41 years later, when he was running as the clear favorite for the presidency, Luis Carlos Galán suffered a similar fate. Shot on August 18, 1989 during a campaign speech in Soacha, a small city just to the south of Bogotá , his death is a reminder of the narco terrorism that swept across the country during the 80s and 90s. At the time, Galán was one of few politicians who were not afraid to take a stand against the powerful drug cartels. Drug lord Pablo Escobar ordered his assignation after Galán publicly demanded the extradition of drug lords to the United States.

Jaime Garzón’s dedication to peace activism was what sealed his fate. In the 1990s, his efforts as a mediator in negotiations between the Colombian government and guerillas led to the release of hostages held by FARC, much to the displeasure of right-wing paramilitaries. On August 13, 1999, he was shot five times in a motorcycle drive-by on the streets of Bogotá. Similarly to Gaitán’s assassination, the exact circumstances of the murder remain unclear. Rumors suggest the active involvement of the Colombian military.

The stories of Gaitán, Galán, and Garzón show that making changes in Colombia is not only difficult, it can also be dangerous. Obviously many people prefer to forget about these past events and turn the other way. Mos Ku’s graphic message forces them look, think, remember and more. And although not all walkers-by agree, they all seem to be affected.

Since its creation, pictures of the mural have gone viral on social media, reminding even more people not to forget. Once the idea for the motif was in his head, Mos Ku says, he wanted to find the best possible place for it. The corner-stretch of a school wall on one of Fontibón’s busiest streets was a perfect match. He wrote a letter to the school and asked for permission. The school liked the idea, so Mos Ku took up his spray cans. 

The stories of Gaitán, Galán, and Garzón show that making changes in Colombia is not only difficult, it can also be dangerous.

Of course, not all graffiti artists in Bogotá work this way. As in other cities, some prefer the thrill of unauthorized spraying and tagging. The case of young Diego Felipe Becerra, known as Tripido, illustrates just how severe the consequences can be. On August 19, 2011, the 17-year-old was spraying one of his (now famous) Felix the cat motifs on a wall in Calle 116, when he noticed policemen approaching. He took off running and was shot in the back. The police officers stated that the young man had been heavily armed, and that he and some friends had hijacked a bus earlier that day. Yet the investigation failed to procure a single piece of evidence for this version of the story, aside from paid witnesses that were later exposed as fakes. No arms were found either. All the boy had on him was a spray can.

Tripido’s death became a political case, eventually culminating in the decriminalization of graffiti in Bogotá, and its redefinition as cultural practice instead of a criminal act. Still, the permission of the wall’s owner is required and tagging or unauthorized work can result in heavy fines.

The death of the young sprayer was a great tragedy, but at least the aftermath shows that not everything in Colombia is cast in concrete and there is some scope for change.  Every year a memorial festival is held for Tripido. It is organized by the Tripido Collective, a cooperation of young people and Diego’s parents, who have been fighting to create Colombia’s first national graffiti law since the death of their son. Artists from all over the world come to Colombia to paint together at the annual festival. The thoughtful sharing of space is another quality unique to Bogotá’s graffiti scene.

Like in other cities, most sprayers know each other, and there seems to be an unspoken agreement not to smear large tags on other people’s work. If tagging occurs, then it’s subtle and embedded into the bigger picture. The sprayers seem to live in respectful coexistence instead of rivalry. Mos Ku takes us to a junction box that he has shared with two friends.