In November 1988 I was living in Bogotá when news broke that a terrible massacre had occurred in a small mining town miles away from just about everywhere, but reachable by plane from the city of Medellín. The story of the massacre in this town, called Segovia, took hours to travel to the capital, but then it burst all over the national news. We learned that in just an hour and a half of carnage, dozens of people had been murdered that long weekend. For days after the killings, the newspapers ran entire pages of photographs of mourners in the pouring rain, grieving over rows of coffins. But for all the scandal and commotion that week, I couldn’t find an account in the Bogotá media of what had actually taken place. Of course I had to go.
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