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What do you do when your father is a brothel owner, the street is your home, drugs are your refuge and transporting you is your job? If you are 21 years old, can't take care of your little daughter, but want to finally bring order to your life?
Julian David Ramirez carefully wraps thin, violet-colored bandages around his hands, then he puts on boxing gloves. "Vamos," he calls. Ready to go.
The sandbag, which he is about to hit, hangs under a corrugated iron roof, in a narrow room with pane-less lattice windows that has been a boxing club for three years. It's called "Boxeo para la vida" ("Boxing for Life") and is located in La Honda, one of the poorest neighborhoods in the Colombian city of Medellín. "Boxing is like a lightning rod," says Ramirez. "The boy has talent," says his trainer.
Felipe Alarcon Correa
Julian David Ramirez
La Honda is a labyrinth of exposed brick houses, high up in the hills of the city of 2.5 million. In heavy rain, the steep streets become as smooth as glass because there are no sewers. The alleys are so narrow that the bus that winds up there almost touches the house facades. Whoever gets out here doesn't have much. Unemployment is high, the step into crime is not a big one.
Ramirez's district is much that Medellín no longer wants to be since Colombia's second largest metropolis has experienced a kind of new era in recent years. In the early 1990s, the city had the highest murder rate in the world.
The cocaine dealer Pablo Escobar and his cartel inflicted brutality and violence on Medellín, killing hundreds of police officers, judges and prosecutors. A civil war raged on the streets between the police, right-wing paramilitaries and the left-wing Farc guerrillas.
Felipe Alarcon Correa
The poor neighborhood of La Honda
Today there is hammering and welding all over the city center. Medellín attracts international congresses and exhibitions every year. Tourism is booming. Millions have been invested in expanding public transport. Trams, cable cars and escalators connect the slums on the mountain slopes to the center to get people to jobs faster.
But even if there are now more schools and cultural centers in the slums - crime, drugs and lack of prospects have not disappeared. The boxing club wants to offer young people and adults an alternative. But can it succeed? And what else does it need?
Criminal gangs are in charge at La Honda. A few years ago, they dealt with pills, cocaine and heroin on the football field across from the boxing club. There were syringes all over the floor, young people were idling on the asphalt, says César Cardona, 31, a former boxing coach.
Felipe Alarcon Correa
The former boxing coach César Cardona
Cardona says he didn't want to watch "the kids throw away their future." He convinced the leaders of the gangs to give boxing a chance. Cardona paid for a plastic floor, a foundation provided sandbags and boxing gloves. Since then, the junkies have disappeared.
The city does not support the boxing club. There are now gaping holes in the plastic floor, only two light bulbs provide light. To this day, the trainer of the boxing club Diego Beltrán is waiting for head protection and deep protection, which a foundation has promised. Sparring is only possible if the students are visiting another boxing club.
Felipe Alarcon Correa
More than a dozen young people and adults come to the "Boxeo para la vida" three times a week for two hours
Julian David Ramirez is a slim man with soft, boyish features. At 14, he moved from home because he argued a lot with his mother, he says. He went to school for ten years, was in the Navy for 18 months, and scrubbed the deck on a patrol boat.
After that he didn't know what to do with himself, started to smoke and topple because he wanted to forget his worries. In order to finance his addiction, he worked as a day laborer on the building, laid floors, covered roofs. "Jobs where you torture yourself and don't deserve anything."
Ramirez saw the money his buddies made with the drug dealer. One day they asked him if he wanted to join. It is "easily earned coal". They paid him 5,000 Colombian pesos for a shipment of marijuana, the equivalent of around 1.30 euros. A joke, Ramirez knew, but he believed that once he proved himself he would get rich. He still does the dirty work today.
Ramirez is a courier and transports joints from dealer to dealer in a backpack, at any time of the day or night. He says: "If the cops catch you with more than 50 pieces, you will go to jail." Ramirez had to run away from the police many times.
For some time now he has also been selling pistols and assault rifles, he says, knowing the range of every caliber. He was not paid better for it. Sometimes he feels exploited, he says, staring at the floor, but he needs the money. He could often afford some rice and beef right now. It is not enough for a cell phone, the father pays his rent, he does not have a pension.
Mayor Federico Gutiérrez knows the appeal of quick money. He has sent thousands of gang members to prison over the past three years, but drug crime is booming, and the murder rate rose again in 2018. It is hardly surprising. Some gangs earn 20 million Colombian pesos a day from the drug trade, around 5,200 euros. The minimum monthly wage in Colombia is around 220 euros.
"People in the poor neighborhoods need well-paid alternatives to drug trafficking," said Paula Zapata, head of the agency responsible for economic development in Medellín. There are enough jobs, no other city in Colombia is investing more money in science and technology. In Ruta N, the region's largest innovation center, startups and companies like IBM and UPS are desperately looking for staff.
The problem is: In the poorer quarters, where most of the city's residents live, companies hardly find any employees because people lack the necessary training; hardly anyone speaks English. "We have to start there," says Zapata. There are now training centers in the municipalities where you can learn to use a computer. Zapata knows that too little for an IT position.
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Boxing club in Medellín: Showing weakness is not an optionAfter training, Ramirez and his training colleagues sit exhausted on the floor in a circle, sweat runs down their faces. Hardly any of them have ever left La Honda.
There is Briggith, 17, whose uncle was stabbed a week ago. There is Didier, 18, who had to buy himself out of a gang and is therefore heavily in debt. There are teenagers who are beaten by their parents. They don't complain, showing weakness is not an option in their world.
Felipe Alarcon Correa
Football field across from the boxing club
"The gangs are looking for people in need," said coach Diego Beltrán. They promise them money and protection in exchange for dirty business. He couldn't prevent that. He could only show young people a way out. Once they boxed, most realized that their gang friends were blenders. "And that you get your ass full in the ring as a junkie."
Beltrán, 22, a well-trained man with an angular face, is proof for his students that you can do something in La Honda. He worked in school, received a scholarship to study at the American University in Medellín, where he now studies sports law, and his nickname is "Professor". He rarely laughs.
Beltrán helps young people with application letters, sends them links to social support programs, and some of his students have received study grants as a result. He does not sell the dream of professional boxing to anyone because it usually ends in disappointment. He says: "The kids don't need visions. They need opportunities."
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Julian Ramirez says he dreams of his own boxing club. He now listens to Rammstein before each training session, which motivates him. He smokes less because he wants to hold out longer in the ring. And because the drugs robbed him of the most valuable thing: his daughter.
His mother takes care of the one and a half year old girl, he says. He said he lacked the maturity to raise a child. The child's mother couldn't care less about the little one either. Ramirez cries when he says that. He is ashamed. Then he gets up, wipes the tears from his eyes and tugs his pants. He is getting along somehow, he says, things are moving forward.
Felipe Alarcon Correa
Julian Ramirez dreams of his own boxing club
Some time ago he had his first boxing tournament in the 52 kg class, amateur rules, two rounds of three minutes each. He won the first fight by technical knockout, the second by points. He could hardly believe it.
When the referee raised his arm and chose him as the winner, his chest became warm. "I think," says Ramirez, "that is how happiness feels."
This contribution is part of the Global Society project, for which our reporters report from four continents. The project is long-term and is supported by the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation.
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Reporters from Asia, Africa, Latin America and Europe will report under the title Global Society - about injustices in a globalized world, sociopolitical challenges and sustainable development. The reports, analyzes, photo series, videos and podcasts appear in the SPIEGEL policy department. The project is long-term and has been supported by the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation (BMGF) for over three years.
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