In a 2009 TED Talk, Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie spoke about the dangers of a “single story”: when perceptions of an entity like a person, place or culture are defined by a single story representative of the whole. The problem with this phenomenon, she says, is that a story that generalizes the experience of a collective unjustly overlooks the many other stories that exist, resulting in an incorrect or incomplete understanding of the truth.
A self-identified estadounidense, I have fallen prey to the phenomenon of the “single story” of Medellín. All I had ever heard of the city before actually taking the time to learn about it involved violence and drug trafficking. After hearing the work of Mobility 17, however, after conducting some research, and especially after my visits to the storytelling spaces these past couple of weeks, I began to see the terrible injustice we do to such a city when we only speak of that single story.
Out of the five storytelling spaces that I have visited, none of them have told the same story. Each is distinct and particular, existing independently in time and space but also intricately threaded to each other in the fabric of the history of this city, this country, and the world. I see now that the whole account cannot be told without all of these stories.
The concept of identity is so complex, and it seems silly to attempt to water it down to any single story. When I think of my identity, I would hate it if someone were to see me in a single light. I understand that it is sometimes easier to swallow and digest single stories in order to form judgements or understandings of another’s identity, but it is important to recognize that understanding someone or something is not about our own convenience; it is about the “other,” and their truth, as they define it. It is always complex. It is always multi-faceted.
How does one avoid falling prey to the danger of a single story? I recognize that it is tricky, for how can we treat sensitively that which we are not aware of? I bought in to the single story of Medellín because I knew no others, and I did not bother to seek out any different ones. Perhaps the first step is to recognize that everything inherently has more than one story, and the next is to assume responsibility for learning more. Or at least it must be our responsibility to be open to hearing different stories, different perspectives. Then we can begin to uncover the truth.
Chrislyn Choo
How do cities tell stories about themselves? Who gets to tell them? Do the narratives align with my expectations? These questions filled my mind this week as we visited spaces in Medellín where the stories of the people are told. One particular neighborhood stands out in my memory for its vocality. Santo Domingo was once considered one of the most dangerous places in Latin America in the 1990s, but with the establishment of a library park and metro cable system, the barrio has seen prolific growth as a cultural center, as well as a thirteen-fold decrease in its murder rate. These staggering facts can be a little hard to comprehend at first, as Santo Domingo seems like a small town tucked into a big city. Upon first glance, the homes blend into a terrain of rust-red complexes wedged together on the slope. During our ascension on the metro cable, however, my attention was repeatedly arrested by the creative vision of the people. Unassuming alleyways erupted with unexpected pockets of colorful art. Vivid designs burst forth from peeling walls, stylistically and thematically ranging from stark realism to fantastical mythology. The faded facades could barely contain the pulsing imagination of the people. Through these artistic lifeblood vessels, I sensed their willpower to defy reduction to one narrative of violence and poverty. In giving voice to years of silenced pain and hope, the murals compelled me to fully acknowledge the community's humanity, not that it was ever lost. I witnessed a powerful juxtaposition that left me with a deep admiration for the persistent, unwavering spirit of the people.
This narrative of endurance is not without irony, however. While climbing the streets of Santo Domingo, I noticed several pairs of shoes dangling from a telephone line. Officially termed “shoe tossing,” this practice has invited a number of criminal explanations for its intent, notably as an advertisement of a nearby sales point for crack cocaine. It speaks to the international proliferation of the drug industry that I had actually seen the symbol's association with drugs before in the U.S., Amsterdam, and Argentina. The enduring spirit I admired appears to extend to those involved in drug trafficking. They want to leave their mark too. Amidst beautiful signs of redevelopment, the dangling shoes were sobering reminders of the brokenness that motivated the government's investment in Colombia’s cultural development in the first place.
As I absorbed all these contradicting yet complementary signs, conventional notions of “modern” and “old” came to a head for me. I found myself labeling the street art, library parks, and public transportation as signs of modern growth, while dismissing dirty streets and simple living (like clotheslines) as signs of antiquity. I suppose I’m struggling to define “developed” versus “developing.” When I thought of what a “more developed” Santo Domingo ought to look like in the future, I subconsciously envisioned buildings akin to those of El Poblado. As youth become more educated, do I expect them to “naturally" transform Santo Domingo into Medellín’s next affluent community? What is even the best measure of affluence, of development, of progress?
Fittingly, I read this quote on Humans of New York the day before we visited Santo Domingo: "I'm an architect, and I've designed buildings all over the world. Every time I get a commission in an emerging market, I get excited about the opportunity to draw from the country's heritage, culture, and art. But the client never wants it. They all want the same thing: 'modern style, modern style, modern style.' Everything has to be high and glassy. It's almost as if everyone wants to hide their differences. It's boring.” If I could change anything, I would dispel the sentiment within that feels compelled to impose a visual metric of progress that is based on my westernized notion of urban modernity. In the United States, we have a tendency to assess development in terms of economic growth. Yet I think that attention to happiness, human rights, and artistic and environmental innovation would yield a more realistic understanding of promising transformation.
I will need more time to reconcile the awareness I am gaining here with the ingrained ideas with which I entered Colombia, but for now, I cannot deny the genuine appreciation I have for the red-roofed homes just the way they are. In their quiet humility and simplicity, they are just as majestic as the glossy cable cars, towering library park, and evocative murals emblazoned on the walls. Through the echoes of hardship and poverty, the people of Santo Domingo exude resolve.
Elena Elliott
Last Wednesday we joined one thousand Colombians to bike twenty-six kilometers through Medellin. We stopped traffic as we rode through major streets and highways. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was exhausting. As we rode through the night, the locals told me that this event has gone on every Wednesday for the last four years. Colectivo SiCLas is a group devoted to getting more cars off the street and replacing them with bikes. Their goal is to create a less congested city with cleaner and clearer air, as well as to build a community of people. This bike tour through Medellin is incredibly fun, but, more than that, it is an event that stands to make a difference.
The morning after our bike ride, we woke at the crack of dawn to meet up with Carlos Delgado, the project manager behind Comuna 13, a neighborhood in the mountains of Medellin. Comuna 13 was once one of the poorest and most dangerous areas in Medellin. There was little opportunity for economic success in this area, and access to education was limited, as it was nearly impossible to make it down the mountain. Proyecto Comuna 13, which was launched in 2007, gives life to the wild idea to put escalators on the mountainside. Because of this innovative idea, people can now get from the top of the mountain to the metro station (and vice versa) in roughly ten minutes, a journey that previously took hours.
Another day, we rode the metro cables up the mountainside of Santo Domingo. From the bottom of the mountain all we could see were three pillars up in the heavens; as we ascended the mountain, however, Parque Biblioteca España (or in English, Library Park) came into view. When we got out of the cable cars we encountered a local boy only 15 or 16 years of age eager to give us a tour. He explained to us that this library has brought the community a cultural and educational gathering place. It gives children a safe place to go after school, it offers workshops for adults, and it provides a space for local artists to exhibit their work. It is an area dedicated to the people and to their advancement.
We have visited a great deal of communities this past week. They all have offered us a piece of Medellin’s history. Every space we have visited has told us an individual story about Medellin and its people, yet they have all shared one aspect. In each place I have noticed that they are all devoted to making Medellin a better place for its people and for its future generations. Medellin’s goal is to be the most innovative city in Latin America by 2021 and it is obvious that it is well on its way.
Ishani Purohit
I learned the distinction between a “comuna” and a “barrio” in the morning before we left for Comuna 13. Technically, every neighborhood is a comuna, but only the poorest places are actually referred to as comunas, the rest are barrios. I remember thinking about how I felt working or even passing through the poorest neighborhoods in Durham. I pictured small, run-down houses on unkempt lawns. I pictured children playing games outside with an ironic backdrop of desolation. I pictured an area that managed to carry on despite the neglect from the government, and the anger and resentment that had built up within the community because of it, isolating it from other inhabitants of the city. This photo project by Justin Cook embodies a lot of the “darker side” of Durham, to help explain my preconceptions.
I wasn’t sure what to expect to see in Comuna 13. I knew that the area had historically been one of the poorest and the most violent areas in Medellín and the government had made a great effort to rebuild the community. Our tour guide, Carlos, was instrumental in this process. From what I had been told, the change was massive. But for whatever reason, I was still expecting Comuna 13 to resemble the poverty and desolation I had seen in Durham.
The art stuck out to me as Comuna 13’s way of reinventing itself. Each meticulously crafted work on stairwells or concrete walls surrounding the houses was an artist’s effort to show the world in a different lens. To show the world that the violence that used to run rampant in the neighborhood could be replaced by beauty, and that a community should not be defined by its pain. That was the most important thing I took away from my visit to Comuna 13. I firmly believe that art is a universal language, and that art is one of the most powerful tools for social and political change.
However, the graffiti that stuck out most to me as a marker of change in this comuna was not a sprawling, grandiose piece of art. In fact, it was just writing in yellow spray paint, but it was poignant enough to bring tears to my eyes. It read “Ni putas, ni santas, sólo mujeres”. I stood and stared at the wall long after the rest of the group moved on.
This is an example of street art fulfilling its purpose. There is a message, loud and clear, and it speaks to anyone who is literate. The message denounces the virgin/whore dichotomy, which is prominent in nearly every country and nearly every religion. We either put women on a pedestal to glorify their purity or we shame them for their sexual “decisions” (not always our decision). We are slaves to sex in many ways, publicly and privately, whether we are doing it or not. This dehumanizing concept is so ingrained in every single culture that people are oblivious to it. But why is virginity a “good” thing? What about virginity screams purity? It’s not good and it’s not bad. It just is. Just like your skin is the color it is because it just is. Just like you have to breathe to keep living cause that’s just how your body works. I’ve hated this concept since I could first understand it, but reading this statement made me realize just how much people around the world feel it too. Someone who speaks a completely different language and has a completely different life than me feels the same anger that I do. And that is mind blowing.
A girl should not have to be tormented on her decision to have or not have sex; there are already enough headaches for us regarding that as it is. The art I saw in Comuna 13 does a wonderful job of encapsulating what I just tried to convey in one sentence. The simplicity of the sentence also highlights the simplicity of the concept. We are not bitches, we are not saints, we are women, and most importantly, we are humans.
Miurel Price
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| One of the instruments my host mom uses |
Nathaniel Sizemore
“Carlos is good, my mother is with my brother down the street- the dog is wonderful and the birds are happy” she said.
“Entonces todo es bien en Carlos E”, I replied. We both broke out into big smiles without saying another word.
Its sweet conversations like these that reveal the most about Carlos E and its residents. It’s a neighborhood grounded in family and friendship. Families like Doña Cecilia have been living in Carlos E for over 20 years- they raise their children here and take care of their elderly parents in the same apartment. Speaking with Doña Cecilia, it’s easy to see just how close many of these families have become. Most of her best friends are in fact the other women of the building and of Carlos E. People aren’t just neighbors here- their extended family, treated like long lost cousins and always invited to stop in and chat on a warm Colombian afternoon. Walking around the center of Carlos E, with its small restaurants and shops, it’s easy to forget that you live in a thriving metropolis of over 3 million people. The wide walkways and beautiful flora that characterize the neighborhood make it a tiny oasis among the fast paced life style of Medellin. While days in Carlos E are filled with a quiet sense of community, its nights show the more social side of the neighborhood. Young and old people alike flock to Carlos E at night as a relaxing space to catch up with friends over a café or beer. Everyone knows each other here, and it’s easy to spot the colorful crowd of regulars (and easy to become one yourself) who frequent the outdoor cafes of Carlos E. The neighborhood began in 1960 when it was first built as housing project, and its history is rich and ripe with culture and social activism. Early on in my time here in Medellin, I tried to explain how I felt about Carlos E to Doña Cecilia. Speaking in Spanish, all I could think to say was
“Carlos E esta en una ciudad, pero tambien no esta en una cuidad”
Doña Cecilia smiled right away and quickly nodded her head in agreement, as if I had just discovered one of Carlos E’s most profound secrets.
Rekha Korlipara
I have noticed that most of the dogs in Medellín are small. At first I paid attention to them because I was intrigued by their size—it was as if there were Chihuahua-sized versions of every breed that I see in the United States. Maybe it is an evolutionary trait, resulting from a lack of proper nutrition. But what is interesting (and contradictory), I realized, is that all of them look healthy. In Mexico and India, a majority of the stray dogs (that I have seen) appear emaciated. Here, in Medellín, I have exclusively seen healthy-looking dogs with relatively lush coats and big smiles. I realize, though, that I have only seen a very small proportion of Paisa dogs. I initially assumed that the sample of dogs that I have encountered is representative of all of the city’s dogs because I had seen them in a variety of places, from the richest areas, such as El Poblado, to the poorest areas, like Comuna 13. To verify, I asked a Colombian friend if people feed the stray dogs in Medellín, because I had noticed that they all looked pretty healthy. She told me that not all of the dogs are healthy; there are many sick dogs here. However, there are many healthy dogs, too, because people feed the dogs their leftovers.
When visiting Comuna 13 and other mountain communities, I expected to see dogs similar to those that I have seen roaming the streets of Hyderabad, India—undernourished, sick, and uncontrolled. (I know that Colombia has an animal protection organization similar to the ASPCA in the United States, but I am unclear on whether it has an animal control department.) Instead, I came across well-trained dogs that were small, but healthy. It seemed clear to me that these dogs had been fed by humans. My appreciation for the residents of these communities was increased several-fold. Generosity is one of the qualities that I most respect, but this was not just generosity—it was altruism, a quality that I absolutely admire. The action of feeding stray dogs is particularly inspiring in more impoverished communities such as these, where the people themselves may be struggling to survive.
There is beauty in all of the small things in Medellín, because everything is reflective of the genuine and compassionate spirit of its residents. It is visible in everything from the peace- and unity-promoting graffiti that blankets the city to the natural action of accepting a piece of paper discussing some bogus topic just so that the person handing it to you can get paid an extra cent or two. My personal favorite, though, is the condition of the dogs. The people of Medellín have incorporated dogs into their community—its diversity lies not just in socioeconomic class, race, or lifestyle, but also species.
Sandy Ren
When I began the storytelling space project, my expectations and ideas of the assignment were nebulous. The open-ended nature of the project made my left brain uneasy but my right brain excited. I was uncertain of the purposes of the assignment, but I realize now that it was part of the point of the exercise. There are many different ways of telling and understanding a story. If rigid rules had been set, then the free-flow nature would be constricted.
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| Comuna 13 at a glance, hi-res |
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| One of the many commissioned graffiti art pieces around the neighborhood, hi-res |
