Life from Canada to Latin America, one word at a time.
On street corners and under shade trees, functionaries from Bogota held court almost everyday in Mampujan. Dressed in vests proclaiming their identity as members of the Unidad de Victimas, or the Organization of the American States, or the Sena or universities or whatever, they passed out attendance sheets and lectured the community on how to
I always resort to cliques when I am asked the question of what I like most about Colombia. I can’t help it because it is true. Whether a taxi driver, a coworker or someone from Canada asks, the answer is always the same: people. I do not mean this in any sort of romantic, nostalgic,
#rapedneverreported has sparked important dialogue over the last month in Canada. While sexual violence remains an invisible, victim blaming crime filled with intimidation, that does not mean that victims are simply silent or do not have powerful proposals for change. As Kate McInturff points out, now that we are sorry, we need to listen and to
I got a smartphone last month. It changed my life. I work in communications and it is helpful to actually be able to communicate when I am outside of my office. I can tweet and facebook with the best of them now, no matter the event or activity. For a year, I barely talked to
The community of El Garzal, in the south of Colombia’s Bolívar province, is one of resistance. Not only are community members refusing to leave their land due to armed threats, they have also never give in to pressure to cultivate coca. This history, along with the community’s continued nonviolent struggle for their land, is emblematic
Last night, I introduced two of my Colombian colleagues to poutine. A new restaurant, the first of its kind in Colombia to offer deep fried potato and cheese goodness is open on Calle 13 with 5. The poutine was, including the bloated feeling afterwards, just like I remembered it. It is not often that I
During the day, I love my neighbourhood. Everyday, I giggle at the dogs that look like their owners and keep my eyes open for lucky nuns. I sit in quaint cafes and drink coffee. I have picnics on the grass while my skin burns in the Andean sun. Like many urban centres worldwide, however, after
I caused a motorcycle accident last weekend. At that point, it felt pretty normal. I had been back on the coast for four days, officially to co-facilitate a workshop on documentation and political advocacy, and unofficially to remember what I had forgotten about life on the Caribbean. I started to feel at home as soon
The first time Jhonatan David Vargas was illegally recruited by the Colombian national army and detained at a military base, he knew nothing about his rights to conscientious objection. What he did know, however, was that he did not want to learn how to kill. A active churchgoer in his home town of Barrancabermeja, Jhonatan
Over the last few years, I have grown cynical. I hear promises and assume they will be broken. I go to meetings and marches and remain unmoved. I have little faith that big change will take place. It is easy, in the day to day slog of imprisonments, impunity, broken promises and violence, to forget
Anna L. Vogt 