Fundación is a village of secrets. Rural towns like this one were ground zero for the terror tactics of Colombia’s civil war, blocked from the outside first by the guerrilla fighters and then by the paramilitaries; some, like Fundación, were also places people fled to when home was even worse. This town is full of women whose bodies tell the story of conflict fought, mainly, by men. Some of their scars are obvious, still seared into skin. Others are psychic, invisible and below the surface.
Sofia’s are physical, a bullet hole over her left breast and a jagged line down her left arm from where surgeons had to cut open to repair the shattered bone. “There’s a saying here,” she says. “Small town, big hell.” Sofia (a pseudonym) is 42 and beautiful, slender with high cheekbones and almond eyes, square white teeth, and a kebab stick through a low bun of thick hair. A curly-haired toddler, her granddaughter, pads across a room that doubles as Sofia’s studio: she’s a self-taught seamstress, although it’s hard to sew with a hand that doesn’t fully close anymore.
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