The Archive of Memory: The Graffiti Artists of Comuna 13 and the Mural as an Unofficial Historical Document

The Mural as an Act of Resistance, Not Just Decoration

The first time a tourist arrives at Comuna 13, what they see are colors. Escalators, huge graffiti, people dancing to rap, a viewpoint overlooking all of Medellín. But if you only focus on that, you miss the essential: each mural on this hillside is not an ornament. It is a historical document. It is the unofficial archive of a community that, for decades, had no voice in newspapers or textbooks.

Here in Medellín, when people ask "what happened in Comuna 13?", the official answer is usually vague. But the local graffiti artists respond with paint. They were the first to put a date and a face to the violence, the disappearances, the resistance. While the media remained silent or repeated press releases from the public forces, another story was being written on the neighborhood's walls. One that didn't ask for permission.

This article is not another tour guide. It is an invitation to read the walls as you would read a file. To understand that behind every stroke there is a witness, and that Comuna 13, with its escalators and selfies, remains the most honest archive of what Medellín was like in the 90s and 2000s.

Origins

The First Graffiti in Comuna 13 (the 90s): The Silent Denunciation

To understand the mural as a document, you have to go back to the 90s. Comuna 13 was then a territory forgotten by the State. No sewage system, no schools, no police force that wasn't corrupt. The streets were dirt, kids grew up among gangs, and the armed conflict was felt on every corner. In that context, painting a wall was an act of risk.

The first graffiti artists were not recognized artists. They were young people from the neighborhood who grabbed a stolen spray can from a hardware store and marked their territory or left coded messages. But very soon, some began to paint more than just tags. They painted the faces of missing neighbors, dates of massacres, names of the dead that the press never mentioned.

An early example was the mural of the "Virgen de la Esperanza" in the upper part of the commune, painted in the mid-90s by a group of young people who would later form the first community muralism brigade. It wasn't a traditional Catholic virgin: it had a broken rifle at its feet and a list of names. That image, now erased, was perhaps the first attempt to turn a wall into a public death certificate.

In those years, painting was dangerous. The police mistook any young person with a spray can for a gang member. The paramilitary groups, who came and went from the neighborhood, saw the murals as subversive propaganda. But the community protected them. Because those drawings, though ugly, though crude, were all that was left when someone left and never returned.

The 'Open Air Museum' in San Javier: How Art Was Negotiated with the Community

The turning point came in 2009, when the Mayor's Office of Medellín proposed creating the "Open Air Museum" in San Javier, the metro station that connects to Comuna 13. The idea was to intervene on the facades of houses with murals by recognized artists, to "beautify" the neighborhood and attract tourism. But the community, which already had its own muralism tradition, did not let anything be imposed on them.

What happened in San Javier was a tense and fascinating negotiation. Community leaders demanded that the murals not be merely decorative. That they tell the real history of the neighborhood. That they include local graffiti artists, not just outside artists. That every wall have a meaning, not just a pretty color.

Thus was born the Open Air Museum as we know it today: a mix of official art and popular memory. Artists like Chota, Eri, and El Colacho (real names from the local scene) worked side by side with international muralists. But the condition was that each work have an explanatory text, a plaque telling the story behind the image. For the first time, graffiti ceased to be anonymous and became a public document.

One of the most emblematic murals from that period is "El Abrazo" (The Embrace), on 45th Street with 99B Avenue. It shows two human figures merging, but if you get close, you see that the arms are made of small silhouettes of disappeared people. The plaque says: "To those who left without saying goodbye." It is not a pretty mural. It is an archive.

However, not everything was harmonious. Some older graffiti artists felt that the museum "officialized" their art and emptied it of political content. For them, the true archive is not on the museum's walls, but in the alleys that have not yet been intervened. That tension is still alive today.

Timeline or Historical Milestones

• 1994: First denunciatory graffiti in the upper part of Comuna 13. Young people paint the names of victims of violence on house facades.
• 2002: Operation Orion. The military and paramilitary incursion leaves dozens dead and disappeared. Murals become more political and explicit.
• 2005: The first organized community muralism brigade, "Grafiteros por la Memoria" (Graffiti Artists for Memory), is born. They paint at night, in hiding.
• 2009: Inauguration of the Open Air Museum in San Javier. 20 murals are negotiated with the community. Controversy between local and official artists.
• 2012: The escalators arrive. Mass tourism begins to change the neighborhood's dynamics. Some original murals are repainted without consultation.
• 2015: The "Ruta de la Memoria" (Memory Route) is created, a self-guided tour that includes 12 historical murals. The Mayor's Office tries to control the narrative.
• 2020: Pandemic. Graffiti artists return to the empty streets and paint murals about COVID-19 and inequality. A new cycle of denunciation.
• 2024: The erasure of at least 5 historical murals during infrastructure works is reported. The community denounces a loss of memory.
• July 2026: Today, the debate continues: should the murals be preserved as heritage or can they be replaced by new works? Tourist tours multiply, but the original visual chroniclers continue to paint in the shadows.

Key Figures or Events

The Visual Chronicler: The Story of "El Colacho"

If there is one name that sums up the idea of the graffiti artist as an archivist, it is that of El Colacho. It is not his real name (no one says it in the neighborhood), but he has been painting in Comuna 13 for 25 years. He started at age 14, when his best friend was killed in a gang fight. That night, he grabbed a spray can and painted on the wall of his house: "Here lived Juan, 1987-2001." That was his first mural.

El Colacho didn't study art. He learned by watching others, stealing paint, experimenting. But he developed a method: every mural he paints has a date, a name, and a short story written in some corner. Sometimes in small, almost illegible letters. But it's there. He says that "when they erase the image, at least the writing will remain."

One of his most famous murals is on 43B Street, behind the soccer field. It shows a female face with a blindfold and a measuring tape in her mouth. The inscription says: "María, 32 years old, disappeared on May 17, 2002." Nothing more. It doesn't need more.

El Colacho does not charge for his murals. He says that "memory has no price." But he does have enemies. In 2018, his workshop was raided by the police, who found spray cans and photos of disappeared people. They accused him of "disturbing public order." The community came out to protest and the charges were dropped. But the message was clear: documenting unofficial history is still dangerous.

Today, at 39, El Colacho gives workshops to young people in the neighborhood. He teaches them to paint, but also to investigate. "Don't just paint pretty things," he tells them. "Ask who lived in that house, what happened on that corner. That's what matters."

The Erased Mural: The Lost History of "Los 14 de la 13"

Not all memory survives. In 2021, during the construction of a new housing block in the El Salado sector, one of the commune's most important murals was erased: "Los 14 de la 13" (The 14 of the 13). It was a 12-meter-long mural showing 14 people sitting at a table, their faces covered by hoods. It represented 14 community leaders murdered between 1998 and 2005, whose crimes were never solved.

The mural had been painted in 2006 by an anonymous collective. It had no signature, but the whole neighborhood knew who the portrayed people were. It was an unofficial memorial, a place where people went to leave flowers or candles. When the backhoe ran over it, the community reported the incident, but the construction company argued that it "didn't know it had historical value."

Today, there is a white wall in that place. Some neighbors have put up photocopies of the original mural, but the sun has faded them. El Colacho says he plans to repaint it elsewhere, but "it's not the same. The place also matters. That mural was on the corner where three of them were killed."

This case is not isolated. According to a 2025 report from the Ombudsman's Office of Medellín, at least 12 murals with historical memory content have been erased or damaged in Comuna 13 since 2010, most during public or private works. The Mayor's Office has no official record of which ones they are. The community does.

Current Status

How to Read a Mural as a Primary Source of Collective Memory

Today, in July 2026, Comuna 13 receives thousands of tourists every week. Most go up the escalators, take photos in front of the most famous murals, and buy a souvenir at the craft store. But very few know how to read what they are seeing.

Reading a mural as a historical document requires changing your perspective. It's not about whether it's pretty or ugly, whether it has good color or technique. It's about asking: who painted it? When? Why? What story does it tell that isn't in the books?

For example, the "Mujer con flores" (Woman with Flowers) mural on 100th Avenue: it looks like a gentle portrait, but if you look closely, the flowers are poppies, and the woman has a scar on her neck. It is a tribute to a mother who lost her son in the conflict. The official plaque doesn't say it, but the neighbors know it.

Another case is the "La bicicleta" (The Bicycle) mural on 44th Street. It shows a child pedaling on a colorful background. It seems innocent, but the child is real: his name is Andrés, and he was killed at age 12 when his bicycle was stolen. His mother asked for the mural to be painted so that "no one would forget him." Today, tourists take smiling selfies next to the image of a dead child. Without knowing it.

That's why some graffiti artists have started including QR codes in their murals. When scanned, they open a webpage with the full story, family testimonies, and photos from the time. It's a way to digitize the archive, to make it accessible without losing context. But not everyone has internet access, and many tourists walk right past them.

The Future of the Visual Archive: Between Tourism and Memory

The biggest challenge today is balancing tourism with the preservation of memory. The tours have brought money and visibility, but they have also turned the murals into merchandise. Some guides make up stories to impress foreigners. Others omit the harshest details so as not to "ruin the experience."

In response, community initiatives have emerged, such as the "Ruta Autoguiada de la Memoria" (Self-Guided Memory Route), a downloadable map that points out historical murals and provides real context. The guide was created by the collective Grafiteros por la Memoria and is updated every year. It includes data like: "This mural was painted in 2003, after the massacre of the 13. The names at the bottom are of the victims. It is unknown who painted it, because the author was killed in 2005."

There is also a bill in the Mayor's Office of Medellín, proposed in 2025, to declare the murals of Comuna 13 as "Assets of Cultural Interest." If approved, it would be the first time community graffiti receives legal protection in Colombia. But the community is distrustful: they fear that officialization will end up censoring the most critical messages.

Meanwhile, the graffiti artists keep painting. El Colacho, now with gray hair, says he won't stop until "every wall in the neighborhood has a written story." On the night of July 20, 2026, he painted a new mural in the upper part: an open hand with an eye in the palm, and below it, a phrase: "Memory cannot be erased with paint."

That is the archive. That is the document. And as long as there is someone willing to read it, the history of Comuna 13 will not be lost.

Call to Action

If after reading this you feel like seeing Comuna 13 with new eyes, download our guide to self-guided routes to decipher the hidden codes in the murals. It includes maps, real stories, and key questions so you don't miss any detail. It's free and we update it every month with the new murals that appear. Available at malokal.com/en/guides/comuna13-memory.