Performing artists in Colombia began some decades ago to work with both victims and offenders of abuses of human rights in order to produce collaborative performances informed by or even fully based on the real-life stories of those whose lives have been directly affected by the armed conflict. The overall aims of these practices are to use the power of their narratives and/or their presence on stage to contribute to ongoing peace-building, post-conflict efforts to claim for the rights of the victims, and for restorative justice purposes. Some examples include Carlos Satizabal’s Antigonas Tribunal de Mujeres [Antigonas, a Women’s Tribunal] a play in which four women share testimonies related with the killing or disappearance of their beloved sons and husbands and with persecution by state agents (Satizabal 2015); Constanza Ramírez Molano’s Vivificar [Vivifying] (2015), a flash mob in a shopping centre in which she stages the forced disappearance of musicians and the conductor of an orchestra as a means to engage the public in direct conversations with the relatives of disappeared people, who appear on stage at the end of the flash mob; choreographer Alvaro Restrepo’s commemorative ceremony Inxilio: el Sendero de Lágrimas [Inxilio: The Trail of Tears] (2010–2013), in which more than 150 victims of forced internal displacement appear on stage along with trained contemporary dancers, a symphonic orchestra, an actress, and a soprano singer. In the context of that performance, a selection of the performers/survivors presents the self; they act as representatives of other victims and voice their thoughts on aspects relevant to the post-conflict moment that Colombia was going through at that time; Luis C. Sotelo’s audio-guide La Salida Más Conveniente [The Most Convenient Way Out] (2014–2018), in which one person at a time is guided for 25 minutes by a young man, in silence, about a building in a city (the project is adaptable to any city). As they walk, they listen together via headphones to a fragment of a life story by a young ex-combatant of rebel group Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC). The life story that they get to listen to presents the ex-combatant’s early childhood, and refers to what made him join the guerrilla, how he was trained, why he decided to escape from it, and what life-threatening hurdles he faced in trying to do that.
Artists doing these kinds of work in a post-conflict context are faced with a specific set of aesthetic, ethical, and political challenges, and are often not aware of each other’s work. This practice has received little academic attention in Latin America.1 It is worth, thus, to put this practice in dialogue with debates that have emerged in other contexts. In Performance Affects: Applied Theatre and the End of Effect, James Thompson (2011) discusses applied theatre practice in the Sri Lankan post-conflict context. His discussion may be seen as seminal for the reflections that need to happen within this field. In that book, he reflects on an ‘incident’ in which 27 young ex-combatants were killed while being ‘held as surrendered child soldiers’ in a rehabilitation centre. Three months before the massacre, he and a team of practitioners had conducted applied theatre workshops with them, which resulted in a public performance to all camp residents including staff. On being asked whether he thought there was a link between the massacre and the applied theatre project, one of Thompson’s Sri Lankan colleagues said, ‘of course there was.’ Thompson sets off to explore that response, and, more specifically, ‘how the problems revealed in this example can illustrate the broader limits of applied theatre in conflict or crisis situations’ (2011: 16). His argument is that in such a charged context, the claims made by practitioners about the transformative power of their practice need to be carefully rediscovered in the light of the ways that the performances might be read by some of the armed actors or their supporters. More concretely, he acknowledges that the presence of the project and the artists involved in such a context may strengthen, shape, or even challenge agendas by either the government or any of its armed enemies. In consequence, the participants in the project are at risk of being perceived as symbols of a political agenda and to be targeted as such by some of the armed groups involved in the conflict. Such a re-positioning of the participants and their narratives poses a huge ethical risk for the participants. A performance of memory in such a context ends up being completely intertwined with the mechanisms for either constructing or challenging (sometimes violently) public political post-conflict agendas.
Just as Thompson focuses on a single case in his book to illustrate the risks of working with real-life stories and people in a post-conflict performance of memory, I focus in this chapter on Restrepo’s Inxilio: el Sendero de Lágrimas (2013) to illustrate how aesthetic, ethical, and political decisions are intertwined and embodied in the craft of facilitating voicing and listening in the context of such performances. I have chosen this project for various reasons. Firstly, it reaches an unprecedentedly large audience. It has been presented on three occasions, one in 2010, and twice in 2013. In one of its 2013 versions alone, the one that I discuss here, it reached 4,000 audience members who attended the sports centre in which it was staged (entry was free of charge), plus a national television audience via a special live broadcast edition of a national television program. More importantly for the purposes of this chapter, there is one section of the 2013 version on which I focus here, that deserves critical attention. In that section, the Colombian president Juan Manuel Santos (in office 2010–2018), who was leading at that time a peace process with guerrilla group FARC in Havana (Cuba), appears on stage within a circle as a person who listens to the 11 victims’ representatives. The analysis made here of the decisions that were made to stage the president as a figure of authority who listens to what the victims of forced internal displacement have to say, will illustrate how performance aesthetics, ethics, and politics are intertwined in this practice.
Drawing on Brown, Langer, and Stewart’s (2011) typology of post-conflict environments, I conceptualise a post-conflict scenario ‘as a process that involves the achievement of a range of peace milestones.’ Those milestones include, for instance, the cessation of hostilities and violence, the signing of a peace agreement, demobilisation, displaced people and refugee repatriation, reforms at institutional level, societal reconciliation and integration, and economic recovery (2011: 4). Taking a process-oriented approach is productive in that it allows one to see that countries such as Colombia lie along a transition continuum which sometimes moves backwards and in which a conflict persists with some armed groups, while peace milestones are achieved with others. In that sense, there are multiple processes taking place in Colombia’s post-conflict context. For instance, the transition from war to peace with paramilitary in 2005 or the peace agreement with guerrilla group Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) in 2016, while there is still an ongoing struggle both for the victims to render accountable perpetrators on all sides, including state actors, and, more broadly, the struggle to achieve justice.
Colombia has been torn by a series of non-stop internal armed conflicts since 1948. The armed groups of the last five decades have included various guerrilla groups and armed paramilitary fronts, state security forces, and drug dealers. The most significant registered violent acts include forced displacement, killings, threats, kidnapping, terrorist attacks, torture, sexual crime, and child recruitment.2
Victims of the conflict and human rights organisations have not stopped vindicating the victims’ rights, searching for the disappeared relatives, fighting for their kidnapped beloved ones to be freed (Sotelo 2018), and fighting for acknowledgement as victims, even amidst the conflict.3 To do so, a plethora of activist memory work initiatives have emerged.4 Socially engaged artists have also contributed innovative work in which they often collaborate with victims. In that sense, acts in which painful memories have been voiced in Colombia have not been limited to moments within the transitional, post-conflict legal scenarios that have been implemented over the last two decades. As director of the National Historic Memory Centre, Gonzalo Sánchez has said, in Colombia, memory work is established as a ‘militant response’ to the ongoing and ‘multiple silencing projects that are at place’ in the country: ‘memory is an expression of rebellion against violence and impunity’ (Grupo de Memoria Histórica [GHM]. 2013: 13).
Literature across a range of disciplines has made reference to listening as a concept to be considered in discussions of post-conflict performances of memory, but only a few sources address it in detail. Within oral history (Field 2006; Cave & Sloan 2014; Greenspan 1998), for example, listening is often addressed as an aspect of an interview process, but its social dimension as part of a public history event is rarely discussed.5 Practices such as the one that will be discussed as a case study in the next section have not been the subject of critial inquiry in terms of notions of listening. However, previous studies within the fields of memory studies (Jelin 2002, 2007), social psychology (Aranguren 2012), sociology (Payne 2000), anthropology (Borneman 2002; Riaño-Alcalá & Uribe 2016; Castillejo-Cuellar 2007), and performance studies (Phelan 2016; Thompson 2011) have identified listening as a keyword in the context of post-conflict memory projects. Although they have not discussed it as a distinct craft, their reflections make useful contributions towards the establishment of a critical framework for discussing how this craft may be exercised effectively, ethically, and with political sensibility.
With reference to the South African context, but from a theoretical standpoint, anthropologist John Borneman’s (2002) article Reconciliation after Ethnic Cleansing: Listening, Retribution, Affiliation argues that cultivating ‘practices of listening’ after a violent conflict is key for advancing reconciliation goals. In his own words:
To act upon listening, I propose, is precisely to turn both listening and listening facilitation into a craft of sorts. The listener can be trained as a listener and a facilitator of listening can develop the skills and knowledge needed to facilitate listening acts by others. However, a key underlying question is what does effective voicing and listening mean in a post-conflict context? This question is connected with the call for facilitators of voicing and listening in such contexts to develop a clear vision as to what is intended with their intervention: what is the social process that a post-conflict performance of memory facilitates working towards?
In Borneman’s (2002) words (drawing on Gadamer’s (1975) Truth and Method), voicing in a post-conflict context is about ‘telling the truth,’ and it is about making the value of lived experience matter in the public sphere. Truth-telling is focused on the victims (not on the perpetrators), he adds, and it is about taking the risk of contradicting what is said or believed by others (or willingly confessed by others, mainly by the perpetrators). Truth-telling makes a difference (is effective) when the disclosed experience elicits exposure or an orientation to a new experience, that is, when it runs counter to personal and collective expectations (Borneman 2002: 291). In a transitional context we need to listen for truth of concrete lived experience, that is, for statements grounded in experience that contradict power dynamics. In that sense, truth only becomes truth ‘when plugged into practices and systems of power’ (2002: 296).
For a listening act to be effective in a post-conflict scenario one needs to ask who listens? Borneman answers: there needs to be ‘third-party’ listeners, that is, people external to the conflict that would be the subject of narration. Examples of, third-party listeners are United Nations’ observers, anthropologists, peacekeepers and other professionals who could be trained ‘to listen for departures from violence’ (2002: 301). An individual, or a group starts to depart from violence, he explains, when they tell the truth, acknowledge their wrongdoings, when they depart from abstract political visions of the future and move toward concrete human beings and ways of defending them (2002: 292). Ultimately, he concludes, third-party listening is required because who listens intervenes ‘simultaneously on the side of accountability, trust, and care for the Other, including the enemy’ (2002: 302). He ends his contribution on a controversial note: effective voicing and listening in such a context needs to be linked with the purpose of allocating responsibilities and, more specifically, with decisions of retributive justice. This is controversial because transitional justice, for instance in the current model that is being implemeted in Colombia in the wake of the Juan Manuel Santos – FARC peace agreement, promotes restorative rather than retributive justice. Previous models in Colombia have even resulted in amnesties to the perpetrators (Jaramillo Marin 2014 in Riaño-Alcalá & Uribe 2016: 10).
Borneman’s (2002) idea of ‘third-party’ listening resonates with ideas by perhaps the most influential author within Latin America’s field of memory studies, Argentinian sociologist Elizabeth Jelin. In her influential book Los Trabajos de la Memoria (2002) and essay Testimonios Personales, Memorias y Verdades frente a Situaciones Límite (2007) Jelin addresses the relationships between the act of giving testimony (voicing) and listening in the transitional, post-dictatorial Latin American contexts of the 1970s onwards. To Borneman’s question for the effectiveness of voicing memories of a violent past, she adds the question of what makes listening possible in such contexts (Jelin 2007: 375). Jelin argues that such voicing and listening is ‘social’ and coincides with Borneman, but rather than third-party listening, she lists ‘alterity’ as a key element of social, post-conflict listening.
Social listening is possible if it is performed.6 by an-Other person, that is, by someone who is not part of the inner circle of the one who gives testimony, Jelin (2007) explains. Alterity, as experienced in the course of an empathic, dialogic encounter, drives voicing and social listening acts, it creates the ‘social conditions’ in which the interlinked acts of voicing and listening may take place (Jelin 2007: 382).7 Further, alterity is important, Jelin clarifies, for what is needed in a post-conflict context is different from autobiographical recounting. While autobiographical performance is normally a representation of lived experience in the first person singular ‘I,’ post-conflict testimony is mediated, dialogic, and speaks on behalf of a social condition first person plural, ‘we’ (Jelin 2007: 385). This statement suggests, importantly, that the post-conflict testimony relates to a site of conflict, not to an isolated individual and not even to single communities. Rather, following Colombian anthropologist Alejandro Castillejo’s line of argument in a 2007 research report on testimonies in the context of the Peruvian Truth Commission, the post-conflict testimonies of victims that he interviewed during his field work draw ‘a social cartography and a political economy of experience and of exclusion’ (Castillejo-Cuellar 2007: 83).
In Jelin’s approach, the how to perform listening becomes to an extent more important than the who listens. To an extent, one may say, that even alterity can be performed, it is not of the essence of social positions. What matters is that listening is performed in a specific way, that is, with engagement, empathy, dialogically and with a level of emotional and cognitive distance. A distance that allows the listener to remain curious, ask sensible, relevant questions, show compassion, and even acknowledge his or her own limitations to understand what is voiced to him or her (2007: 382). Now Jelin claims explicitly that social projects of listening and of ‘rescuing’ (rescatar) testimonies need to meet some special requirements. However, her discussion falls short of describing in full detail such requirements.
In a book which I consider to be a major point of reference on this emergent field of inquiry – La Gestión del Testimonio y la Administración de las Víctimas: El Escenario Transicional en Colombia durante la Ley de Justicia y Paz – Colombian psychologist Juan Pablo Aranguren furthers Jelin’s questions and investigates social listening in the context of a transitional justice mechanism called versiones libres/voluntary depositions.8
The voluntary depositions are a step within a formal legal transitional justice procedure by which members of illegal armed groups (mainly paramilitary) were encouraged to confess the criminal acts that they had comitted as members of their group prior to demobilisation. By confessing and contributing to a re-construction of what had happened, and to the localisation of bodies of disappeared victims and the further identification of networks of support of their activities, those who made a voluntary deposition would receive a significantly lower criminal sanction (maximum eight years of prison – Article 29, Law 975 of 2005). The mechanism was implemented in 2005 by former President Alvaro Uribe Vélez (in office 2002–2010).
Aranguren argues that this transitional justice procedure implements a ‘differential’ approach to managing (rather than facilitating) voicing and listening acts. (Aranguren 2012: 50) This is, he argues, because behind the entire procedure lurks a war strategy against the guerrilla. While it creates a ‘social disposition’ for the confessions of paramilitary to be listened to, it creates legal and logistical barriers for both the victims and the wider public to listen directly to those confessions and, thus, to question them. In part, Aranguren claims, this is so because the war strategy that Uribe Vélez’ government, the army, and the paramilitary deployed included to spread the view that those who had fallen victims of the paramilitary were usually part of the network of support of the guerrilla or, in any case, people inclined towards the left and thus sympathetic with the guerrilla’s cause (Aranguren 2012: 49).
Aranguren (2012) also highlights the following:
The actual problem of facilitating voicing in a post-conflict context, Aranguren claims, is connected with how to facilitate effective listening (2012: 73). ‘To give voice’ to those who apparently do not have one in the public sphere and to disseminate their message is not precisely what some would consider a high landmark of solidarity, he adds. Rather, drawing on the previously mentioned contribution by anthropologist Alejandro Castillejo (2007), Aranguren argues that effective listening has to do less with giving voice to previously unheard voices and more with adjusting the ability of those who listen so that they do listen with historical depth. In Aranguren’s argument to adjust the ability of those who listen means to revise the context in which the voicing and the listening acts take place. A post-conflict context, in particular a transitional legal mechanism, may end up being experienced by the victims as a continuation of the abuses against the civilian population by other means. These other means, more specifically, involve disguising a lack of ability to listen to their lived experience – their truth – behind a theatrical curtain that, while it claims to give a space for their voices to be heard, does so under very specific and defined conditions of enunciation. When such highly regulated (and ideological) conditions of enunciation operate, it is no longer appropriate to use the verb ‘facilitate’ to refer to the action of dealing with voicing and listening acts. Rather, in such a situation the flow between testimonies and listening acts gets managed. While it may be said that there is quite a bit of management in the craft of a facilitator and that a good management involves good facilitation, management in Aranguren’s account refers to bureaucratic, legal hurdles that stop both voicing and listening from being spontaneous, dialogic, interdependent live acts.
The literature offers a set of critical tools for the discussion both of performances of memory mediated by transitional legal mechanisms and by ‘memory-work entrepreneurs’ (Jelin 2002) such as socially engaged artists. The study of the following case illustrates the usefulness of these theoretical tools, but also the need to do further, more detailed research on the craft of facilitating voicing and listening in the context of post-conflict performances of memory.
This project has been described by dance and literary critic Iván Jiménez García as a ‘choreographic symphony’ (Jiménez García 2013). The term refers to the fact that in the piece simple everyday life actions such as marching in a procession, attending a ritual, and sitting in a circle to present the self and listen to pre-recorded testimonies by a diverse range of internally displaced people are carefully choreographed and performed to the Symphony of Lamentations Songs by Polish composer Henryk Górecki. American soprano Sarah Cullins sings the songs, while the local philarmonic orchestra performs the symphony. As this happens, the aforementioned actions take place, 25 trained contemporary dancers perform a dance and, at one point in the 2013 version which I focus on here, the president of Colombia Juan Manuel Santos joins the performers on stage and is seen performing listening (sitting on a chair and paying attention) to 11 pre-recorded testimonies in the presence of those who voiced them originally. This live act of appearing on stage in front of the president and of the wider national audience and being listened to was described by many members of the public and by the artistic team as ‘very moving’ (muy conmovedor), as a genuine act of symbolic reparation.9 The victims themselves, according to the available project documentation,10 consider it a powerful moment in the sense that they felt supported and acknowledged. This ‘voicing and listening scene,’ however, navigates difficult dilemmas and tensions that are worth discussing. What makes both voicing and listening effective in the context of a post-conflict performance of memory as illustrated by this case, and based on what criteria should a sensible answer to that question be explored?
Inxilio was created by Colombian dance artist Alvaro Restrepo in collaboration with French-Colombian choreographer Marie-France Delieuvin. It was commissioned in 2010 by the City of Bogotá to commemorate the bicentenary of the Independence from Spain. In that sense, it is an innovative piece of public, political art; in fact, because of its large scale (featuring some 300 people on stage including the musicians of the orchestra and the performers), it is a magnificent, unprecendeted, living, commemorative, state-supported monument. Drawing on Thompson (2011) one may say that this project strengthens the government’s post-conflict agenda. Restrepo would agree with this in the sense that he is a public supporter of the peace process, as evidenced in his multiple publications and statements for the press (Restrepo 2013). In saying this, I am not questioning the artistic independence of the project. The point that Thompson (2011) makes, and that I apply to the discussion of this example, is that by strengthening the government’s post-conflict agenda, participants may be seen by enemies of the peace process, as political symbols of what the government aims at achieving. What does the artistic team do to manage that risk?
Alvaro Restrepo’s motivation for doing the project is to do ‘a poetic manifesto that calls for the spectators’ sensibility so that we understand that the drama of being internally displaced, the drama of the war is a drama that implicates us all’ (Restrepo in Jiménez García 2013: 56). In other words, his intention is to use the presence of the 150 ‘oficiantes’ (participants) and the selection of testimonies that he makes public to ‘expand the sphere of [personal] grief so that we cry together with the victims as a single, collective body, a nation in grief, and so that we acknowledge that parts of our social body are still in pain’ (Sotelo & Restrepo 2017) Such a space for collective grief, he argues, is where we can not only grieve for those who are now in pain but also for those who have suffered historically, in particular Indigenous communities and peoples of African descent. Rather than an act of activist memory or for victims to voice legal claims, Inxilio becomes a space for a danced and sung funeral of sorts in which 150 voices and bodies, including those of Indigenous communities in their own language, are offered a safe performance space for the city and the nation to listen to them.
The content of what the internally displaced people voice at one point during the commemoration is facilitated, curated, and carefully produced. Working in groups, they were asked to write thoughts in response to a series of themes such as ‘territory,’ ‘forgiveness,’ ‘reconciliation,’ or ‘the role of art.’ Thus, they were not asked to share narratives of their painful past in public, but rather thoughts about the future based on their position in life as victims of the armed conflict. Then, the participants themselves selected 11 responses as representatives of the 150 participants. The artistic team had no input on that selection process. These 11 testimonies or rather thoughts were pre-recorded. The participants themselves decided not to deliver them live. They were not trained actors. In fact, the performing arts world is completely new to them as inhabitants of rural Colombia. The intention with presenting a pre-recorded version of their voices was to help them feel more confident on stage. These recordings were played back for the president and all to hear during the second section of the ritual titled ‘The Circle of Memory and The Word’ (El Círculo de la Memoria y la Palabra). As their pre-recorded statements were played back through speakers, those who had voiced them originally stood silent and appeared in public at the centre of the circle, facing the president and slowly turning to also face the audience. Rather than voicing their thoughts directly, what the participants do in this scene is to perform voicing: they stand still, in silence, as their pre-recorded voices are heard in public. Alvaro Restrepo explains how this procedure came about:
It is important to note that, at the beginning of the project in Medellín, the artistic team did not know that the president would want to appear on stage with the victims. This was a last-minute request by the president that Alvaro Restrepo had to deal with. Restrepo’s immediate reaction was to ask for some time to think about it.11 His fear was that the work could be ‘instrumentalised’ for political purposes. After consultations with the participants and with his artistic collaborators, Restrepo agreed for the president to appear on stage. To minimise that risk, he asked the president to appear barefoot as everybody else. Restrepo asked the president to appear on equal terms with the victims, and to sit with them within the ‘Circle of Memory and the Word.’ He also requested that the president would speak within that circle, just as everybody else (even if via pre-recorded testimonies). The president agreed on all but speaking. As a result, he appears within the circle as a figure of authority who listens but does not speak.12
According to both Borneman (2002) and Jelin (2007), in a post-conflict context there must be either third-party listeners, or there must be the sense of alterity in the encounter between the one who voices memories and the one who listens to them. The idea is that the one who listens does so for ‘departures from violence’ (Borneman 2002: 301), and that the one who performs listening does so with engagement, empathy, dialogically, and with a level of emotional and cognitive distance (Jelin 2007: 382). The figure of the president, however, can hardly be seen as a ‘third-party listener’ or as someone who can show the kind of alterity that Jelin expects. As the supreme leader of the Army, he represents one of the main parties involved in the armed conflict. It is also known that many human rights abuses were committed by members of the army. The questions of who listens and how to perform listening become all the more relevant when it is the president himself who listens. His appearance on stage as the president who listens to the victims’ voices may be seen either as a genuine listening act or as a symbolic perfomance of listening, that is, as a political performance. The key question then is how does he perform listening in the context of such an act? Further research is needed to answer this question.
The political and symbolic power of the act in which the president performs listening to the victims for all to see may be read in connection with the fact that he is enacting a social disposition for victims to be listened to. He is showing that under his presidency it is possible to listen to what the victims have to say. However, to what extent is such (symbolic) listening effective? In Inxilio (2013), from a live, spontenous, dialogic act, voicing became a choreographed representation of voicing (a mechanical reproduction in the presence of the original narrator, a performance of an archived voice). What would the 11 representatives have said to the president if they had authorised themseves to speak freely? The decisions made both by the artists and the victims themselves as their voicing acts were facilitated also managed their ability to voice their deepest concerns. If post-conflict voicing and listening is about truth-telling (Borneman 2002), and truth-telling is about challenging established narratives, how can the presidents’ narratives be challenged by the victims if he listens but does not speak? Now, the fact that the president got to listen to a range of different pre-recorded voices, including those of Indigenous representatives, may be seen as a strategy to adjust the ability of the president to listen to the victims in the light of their ethnic and cultural diversity, as well as in the light of historic, colonial roots of exclusion (Jiménez García 2013; Castillejo-Cuellar 2007).
What the 11 representatives say in the pre-recorded files does reveal where they were displaced from, what their name is, what they stand for, and, broadly, what community they are a part of. Thus, their voices do allow for a kind of social cartography (Castillejo-Cuellar 2007) of the internal displacement to be drawn by any attentive listener. They do not speak as individuals but as the living face of a site of conflict, a ‘we.’ However, the pre-recorded voices also hide what they might have to say in relation to the peace process or to any other contentious issue led by the president and potentially affecting their interests. The choreography not only determines body movement but also timing, and Inxilio is not the moment in time for victims to express uncomfortable concerns (‘harengues’) in public. In that sense, similar to what Aranguren (2012) writes in relation to transitional justice institutions, this example shows that artistic decisions may lead (at times unintentionally) to regulating what the victims get to voice and thus what their interlocutors get to listen to.
This example shows that artistic, ethical, and political criteria come together in the craft of facilitating voicing and listening in the context of a post-conflict performance of memory. While Inxilio did allow for the 11 representatives who took the centre stage to present the self via the pre-recorded statements and by being present on stage, it shifted both voicing and listening from a dialogic interactive affair, to a choreographed or sculpted object of attention. Further research is needed to test this statement by interviewing the 11 representatives who were selected to take the centrestage, the president and the audience. The case shows the need for positioning the craft of ‘facilitating voicing and listening’ in the context of post-conflict performances of memory as a subject of critical inquiry.
Aranguren Romero, J.P. (2012). La gestion del testimonio y la administracion de las victimas: El escenario transicional en Colombia durante la Ley de Justicia y Paz. Bogota, Colombia: Siglo del Hombre Editores.
Borneman, J. (2002). Reconciliation after ethnic cleansing: Listening, retribution, affiliation. Public Culture, 14 (2): 281–304.
Brown, G., Langer, A., and Stewart, F. (2011). A typology of post-conflict environments. CPRD working paper 1. Centre for Research on Peace and Development University of Leuven, Belgium.
Castillejo-Cuellar, A. (2007). La globalizacion del testimonio: Historia, silencio endemico y usos de la palabra. Antipoda, 4: 76–99.
Cave, M., and Sloan, S.M. (2014). Listening on the edge: Oral history in the aftermath of crisis. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Field, S. (2006). Beyond healing: Trauma, oral history and regeneration. Oral History, 34 (1): 31–42.
Gadamer, H-G. (1975). Truth and method. London: Continuum.
Grupo de Memoria Histórica [GMH]). (2009). Memorias en Tiempo de Guerra Repertorio de iniciativas. Bogotá: Imprenta Nacional, Bogotá: Puntoaparte Editores.
Grupo de Memoria Histórica [GMH]). (2013). Basta Ya. Colombia: Memoria de Guerra y Dignidad. Bogotá: Imprenta Nacional.
Greenspan, H. (1998). On listening to Holocaust survivors: Recounting and life history. Westport, CT: Praeger.
High, S. (2013). Embodied ways of listening: Oral history, genocide and the audio tour. Anthropologica, 55 (1): 73–85.
Jaramillo Marín, J. (2014). Pasados y presentes de la violencia en Colombia estudios sobre las comisiones de investigación (1958–2011). Bogotá: Editorial Pontificia Universidad Javeriana.
Jelin, E. (2002). Los trabajos de la memoria. Madrid: Siglo XXI de España.
Jelin, E. (2007). Testimonios personales, memorias y verdades frente a situaciones limite. In: S. Gayol and M. Madero, eds. Formas de historia cultural. Buenos Aires: Prometeo Libros, pp. 373–392.
Jiménez García, I. (2013). Exclusión y figuras de la comunidad en Inxilio. Desde el jardín de Freud, 13: 55–70.
Payne, L. A. (2009). Testimonios perturbadores: Ni verdad ni reconciliación en las confesiones de violencia de estado; Traducción: Julio Paredes. Bogotá: Editorial Uniandes.
Phelan, M. (2016). Lost lives: Performance, remembrance, Belfast. In: D. O’Rawe and M. Phelan, eds. Post-conflict performance, film and visual arts: Cities of memory. London: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 171–207.
Restrepo, A. (2013). Santos caminó descalzo por las víctimas. In. Periódico El Tiempo, 21 May. Accessed 10 April 2018, www.eltiempo.com/archivo/documento/CMS-12814877
Riaño Alcalá, P., and Uribe, M.V. (2016). Constructing memory amidst war: The historical memory group of Colombia. International Journal of Transitional Justice, 10 (1): 6–24.
Satizabal, C. (2015). Memoria poetica y conflicto en Colombia – a proposito de Antigonas Tribunal de Mujeres, de Tramaluna Teatro. Revista Colombiana de las Artes Escénicas, 9: 250–268.
Sotelo Castro, L.C., and Restrepo, A. (2017). Interview on Inxilio. Montreal: Concordia University Press.
Sotelo Castro, L.C. (2018). “Mr president: Open the door please, I want to be free”: Participatory walking as aesthetic strategy for transforming a hostage space. In: A. Breed and T. Prentki, eds. Performance and civic engagement. Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 243–267.
Thompson, J. (2011). Performance affects: Applied theatre and the end of effect. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
Verzero, L., La Rocca, M., and Diz, M.L. (2016). Dossier: Teatralidades y Cuerpos en Escena en la Historia Reciente del Cono Sur. In. Revista del Núcleo de Estudios de Memoria, 3 (5): 6–10.