Something to think about next time you think your life is hard

Before I go any further with this, let me just make very clear here that I have no political or commercial stake in the fate, one way or the other, of the Escobar family descendants or this film, and I do not possess any extra knowledge about this topic overall beyond what is broadly available to the average citizen. Nor do I, for that matter, advocate a particular view on Colombia's politics, past or present, beyond an overall desire for a peaceful future that I would hope any socially conscious citizen would have for that nation.

With that disclaimer out of the way, I can already see a number of things that the very subject of this documentary brings to mind and that I will be thinking about when I have a chance to see the film.

The only time I ever went to Medellín, Colombia happened to be on a Father's Day weekend (I might point out that I was not there for family reasons). Because I recognise that Pablo Escobar, for better or for worse, is an integral part of both Medellín's and Colombia's more recent history, I spent that Father's Day visiting his grave on the city's outskirts.

A number of things caught my attention that day, the most immediate being that Escobar's legend even in death remains at least as compelling as his legend while he lived. The sheer number of people who decided to make the same trip I did that day should go without saying (I dare say pay homage - there's no way that all the visitors to his grave that day were family relations or curious tourists). The proliferation of people was almost matched by the proliferation of floral arrangements decorating his final resting place. Having just the previous day rode in the metrocable up through Santo Domingo Savio, the fact that so many well-wishers came to pay a visit did not come as much of a surprise. I also recall there being a palpable sense of...not quite urgency, but certainly a mood that discouraged me from lingering for too long lest one of the legitimate mourners approach me and ask me what my relationship was with the man.

And those are just the immediately tangible thoughts that came to mind. Stepping away from the egocentrically physical and into the realm of the metaphysical, the array of subjects widens dramatically, particularly when considering what this documentary purports to show: reconciliation, anonymity, guilt, self-determination, destiny, legacy...and for Marroquín, the constraints and conundrums of history and heritage.

I once received a lashing for judging 1950s mores through the filter of how my own world view was shaped as I came of age in the 1980s and 90s. In short, I was assailed for failing to acknowledge that while it is the job of the historian to remind us of the contemporary circumstances accompanying historical events and figures, each of us is ultimately a prisoner of the prevailing ontology of whatever time and place played host to our formative years.

An easy example of that idea is that anyone born in 1985 - regardless of country - is bound to understand the Cold War in a fundamentally different way than someone born in 1965. And the latter is bound to understand, say, La Violencia, in a fundamentally different way than someone born in 1945. Such is the curse of history. Or course of history.

Reconciliation is never an easy thing, particularly as it applies to a long-standing civil conflict. Distrust in institutions, uncertainty surrounding just reparations, the power nostalgia has over forgiveness, an "eye for an eye" sense of justice...

Walking this discursive tightrope will be hard enough for me as I watch this film. I cannot imagine what it is like for the sons of Pablo Escobar, Rodrigo Lara Bonilla and Luis Carlos Galán.