When you live abroad, the only real way to stay connected to your country– other than talking to your family– is by watching the news. I was casually browsing a news site when two headlines caught my eye: the 40th anniversary of the Palace of Justice Siege (Toma del Palacio de Justicia) and the fact that several political parties had started selecting candidates for the 2026 elections.
Seeing those headlines together felt like a collision between two Colombias: one still haunted by the unresolved traumas of the past, and another trying to imagine a different political future. Living abroad often creates this strange distance where you follow the news closely, but you also end up seeing your country through the eyes of outsiders who may not understand how deeply history continues to shape our present.
For many people, the Palace of Justice Siege is just an old tragedy. But for Colombians, it forms part of a much larger narrative about peace, state power, and the risks of political participation. Its aftermath ignited a series of events that unfolded like a domino effect, shaping one of the most complex and painful chapters in Colombian history. Recognizing how these threads are connected is ultimately what pushed me to tell this story.
I want you, the reader, to understand it and reflect on how similar struggles might exist in your own country.
The Birth of a Political Experiment: UP as a Path to Peace
The Unión Patriótica (UP) emerged in 1985 as a product of the peace negotiations between the Colombian government and the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC EP). Far from being simply “the FARC’s party,” as some critics insist, the UP represented a bold political experiment, an attempt to break away from the rigid two-party system that had dominated Colombia for decades and to show that political transformation could be pursued through democratic, nonviolent means.
Once officially established, the UP gained remarkable electoral traction and visibility. They won mayoral races in key regions, secured seats in Congress, and built strong organizations. Their agenda (centered on agrarian reform, reducing inequality, expanding social participation, and negotiating peace) resonated deeply with many Colombians who were tired of the traditional political class. For a brief moment, it seemed like real, peaceful change was within reach.
But that visibility quickly became a death sentence.
A Politicide in Slow Motion
The impact of this event went far beyond the immediate tragedy. It reinforced Cold War-era narratives within state institutions and conservative sectors that leftist movements, whether armed or democratic, were to be treated as existential threats. This message was clear and deadly.
By early 1986, UP leaders began receiving death threats. Murders soon followed. No one was safe: activists, supporters, voters, and even people merely rumored to sympathize with the party were relentlessly targeted by paramilitary forces. As the campaign of terror escalated, forced disappearances, mass displacement, and exile became routine across entire regions. Violence was not limited to bullets or bombs, as UP members faced financial exclusion, were denied loans, and saw their children ostracized in schools or pushed out of educational opportunities. Families were forced to flee their homes as neighbors feared retaliation simply for living near them. The goal was not just to intimidate, it was to erase the UP from every corner of public life.
As if this were not devastating enough, the assassinations of UP members Jaime Pardo Leal, Bernardo Jaramillo Ossa, and especially Manuel Cepeda Vargas signaled the complete destruction of the party’s future. The murder of Cepeda Vargas carries particular weight today. His son, Iván Cepeda –who built his career defending victims, uncovering state crimes and demanding truth– is now a presidential candidate. The younger Cepeda’s public life is both a continuation of his father’s struggle and a reminder of what was violently taken from an entire political generation.
The violence against the UP was not random. Paramilitary groups, drug trafficking networks, and members of the security forces all played a role.
It wasn’t only civil society that recognized what had happened. On January 30, 2023, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights issued a landmark ruling in the case Integrantes y Militantes de la Unión Patriótica vs. Colombia, declaring that the Colombian State bore international responsibility for a systematic plan to exterminate UP members. Then came a symbolic act of historic repair: in November 2025, President Gustavo Petro publicly apologized on behalf of the Colombian state in Santa Marta, acknowledging responsibility for the politicide against the UP.
This apology, which was part of the reparations ordered by the Court, is more than a gesture; it is a formal recognition that the state not only failed to prevent violence, but was complicit in it.
Why Is the Echo So Loud?
You might think: this happened decades ago. Why keep talking about it?
The answer is simple: Colombia has repeatedly attempted peace processes without fully confronting the ghost of its past. For years, the genocide against the Unión Patriótica (UP) was denied, minimized, or dismissed as a consequence of the FARC’s actions rather than what it truly was: a state-backed campaign of political extermination. Many survivors ended up in exile, others continued their activism under constant threat, and countless families never received full truth or justice.
When the 2016 peace accords were signed with the FARC, one of the central commitments was the guarantee of safe political participation. That clause exists because of the UP. It emerged from an undeniable political lesson: if the state cannot protect demobilized groups or alternative political movements, then peace is not truly peace– it’s a fragile pause destined to break.
And yet, history continues to repeat itself. More than 1,500 social leaders have been killed between 2016 and 2025; former FARC combatants have been assassinated despite being part of the reintegration process; and new armed groups keep emerging in regions abandoned by the state.
This is why the UP is not just a memory. It is a warning, one that Colombia still struggles to fully hear.
A New Path for Colombia’s Politics?
This history becomes even more relevant today. As mentioned earlier, Iván Cepeda has launched his presidential campaign, and –just like his father decades ago– he has been met with predictable criticism. Many opponents label him a “guerrillero”, meaning “a member from an insurgent group,” a tactic that is not only misleading but dangerous. Branding political rivals as “illegal” or “subversive” has long been a prelude to violence.
In interviews, Cepeda has emphasized that the country must decide whether it wants a political culture built on demonization and elimination, or one grounded in pluralism and debate. Regardless of whether one supports him or not, his candidacy forces Colombia to confront unresolved wounds and ask questions that have gone unanswered for too long.
This does not mean Cepeda is “the new UP,” that his platform completely mirrors theirs, or that he is the candidate people should endorse. But symbolically, his presence in the presidential race is powerful. It reopens discussions about security guarantees, memory, and what it means to build democracy that does not punish difference.
Colombians are compelled to ask: Has the country changed enough to make political participation truly safe? or are we still living with the same fears the UP faced?
Could this moment be a spark for change? A chance to show ourselves, and the world, that conflict can be confronted with democracy rather than violence?
Toward a New Horizon
Despite the weight of this past, Colombia stands at a crossroads filled with possibility. The recognition of the UP politicide by state institutions, the voices of victims who refuse to be silenced, and the growing demand for truth and reform all point to a society that is learning to confront its history rather than bury it.
Reconciliation is not only a matter of institutions, it is also a matter of people. Stories like that of Victor Gómez, a former combatant now rebuilding his life through Colombia’s reintegration process, remind us that peace is lived through individual transformations just as much as national reforms. His unexpected leap into acting –playing a police officer in the Netflix’s series Cien años de soledad– symbolizes how identities once shaped by conflict can be rewritten. He represents a quieter side of peacebuilding: the slow work of unlearning fear, supporting a family, and seeing oneself as a contributor to society. His new path does not erase the violence that shaped him, but it shows what can grow when a country chooses reintegration over revenge.
It also embodies the core promise that the Unión Patriótica never had the chance to test: that Colombia can offer pathways back into civic life without violence.
Why People Outside Colombia Should Care
This is not just a Colombian tragedy. It reflects global struggles over democracy, political participation, and the danger of silencing your opponents. Around the world, movements that challenge power structures have faced repression, from the systematic targeting of activists during Guatemala’s civil war to the assassination of Indigenous leaders in Brazil. Even beyond Latin America, attacks against journalists and opposition parties in places like Turkey or the Philippines seem to be the new normal; these patterns show how fragile democratic spaces can be when fear, polarization, and militarized responses guide political life.
Colombia’s experience offers a universal lesson: peace is not just the absence of war, it is the daily assurance that difference and debate are protected.
Understanding this history matters far beyond Colombian borders, because the conditions that enabled the UP politicide are not unique to one country; they form part of a global conversation about how societies confront violence, authoritarianism, and the long road toward reconciliation.
Conclusion
Colombia’s story is often told through the lens of conflict, but this moment invites a different narrative—one rooted in the possibility of rebuilding trust. The genocide of the Unión Patriótica was designed to eliminate an entire political horizon, yet its memory continues to shape debates about participation, security guarantees, and what true democracy demands. The fact that the country now openly recognizes the extermination of the UP, investigates what happened, and elevates voices like that of Iván Cepeda—whose life is intertwined with that history—is itself a sign of change.
Reconciliation is slow, uneven, and fragile, but it is not abstract. It lives in people like Víctor Gómez, in families who continue to seek truth, in communities that refuse silence, and in institutions finally willing to confront the uncomfortable past. Each of these threads forms part of a broader effort to ensure that Colombia never again confuses political difference with an enemy to destroy.
If Colombia can embrace pluralism, even amid polarization, it will not only honor the memory of the UP, but it will also redefine what peace means for future generations. And perhaps that is the most hopeful lesson: that the very movement once erased from the democratic map now pushes the country to imagine a political future where no one must fear for choosing the ballot over the bullet.
