Violence, impunity and memory

“There is no democracy without memory, nor justice without accountability. Latin America deserves better than this violent normality.”

The history of Latin America is marked by multiple forms of violence. Colonisation, civil wars, military dictatorships, enforced disappearances, and political repression have left traces in the collective memory, shaped the relationships between citizens and the State, and influenced citizens’ understanding of democracy. Today, however, that violence seems to have taken new forms—sometimes more subtle, other times more brutal—but equally devastating for the population. What is worrying is not only that atrocious acts continue to occur, but that they begin to be seen as part of the everyday political landscape. Political violence has become normalised, along with the impunity of those who perpetrate it.

The recent case of Peru is a painful reminder of this normalisation of violence. Between December 2022 and the early months of 2023, protests against the government resulted in the deaths of at least 54 people, mostly civilians. More than a year after these events, the Executive continues to refuse to acknowledge that human rights violations occurred, despite multiple national and international reports documenting the excessive use of force by the authorities. The systematic denial of state violence not only undermines the memory of the victims but also consolidates a dangerous narrative: that repression can be a legitimate tool of public order.

One factor that may explain this surge in state repression against its citizens is political polarisation in parliaments. Broadly speaking, polarisation has the potential to reinforce authoritarian attitudes, weaken bridges for dialogue between adversaries or dissenters, and promote a binary friend/enemy logic that also permeates state action. When this logic takes hold at the heart of executive power, it enables a discourse that justifies violence under the pretext of restoring order. In the worst case, protesters are seen not as dissatisfied citizens but as external agents who foment violence for violence’s sake. Valid citizen protests may be labelled as terrorist movements.

But violence does not come only from the State. The case at the beginning of May in the department of La Libertad, in northwestern Peru, shows an equally terrifying face: that of organised crime infiltrating local economies. Thirteen workers from the Poderosa mining company, kidnapped at the end of April, were found dead inside a mine—bound, blindfolded, and executed with shots to the back of the head. Authorities have pointed to illegal miners colluding with criminal gangs as responsible for the act. The number of victims is not insignificant: according to the company itself, 39 murders have been attributed to these gangs just in that area. Pataz, a province in the northern highlands, has reportedly become, according to many reports, a lawless territory.

This phenomenon—the coexistence of organised crime, illegal mining, state absence, and systematic violence—is not new in the region. What is worrying is that institutional responses remain so weak, so uncoordinated, and so lacking in political will. How can it be explained that in 2025 there are parts of the country where the State lacks the capacity to guarantee even the minimal legitimate monopoly of force? How can the government’s apparent lack of any plan in response to summary executions be interpreted?

These questions are not intended to increase the already existing Latin American pessimism. Rather, they aim to spark an urgent conversation about the direction our democracies are taking. Protests are a democratic thermometer: their violent repression is not only a human rights issue but also a symptom of intolerance towards dissent. And when that repression is neither sanctioned nor even recognised, the message sent is devastating: that the lives of those who protest are worth less and that their causes can be silenced with bullets.

The normalisation of political violence does not happen overnight. It is built gradually, through media coverage that downplays the social causes of protest; official discourses that criminalise demonstrators; the slow pace of prosecutors investigating deaths. And also through citizen indifference when events do not happen nearby or directly affect us. It is a normalisation that anaesthetises, trivialises serious issues, turns us into spectators of a recurring tragedy, and without solutions will tend to repeat itself.

In response, it is urgent to politicise memory again. Name the victims, demand justice, document the facts. From academia, we have a particular responsibility: to document rigorously, analyse with historical perspective, and denounce with evidence.

What happened in Pataz, what occurred during the Peruvian protests, what continues happening in many corners of the continent, cannot be seen as isolated problems. It is part of a greater crisis: the progressive erosion of democratic guarantees, the growing militarisation of politics, the capture of territories by organised crime, and the State’s indifference to the suffering of its citizens.

There is no democracy without memory, nor justice without accountability. Latin America deserves better than this violent normality. It deserves governments unafraid to acknowledge their mistakes, institutions that respond firmly, and societies that do not give up their right to indignation and protest.