Colombia’s Election: A Nation Haunted by Its Past, Divided by Fear
There’s something profoundly haunting about Colombia’s current presidential election. It’s not just the usual political jockeying or policy debates; it’s the palpable fear that the country might revert to the violence that scarred it for decades. Personally, I think this election is less about choosing a leader and more about choosing a future—one that either learns from its past or risks repeating it.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how deeply personal the stakes are for so many Colombians. Take Blanca Nubia Monroy, for instance. Her son’s murder by Colombian soldiers in 2008 isn’t just a statistic; it’s a tattoo on her forearm, a constant reminder of the state’s capacity for brutality. Or Sigifredo López, whose seven years in guerrilla captivity left him with flashbacks and a fear that his country might slip back into the “hell” he survived. These aren’t just voters; they’re living testaments to Colombia’s fractured history.
In my opinion, the polarization in this election isn’t just political—it’s existential. On one side, you have Iván Cepeda, a peace activist promising to continue President Gustavo Petro’s “total peace” agenda. On the other, Abelardo de la Espriella, a Trump-endorsed candidate vowing to crush crime with an iron fist. What many people don’t realize is that both candidates are, in their own ways, responses to Colombia’s trauma. Cepeda represents a hope for reconciliation, while de la Espriella embodies a desire for security, even if it comes at the cost of human rights.
One thing that immediately stands out is how Colombia’s past continues to shape its present. The 2016 peace pact with the FARC was supposed to end the conflict, but violence persists. Armed groups have grown bolder, using drones and bombings to terrorize civilians. If you take a step back and think about it, this election is a referendum on whether negotiation or force is the answer to Colombia’s insecurity.
From my perspective, the most intriguing aspect is how fear drives these choices. Monroy fears a return to the “false positives” era, where civilians were murdered and labeled as combatants. López, meanwhile, fears that continued negotiations will embolden criminal groups. Both are haunted by the same specter: a return to the violence that defined their lives.
This raises a deeper question: Can Colombia ever truly escape its past? The country’s history of political violence, paramilitary groups, and guerrilla warfare has left scars that no election can heal overnight. What this really suggests is that Colombia’s next president won’t just be leading a nation—they’ll be navigating a minefield of trauma, mistrust, and unresolved grievances.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how international models are influencing this election. De la Espriella’s promise to emulate El Salvador’s Nayib Bukele and his war on gangs is both appealing and alarming. While Bukele’s crackdown reduced homicides, it also led to widespread human rights abuses. Personally, I think this is a dangerous game—trading one form of violence for another.
If there’s one thing this election reveals, it’s that Colombia is still grappling with its identity. Is it a nation that prioritizes justice over security, or vice versa? What makes this election so compelling is that there are no easy answers. Both candidates offer solutions that are as flawed as they are necessary, reflecting the complexities of a country still at war with itself.
In the end, Colombia’s election isn’t just about who wins—it’s about what the country chooses to become. Will it embrace a future built on reconciliation, or will it double down on force? As someone who’s watched Colombia’s struggle from afar, I can’t help but feel that the outcome will resonate far beyond its borders. This isn’t just Colombia’s story; it’s a cautionary tale for any nation wrestling with the ghosts of its past.
