MEDELLÍN'S MAKEOVER
New Left Review 44, March-April 2007 by ORREST HYLTON
In the face of a string of leftist successes in the Andes, with radical-populists elected in Venezuela, Bolivia and Ecuador, the Right can boast one spectacular triumph. Medellín, the most conservative city in Colombia, the continent's most conservative country, has been undergoing a dramatic boom for the past few years. Levels of high-rise construction now surpass those of Los Angeles and New York combined. Since 2002, the profusion of apartment towers, luxury hotels, supermarkets and shopping malls has been breathtaking. The country's largest conglomerates and over seventy foreign enterprises now have their Colombian headquarters in Medellín, among them Phillip Morris, Kimberly Clark, Levi Strauss, Renault, Toyota and Mitsubishi. A 30,000 square-foot convention centre opened in 2005, and over a dozen international conferences have been held there annually, generating more than $100 million in investment and business deals. Medellín's fashion industry is at present second only to São Paulo's; its medical sector is a Latin American leader in organ transplants, aids and cancer research. An upscale museum-park complex in the city centre, replacing the old outdoor market and red-light district, houses the work of world-renowned Medellín artist, Fernando Botero, with his sculptures featured in an open-air setting.
In 2005 Colombian tv launched a local version of the us programme, 'Extreme Makeover', in which contestants submit to the cosmetic surgeon's knife and emerge with a radically altered appearance. In Medellín, the show's popularity was emblematic of the city's own transformation over the last half-decade. Medellín is a media-saturated, image-conscious city, dominated by advertising and public relations; billboards abound. So it is impossible to avoid the message, projected by civic boosters of every stripe, that Medellín is improving at breakneck speed. With the consolidation of a de facto pact between right-wing narco-paramilitary forces, on the one hand, and a media-friendly centre-left municipal government on the other, Medellín itself has undergone a series of cosmetic operations quite as drastic as anything on tv. During the 1980s the city had been notorious as the home of narco-baron Pablo Escobar's Medellín Cartel. It ranked as the homicide capital of the world: between 1990 and 2002, 55,000 people were murdered in Medellín, mainly young men. The velocity of the change has been startling, even for cocaine capitalism: the city's homicide rate has been reduced by a factor of six, and by 2005 was distinctly lower than those of Detroit, Baltimore or Washington, dc. [1] To cap it all, in 2006 Medellín's native son, Álvaro Uribe Vélez, succeeded in winning a historic second term as Colombia's President, having pushed through the necessary re-write of the national constitution. What follows is an effort to understand the nature of the plastic surgery involved in Medellín's new look by analysing the evolution of youth gangs, the cocaine business, leftist guerrillas and paramilitaries in the transition to a service-sector economy.
From gold to coffee
Medellín's role as the capital of reaction in Latin America—and as the motor force in the politics of Uribe's Colombia—can only be understood in terms of its longer-term place in the country's history. Its contemporary particularities reflect patterns of class, racial and regional formation inherited from the past two centuries. Medellín is situated in a broad upland valley, with mountain ranges to its east and west, in the ranching and coffee-growing province of Antioquia, where a deeply conservative Catholic Church has long been entrenched. Founded as a gold-mining town and trading centre in 1675, Medellín emerged as the region's commercial capital by the late 18th century; its merchants profiting from the export of slave-mined gold and the long-distance overland trade in cheap imported commodities. In the 1880s the region became the epicentre of the new coffee boom, tying Medellín more closely to its rural hinterland: the city's merchant bankers controlled the credit, pricing, distribution and transportation of the crop, while coffee-growing smallholders colonized the Andean uplands. These paisas—'countrymen': the Antioquians' name for themselves—were united by a tenacious regional-chauvinist ideology: hard-working, light-skinned Catholic conservatives, identified against the 'lazy' and undisciplined indigenous and Afro-Colombians in the south. [2]
Fin-de-siècle banking crashes prompted antioqueño coffee merchants to diversify from a single cash-crop, vulnerable to price collapses on the international market, into light manufacturing. From the start, industrialization in Medellín developed out of local entrepreneurial initiatives and capital formation, rather than as a result of us investment or franchises. By the beginning of the 20th century Antioquia—having emerged unscathed from the three-year civil conflict of 1899–1902, known as the War of a Thousand Days—had moved to the centre of national economic life, and Medellín became an important nexus for investment, speculation and the accumulation of value. The coffee boom, together with rapid industrial growth, spurred urban expansion: Medellín's population doubled to 100,000 in the first two decades of the 20th century, and the organization and occupation of urban space changed dramatically as paisa elites adopted a self-consciously modernizing ideology.
Urban planning was institutionalized in 1899—thirty years before New York City's Regional Planning Association—through the Sociedad de Mejoras Públicas, a 'society for public improvements' run at the behest of the business lobby. The smp allocated municipal contracts for parks, roads and neighbourhoods, and organized the paving of Santa Elena Canyon. An electricity plant was built in 1897, and streetlighting installed in 1898. In 1889 an engineering school supplemented the city's first university, founded as early as 1871. Medellín had a regulated slaughterhouse in 1911, sewage treatment in 1913 and trolley cars by 1919. [3]
Catholic corporatism
Most crucial for Medellín's subsequent development, however, was its burgeoning textile industry. Don Emilio Restrepo founded the region's first cotton mill in 1905, converting the nearby town of Bello into an industrial suburb. The initial workforce largely consisted of young women from the surrounding countryside. Textile factories offered a 'respectable' occupation, under the patriarchal protection of family firms and the Catholic Church. The Jesuits—following Leo xiii's Rerum Novarum—were an important influence on the first-generation working class, which enjoyed relatively good wages, benefits and labour legislation. At the same time, migration from the rural coffee municipios of southern and southeastern Antioquia was crucial to the formation of Medellín's political culture, bringing a paternalist pattern of clientelism to the new industrial setting.
Led by the Restrepos and the Echeverrías, the city's industrialists exercised a personalized authority, reproducing modes of domination characteristic of domestic servitude. Catholic Social Action influenced the management of Don Jorge Echeverría's business empire—the two largest firms were Coltejer (founded in 1907) and Fabricato (1923)—emphasizing 'absolute personal loyalty and obedience' to help shape a working-class ethos of vertical ties to patrones and prompt, efficient execution of orders. Catholic elites and middle classes adopted an ideology of private charity and good works: the obligations of social betters to perceived inferiors. Where it emerged—as in a Communist-led strike wave in the mid-1930s—independent labour action was ruthlessly crushed.
The expanding city was largely managed through the smp, which regulated urban space—prohibiting the carting of goods by mule train, for example, in order to make way for trams, cars and bicycles; horses, cattle and donkeys were to be kept outside the city. The smp oversaw the construction of middle- and working-class suburbs, and tore down historic sections of the centre to make way for new buildings and office blocks. They also pressured landowners to convert rural areas of the city into the urban fabric. Avenida La Playa was readied for trams and cars, to carry workers and middle-class professionals to work from outlying neighbourhoods during the 1920s and 30s. Antioquia's regional development regime—industrialization, transport and communications networks, and urban restructuring—served as a model for the rest of the country, as state elites translated economic clout into national political advantage between 1904 and 1920. The coffee bourgeoisie invested in banking, industry and urban real estate, becoming expert speculators.
Import-substitute industrialization and production for the national market were the twin supports of this system in the postwar period. Light manufacturing—beverages, textiles (woollens and cotton), food, candy, cigarettes, coffee packing—was protected from competition by high tariffs on imported goods, and subsidized by generous government loans and credit terms as well as infrastructural development. Investment in industry was coordinated with state economic policy, especially after the mid-1940s. Cotton manufacturing in Medellín became 'the crowning achievement' of the Colombian path to modernization. [4] The city's leaders were active forces in the formation of andi, the National Industrialists' Association, and fedecafe, the Coffee Growers' Federation, as powerful national lobbies to push for their class interests.
Industrial paternalism—initially the self-proclaimed 'protector' of the single working-girl's virginity—was revamped in the 1940s and 50s, as a second generation of industrialists took the reins of their family firms. The Restrepos and Echeverrías were convinced that the modern industrial factory could be made into a 'mechanism for preventing the spread of communist agitation in Colombia' as well as 'a model for society at large'; this would be the new idiom for oligarchic rule. [5] Women were as systematically removed from mill jobs as they had been recruited into them thirty years earlier, replaced by male 'breadwinners' with dependent households. For textile workers, who formed a small, relatively privileged minority of the Medellín proletariat, wage levels were high enough to permit consumption of domestic and imported goods; benefits included recreation, health and schooling. Unlike other industrial centres in Colombia—Barrancabermeja, Barranquilla, Cali, Santa Marta—organized labour in Medellín did not forge a distinctive tradition of independent class politics. Outside the Jesuit-led Unión de Trabajadores Colombianos (utc), founded in 1946, the working class was fragmented. This was the golden age for Medellín's merchant-industrialist elite. In 1947 Life magazine tagged the city a 'capitalist paradise'. The 'Manchester of Colombia' had skyscrapers, cinemas and theatres, wide avenues, parks and monuments, schools and universities, commercial boulevards for pedestrians and a local railroad system; as well as innumerable well-endowed churches, their edifices bulking over every neighbourhood. The city's equatorial-mountain climate, hovering at 22°, promised an 'eternal spring'.
Even after the assassination of the populist Liberal leader Jorge Eliécer Gaitán in 1948, when much of Colombia was plunged into the murderous civil conflict of La Violencia which wiped out any hopes of an opening for left reformism within the state-sanctioned political arena, Medellín remained untouched by the general carnage. [6] In terms of profit rates and class collaboration, the city's economy continued to run smoothly—indeed, in 1947 and 1949, industrial production surpassed previous records. Though themselves supporters of the Conservative President Mariano Ospina and, after 1950, of the hard-right Laureano Gómez, paisa industrialists prohibited partisan propaganda in their factories during La Violencia, even if elites gave tacit sanction to killings in the peripheral municipalities. [7] Migrants who found jobs in the mills during this period continued to come from the central and southwest Antioquian coffee zones, where La Violencia was least intense, and Liberal supporters were not barred from jobs. Led by the Echeverrías and andi, the Medellín elite consciously promoted an image of the city as an 'oasis' of peaceful capitalist productivity, beneficial to the nation, thanks to the social responsibility of its major industrialists. They gave full backing to the power-sharing deal known as the National Front Accord that was sealed between the two ruling-class parties, Liberal and Conservative, in 1957.
Yet the limits of the Antioquian model were all too apparent. Each sector—textiles, cigarettes, beer, chocolates—remained subject to a family monopoly, and manufacturing never developed from light consumer goods into heavy goods and machinery. Capital investment was ultimately dependent on coffee remittances, recycled as subsidies for industry through the state's national-development fund. Any trickle-down wealth effect remained very restricted, barely percolating beyond the upper layers of the textile employees when it came to turning workers into consumers. Once coffee prices entered the long decline of the 1960s and 70s, and far-eastern economies—Taiwan, Hong Kong—became unbeatably competitive in terms of cheap clothing and light consumer goods, Medellín's days as a capitalist paradise were numbered.
At the same time, subdivision of inherited peasant plots, combined with population growth and a secular decline in coffee prices, contributed to worsening poverty in the countryside. The numbers streaming into the city in search of work increased from the mid-60s. Squatter neighbourhoods sprouted up the green hillsides on either side of the Medellín River, especially in the northern Aburrá Valley: warrens of hand-built dwellings constructed from cheap brick, wood, cinder blocks or bareque, interconnected by steep flights of steps. Their expansion was guaranteed by the elite's stubborn blocking of agrarian reform. Within a few decades these fast-growing slums would house half the city's 2.2 million population. Meagre state resources were funnelled through neighbourhood committees, the Juntas de Acción Comunal. But the fact that police and army units were sent in to demolish hillside settlements was a symptom of the crisis of authority on the city's new frontiers.
Meanwhile, as industrial employment stagnated, a burgeoning layer of lower-middle and working-class urban youth faced a jobless future; a larger public university system helped produce a new middle-class layer with higher education but lacking any prospects of professional security. [8] The hopes raised by the expanding manufacturing economy of the postwar decades, for social mobility and improved housing, education, health and working conditions, were dashed for the succeeding generations by the crisis of the antioqueño model. As Medellín's new barrios organized and petitioned to obtain public services in the 1970s, a young, jobless proletariat added an insurgent edge to the mobilizations. Rural guerrillas had been a permanent feature of the Colombian political landscape since the 1950s, remnants of a marginalized but resilient and deep-rooted left; by the 1960s these were chiefly constituted in the farc (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia) and eln (Ejército de Liberación Nacional). By the late 1970s a broader urban left was becoming visible, as worker, student and guerrilla networks began to converge. It was met with savage repression by state forces—trade unionists and left-wing community leaders were detained, beaten or killed. The bi-partisan National Front accords functioned to exclude left forces from official political representation. By 1970, voter turnout had dropped to 20 per cent. Popular protest increasingly took the form of radical insurrectionism, aiming at the overthrow of the failed social model.
Rise of narco-capital
Among the most dynamic of the forces that would contest that model's replacement in Medellín over the next two decades was the 'rising class' of traffickers and import-export men, bred by the informal economy. Smuggling cheap goods—clothing, cigarettes—from the duty-free zone of Panama to beat high import tariffs would prove a lucrative alternative to domestic production and an effective means of money laundering. Growing up in an undistinguished Medellín suburb, Pablo Escobar, son of a peasant farmer and a school-teacher mother, was dabbling in contraband activities from an early age. He cut his teeth as a young thug in the 'Marlboro Wars' of the early 1970s, as rival gangs fought over the contraband cigarette trade. This group established the various interlocking networks of the coca trade—purchase, processing, credit lines, transportation—that would become known as the Medellín Cartel, and whose long tentacles linked the coffee heartlands to eastern tropical frontiers and the northern Atlantic coast. [9] Escobar and others helped finance infrastructural projects, including roads and airports, to facilitate the development of the new industry.
The glitzy tastes and brazen violence of this new-rich clase emergente were in dramatic contrast to the penny-pinching piety and conservatism of Medellín's traditional oligarchs. Of the city's ruling families, initially only the Ochoas, under the patriarchal leadership of El Gordo, the Fat One, bridged the gulf between old money and new. Land deals were the preferred method of laundering the truckloads of narco-dollars. Escobar and others bought up vast tracts of impoverished cattle country in the tropical lowlands of northern Antioquia and the Magdalena Medio Valley, where land values were low as ranchers fled the threat of farc kidnapping and extortion. The father of the current President of Colombia, Alberto Uribe Sierra, a poor relation of the Ochoas, was a key intermediary in these real-estate transactions, and soon became a major ranch-owner himself. As cocaine money helped fuel a real-estate and construction boom in which local capital, freed from industrial development, could make more lucrative investments, the economic and political clout of the cartel was bolstered by a broader alliance with the old oligarchy.
Helicoptering in to their new domains, Medellín's narco-barons and their entourages found themselves prey to kidnapping and extortion by the local guerrillas. Their response was to recruit their own private armies and death squads, as well as agitating for stepped-up state-level counter-insurgency policies. In 1981 Escobar and other traffickers joined with army officers, police and party bosses to organize mas (Death to Kidnappers). They also turned their hired killers against farc supporters and other leftists in Medellín itself, plunging the city into a murderous downward spiral. The narco elite would impose its own solution to the social crisis of Medellín, at a terrible price. Narcocapital would be the bridge from the industrial model to the 'new economy' makeover, based on finance, real estate and services—though Escobar would have to be sacrificed in the process.
The rise of the contrabandistas to political influence in Medellín—and in the country as a whole—did not go unopposed. The early career of President Uribe is instructive in this regard. Although he boasts a management diploma from Harvard, acquired in 1993, the 18-year-old Uribe passed out of Medellín's Jorge Robledo high school in 1970 with 'special exemption' from the final examinations. As his father's income swelled through land deals, Uribe Junior was fast-tracked through the municipal-authority structures: he became head of the real-estate office of Medellín's Public Works Department in 1976, at the age of 24. After stints at the Labour Ministry and the Department of Civil Aviation—where he was responsible for allocating pilots' licences for the fleet of planes operated by Escobar—Uribe was ushered in as Mayor of Medellín in 1982, as quid pro quo for his father's contributions to Belisario Betancur's presidential campaign. But this proved unacceptable to some of Antioquia's traditional politicians. After five months, Uribe—who would openly avail himself of Escobar's organization when his father was killed, allegedly by the farc, in 1983—was removed from the mayor's office.
Escobar, who had made political enemies through his populist posturing, was drummed out of the Liberal Party in 1982 by those denouncing the influence of narco-traffickers in the halls of power. Many backed the us dea's demand for his extradition. Escobar's death squads responded with bombings and assassinations of pro-extraditionists: journalists, university teachers, human-rights activists. Under his influence, the involution of Medellín's working-class neighbourhoods took a new turn: organized crime tied to narcotics production and distribution provided a jobs machine for young proletarians without prospects of education or waged work, offering unheard-of opportunities for social mobility through an updated version of the values that underwrote Catholic corporatism. Local gangs involved in auto theft, drug dealing and extortion—the Priscos in Aranjuez, La Ramada in Bello, Quika's crew in Castilla—became integrated into the networks that revolved around Pablo Escobar and the Medellín Cartel. By putting semi-criminal youth to work en masse, Escobar contributed enormously to the specialization and professionalization of Medellín gangs, perhaps his most enduring legacy. Though there had been gangs in the city since the 1960s, their activities had never impinged directly on everyday life. Now they put a brake on processes of community self-organization—for housing, health care, education and better employment—making many of the hillside neighbourhoods all but unliveable. Civic participation was reduced to patronage for those who could afford it, and grief and fear for the rest.
Armies of the left
In a parallel development, the mid-1980s saw the formation of independent milicias populares—'popular militias'—initially under the supervision of left community activists and former guerrilla leaders. United by a broadly left-insurrectionary outlook, they aimed to root out gangs and crime from their neighbourhoods through force of arms, and institute their own form of self-government. Squatters in the northeastern comunas worked with ex-guerrilla forces and M-19 militants to organize a self-defence militia known as Los Capuchos, the 'masked ones', from 1985. Other left militias emerged in neighbouring territory. The negotiations initiated with the rural guerrilla forces by the Betancur government in the early 1980s had allowed for the establishment of safe-haven 'peace camps', which played an important role in educating and training the popular militias. Building on pre-existing, yet loose and shape-shifting youth gang structures, the eln in the northeast and the farc in Comuna 13 and other western districts endeavoured to re-tool them for armed insurgency. [10] Before the state intervened against them, popular militias succeeded in defeating small and medium-sized criminal gangs. Militias were dedicated, at least in theory, to community empowerment, and their activities included improvement projects such as clean-up, paving, painting, sports and recreation, as well as night patrols and the resolution of domestic and neighbourly disputes.
The mid-80s also saw the formation of a new broad-left alliance, the Unión Patriótica, a joint project of the farc and the Colombian Communist Party, which for a while served as a clearing-house for urban radicals of all ideological stripes. Though not as strong in Medellín as elsewhere, the up offered the hope of a concerted resistance against both the old oligarchy and the new gangster class. But by organizing in the open, it also exposed its supporters to violent repression by the right. In Antioquia as elsewhere, students, teachers, journalists, lawyers, and especially trade unionists and peasant activists associated with the alliance were subject to assassination. The up was destroyed not as a result of internal failings, real as these were, but because it could not withstand the sustained right-wing terror directed against it.
The immediate outcome of this repression was to strengthen the armed groupings of the left. Responding to the deteriorating political and security situation, the growth of popular militias accelerated in the late 1980s; many of their commanders enjoyed popular support and legitimacy.–83.', FGCOLOR, '#E3E3E3', BGCOLOR, '#000000')" title="" onmouseout=nd(); href="http://www.newleftreview.org/?page=article&view=2660#_edn11" name=_ednref11> [11] If former governor Gilberto Echeverry's fear of a communist takeover of the city, expressed in a letter to Liberal President César Gaviria, seems comically exaggerated—especially in light of global shifts then unfolding—the spread of micro-sovereignties, exercised in the name of 'the people', was real. [12]
Yet in the context of the overall balance of power, the provisional victories of popular militias against the smaller gangs could only give rise to more violent, professional criminal groupings with closer ties to narcotrafficking and, ipso facto, elements within the state-security agencies. For Escobar's networks, war with the left militias served as a laboratory for gang mutation towards concentration, centralization and fusion with the most authoritarian elements of the state. Under siege, the left militias now began to reproduce the authoritarian state and gangster practices against which they had organized themselves. This was an evolution comparable—mutatis mutandis—to that of eta elements in the Basque Country or Provos in Northern Ireland. Ultimately, the armed urban left would be undermined not only due to state repression and growing gangster terror, but also because it lacked the political resources to combat those tendencies within its own ranks. [13]
At the end of the 1980s, a broad alliance of state-led forces, including many of his former Medellín associates, turned against Escobar himself. The catalyst was the 1989 assassination of the likely Liberal presidential candidate, Luis Carlos Galán, who had publicly called for Escobar's extradition to the us. On President Barco's initiative, a special Bloque de Búsqueda, a task force composed of elite police units from outside the city—natives were considered unreliable—was set up to search for Escobar. For his part, Escobar hired a veritable army from the northeastern and northwestern Medellín comunas to wage war against the state. The price for a dead police officer in December 1989 was 500,000 pesos ($250); by 1991 it had tripled. [14] Around 500 policemen were assassinated in Medellín in 1990–91, and Escobar's minions set off some 150 car bombs. Once Escobar had negotiated the terms of his surrender with the Gaviria government in July 1991—he would be jailed in a palatial 'prison' of his own construction, staffed by his own guards—Colombian military, police and intelligence agencies led a ferocious wave of repression against comuna dwellers: twenty to forty young men were found dead each weekend. [15] By 1992 Escobar had 'escaped' and was at war with the government again; for the second consecutive year, there were more than 6,000 homicides in Medellín.
Under renewed pressure from Washington, the Gaviria Administration and us agencies now forged an alliance with the Cali cartel and, crucially, Escobar's former associates in the Medellín Cartel that came to be known as Los Pepes, 'Those Persecuted by Pablo Escobar'. Throughout 1993 Carlos Castaño, a narco-paramilitary chieftain and former Escobar employee, led the campaign against his ex-boss, using hit squads composed of gang youths from Medellín. The homicide rate that year was a terrifying 311 per 100,000, nearly 10 times higher than today. Castaño went after Escobar's gangs and associates, but also targeted his primordial enemies: 'communist subversives'. [16] An ally in this pursuit was Diego Fernando Murillo, known as Don Berna, head of security for one of Escobar's lieutenants before turning to coordinate hit squads against the capo di tutti capi. Escobar was finally killed in December 1993.
From the Governor's mansion
Escobar's death signalled, not the end of narcocapital's influence in Medellín, but its coming of age. By 1995, the influence of the clase emergente was apparent at three different levels. First, the links forged through Los Pepes had strengthened the ties between state-security organs, narco-paramilitaries and Medellín's gangs. Second, cocaine capital laundered through real estate, construction and finance, had now captured the state government of Antioquia, in the person of Álvaro Uribe. After serving as a Medellín city councillor in the mid-80s, Uribe had been a state senator from 1986 to 1994, and in 1995 was elected governor. Together with his consigliere, Juan Moreno Villa—later named by the dea for his suspiciously large potassium permanganate imports—Uribe now moved to bind the paramilitary forces of the cocaine industry into Colombia's state-security system. The mechanism for this was the Defence Ministry's new Convivir structure, which gave government backing to local 'security and vigilance' units grouped alongside Colombia's military and police. Financed by private enterprise but, with Uribe in the Governor's mansion, operating with 'the support and legal sanction of the state', these heavily armed death squads enjoyed near-total impunity; killings of human-rights activists and labour leaders duly accelerated. [17] In Antioquia and Córdoba, the Convivir were largely co-extensive with Castaño's accu paramilitaries. Seven Convivir units functioned in Medellín alone. [18]
A third development helped to cement the new order at street level from the mid-90s. Don Berna had inherited the 'Envigado Office' of specialist killers after Escobar's death. [19] He now moved to establish a gang of gangs known as La Terraza, based in Manrique, one of the northeastern comunas' toughest neighbourhoods. La Terraza soon controlled a substantial portion of organized crime in the city—contract killing, armed robbery, extortion, gambling, prostitution, retail drug sales—as well as coordinating cocaine exports through Urabá, building on the connection Don Berna had established with Carlos Castaño in the days of Los Pepes. Gang leaders now negotiated formal arrangements with Medellín's municipal government through the newly created 'Office of Peace and Co-existence.' For many, this simply meant joining the Convivir. The resulting alliance between Don Berna and Castaño constituted a near monopoly of violence. Don Berna's thugs were organized into the Bloque Cacique Nutibara; Castaño's, under local commander 'Rodrigo 00' (Doble Cero)—another veteran of Los Pepes—into the Bloque Metro. Making offers that local gang leaders could not refuse, the two groups had conquered 70 per cent of the city by 2002. Gangs that tried to hold out were either forced to pay tribute or disappeared altogether.
Nevertheless, well-armed leftist militias continued to control substantial redoubts in the slums of the northeast and west of Medellín. [20] Comuna 13 remained an unbreachable stronghold. In May 2002, after the Mayor and his entourage were repelled by gunfire, state forces launched a military offensive codenamed Operation Mariscal on Comuna 13; the troops withdrew after intensive house-to-house fighting failed to break the militias. Following Uribe's election as President, however, further massive assaults were launched. In late 2002 and early 2003, the Army's Operations Orión and Estrella vi against Comuna 13 were, it seemed, coordinated with bm and bcn paramilitaries, who remained behind to occupy the conquered territories. By the end of 2003, Don Berna had taken over the city's gangs, and with the help of his network in state-security agencies, vanquished the last of the remaining militias, along with Bloque Metro, which had become a liability; the bcn killed Doble Cero in May 2004. [21] A new order had been established in Medellín.
Cocaine and the new economy
In Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy, Barrington Moore famously described European feudalism as 'gangsterism that had become society itself'. Don Berna's trajectory from hired gun to mafia don to 'pacifier' of Medellín epitomizes the re-feudalization of power in Colombia's neo-liberalized economy, underwritten by cocaine profits as the former, industrial model was based on coffee. This fusion of politics, property and organized crime, reflected in the paramilitary grip over security for capital investment, links the city's bad old days to its good new ones, and largely determines the present and future shape of the built environment. Following Don Berna's victory, homicide and violent-crime rates fell precipitously, even as the city's first mass graves for the uncounted dead were uncovered in the central-west and northeast. In the late 1990s, publicly sanctioned security forces 'cleansed'—limpiaron—a large area of the city centre, dominated by a red-light district and open-air market on the north side and a street of gay salons to the west. Hired thugs threatened, displaced or murdered the district's 'disposable' inhabitants—drug sellers, addicts, prostitutes, street kids, petty thieves, called desechables—to make it safe for urban redevelopment. After 2000, this city-wide 'pacification' campaign was supported by state-security forces, businessmen, politicians of both parties and the Catholic Church.
'Pacification' is the condition of possibility for the much-touted improvements in tourism, investment and security. Taking the credit for it, Don Berna explained that his troops understood the need to create the 'necessary climate so that investment returns, particularly foreign investment, which is fundamental if we do not want to be left behind by the engine of globalization'. [22] While continuing to manage extortion, contract killing, gambling, drug sales, etc., Don Berna has also had an important hand in construction, transport, wholesale and retail, finance, fashion, private security, real-estate development and cable television. In the 2004 elections, thirty of Don Berna's candidates won posts as heads of neighbourhood associations, the Juntas de Acción Comunal. They ran through an ngo called Corporación Democracia, led by Giovanni Marín, alias 'Comandante R', a butcher turned ideologue who ran for Congress in 2006. According to Marín, 'My conscience is clear. People should know that we collaborated in pacifying the city; that we handed over a city at peace.' [23]
Don Berna's pacification process coincided with the landslide election victory of Mayor Sergio Fajardo in 2003. Superficially, the contrast between the modus operandi of the two could hardly be sharper. Fajardo is us-educated (a doctoral thesis in mathematics from the University of Wisconsin–Madison), a jeans-wearing newspaper columnist and media personality of the centre-left, untarnished by identification with either of Colombia's political parties. Support for him is strongest amongst the middle class, but is astonishingly high—around 90 per cent, compared to President Uribe's estimated 70 per cent. His boosters like to point to Fajardo's relative lack of corruption: accounting processes are transparent, budgeting participatory. This needs some qualification: Fajardo's family owns one of Colombia's largest construction and cement firms, which is allegedly benefiting from non-competitive contracts to build luxury housing in El Poblado, the city's wealthiest neighbourhood.
Fajardo is also undertaking a programme of showpiece public works, many aimed at the hillside slums where the state has either been absent, or manifest only as a heavy fist. An ambitious project called 'Medellín, the most educated' will involve the construction of six public park and library complexes in areas like the northeastern and western comunas, to go along with ten new schools that will serve 20,000 students, at a total cost of $1.6bn. As the map of schools and parks-libraries demonstrates, for the first time city government is establishing a non-repressive presence in comunas long disputed by gangs, militias and narco-paramilitaries. Yet the library complex in Las Independencias, in the west, looks like a prison: composed of six two-storey sections joined by stairs, long black metal bars separate large windows on the front of each barracks-grey block. The library in Santo Domingo, in the northeast, is to sit on the other side of a high wall from the neighbourhood's houses. Composed of two black pod-like structures, it looks like a military research installation. This is the classic architecture of pacification, with security functions built into design. [24]
The chief political aim of the narco-paramilitaries has long been negotiated demobilization—'going legit', with immunity from extradition to the us. Uribe had long looked kindly on this, and accords were agreed in 2005. Thoughtlessly, perhaps, Don Berna's boys killed a local politician campaigning just a few miles away from where their boss was shaking hands with the President's representative. After protests Don Berna was arrested for the killing, but continues to exercise formidable control from jail. The Medellín municipal government offers demobilizing paramilitaries the best terms in the country, plus job-skills training, etc; another coincidence of agendas between City Hall and Don Berna's Itagüí prison cell. By 2006, close to 4,000 demobilized paramilitaries had flocked to the city. But the major area of agreement between the two agents of Medellín's makeover remains the necessity of adapting the city to the needs and security of foreign capital. Don Berna's concern to create a favourable climate for overseas investors has already been noted; Fajardo echoes the need to 'project' the image of a 'vibrant city, once again taking its place as a business hub and tourist destination'. [25]
Andean paradigm?
For over half a century, its exceptional modernity made Medellín an exemplar for national development far beyond Colombia's borders; a 'capitalist paradise' of the Cold War. The city appears ready to assume the role once more. Four years ago I suggested in these pages that, when Medellín's native son and Antioquia's former governor Álvaro Uribe was inaugurated as President of Colombia, the outlaws became the establishment. Medellín's model of a dynamic, narcotics-based, finance and service-sector economy—its slums now gilded with the occasional show-piece project—has become Colombia's.
After three generations of cocaine-fuelled urban warfare, Medellín is now positioned to become the leading edge of economic integration with the us, by linking the coffee axis of the Andean interior to the Pacific and Atlantic coasts. Since 1990, Antioquia has been planned as 'the best corner of America' for large-scale capital investment in mining, transport infrastructure, mega-projects like dams and canals, hardwood logging and palm plantations. Regional elites appear close to achieving their dream, first expressed during the coffee-export boom more than a century ago, to integrate their highland capital with the lowlands of the Caribbean and Pacific littorals, against the backdrop of American free-trade projects for the hemisphere. [26]
Yet if the region's ruling class has overcome its qualms in turning to narco-capital and paramilitaries to secure investment, property rights and profitability, such a basis provides little grounds for the new order's legitimacy. Though paramilitary chiefs have done well from Uribe's demobilization programme, the foot soldiers have found themselves returned to the bleak social conditions they had sought to escape. More than half of Medellín's population lives in poverty; three-quarters of those in the slum comunas earn less than the minimum wage; nearly half a million lack basic services—water, sewage, electricity. Disgruntled paramilitaries, considering themselves short-changed by Uribe's demobilization initiatives, may be willing to talk about their dealings with generals, politicians and business leaders. At the end of 2006 the Congressional opposition led by the Polo Democrático Alternativo sparked a Supreme Court investigation into alleged rigging of regional elections by Uribe's allies, with paramilitary collusion. Eight legislators have been detained, along with Uribe's former intelligence chief Jorge Noguera. In late March 2007 a cia operative leaked documents to the Los Angeles Times showing that Colombia's Army chief, Gen. Mario Monoya, who commanded the 2002 Operation Orión assault on the slums of Medellín's Comuna 13, had signed an accord with one of Don Berna's henchmen and a local police commander on the joint planning and implementation of the offensive, which had left at least 14 dead and dozens more 'missing'. [27] At the time of writing, 'Para-gate' is still unravelling, coming ever closer to Uribe himself. The beacon of neo-conservatism in Latin America sheds a noxious glare, a reminder that Medellín's makeover rests on the graves of tens of thousands of its citizens. Resistance, and not only of the armed variety, has been formidable, which explains the sangre y fuego—blood and fire—expended to overcome it.
