A CENTURY OF VIOLENCE IN A RED CITY A CENTURY OF VIOLENCE IN A RED CITY Popular Struggle, Counterinsurgency, and Human Rights in Colombia LESLEY GILL . . . DUKE UNIVERSITY PRESS Durham and London 2016 © 2016 Duke University Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper ♾ Designed by Amy Ruth Buchanan Typeset in Chaparral Pro and Franklin Gothic by Tseng Information Systems, Inc. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Gill, Lesley, author. A century of violence in a red city : popular struggle, counterinsurgency, and human rights in Colombia / Lesley Gill. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8223-6029-2 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-8223-6060-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-8223-7470-1 (e-book) 1. Human rights—Colombia—History—20th cen- tury. 2. Working class—Colombia—History—20th century. 3. Labor disputes—Colombia—Barran- cabermeja—History—20th century. I. Title. JC599.C7G55 2016 986.1′25—dc23 2015026279 Cover design: Jenni Ohnstad IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER, JOAN GILL (1927– 2012) CONTENTS List of Acronyms ix Acknowledgments xiii Introduction 1 ONE Black Gold, Militant Labor 29 TWO Cold War Crucible 61 THREE Terror and Impunity 95 FOUR Unraveling 123 FIVE Fragmented Sovereignty 152 SIX Narrowing Political Options and Human Rights 183 SEVEN The Aftermath of Counterinsurgency 216 Conclusion 237 Notes 249 References 263 Index 275 ACRONYMS ACEDEGAM Asociación Campesina de Ganaderos y Agri- cultores del Magdalena Medio (Association of Middle Magdalena Ranchers and Farmers) ANAPO Alianza Nacional Popular (National Popular Alliance) ANUC Asociación Nacional de Usuarios Campesinos (National Association of Peasant Landholders) AUC Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia (United Self- Defense Forces of Colombia) BACRIM bandas criminales (criminal gangs) BCB Bloque Central Bolívar (Central Bolívar Bloc) CINEP Centro de Investigación y Educación Popular (Center for Research and Popular Education) CODHES Consultoría para los Derechos Humanos y Des- plazamiento (Consultancy for Human Rights and Displacement) CONVIVIRs Cooperativas de Vigilancia y Seguridad Privada (Cooperatives for Vigilance and Private Security) CREDHOS Corporación Regional para la Defensa de los Derechos Humanos (Regional Corporation for the Defense of Human Rights) CSTC Confederación Sindical de Trabajadores Colom- bianos (Union Confederation of Colombian Workers) x ACRONYMS CTC Confederación de Trabajadores Colombianos (Confederation of Colombian Workers) CUT Central Unitaria de Trabajadores (Unitary Workers Central) DAS Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad (Department of Administrative Security) ECOPETROL Empresa Colombiana de Petróleos (Colombian Oil Company) ELN Ejército Nacional de Liberación (National Libera- tion Army) EPL Ejército Popular de Liberación (Popular Libera- tion Army) FARC Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) FEDENAL Federación Nacional del Transporte Marítimo, Fluvial, Portuario y Aéreo (National Federation of Maritime Transport, River, Port and Air) FEMSA company name FILA Frente de Izquierda Liberal Auténtica (Front of the Authentic Liberal Left) JACs juntas de acción comunal (neighborhood action committee) LGBT lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender MORENA Movimiento de Reconstrucción Nacional (Movement of National Reconstruction) MRL Movimiento Revolucionario Liberal (Liberal Revolutionary Movement) NGO nongovernmental organization OFP Organización Femenina Popular (Popular Femi- nine Organization) PANAMCO company name PCC Partido Comunista de Colombia (Colombian Communist Party) POSTOBON a Pepsi bottling company PSR Partido Socialista Revolucionario (Revolutionary Socialist Party) SINALTRAINAL Sindicato Nacional de Trabajadores de la Indus- tria de Alimientos (National Union of Food and Beverage Workers) ACRONYMS xi SINTRAINDRASCOL an older union TROCO Tropical Oil Company UNIR Unión Izquierda Revolucionaria (Revolutionary Left Union) UP Unión Patriótica (Patriotic Union) USO Unión Sindical Obrera (Syndicated Worker Union) ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Acknowledgments are expressions of solidarity: they give one the op- portunity to connect the people whose support, patience, insight, and affection intertwine in the production of a book. Because the research and writing of A Century of Violence in a Red City took ten years, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to a number of individuals and organi- zations. In Colombia, the project would have been impossible without the sustained support of SINALTRAINAL, the indomitable Colombian trade union that never succumbed to intimidation and terror, even in the darkest days of the dirty war, and that continues to fight for equality, peace, and justice. Javier Correa, Juan Carlos Galvis, Luis Eduardo García, Efraín Guerrero, Armando Jurado, William Mendoza, Edgar Páez, Alfredo Porras, Gonzalo Quijano, Efraín Zurmay, and many more answered my endless questions, introduced me to others, pointed me in new directions, and, on occasion, put me up in their homes. Their generosity, humor, and political insights meant a lot to me, and their resilient struggles are a source of continuing inspiration. In addition to SINALTRAINAL, a number of people and organiza- tions educated me about daily life in the working-class barrios of Ba- rrancabermeja, after right-wing paramilitaries tied to the military occupied these neighborhoods and made life a living hell for a great many residents. Enrique explained the specific problems faced by sexual minorities. Eduardo illuminated the workings of the neighbor- hood action committees. Discussions with Pedro Lozada about rural life in the Middle Magdalena made me understand anodyne concepts, xiv ACKNOWLEDGMENTS such as “displacement,” in more visceral, emotion-laden ways and to appreciate the challenges faced by displaced people in the city. Salva- dor described the frustrations and dilemmas of the young, and Jaime Peña demonstrated what it takes to demand justice. The women of the Popular Feminine Organization (OFP) introduced me to residents in different neighborhoods and explained the history of female popular struggle in Barrancabermeja. I am particularly grateful to Yolanda Be- cerra and Jackeline Rojas for their time and patience. The Christian Peacemaker Teams generously accommodated me for a period of time and helped me understand the nature of human rights activism in the city. Special thanks to Susana Collerd for her insights about life in northeast Barrancabermeja and to Amanda Martin of Witness for Peace for housing me in Bogotá and letting me tag along during a trip to Barrancabermeja. In the United States, I have benefited from years of ongoing dis- cussions with Aviva Chomsky, Forrest Hylton, Sharryn Kasmir, Steve Striffler, and Winifred Tate, who read all or portions of the manuscript. The book is immensely better because of their insights and observa- tions. Chris Krupa and David Nugent stimulated my thinking about the state during a conference they organized in Quito, Ecuador. Camilo Romero was a great friend, and Camilo Garcia listened to my argu- ments over the course of several years and helped me grasp life in the Middle Magdalena through his stories of working as a journalist there. I feel exceptionally fortunate to have all these individuals as friends and colleagues. I have also had the pleasure to work with Emma Banks and Gloria Pérez, graduate students at Vanderbilt University, whose own research in Colombia has enriched my thinking. Teresa Franco provided editorial assistance. I was fortunate to have institutional backing at various stages of research and writing. American University, Vanderbilt University, and the National Science Foundation provided crucial financial support for the project. Gisela Fosado of Duke University Press was a supportive editor, and the Duke University Press staff was always helpful. As he has in the past, Art Walters made it easier to navigate the dead ends and deal with the frustrations that typically arise in the course of writing a book. He was always willing to listen to me talk about issues and concepts that I had still not gotten my mind around. More impor- tant, his love and support made it possible to keep life in perspective. INTRODUCTION . . . The fraudulent alienation of the state domains, the robbery of the common lands, the usurpation of feudal and clan property, and its transformation into modern private property under circumstances of reckless terrorism, were just so many idyllic methods of primitive accumulation.— Karl Marx , Capital When I traveled to Colombia in 2004, at the invitation of Coca-Cola workers from the Sindicato Nacional de Trabajadores de la Industria de Alimentos (National Union of Food and Beverage Workers, SINAL- TRAINAL), it was the most dangerous country in the world to be a trade unionist. For several years, labor leaders had alleged that clandestine paramilitary groups were murdering and terrorizing them and union members with the collusion of Coca-Cola Company management. A lawsuit filed by SINALTRAINAL in U.S. federal court had charged Coca- Cola with gross human rights violations, and the union, feeling its back to the wall, was desperately trying to build international support for a campaign against Coca-Cola that would pressure the corporation and the Colombian government to stop the repression that was rapidly eroding the ranks of union membership. Coming on the heels of the 1999 protests against the World Trade Organization in Seattle—the so- called Battle of Seattle—the efforts of SINALTRAINAL to focus interna- tional attention on the crimes taking place in Colombia, amid a vicious, decades-long civil war, struck me as a compelling aspect of what was still referred to as the “global social justice movement.” The leaders of SINALTRAINAL sent me off on a five-city tour in which 2 INTRODUCTION I talked with workers from various industries and walks of life about the violence that was tearing their lives apart. The oil-refining center of Barrancabermeja, located on the torrid plains of the Middle Magda- lena River valley, was my first stop. Juan Carlos Galvis, a member of the SINALTRAINAL local directorate and a longtime Coca-Cola worker, met me at the airport. As I stepped off the small, propeller-driven plane, it took some searching before I spied Galvis among the cluster of people waiting in the passenger arrival area; he was a head shorter than most of the other men. Yet Galvis stood out in his own way. Dressed in a T-shirt emblazoned with the image of Ernesto “Che” Guevara on the front and stamped with the slogan “Hasta la victoria siempre” across the back, Galvis was making a political point at a moment when Barran- cabermeja was coming out of a long strike decreed by the oil workers’ union, the Unión Sindical Obrera (Syndicated Worker Union, USO), Colombia’s most militant and powerful trade union. For Galvis, Che was much more than an ageless icon of youthful rebellion. The mur- dered guerrilla leader represented a utopian vision of socialism and commitment to ideals that had inspired Galvis for years. As we left the terminal, two men emerged from the shuffle of de- parting travelers and hovered around us. Galvis introduced them as his bodyguards. They followed us to the parking lot, where a large SUV with darkened windows baked in the sun. Galvis got into the right- side backseat, a place designated by his security protocol; I sat behind the driver. With one bodyguard at the wheel and the other riding shot- gun, the four of us headed into town along a winding road. We passed pipelines and birdlike oil pumps that monotonously dipped up and down as if drinking from the earth. Pastures covered in low trees and shrubs and crisscrossed by cow paths interspersed the oil fields that pockmarked the countryside. Enervated cattle chewing their cuds and brushing away flies clustered under the occasional tree large enough to cast a circle of shade. Galvis talked about the tensions that the oil strike had generated in the city. The USO had called the strike on April 15 to halt government plans to privatize the state oil company, the Empresa Colombiana de Petró- leos (Colombian Oil Company, ECOPETROL) and further open the door to multinational corporations to exploit Colombia’s mineral reserves. The work stoppage lasted more than thirty days, and ECOPETROL fired 248 workers. Operations had still not resumed in the oil fields, and rumors were circulating that a special team of paramilitaries from Calí INTRODUCTION 3 had come to town to assassinate strike organizers. As Galvis filled me in, his cell phone rang repeatedly, interrupting his account and forcing him to circle back to previous points after each hurried conversation. When we reached the outer ring of neighborhoods that rimmed Ba- rrancabermeja, the bodyguards detoured past the refinery, which was bristling with concertina wire and surrounded by soldiers, before head- ing down Calle 52 to a large, two-story cement building that housed the USO headquarters, where a meeting was under way. Galvis and I joined USO leaders and representatives of several popular organizations who were planning a march through the city to protest the detention of dozens of strike leaders. Although I did not appreciate it at the time, I was witnessing the last gasp of a once-powerful working class. Over the next couple of years, I returned to Barrancabermeja, or Barranca, as locals referred to it, and visited other Colombian cities, interviewing scores of Coca-Cola workers and their family members and accumulating information about Coca-Cola’s worldwide opera- tions. Yet I gradually spent more and more time in Barrancabermeja, where Galvis and SINALTRAINAL president William Mendoza went out of their way to facilitate my research. Both men insisted that I talk with other trade unionists, human rights defenders, neighborhood activists, and peasant leaders because they understood that there was a deeper story to tell than the one about Coca-Cola. Galvis and Mendoza opened the world of left political activism to me, or at least what remained of it, and the opportunity to talk with so many social movement leaders and grassroots activists was thrilling. But it was also overwhelming. My research subjects quickly cast me in the role of human rights defender because of my willingness to hang around with them and do whatever it was that they were doing. What I understood as participant observation—a basic anthropological re- search method—they defined as acompañamiento (accompaniment), which, when done by a foreigner, especially one from North America or Europe, was widely believed to make people safer from paramilitary attack.1 There were, in fact, several human rights organizations in Ba- rrancabermeja that specialized in this kind of practice. Being identified as a human rights advocate overestimated my ca- pacity to do anything about what was happening.2 People expected me to speak out against the violence that was shredding the social fabric because doing so would demonstrate that they were part of interna- tional networks that were capable of mobilizing a rapid response in 4 INTRODUCTION case of emergency. I was happy to oblige, but I could not always verify the stories that I heard, nor did I have the international connections that some imagined. In addition, the horrifying accounts that people told me initially did not go beyond tales of individual victimization. The traumatic narratives, and the urgency and presentism of human rights accompaniment-cum-participant-observation, complicated any explo- ration of the political projects and organizations in which people were involved or the passions that motivated working people, especially at a time when discussing one’s involvement, past or present, with the legal or illegal left was dangerous. All of this made it easy to overlook a story that went beyond Coca-Cola and the individual stories of brutalization. The deeper story was about the violent destruction of a working class and about how violence was neither a peripheral nor an acciden- tal part of the disorganization of labor. As the Colombian economy became one of the most liberalized in the Americas during the 1990s, harsh new laws had made it easier for firms to hire temporary laborers, while escalating paramilitary violence suppressed opposition to the new policies with threats, massacres, and targeted assassinations. Be- tween 1977 and 2004, 114 members of the USO were murdered; 89 of them lived in Barrancabermeja (Valencia and Celis 2012: 125). Between 2000 and 2003, the number of permanent workers affiliated with the USO dropped by 50 percent, while the number of temporary workers rose. At the same time, the government outsourced much of ECO- PETROL’s maintenance and support operations to thousands of private contractors, some of whom were tied to illegal paramilitary groups that placed their own people in jobs once held by USO members and weak- ened the union from within. Under such conditions, the USO’s ability to maintain a prolonged strike in 2004 and the popular support that it received were remarkable. But the effort was not enough. The 2004 strike was never repeated, and the privatization of ECOPETROL and the restructuring of its labor force continued. Violence was a central part of capitalist development and the dismantling of a once vibrant, politi- cally militant working class, and the experiences of the USO and SINAL- TRAINAL were being repeated over and over again. Although international human rights organizations documented the deaths and relentless violence in Barrancabermeja and across Colombia, their reports did not explain what people were fighting for or the intense emotions that drove them into conflict. In an era when wealth and power were being redistributed upward, the accounts of the INTRODUCTION 5 dead, the disappeared, and the massacred provided few clues to under- standing the setbacks of organized labor. This was because the class dynamics tearing Colombian society apart were largely ignored. They were replaced by a moral argument against abusive state power that be- came a consolation prize for working people struggling to expand the parameters of democracy and to protect their jobs, organizations, and social arrangements from the neoliberal capitalist order envisioned by state policy makers, Colombian elites, and corporate managers. Political violence and capitalist development were ruthless engines of social fragmentation, but even though the late twentieth-century terror that engulfed Barrancabermeja was extreme, the dispossession and disorganization of its working class were not unique. From the cold tin mines of Llallagua in the Bolivian mountains to the sprawl- ing automobile factories of Detroit in the American Midwest, working classes and centers of working-class power were fracturing under the combined pressures of capitalist restructuring, free-trade policies, aus- terity programs, and political oppression. The production of precari- ousness in the lives of ordinary people stood in stark contrast to the emergence of enclaves of wealth, where newly minted global billion- aires withdrew from the turmoil affecting the rest of the world. As working-class lives were uprooted and people thrown into the breach, the chaos forced people to reimagine and re-create their ties to each other, even as the dispossessed and disenfranchised were incorporated into new relationships of domination and exploitation to which they had never agreed. A Century of Violence in a Red City documents the making and un- making of a working class amid the violent conflicts that shaped the Middle Magdalena region of northwest Colombia, particularly the oil town of Barrancabermeja. Beginning in the early twentieth century, a heterogeneous group of peasants, oil workers, small-scale merchants, and prostitutes transformed the sleepy Magdalena River port of Ba- rrancabermeja into a center of working-class power. They did so as the advent of petroleum extraction drew impoverished people from the far corners of Colombia to the middle stretch of the Magdalena River valley and forever changed a tropical frontier region in one of Latin America’s most conservative countries. Hoping for a better life, these intrepid souls fought the humidity, diseases, torrential rains, petro- leum contamination, and the oil company—a subsidiary of the Stan- dard Oil Company of New Jersey—to forge a confrontational class cul-