in the very spot where children now laugh and play, people once lost their lives in fear and silence. Their deaths were not hidden; they were made into a spectacle, a method of control. The community was forced to watch, powerless, as violence reigned over their homes.
And now? Now it is alive.
Operation Orion, October 16, 2002
Comuna 13 has seen transformation like few places in the world. In 2002, during Operation Orion, the Colombian military launched a brutal crackdown on guerrilla groups controlling the area. Helicopters hovered over the steep hills, gunfire echoed through the streets, and civilians were caught in the crossfire. The operation was meant to rid the area of crime, but it came at a devastating cost. Many innocent people disappeared, never to be seen again. Families were torn apart, and the scars of violence ran deep.
"No matter how broken some parts of the world may seem, there will always be an opportunity for change." – Iván González
And yet, here I stand today, in the middle of what feels like a festival of life. The walls tell stories through vibrant graffiti, each piece echoing the voices of resilience and resistance. The air vibrates with reggaeton and hip-hop beats, the smell of street food drifts through the alleyways, and people—locals and tourists alike—move together in the rhythm of the city’s rebirth.
Yes, it’s touristy. But it’s also real. It’s people painting their past into something beautiful. It’s a man with a cat wearing sunglasses casually walking by. It’s kids laughing in the streets that once ran red with fear. It’s hope.
This is Comuna 13. A place once infamous for death, now bursting with life.