Street art in Neiva, Colombia, 2021. (Photo: Camila González Herrera)

Exploring a city as a tourist can be a vastly different experience from doing so as a local. Though I was born and raised in Neiva, Colombia, it was not until my foreign friend visited that I realized how the resistance against state violence and corruption is vividly illustrated in my hometown's public spaces, leaving no room to turn a blind eye. Her amazement at the art, phrases, and graffiti covering a small city like Neiva sparked a conversation about the country’s political landscape at the time.

When my friend visited in the summer of 2021, we were discussing the tax reform proposed by former President Iván Duque, a proposal that sparked the April 28th (“28A”) strike, which would become the largest national strike in Colombia’s recent history. This movement brought together educators, students, farmers, Indigenous peoples, feminists, environmentalists, and other groups of outraged Colombians. These groups mobilized amid the COVID-19 pandemic to generate one of the most significant waves of protest in Colombia’s recent history, which was marked by widespread violence stemming from government inaction and police brutality.

This led to a wave of political messages on school walls, bridges, viaducts, and more. With this in mind, my friend and I shifted our conversation to the power of street art as a form of resistance— both as a voice for the marginalized and as a medium to communicate issues that demand collective attention in Neiva, Colombia, Latin America, and the world.

Communicating Resistance

In response to years of silence and misrepresentation in conventional communication channels, such as TV news and newspapers, various organizations in Colombia have turned to social media as a means to inform the population about the reality on the ground. In fact, since the 2021 strike, organizations such as La Direkta, Mutante, and La Silla Vacia have increased their presence on Instagram and Twitter/X as they lack access to the dominant media platforms, which are largely influenced and sponsored by Colombia’s right-wing and wealthy elites.

“While those in power and those involved in imposing the dominant ideology might feel threatened by messages like these, they are also intended for everyday Colombians who drive, walk, or cycle through these streets. They serve as a reminder that even if mainstream media does not show it, there are people who think differently, who care, and who are willing to fight for what they believe is right. They remind those on the ground that they are not alone and help amplify their voices— because “las calles gritan lo que los medios callan” (“The streets shout what media silences”).”

Another way Colombians use creativity to make their voices heard is through graffiti and other forms of street art. Arriving in Neiva in mid-July after the stronger protest waves had passed, I found a city covered with a tremendous array of complex artworks. While I cannot speak to Neiva’s street art before that summer, each time I return, I actively scan the city’s streets, bridges, and walls for glimpses into what Neivanos are experiencing. As a small city, Neiva rarely makes national news or mainstream media. Consequently, these streets have become a form of grassroots journalism for many. This popular art offers valuable insight into societal needs, concerns, changes and the experiences of local people.

Street Art or Vandalism?

Despite its powerful role in conveying local communities' voices, street art is frequently dismissed as vandalism, a label that delegitimizes its impact and diminishes its cultural and political value. For many, especially members of marginalized groups, street art is a means to challenge the status quo and overcome their invisibility in media and public spaces, which are typically reserved for those who can afford them— alienating the majority from having a voice and sense of belonging in their own environment.

One of the most compelling aspects about Neiva’s street art is how the issues depicted evolve over time, often obscured by thick layers of white or gray paint and sometimes replaced by new art pieces. In fact, some of the works analyzed in this article are no longer on display. As time passes, the messages that Neivanos wish to convey also pass but never really disappear, thus disappointing those who wish to censor or to conceal. This common act of erasure raises an important question: who benefits from silencing the messages that local street art seeks to communicate?

To explore these dynamics, I will analyze a few pieces photographed in July 2021. While these works and the messages they convey are unique to Neiva, using street art as a means of resisting mainstream media polarization and amplifying marginalized voices is not unique to Neiva but rather a global practice.

Education and the Government

L-R: Street art in Neiva, 2021. (Photo: Camila González Herrera); Poker beer bottle. (Photo: LoisPineda via Wikimedia Commons, CC Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International); Logo of the Partido Centro Democrático.

“El exceso de educación es perjudicial para el gobierno” (“Excessive education is harmful to the government”). This phrase emphasizes the importance of education in resisting, protesting, and organizing. It serves as a direct critique of the government and its aim to establish a system that makes it difficult for people to understand political, economic, and social structures while concealing information about what is happening on the ground.

Interestingly, and perhaps only noticeable to a local’s eye, this piece is also an example of “culture jamming.” Specifically, it mimics the label of Poker, the second-largest beer brand in Colombia. By law, every alcoholic beverage container in the country must display a warning at the lower end of the label, occupying at least one-tenth of its space, stating: “Excessive alcohol is harmful to health.” While at first glance it may not seem like it, various details make this piece a complex critique. The shield with playing cards at the top of the label carefully imitates Poker’s original design, but the beer illustration is replaced with a clear depiction of the logo of Colombia’s Democratic Centre political party—the right-wing party to which the president at the time belonged.

To me, as a local, this piece reflects a deep distrust in the government and urges the audience to think beyond what mainstream media portrays as truth. It calls on people to resist by questioning government narratives and educating themselves. This message is especially important given the government and mainstream media’s polarization during 28A (the April 28 protests). Pieces like this are not only responses to repression but also calls to action for those on the ground.

¿Quién dio la orden?

“¿Quién dio la orden?” (“Who gave the order?”) is a commonly used phrase referring to the extrajudicial executions— also known as “false positives” (“falsos positivos”)— carried out by the Colombian military between 2000 and 2010. The term refers to the killings of young civilians who were falsely presented as guerrillas killed in combat. This dark chapter of Colombia’s armed conflict remains a central issue in the nation’s transitional justice process.

The ¿Quién dio la orden? murals faced censorship since their creation. The first was painted in October 2019 in front of a Military Cadet School in Bogotá, and just a few hours later the mural was covered with white paint. According to the Movement of Victims of State Crimes (MOVICE), which led the initiative, the mural was censored by a National Army Brigade 13 operation, during which over 20 armed men intimidated the young artists. MOVICE shared an image of the censored mural the next day on Twitter.

The original *¿Quién dio la orden?* mural. (Photo: El Heraldo via Wikimedia Commons, CC Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International)

Despite numerous attempts to suppress it, the mural—which memorializes victims of extrajudicial executions and demands truth, justice, and non-repetition—now stands once again outside the Cadet School, protected by Colombia’s Constitutional Court. It has become a staple question that can be found in walls, rural roadsides, parks, protest banners, universities, and bridges in almost every corner of the country.

*¿Quién dio la orden?* mural in Neiva, 2021. (Photo: Camila González Herrera)

The photograph above, taken in Neiva in 2021 as part of a larger set of art pieces, poses the same seemingly simple question, one that most Colombians already know the answer to or at least understand to whom it refers. So, why is it phrased as a question? To an outsider, it might not hold much meaning, but it could spark curiosity and encourage them to seek answers. To locals, it has become a reference to a dark chapter of our current history, commemorating the lives of the victims, and serving as a reminder to remember and to continue struggling until the truth is accepted, justice is served, and change is achieved.

The area where this mural was painted has been a popular place for local artists to express themselves, and I tend to pass by whenever I visit. During my most recent trip in the summer of 2024, three years after the previous photo was taken, I found that the ¿Quién dio la orden? mural had been painted over and replaced by a new, bigger, and perhaps more eye-catching one that mimics the 2019 original.

*No son solo cifras* mural in Neiva, 2024. (Photo: Camila González Herrera)

The new mural resembles the original one painted in Bogotá. It features a yellow background along with white, red, and black colors. It also depicts the faces of five Colombian military commanders who played significant roles in the country’s military operations. While this is a nationwide issue, the artist(s) made this mural specific to Huila, the region where Neiva is located.

Beyond posing a question, this ¿Quién dio la orden? mural presents facts that many still deny and that Neiva’s street artists seek to expose. For instance, the black flag with “281” represents the number of false positives that occurred in Huila, while the “6,402” flag represents the unofficial number of false positives uncovered throughout the country. Additionally, the mural highlights that there are 19 individuals who remain unidentified.

Written in black and red towards the top of the piece, the phrase “No son solo cifras” translates to “They are not just numbers.” This is a common expression used when discussing false positives given the dehumanization of victims and their families by the government, media, and other groups across Colombia.

In an attempt to assign responsibility to those accountable for this shameful chapter in the country’s history, the artists wrote the names of Huila’s false positives within the silhouettes of the Colombian military commanders. Additionally, the mural seeks to humanize and commemorate the lives lost by including phrases in white such as “I am a student,” “I am a son,” “I am a farmer,” “I am a parent,” and more.

The new mural demonstrates that the artist(s) has conducted thorough research and wants the audience to be aware of essential data and other facts about state violence. In addition, it provides the audience with data and a visual reference to what such times meant to Colombians. Unlike the previous piece about education, this is not only a call to action but also an act of remembrance, commemoration, and resistance against a government that has tried— and continues to try— to hide the truth.

So, why is it still a question? Perhaps because the case remains open. Despite overwhelming evidence proving that more than 6,400 civilians were killed by the Colombian military and falsely presented as guerrillas killed in combat, many— especially the Colombian right wing— still deny that it happened. This piece urges the audience to continue asking, Who gave the order? To not forget, to not give up until justice is achieved. It is also an invitation to think critically and serves as a powerful example of how street art can report what is happening on the ground when mainstream media fails to do so.

Crime and Vandalism in the Streets

Though the previous pieces were very complex in both meaning and appearance, there is no right or wrong way to create street art. Another common practice in street art is writing on walls, which was perhaps the most commonly observed form around Neiva’s streets. The following are just a few examples of messages with which Neiva’s locals have chosen to fill their streets and public spaces: “En Colombia el salario mínimo es vandalismo” (“In Colombia, the minimum wage is vandalism”), “El arte no es un crimen” (“Art is not a crime”), and “Caídos pero no vencidos 28M a las calles” (“Fallen but not defeated, May 28, to the streets”).

L: “El arte no es un crimen” street art in Neiva, 2021. (Photo: Camila González Herrera)”; R: “En Colombia el salario mínimo es vandalismo” street art in Neiva, 2021.(Photo: Camila González Herrera)

Despite their apparent simplicity, these phrases, plastered on walls, are part of a larger conversation. In fact, “El arte no es un crimen” (“Art is not a crime”) can be seen as a direct response to mainstream media’s persistent classification of street art as a crime. This is one of the many ways in which the Colombian right wing has historically sought to minimize and criminalize this vital form of expression.

Similarly, “In Colombia, the minimum wage is vandalism” can be interpreted as a response to the government’s and mainstream media’s claims that the strike and protests were focal points for vandalism across the country. This piece, which appears urgent due to its size, colors, and the fact that it covers an older work, seeks to turn the tables by labeling one of the government’s own actions as vandalism, effectively serving as a reminder to those on the ground of who the real vandals are.

Finally, in the same photograph, the text reads: “Caídos pero no vencidos. 28M a las calles” (“Fallen but not defeated. March 28, to the streets”). This is an example of how the city— its walls, aqueducts, parks, and more— was used as a medium to convey messages during the strike. Though small cities like Neiva were not the main focal points of the protests, this practice allowed those on the ground to safely spread their message and communicate about upcoming protests and gatherings. This was done in response to the dangers of being associated with strike leaders and the presence of a system designed to silence and oppress those who challenge the status quo.

A Persistent Voice for Hope, Justice, and Resistance in Colombia

All of the images analyzed in this article critique Colombia’s right wing. Despite the common generalization that those who engage in street art have a left-wing ideology and are often labeled as vandals and even guerrilleros, this distinction seems irrelevant in the country’s current political context. In fact, after these photos were taken in 2021, Gustavo Petro, Colombia’s first left-wing president, came to power—yet street art is now more prevalent than ever.

A growing social movement that has used street art as its main medium, Las Cuchas Tenían Razón (“The cuchas/mothers were right”), continues to gain momentum in raising awareness about and protesting Operation Orion, a military offensive that, with the aid of paramilitary forces, left countless dead and disappeared, many allegedly buried in La Escombrera, a landfill in Medellín’s Comuna 13. Seemingly, it is not about who is in power, but about people’s everyday struggle and their demands for justice, which includes for the media to stop aiding wealthy elites in maintaining the status quo.

While those in power and those involved in imposing the dominant ideology might feel threatened by messages like these, they are also intended for everyday Colombians who drive, walk, or cycle through these streets. They serve as a reminder that even if mainstream media does not show it, there are people who think differently, who care, and who are willing to fight for what they believe is right. They remind those on the ground that they are not alone and help amplify their voices— because “las calles gritan lo que los medios callan” (“The streets shout what media silences”).