and revolution in the air...

The whirlwind tour outside of the Peace Community continued for five days in Medellín after the accompaniment with the ACA in the Oriente. It was such a completely different experience than that of the Oriente and that of living in the community these last six months that I hardly know where to begin, but I think it begins with music and dancing.

Our bus left San Francisco in the late afternoon and about four hours later we were back in Medellín and standing in the midst of the kickoff street concert for the following day’s “AntiMili” day long concert of music and revolution, an annual event of the Red Juvenil de Medellín (The Youth Network of Medellín). This blocked off street party was miles away from the crisp mountains of the Oriente. It was dark and grimy and loud and full of lots of mohawks and resolutely raised fists. Two women from Bogotá, known as “Por Razon del Estado” rapped some seriously revolutionary “flow” and earned my instant respect and admiration. The pavement bounced with energy and our friends from the Red introduced us around as we met Colombians and Europeans, most of whom were conscientious objectors gathering together for days of music and serious networking around resistance to war. Again, I was surrounded by Chuck Taylor’s, but this time the genuine version – apparently the universal shoe for anarchists. Young people hung out windows and on the stairs up to surrounding apartments as I adjusted to being in a Colombian city – what’s more, in the midst of a total scene in a Colombian city.

As the concert was ending my teammate Camila was ready to go out dancing for the night. Anyone who knows me understands that I am not what one would call a dancer. I specialize in the “Cheese Grater”, the classic “Hold on to your ankle while pumping your knee and elbow” and the “8th Grade Dance Arms-Length Away Awkward Shuffle”. And true to my whiteness, I just can’t figure out how to move my hips in the way the people are seemingly born to do here. I have tried to learn but I always end my lessons still caught in the mechanical side-to-side hip sway, the rigidity of which probably makes me an excellent square dancer. Nonetheless, my short stay in the “City of Eternal Spring” began with salsa, merengue and vallenato late into the night. Camila and our friends from the ACA tried to help me out, beating out rhythms and allowing me to dance with them while I trained my eyes on their feet. I must have improved some because I was reminded of the existence of muscle somewhere in the love handle region. Progress.

The next morning we woke up early and got ourselves over to the headquarters of the Red Juvenil. The Red has made their home in a house on a street like many others in Medellín and it would remain inconspicuous if not for the flyers and artwork suggesting disobedience and revolution. Stepping through the doors I felt the not-so-old urges to smash the darn state. (Note to my parents: don’t worry, I am not allowed to get arrested on my visa, I’d be kicked out of the country – so no need for alarm). Inside those doors is always a steady hum of activity, on that morning it had accelerated into a whir of last minute arrangements and panics. The 12-hour concert was set to begin at noon, leaving only a few hours for final preparations and stage set up in the nearby park. The “Anti-Mili” concert is in its 10th year and draws a huge crowd from over Medellín, Colombia and even a few world-travelers. It is planned in proximity to International Conscientious Objectors Day and is not just another concert. It is a bold challenge to the Colombian State to recognize the right of conscientious objectors to its war.

CO status is a risk here as it is not recognized as a legitimate alternative to soldiering. All Colombian men over the age of 18 must possess a “libreta militar" which proves that they have provided their one year of service in the Colombian Army or the National Police. If the an has not earned his high school degree he is legally bound to 2 years of service. Service is determined by a drawing usually when boys are registered with local military command after completing high school. What you pull out of the hat determines your fate. Some pull out a third option, one that allows them to pay for their libreta militar instead of potentially sacrifice their life or morals. Of course, only those with ready cash can afford such options –the rest are forced to serve out their time. Those with ready-er cash can buy their way out of obligatory service even before fate forces their hand to reach in and choose. Such is the way that boys put on uniforms and head into the mountains and jungles to vanquish an enemy that declared its resistance before their parents even met.


The Red Juvenil and COs all over Colombia believe in a fourth option – one that respects an individual’s right to object to a war they feel is morally reprehensible. Men without proof of libreta militar can not receive college degrees, can not find a job in the formal sector, can not own property, can not sign a contract and risk capture by the State and forced military service or imprisonment. You can’t simply dodge this draft, you have to disappear. There are also those who stand up in plain view and demand their right to objection. These COs have found their way to the Red and like groups and have come together across Colombia and joined up with War Resisters International in efforts to stop capture and forced recruitment and to hopefully push Colombian society to the point of demanding legal CO status. The concert was the kickoff.


Twelve hours of live music is quite a feat. And the fact that the park was continuously full of people and as night fell, absolutely jammed full of people, is a testament to the networking prowess of the Red. Many kinds of music streamed from the stage; from hip hop to screeching metal to reggae. The over-flowing crowd raised its fists and danced in collective celebration and resistance. The palpable energy was heart stopping and as the music refused to end in the twelfth hour the crowd was finally scattered by the rain that had been threatening all day. The faithful few remained as rain poured down and laughter bubbled up and then down to my unwilling hips and feet. Finally the stage was broken down and I found myself picking up wet trash with the others, exhausted but smiling at a day spent engrossed in such a completely different form of resistance than that I have become accustomed to in my time so far.


The next day the 70-some COs headed to a farm outside of the city to use the next couple of days to work out details of their international efforts as well as plan their collective action for International Conscientious Objectors Day that week. We were invited to join them and did so on the second day. The people that Janice and Camila and I met over those couple of days were instant allies and friends. It was a privilege to be part of their meetings and workshops as they worked out the details of a national network of COs supported on the international stage. I met people from other Latin American countries. My favorite conversations happened with a man from El Salvador, now in forties, who recounted his days of theological study with the liberation theologians that were later targeted and killed in 1989, with US backing. He knew these men and he had even heard Archbishop Oscar Romero’s homilies in person. I could have talked with this guy for days. My brain felt alive in new ways and my overall awe of the situations I continually find myself in here increased ten fold.

The action itself was amazing to watch. I have grown so tired of the well-intended but now too standard marches or die-ins of US activisim. “What do we want? Peace! When do we want it – oh, who cares.” The folks that came together decided to do a theater-like slow motion performance that ended in some much more inspired chanting and then “carnival”.
Carnival meant joyous drums and clarinet driving folks down the street as they danced their way to the next performance spot, the Parque Botero. Maybe it is our lack of similar public parks and spaces in the US that changes our activism. But this kind of activism was tied up in performance and something that felt much more alive than angry shuffling down the street. That night we celebrated together by dancing all night long at an empty club (it was a Tuesday) and my stubborn hips finally started a legitimate sway. I think I danced all but three songs in the four hours we spent at the club and then laughed as the lights came up and the DJ ended the night with three old school favorites. Mr. Big’s one hit, Puffy’s tribute to Biggie Smalls and just for good measure, Gangsta´s
Paradise. The obligatory circle that formed found yours truly doing her best Cheese Grater and then Knee/Elbow pump in the middle of my new and wide-eyed friends. Some things never change.