In a nation where the national flower is a bullet casing and the anthem is scored to mortar fire, Colombia stumbles toward another presidential vote. Violence, that ever-present third candidate, has escalated its campaign with characteristic ruthlessness. The civil war, a conflict so protracted it has its own fan clubs and merchandise, refuses to be a mere footnote in the electoral narrative. Instead, it demands centre stage, upstaging politicians with its grim theatrics.
Campaign rallies are now held in body bags. Political ads are interrupted by gunfire. And the debates? A masterclass in deflection, where candidates blame 'the other side' for a war that has been running longer than most marriages. The real issue is what to do with a country that has been bleeding for so long that its soil has turned a permanent maroon.
The incumbent, a man whose smile is as hollow as his promises, offers more of the same: a 'peace process' that has become a cynical dance, a tango of betrayal where the music stops only when someone is shot. His opponent, a firebrand with a revolutionary's haircut, proposes a 'junta of the people' – code for another set of uniforms, another flag, another round of bodies.
The voters, caught in the crossfire, are asked to choose between the plague and the cholera. They are promised hope, a commodity as rare in Colombia as a sober politician. But hope is a fragile thing, easily shattered by a car bomb or a cartel's message left in a severed hand.
And so the violence escalates, as if on cue. It is the stage manager of this farce, dictating the lighting, the sound, the props. Elections are merely interludes, pauses for breath before the next act of brutality. The question is not who will win, but how many will be left to count the votes. The answer, as always, is fewer than the last time.
Colombia, dear reader, is a country that has made a grim art of tragedy. Its presidential election is the latest canvas, splattered with the red of ambition and the black of despair. And we, the global audience, watch with a mix of horror and detachment, knowing that our applause is neither wanted nor needed. The show must go on, after all. Even from the gallows.