“Load your magazines, boys!” Hernán Darío López shouts. Five of the seven students immediately raise theirs to the sky, seven bullets inserted at lightning speed. The other two jam. “Every second is precious. When you’re part of a security detail, you won’t have time to think,” the instructor insists. Their hands tremble. They wipe the sweat from their palms on their military-patterned cargo pants and nervously readjust their earmuffs. “Oh, man. instructor López is giving you a hard time here, but out on the street, you’ll face a real threat,” he presses. “Okay!” the last one in line shouts with relief.
They know the rest of the instructions. Weapons at a 45-degree angle. Load. Aim. And fire at a white silhouette with previous bullet holes covered with tape. In a matter of seconds, seven casings fall to the grass simultaneously; the echo reverberates throughout the mountain, and the gunpowder kills the scent of eucalyptus. Behind them, another 25 students practice shooting with an iron replica, their hands equally sweaty.
This is the second day of an intensive bodyguard course in Facatativá, a two-hour drive from Bogotá. Spending a week at the S.W.A.T. Bodyguards Academy in Colombia — the largest private security school in Latin America — is, for many, the greatest achievement of their careers. The Harvard of bodyguards. Madeleine Mendoza, from Santa Marta, dreams of continuing to learn so that one day “[Salvadorian] President Nayib Bukele will choose me as his bodyguard.” Albert Fernández has been saving for a year to move up from guarding a warehouse in La Guajira to “something better.” Saúl Vásquez and Paul Rojas came from Mexico and Ecuador to train with “the best” and thus perfect the security of the electrical and mining facilities they protect in their respective countries. “Nobody knows more about security than Colombians,” they both acknowledge.
The instructors — mostly retired police officers or military personnel — swell with pride when the topic of Colombia’s reputation as a “benchmark in security” comes up. Luis Albeiro García, an instructor, former member of the now-defunct Administrative Department of Security (DAS), and part of the security detail for three former presidents — Ernesto Samper, César Gaviria, and Álvaro Uribe — praises the work of his country’s armed forces. “For better or worse, the 60 years of armed conflict trained us like no one else. After the Americans, the Colombian army is the best.” He adds: “In fact, when the Americans have come to train in our jungles, they get exhausted.” That’s why, he says, “they fight over Colombian bodyguards abroad.” This academy is regularly rented for training members of the Armed Forces and bodyguards from the National Protection Unit (UNP).
Many graduates of this and other more advanced courses will become private bodyguards, join the UNP, or protect high-ranking officials or companies abroad. These students, who today are firing from a moving vehicle or learning to deploy a bulletproof vest, will swell already substantial numbers in the near future. In Colombia, there are nearly 400,000 people certified by the Superintendency as private security guards, including surveillance personnel, bodyguards, and security personnel. They outnumber the police force by two to one. At least 11,500 bodyguards are contracted by the state-run UNP to protect 12,000 beneficiaries, including high-ranking officials, threatened social leaders, and other individuals at risk of security breaches. This costs the government around 2.5 trillion pesos (some $705 million) annually, according to information shared with EL PAÍS by the institution.
Sergeant Héctor Bernal readily admits that many of his colleagues and students who started as bodyguards have ended up as mercenaries in Sudan, Ukraine, the United Arab Emirates, and Israel, earning between 10 and 20 million pesos, or around $2,950 to $5,900, per month. That’s triple what they earn in Colombia. “We’re used to working like animals, something an English or Spanish soldier has never done in their life. And that comes at a price,” he points out.
For the past three years, Bernal has been sharing anecdotes on his YouTube channel (with half a million subscribers) about his three decades in the army, the witchcraft he claims the guerrillas used, combat medicine, and “paranormal experiences” in the jungle. “In many countries, nobody wants to pick up a rifle, but they have the money to pay for it. It’s no secret that they’re looking to Colombia. Even drug traffickers from abroad,” he explains. “There are wars, like the one between Russia and Ukraine, that are also wars between Colombians on both sides.”
The presence of bodyguards in Colombia has grown by 400% in the last decade, and the budget of the UNP is now equivalent to 25 times that of the Ministry of the Environment. For Hugo Acero, former secretary of security, coexistence, and justice for Bogotá, these figures are “outrageous.” “Risk assessments aren’t properly evaluated. Why do all the city council members, senators, and representatives in Bogotá need security details?” he asks. “I had bodyguards for years, and I can tell you they’re useless. If someone wants to kill you, they’ll kill you. And if you don’t believe me, look what happened to Miguel Uribe.”
Acero laments that having private security “has become a matter of status or prestige.” Experts estimate that, in addition to the 12,000 people protected by the UNP, there are around 20,000 people also hiring private security for thousands of dollars a month. Singers, businesspeople, actors… Among this affluent class, explains the Bogotá native, “you’re nobody if a man dressed in black doesn’t open the door for you.” The sociologist also criticizes the fact that the everyday presence of these security details generates terror for “anyone who walks into a restaurant and sees armed men.”
“We live in a country where politicians — who face no real risk but have 10 bodyguards — arrive in territories where social leaders without escorts or protection are being murdered, and tell them they are very concerned about their safety. It’s absurd,” he concludes. The UNP told this publication that protection for ethnic groups and protected communities has increased by up to 190% in the last four years. However, Colombia remains one of the world’s largest graveyards of social and environmental leaders. So far this year, 57 leaders have already been murdered.
“Security bubbles”
Outside Torres del Parque, one of the country’s most iconic buildings, a dozen men in suits wait with three armored cars parked at the entrance. They chat calmly around 9 p.m., waiting for their charge to finish dinner in one of the apartments. Two more men are waiting outside the hosts’ house. It must be someone important. Those interviewed estimate that President Gustavo Petro has around 300 bodyguards and that former presidents have between 50 and 100.
This scene is not an exception. A threatened Indigenous leader entering the territory in an armored Toyota, a peace signatory accompanied by two bodyguards checking the restrooms at the Juan Valdez coffee shop where she is to give an interview, a table in a luxury restaurant guarded by armed men… The presence of bodyguards in Colombia is part of the landscape. They are what Ricardo Amórtegui, a political scientist and academic coordinator of the security and defense research group at the National University, calls “security bubbles.” “Private security is a reactive measure that, rather than protecting, maintains multi-million dollar businesses. It’s a way of saying ‘we’re doing something for security,’ but it’s just a band-aid solution,” he argues. “There are many things to criticize about Gustavo Petro’s total peace policy, but the only way to address the root causes is to not increase the number of people with bodyguards.”
The private security industry is undoubtedly very profitable. Intermediary companies charge more than 10 million pesos per bodyguard, not including the armored vehicle. And training academies, like S.W.A.T. Bodyguards — with 27 locations nationwide — offer monthly courses with an average of 100 students. Each student pays between three and six million pesos (around $800 to $1,600), depending on the workshop. “Let’s not kid ourselves. The security business is just that: a business,” Acero concludes.
Five hectares of open space, seven shooting ranges, an arsenal of hundreds of pistols and shotguns of different calibers, tracks for learning to perform maneuvers with a moving vehicle, four classrooms, and accommodation for 120 students. Nelson Zambrano Ariza, a retired Army major and director of the academy, acknowledges that there is a boom in enrollments for his courses after any high-profile public order incident. “These days, nobody can be sure that nothing will happen to them. We live in a state of alert 24/7,” he says.
That constant vigilance is what they’re learning at the school. For many of the students, like Paul Rojas, the escorts are a reflection of the motto, “Only the people can save the people.” “I know many people who no longer feel safe, not even with the police. Safety is something only one can guarantee,” he says in front of the vehicle maneuvering track. Soon it will be his turn to learn how to do a “jota,” a U-turn at full speed in a matter of seconds. The 31-year-old brushes off the dust kicked up by Yuliana Henao’s car — the instructor in charge of the activity — and reviews what she explained earlier. “Clutch, handbrake, and turn,” he whispers excitedly. At times, the academy resembles a summer camp where the kids wait their turn to run an obstacle course.
Henao switches places with one of the students and tells him to be “on the lookout” for the cones, which simulate roundabouts, narrow bridges, or people. “Can you film me, bro?” he asks his Costa Rican classmate sitting in the middle seat. Behind them, two pickup trucks follow in a drill on how to evacuate a suspect from a chase. The three vehicles start spinning, doing 180-degree turns, and skidding just meters apart. No one wants the day to end, but night is beginning to fall. At midnight, the adrenaline will return. They’ll have night training. Next to the camp, it’s just another Wednesday for the locals. A handful of cows graze peacefully, mothers start wrapping their children up against the cold, and some kids play soccer on the grass. No one is scared anymore by the sound of gunfire.
Sign up for our weekly newsletter to get more English-language news coverage from EL PAÍS USA Edition
