The Colombian Conflict: La Violencia (Part 2)

A street assassination in Bogotá ripples into rural terror as neighbors turn enemies and the state loses its grip. We trace how party identity becomes inherited fate, cruelty becomes language, and a narrow peace seeds a longer war.

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Transcript

Trigger Warning And Setup

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This episode contains detailed descriptions of extreme violence that some listeners may find deeply disturbing. Listener discretion is advised. And I really mean it this time. If you're squeamish at all, you might want to skip the parts that describe the extreme violence of Labulencia. The radio transmissions from Bogota goes through the pre-dawn silence like a knife through silk. Father Miguel Angel Torres sets down his coffee and turns up the volume on the crackling receiver in his parish house. The capital is burning government buildings under siege, presidential palace surrounded by crowds baying for blood. Conservative newspaper offices are gutted by fire. For 18 hours now, the Colombian state has effectively ceased to exist. Here, in this remote coffee growing village, perched on an Andean slope where morning mist clings to mountainsides like the breaths of sleeping giants, the immediate reality feels different, quieter, almost normal. The early mass bell will ring in two hours. Children will walk to school along the same dirt paths their grandparents travel. Coffee harvest will continue. Father Torres knows better. He's lived through enough of Colombia's convulsion to recognize the terrible calm that precedes social explosion. This isn't peace. It's the moment before impact, when a stone thrown into still water hangs suspended in air before shattering the surface into a thousand violent ripples. By the time the sun rises fully over the eastern peaks, those ripples will have reached every corner of Colombia, transforming Jorge Eliezer Gaetán's assassination from an urban tragedy into the spark that ignites a rural civil war. This is the story of how that transformation happened. How the rage erupting from Bogota Streets catastrophized into something much larger and more permanent. How a country that had spent a century learning to live with political violence finally crossed the line into systematic, intimate brutality that would reshape the very meaning of being Colombian. This is part two of the Colombian conflict story. La Violencia and the Rice of the Gorillas. You know how they say you can't understand someone until you walk a mile in their shoes? Well, I'd argue you can't understand a nation until you've walked through its history. Not just to highlight Rio or the sanitized version you find in textbooks. I mean really getting into its DNA. Those defining moments that shaped everything that came after. Those moments where paths were chosen, where decisions were made in palaces and backrooms and city streets that changed the course of millions of lives. I'm your host, Paul, and this is Double Helix, Blueprint of Nations, where we unravel the genetic code of countries through their most transformative moments. Think of it like ancestry testing, but for entire nations. We dig deep into the historical DNA, finding those crucial moments that make countries who they are today. In our previous episode, we witnessed the assassination of Jorge Eliezer Gaitán on a Bogota street corner and the immediate explosion of urban rage that followed. We saw how forty-eight hours of rioting turned the Colombian capital into a war zone and brought the government to the edge of collapse. We ended with President Mariano Espina Perez declaring martial law while mobs roamed the streets with machetes and molotov cocktails. But the Bogotazo, the Bogota riots, was just a detonator. The real explosion happened in the countryside, where news of Gaetan's death trigger a social breakdown that would claim over 200,000 lives during the next decade. Today we follow the breakdown from its origins in urban grief to its evolution into rural genocide. But witness how political differences became ethnic identities, how neighbors transformed into enemies, and how a democratic system collapsed into what Colombians simply call la violencia to violence as if it were a force of nature rather than a human choice. If there's one thing you should understand about la violencia, it's this. It wasn't warfare in any conventional sense. There were no armies, no uniforms, no clear battle lines. Instead, there were regions, valleys, and hillsides where families had lived for generations that suddenly became ethnic cleansing zones based on nothing more than which political party their inhabitants supported. This is the story of what happened and why it matters far beyond Colombia's borders. Because what we're examining isn't just historical tragedy, it's a case study of how democracies die, how societies learn to accept the unacceptable, and how cycles of violence become self-perpetuating across generations. Picture Colombia in 1948 as a three-dimensional chessboard where every piece is simultaneously player and played. The Andes divide the country into isolated valleys and plateaus connected by mountain paths that take days to traverse. In this geography, local authority has always been more important than national authority. Local loyalties stronger than national identity. For over a century, these local loyalties have been organized around two political parties, the conservatives and the liberals. But these aren't parties in the modern sense. They are hereditary identities passed down to families like eye call or blood type. Your political affiliation determines not just how you vote, but who you marry, where you work, which church you attend, and ultimately whether you live or die. Psychological foundation of this system is what Colombians call el odio heredado, inherited hatred. It's the poison that fathers pass to sons, that mothers whisper to daughters, that transforms political disagreement into existential threat. By 1948, this hatred has been accumulating for generations, layered like sediment in Colombian consciousness. Dr. Hermán Guzman, the Catholic priest and sociologist who would later spend years documenting La Violencia, describes it this way. We weren't dealing with rational political competition, with the tribal warfare disguised as democracy. Each party saw the other not as opponents to be defeated, but as enemies to be eliminated. Now, imagine what happens when news of Gaitán's assassination reaches these communities via radio and telegraph. Within hours, a century of accumulated resentment finds its target. If they can kill El Jefe in broad daylight in the capital, if the state itself can dissolve into violence, then clearly there are no rules anymore. In the village of Libano, Tolima, a conservative shopkeeper named Aristobulo Parra watches through his window as men he's known since childhood begin painting red L's on liberal houses. He understands what this means because it's the same thing that happened to conservative families in the liberal town of Fresno just last week. The markings of houses isn't random vandalism. It's the first step in a process that will end with the complete elimination of one side or the other. By nightfall, Libano has become a conservative town. By morning, fourteen liberal families have fled into the mountains, leaving behind everything they owned except their lives. Houses with the red L stand empty, their doors swinging open in the mountain wind, like the mouths of corpses. This scene repeats itself across rural Colombia with variations that depend on local history, local grudges, and the particular creativity of local hatred. In some places, the violence is spontaneous, erupting from decades of suppressed resentment. In others, it's carefully orchestrated by political bosses who understand that chaos creates opportunity for those prepared or exploited. But everywhere, the pattern is the same. It makes communities become segregated communities, integrated regions become homogenous territories, and the map of Colombia is redrawn in blood. What emerges during La Violencia isn't just killing, it's the systematic invention of new forms of cruelty designed to terrorize entire populations into submission. They develop techniques with names that will echo through Colombian consciousness for decades. El Corte de Corbata, the necktie cut, where the throat slashing is performed in a particular style that leaves the tongue hanging from the wound like a bloody tie. El Florero, the flower vase, a method of dismemberment that turns human heads into warnings displayed in public squares. This is an accidental brutality born from the heat of passion. This is calculated psychological warfare designed to destroy not just bodies, but the social fabric itself. The goal isn't just to kill your enemies, it's to make the very idea of coexistence impossible. Maria Jimenez, a schoolteacher from Caldas, who survived a conservative attack on her liberal village, would later describe the methodical nature of the violence and testimony that still chills readers today. They didn't just kill people, they killed the possibility of forgiveness. The atrocity was designed to ensure that the survivors would never, could never, forget or forgive. They were murdering the future along with the present. The psychological logic behind this systematic cruelty reveals something profound about how civil wars actually work. Unlike international conflicts where enemies are abstract, other uniforms, other flags, other languages, civil wars pit neighbors against neighbors, creating an intimacy of hatred that international warfare rarely achieves. When you're fighting people you've known since childhood, people who speak your language and share your culture, the only way to justify what you're doing is to convince yourself that they're not really human anymore, that they've become something else: parasites, cancer, infection that must be excised from the social body through methods that demonstrate their fundamental otherness. But to understand the full horrors of what Colombia became during this period, we need to descend into the specific details of how ordinary human beings transform themselves into architects of systematic terror. Consider El Corte de Franela, the t-shirt cut. Victims had their arms severed at the shoulders, and then their torso is cut horizontally across the chest, creating the appearance of a blood-soaked t-shirt. Sever arms are then inserted through the chest wounds, creating a grotesque parody of someone putting on clothing. Or the operacion, the operation. Pregnant women are cut open, their fetuses removed. The fetus is placed where the woman's head should be, creating a tableau that destroys any observer's capacity to see birth as sacred or motherhood as inviolable. The bocachiar, named after a method of cleaning fish, involves making small cuts all over the victim's body and leaving them to die slowly from blood loss. The technique is specifically designed to maximize suffering while creating a spectacle that terrifies anyone who discovers a corpse. La corbata de cuero, the leather necktie. It involves flaying strips of skin from the victim's chest and neck, then arranging the strips around the throat like a macaw fashion accessory. Psychological impact on communities that discover this displays is precisely the point. But perhaps most revealing is elpica, literally the chop. This technique involves dismembering the victim while they're still alive. Starting with the fingers and the toes and the hands and the feet, and arms and legs, ensuring maximum consciousness or in maximum suffering. Body parts are then arranged in specific patterns that serve as messages to the victim's community about what happens to political enemies. Dr. Guzman revealed that these techniques weren't random inventions of individual sadists. They were systematized methods that spread from region to region, refined through practice, taught by experienced killers to apprentices who needed to learn not just how to kill, but how to kill in waves that serve strategic purposes. We discovered the extreme cruelty has its own logics, Guzman wrote. Each technique was designed to achieve specific psychological effects, to paralyze resistance through terror, to destroy community solidarity through trauma, to make political identity literally unbearable by associating it with specific forms of suffering. The innovation didn't stop with individual torture methods. Entire communities developed elaborate rituals of collective brutality. In some regions, conservative militias would force liberal families to witness the torture of their relatives before killing the witnesses themselves, creating a hierarchy of suffering designed to maximize psychological impact. Liberal death squads developed their own variations. La Misa Negra, the Black Mass, involved desecrating Catholic churches by using them as torture chambers, specifically targeting conservative victims who were forced to watch their own religious symbols being used as instruments of torment. But what is most disturbing about this catalogue of cruelty is how quickly it became normal, not just in practice, but in language. Colombian Spanish, during La Violencia, develops an entire vocabulary of violence that seeps into everyday conversation like poison into groundwater. That poison lasts in the language even to this day. Children playing in schoolyards begin using terms like pocachiquear and picar as casual expressions. Market vendors discuss the latest atrocities with the same matter-of-fact tone that they use for discussing coffee prices. Mothers warn their children about Los Pájaros and La Chusma, the way mothers in other countries warn about wolves or strangers. The psychological adaptation is both remarkable and terrifying. Father Rafael Garcia, a priest who served in Tolima during the worst years of the violence, kept a diary that documents this linguistic transformation. Last month, a ten-year-old boy asked me if his grandfather had been Corbateado or Jos Picado when they found the body. He asked this the same way he might ask about the weather. We have created a generation that thinks of torture techniques as natural categories like different types of rainfall. This normalization of horror in everyday language represents something more profound than individual psychological damage. It represents the transformation of Colombian culture itself. When a society develops specialized vocabulary for hundreds of different torture methods, and those terms become part of ordinary conversation. When children grow up thinking that El Corte de Corbata is simply one way for people to die, that society has crossed a threshold from which recovery becomes extraordinarily difficult. Dr. Orlando Fausborda, conducting sociological research in rural Colombia during this period, documented how quickly communities restructure their entire social organization around the expectation of systematic violence. We were not just witnessing political conflict, he wrote. We were witnessing anthropological transformation. The creation of a culture where extreme cruelty had become a normal tool of social organization. The implications extend far beyond the immediate victims and the communities that witnessed these atrocities. Trust between neighbors evaporated. Extended family networks collapsed as people became afraid to associate with relatives from the wrong political party. Social institutions, churches, schools, civic organizations either ceased to function or became instruments of partisan warfare. The most tragic aspect of this transformation is how quickly children absorbed these patterns as normal. Dr. Guzman interviewed dozens of children who had witnessed the torture and the murder of family members, and he found that rather than being traumatized into passivity, many had learned to see extreme violence as an appropriate response to political disagreement. I spoke to a twelve year old boy whose father had been corbateado by conservative militias, Guzman wrote. When I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he said he wanted to corbate conservatives. Not kill them, specifically torture. Them using the same techniques that had been used on his father. He had learned that in Colombia, political justice meant symmetrical cruelty. By 1952, entire regions had developed local cultures where elaborate torture techniques were not aberrations but expected elements of political conflict. Young men earned social status by demonstrating proficiency in specific methods of inflicting suffering. Communities competed with each other to develop more innovative techniques of cruelty, as if systemic torture had become a form of folk art. This is the deepest horror of La Violencia. Not just that it happened, but that it became normal, not just that people learn to inflict unimaginable suffering, but that they learn to take pride in their expertise. Not just that the children witness the atrocities, that they learn to see those atrocities as models for their own future behavior. Dr. Guzman documented over 600 different methods of killing employed during La Violencia, each more elaborate than the last. He observed something else that was even more disturbing. The killers were not professional soldiers or career criminals. They were ordinary people, farmers, shopkeepers, teachers, who had learned to take pleasure in techniques of cruelty that would have horrified them just months earlier. We witnessed a systematic destruction of moral restraints, he wrote. Not through ideology or indoctrination, but through practice. People became capable of unspeakable acts simply by performing unspeakable acts. Cruelty, it turns out, is a skill that improves with repetition. By 1950, entire regions of Colombia have become laboratories for testing the outer limits of human brutality. Conservative death squads, called pájaros, birds, systematically exterminate liberal populations in areas like Valle del Cauca and Caldas. Liberal militias, known as Chusma or the Ravel, retaliate with equal savagery against conservative communities in regions like Tolima and Huila. Each atrocity escalates the next. Each technique of cruelty inspires a more elaborate response. The violence becomes self-generated, feeding on its own momentum until the original political disagreement that sparked it becomes almost irrelevant compared to the accumulated need for revenge. While Colombia burns, President Mariano Ospina Perez governs from behind the increasingly militarized walls of the Presidential Palace. A conservative politician trying to manage a crisis that his own party's policies helped create. But Ospina represents more than conservative partisanship. He embodies the traditional elite's fundamental misunderstanding of what Colombia has become. In his diary Entries from the Period, released decades later, Ospina reveals a man who genuinely believes that order can be restored through the application of superior force. The liberal bandits must be eliminated, he writes in May of 1949. Order must be restored whatever the cost. But there is no acknowledgement of what whatever the cause actually means. The burning villages, the masquerades, the children orphaned by violence that the government has tacitly encouraged. The president's fundamental mistake is assuming that the Colombian state still possesses the tools necessary to impose order. But by 1949, it's clear that the state lacks the most basic requirements of statehood, a monopoly on legitimate violence. Local police forces have chosen sides based on political affiliation rather than legal authority. The army's too small and too poorly equipped to control territory much beyond the major cities. And the conservative militias that Ospina tacitly supports are more interested in settling old scores and establishing peace. This is how states die, not in dramatic collapses, but through slow erosion of legitimacy and competence. Citizens stop expecting the government to protect them and start protecting themselves. Tax collection becomes irregular, law enforcement becomes partisan, public services collapse, as civil servants flee or take sides in the conflict. The psychological dynamic is crucial to understand. When legitimate authority disappears, every local strongman becomes his own sovereign, every political boss his own warlord, every village his own nation state. The result is an anarchy in the abstract philosophical sense. Governor Lucio Pavon Nunez of Pollaca, a conservative Harliner who becomes one of the architects of systematic anti-liberal persecution, articulates this worldview with disturbing clarity in a speech to conservative party leaders in 1950. Colombia has been infected by liberal communism. The infection must be burnt out, village by village, family by family, until the social body is healthy again. This isn't persecution, it is surgery. The metaphor of infection, of surgery, becomes central to conservative justification for what amounts to ethnic cleansing. If liberals aren't just political opponents, but literally a disease threatening the national organism, then their elimination becomes not just acceptable, but medically necessary. Under Pavon's governance, Boyaca becomes a testing ground for systematic persecution. Liberal civil servants are fire and mass. Liberal newspapers are shuttered. Liberal political leaders are arrested on fabricated charges or simply disappear. Most ominously, conservative militias receive tacit government support to restore order in liberal majority municipalities. The results are predictable and devastating. By 1951, Boyaca has been effectively cleansed of liberal political press, but this success comes at a cause that extends far beyond partisan politics, the complete destruction of democratic institutions and the normalization of political violence as a legitimate tool of governance. In the mountains of Tolema, a group of liberal peasants led by a man who calls himself Chispas, Sparks, are learning the survival requires more than just hiding. They're discovering that in a country where the state has abdicated its responsibilities to protect citizens, those citizens must protect themselves. But they're also learning something else. That the line between self-defense and revolution is thinner than they imagine. Pedro Antonio Marin, the 18-year-old who will later become Manuel Marulanda, founder of the FARC, sits around a campfire in the Magdalena Valley and listens to older men debate their options. Some want to negotiate, find a way back to the world they knew before the killing started. Others argue that there can be no return. The only choice is between victory and extinction. Companieros, Maureen says, always carrying the quiet authority of someone who's already survived more violence than most people experience in several lifetimes. We need to stop the thinking like this and start thinking like revolutionaries. One who's dead not because of what we've done, but because of what we represent. The possibility that Colombia doesn't have to be a country where only the rich matter. It is a transformation that will reshape Colombian history for the next 70 years. But begins as desperate self-defense evolves into ideological insurgency. Peasant militias become guerrilla armies. Local grievances become revolutionary programs, and a conflict that started as partisan political violence evolves into permanent warfare between the Colombian state and organizations that reject the legitimacy of that state entirely. But this transformation did not happen overnight, and it doesn't happen uniformly. In some regions, liberal self-defense groups eventually lay down their arms and reintegrate into civilian life. In others, they evolved into criminal organizations more interested in profit than politics. But in the mountains and jungles where state presence has always been minimal, some groups make a different choice. They begin to imagine that they represent not just liberal resistance, but the possibility of a completely different kind of Colombia. A Columbia where land belongs to those who work it rather than to those who inherit it. Where political participation isn't limited to members of traditional parties, where violence isn't the primary mechanism for resolving disagreements. Jacobo Arenas, an intellectual who will become FARC's chief ideologist, articulates this vision in writings that circulate through guerrilla camps in the early 1950s. We're not fighting to restore the old Colombia. The old Colombia is what created this violence. We are fighting to create a new Colombia, one that has never existed, but must exist if our children are to live in peace. The ideological evolution is crucial for understanding why Colombia's conflict proves so resistant to resolution. Because once you've convinced yourself that you're not fighting for survival, but for the fundamental transformation of society, compromise becomes betrayal. Negotiation becomes collaboration with injustice, and peace becomes possible only through total victory or total defeat. By 1952, the geography of Colombia has been redrawn not just along partisan lines, but along the fault lines between those who accept the existing system and those who reject it entirely. The guerrilla zones in Tolima, Huila, and the Eastern Plains aren't just territories controlled by liberal militias. They are experiments in alternative governance, places where different rules apply and different possibilities seem imaginable. But they're also targets. Because from the perspective of the Colombian state and its conservative supporters, these zones represent more than military threat. They represent ideological contagion. The possibility that Colombia's excluded populations might organize themselves into something more dangerous than riots and rebellion. Alternative authority. By 1953, Labulencia had been raging for five years, and something extraordinary had happened. Colombians had learned to live in systematic brutality as if it were a natural feature of their environment. Children born during this period grow up thinking that political assassination is normal, that villages can disappear overnight, that neighbors can become murderers based on nothing more than party affiliation. The psychological adaptation is both remarkable and terrifying. Families develop elaborate strategies for survival. Never traveling alone, always knowing escape routes, teaching children to recognize the sounds that means danger is approaching. Communities create early warning systems using church bells, radio codes, and networks of watchers who can spot trouble before it arrives. But perhaps most disturbing is how quickly extraordinary violence becomes ordinary violence. How atrocities that would have shocked the entire country in 1947 barely merit newspaper coverage by 1952. The human capacity for adaptation extends not just to surviving horror, but to accepting it as inevitable. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, working as a young journalist during this period, captures his normalization in a dispatch that reads like magical realism but describes simple reality. I interviewed a woman whose husband had been killed on Tuesday, whose son has been killed on Wednesday, and whose father had been killed on Thursday. She spoke about the murders, the way other people discuss the weather, as events beyond human control that simply happened to families like hers. The economic dimensions of this adaptation also reveal how violence becomes integrated into social structures rather than simply disrupting them. In regions where one party has successfully eliminated the other, the victors inherit not just political control, but economic control as well. Conservative zones see dramatic expansions of large land holding as liberal properties are abandoned or sold at desperate prices. Liberal zones witness the creation of cooperative agricultural systems that would later influence guerrilla economic models. Violence, in other words, becomes not just destructive but redistributive. It doesn't simply destroy the existing order, it creates new order based on different principles of power and legitimacy. Dr. Orlando Faus Borda, the sociologist who conducted extensive field work in rural Colombia during this period, documented how quickly communities adapted their social organization to accommodate systematic violence. We discovered that human societies are far more flexible than we imagine, he wrote. They can recognize themselves around almost any set of rules, no matter how brutal, as long as those rules are consistently applied. But this adaptation comes at a cost that extends far beyond the immediate victims of violence. Children who grow up during labulencia learn lessons about power, authority, and conflict resolution that will shape their approach to politics for the rest of their lives. They learn that violence works, that the state can be trusted, and that survival depends on group loyalty rather than individual merit. Most importantly, they learn that Colombian democracy is a lie, a system that claims to represent all citizens, but actually serves only those powerful enough to defend their interests through force. La Violencia officially ends in 1958 with the signing of the National Front Agreement, a power-sharing deal between conservative and liberal elites that alternates the precedency between the two parties for the next 16 years. The agreement represents a triumph of pragmatic politics over ideological extremism, a recognition that continued violence threatened to destroy the very system both parties claimed to represent. But the peace it established is the peace of exhaustion, not reconciliation. The structural problems that created the violence, massive inequality, weak state institutions, the exclusion of popular sectors from political participation remain unresolved. The guerrilla groups that emerged during the violence don't disappear. They evolved. The methods of brutality developed during this period become part of Colombia's cultural DNA, passed down through generations like a terrible inheritance. Most importantly, the National Front solves the immediate problem of conservative liberal violence by creating a different problem. The complete exclusion of alternative political movements from legitimate participation in Colombian democracy. When the two traditional parties agree to divide power between themselves for the next 16 years, they simultaneously agree that no other political forces, socialist, communist, populist, or otherwise, will be permitted to compete for power through democratic means. This exclusion transforms the guerrilla groups from temporary self-defense organizations into permanent revolutionary movements. If you believe the system is fundamentally unjust, then if the system formally excludes you from any possibility of changing it through democratic means, then revolution becomes just an option for a moral imperative. Manuel Marulanda, now the commander of a small but disciplined guerrilla army in the mountains of Tolima, articulates this logic in a letter to other guerrilla leaders that will later be found in capture FARC documents. They offer us peace, but it's the peace of the graveyard. They want us to lay down our arms and return to a system that created the violence in the first place. That system will never accept our vision of justice. So our vision of justice must replace that system. The National Front succeeds in ending the immediate crisis of state collapse, but it does so by institutionalizing the exclusions that made violence inevitable in the first place. Colombian democracy becomes a carefully managed system where real power alternates between factions of the same elite while everyone else is expected to accept their exclusion as the price of peace. And this is the tragedy of La Violencia. It ends not through genuine reconciliation, but through the victory of one form of exclusion over another. The spontaneous violence of partisan warfare gives way to systematic violence of revolutionary insurgency. The chaos of civil war gives way to institutionalized violence of counter-insurgency. Colombia trades one nightmare for another longer nightmare that will last for the next sixty years. Understanding La Violencia doesn't excuse the violence that followed, but it explains why Colombia's conflict has proven so resistant to resolution. The problems aren't just political or economic, they're cultural, psychological, intergenerational. They're written into the nation's DNA like genetic markers that activate under stress. The most chilling aspect of this history is how easily it could have been different. The result is a Colombia that has never fully escaped the logic of La Violencia, where every attempt at peace must reckon with the patterns of exclusion that are now over seventy years old, where the ghost of this period Continue to haunt every effort at reconciliation. Colombia's tragedy is not that labulencia happened. Many countries have experienced civil wars. Colombia's tragedy is that Labulencia never really ended. It just changed forms, evolved new methods, recruited new generations of killers and victims who inherited a conflict they didn't start and couldn't finish. In our next episode, we'll witness how this local nightmare attracted the attention of superpowers seeking to fight the Cold War by proxy, transforming Colombia's peasant rebellion into a battleground for global ideological supremacy. We'll see how the Colombian government, backed by American military advisors and training, responded to guerrilla warfare with its own systematic terror. Creating paramilitary death squads that made the Pájaros and the Chusma of Labulencia look like amateurs. Next time, on double helix, picture a secret meeting in 1962 at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, where U.S. Special Forces officers train Colombian military commanders in counterinsurgency techniques that will transform the nature of warfare in Latin America. We'll witness the birth of what scholars call the dirty war strategy and follow the rise of Carlos Castaño, whose father's kidnapping by the FART leads him to create his own private army. Until then, thank you for listening. We will see you soon.