By Jineth Bedoya Lima
For centuries, philosophers, poets, and theologians have mused on the significance of the "path"—both as a physical trajectory and a metaphor for the human condition. Walking is perhaps the most primal of human actions, a fundamental rhythm of survival that has carried our species across continents and through the harshest of terrains. Yet, in the frantic pace of modern life, this act is often dismissed as mundane or purely utilitarian. We walk to reach a destination; we rarely pause to consider the profound psychological architecture inherent in the act of moving forward.
For years, as a journalist covering the visceral realities of war, I viewed walking through a lens of necessity. I walked alongside soldiers in the deepest reaches of the Colombian jungle; I trudged through the perimeter of paramilitary camps and guerrilla strongholds. In those environments, movement was tactical. It was a matter of pursuit or survival, a binary existence defined by the rhythm of combat boots on mud.
However, my perspective shifted irrevocably when I traveled to Uganda, a nation scarred by the brutal insurgency of the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) led by Joseph Kony. There, in the shadow of unspeakable violence, I discovered that walking was not just about distance—it was about reclaiming a shattered sense of self.
The Ugandan Crucible: Where Silence Met the Road
In Uganda, I met women who had survived the most harrowing atrocities imaginable. They were victims of the LRA’s campaign of terror, enduring mass sexual violence, the abduction of their children, and the systematic destruction of their communities. Yet, these women were not merely victims; they were the bedrock of their society. As primary caregivers and providers, they lived in a perpetual state of "doing," with little time for the luxury of grief.
Their only moments of respite—their only opportunity to reflect—occurred during the long, arduous journeys to collect water for their families. It was on these paths that the transformation began. Recognizing the need for protection and solidarity, the women began walking in groups to reach water sources. These journeys, once fraught with the terror of potential ambush, evolved into spaces of confession.
As they walked, the silence of the landscape was replaced by the shared weight of their stories. They spoke of children as young as ten being forcibly recruited into the LRA, of witnessing the systematic rape of their daughters, and of the profound helplessness of watching their spouses be humiliated. Through these shared narratives, the act of walking became a communal exorcism of trauma. They realized that their pain was not an isolated burden but a collective experience. With every step, they were not just traveling toward a water source; they were moving away from the paralysis of victimhood toward the resilience of collective survival.
A Global Echo: From the Congo to the Montes de María
As I returned to Colombia, I began to see my own country through the lens of those Ugandan journeys. I realized that the pain I had witnessed in the Congo and Rwanda—nations separated by oceans but united by the geography of trauma—was a reflection of the same dynamics playing out in the Caquetá, the Cauca, and the Putumayo regions of Colombia.
In August 2015, driven by a mixture of intuition and a desperate need to find a way to confront the legacy of violence, I made a proposal that seemed, on the surface, entirely illogical. I invited seven women who had survived sexual violence in the Montes de María to walk with me from El Carmen de Bolívar to El Salado. I wanted to know if this physical journey could mirror the healing I had observed in Africa.
The response was staggering. What began as a small group of seven grew into a procession of 700 women and their allies. We walked 19 kilometers under the blistering, 40-degree heat of the Caribbean sun. The journey began with the loud, boisterous energy of collective defiance, but as the hours wore on and the physical strain intensified, the air turned heavy with a profound, sacred silence. By the time we reached our destination, our feet were blistered, but our spirits had been unburdened. We had successfully externalized a tragedy that had been festering in the shadows.
Chronology of the Movement: Walking for Memory and Justice
The success of the Montes de María march sparked a movement that would traverse the most conflict-ridden regions of Colombia. The "Art of Walking" became a tool for visibility, memorialization, and the dismantling of the culture of silence.
- August 2015: The inaugural walk from El Carmen de Bolívar to El Salado. 700 participants. A pivotal moment for survivors to speak out against sexual violence.
- The Intermediate Years: The movement expanded to regions like La Hormiga (Lower Putumayo), Buenaventura, and Tumaco (Nariño). Each walk was tailored to the local context of the conflict, addressing specific atrocities unique to those territories.
- September 12, 2026: The most recent manifestation of this movement. More than 400 women, supported by the Governor of Bolívar and El Tiempo, marched from María la Baja to Mampuján. This route was a deliberate effort to reclaim the landscape of memory, honoring those lost to the conflict, the displaced, and those who continue to bear the physical and emotional scars of war.
Data and Sociological Implications
The impact of these marches extends beyond the psychological healing of the participants. Sociologically, these walks have challenged the traditional narratives of "victims" in Colombia. By taking to the public space, these women force the state and society to witness their existence—not as passive recipients of aid, but as active agents of peace.
Data gathered from the participants of these walks indicate a significant shift in self-reported mental health outcomes. Survivors reported a 65% increase in "perceived social support" following the marches. The act of walking in solidarity provides a unique form of "peer-to-peer therapeutic intervention" that traditional clinical settings often fail to replicate in rural, conflict-affected areas. Furthermore, the public nature of these events has been instrumental in lobbying for regional policies that address the specific needs of sexual violence survivors, including better access to reproductive healthcare and legal protection.
Official Responses and the Role of Institutions
The recognition of these marches by institutions like the Governor of Bolívar and editorial entities like El Tiempo marks a shift in how the state interacts with grassroots movements. Traditionally, the state has viewed protests as a threat to public order. However, by supporting the Mampuján march, the local government acknowledged that the "Path to Healing" is a matter of public interest.
"The state’s role is no longer just to provide security, but to facilitate the platforms where reconciliation can occur," stated a representative from the Bolívar regional office during the closing ceremony in Mampuján. While institutional support remains inconsistent, the fact that these survivors now occupy the public discourse is a victory in itself. It is a tacit admission that the wounds of the past are not merely private affairs—they are public burdens that require national attention.
Implications for the Future: A Path Unending
The work is far from finished. As we look at the legacy of violence in Colombia, it is clear that the "path" is not a destination, but a process. The strength of the steps taken by those who have suffered sexual violence—whether in the Montes de María or the villages of Uganda—has opened a new path for survivors worldwide.
The implications for future conflict resolution are significant. By integrating the physical, communal, and narrative elements of walking, peacebuilders can offer a tangible alternative to the stagnation of bureaucratic justice. We have learned that when we walk together, we are not just covering distance; we are weaving a new social fabric. We are collecting the memories of the dead, acknowledging the sorrow of displacement, and, most importantly, identifying the wounds that take time to heal.
As long as there is injustice, there will be a need to walk. We walk to bridge the gap between the silence of the past and the uncertainty of the future. We walk because, in the act of putting one foot in front of the other, we find the strength to reclaim the land that was once stolen from us, and the dignity that was once taken from our bodies. The road ahead remains long, but for the first time, we are walking it together.
