Medellín in the 1990s wasn't just a city; it was a fever dream of violence, incense, and cheap gunpowder. If you want to understand that era, you don't look at a textbook. You read La Virgen de los Sicarios. Fernando Vallejo’s 1994 novel—and the subsequent 2000 film by Barbet Schroeder—is a gut-punch that refuses to heal. It’s mean. It’s nihilistic. Honestly, it’s one of the most polarizing pieces of Latin American literature ever written because it doesn't try to make you feel better about humanity.
The story follows Fernando, a middle-aged grammarian who returns to his childhood home in Medellín after thirty years. He finds a city he doesn't recognize. The aristocrats are gone or hiding. The streets belong to the sicarios—the teenage assassins of the drug cartels.
He falls for Alexis, a young killer with the face of an angel and a soul weighed down by bodies. They wander the city in a haze of Mozart, religious icons, and casual murder. It's a love story. It's a funeral march. It’s a middle finger to every "uplifting" narrative about Colombian resilience.
The Reality of the Comunas
To get why this book matters, you have to look at the ground it was built on. We’re talking about a time when the Pablo Escobar era had just ended, but the vacuum he left was filled with thousands of young men who knew nothing but how to pull a trigger. These kids lived in the comunas, the hillside slums of Medellín.
They weren't just random thugs. They were "praying" killers.
That’s where the title comes from. The "Virgen" is Maria Auxiliadora (Mary, Help of Christians). The sicarios would go to her shrine in Sabaneta to bless their bullets. They’d ask her for a clean shot and a safe escape. It sounds like a dark joke, but for the kids in the book, it was their only moral compass. Vallejo captures this weird, terrifying blend of deep Catholic devotion and absolute disregard for human life.
Alexis kills people for the smallest things. A loud radio? Dead. A rude taxi driver? Dead. A dog in the street? It depends on his mood. Fernando, the narrator, doesn't try to stop him. In fact, he kind of cheers him on. He hates the modern world so much that he sees Alexis’s violence as a form of "cleansing." It’s dark stuff.
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Why Vallejo’s Voice Is So Divisive
Fernando Vallejo isn't interested in being your friend. His prose is a "llanto," a long, rhythmic wail of complaints. He hates the Pope. He hates the Colombian government. He hates democracy. He really hates children (he calls them "reproduction machines").
Some critics, like those often cited in Revista Arcadia or El Espectador, argue that Vallejo is a provocateur who uses the suffering of the poor as a backdrop for his own elitist whining. They say he "exoticizes" violence. But others see him as the only honest man in the room. He isn't pretending that things are okay. He’s showing the "social cleansing" and the cycle of revenge that gripped the city.
The sentence structure in the novel reflects this chaos. It’s frantic.
"To kill is to lose the fear of God; it is to enter the realm of the prohibited where everything is possible."
That’s essentially the thesis. Once the law is gone and God is just another accomplice, what’s left? Just a city eating itself.
The Film: Taking the Cameras Where They Weren't Wanted
When Barbet Schroeder decided to film La Virgen de los Sicarios in Medellín, people thought he was crazy. The city was still dangerous. They used hidden cameras. They used real people from the neighborhoods.
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The movie has this grainy, digital look that makes it feel like a documentary. It doesn't have the "Hollywood" sheen of Narcos. There are no cool explosions. There’s just the flat "pop" of a 9mm and the sound of a motorcycle speeding away.
Schroeder chose to cast Anderson Ballesteros as Alexis. He wasn't a professional actor at the time; he was a kid from the streets. That choice gave the film a haunting authenticity. When you see him look at a statue of the Virgin Mary with genuine love right after murdering a man, it’s not "acting." It’s a reflection of a real cultural pathology that existed—and in some ways, still exists—in the fringes of the city.
A Quick Reality Check on the "Sicario" Myth
People often ask: Is this what Medellín is like now?
Basically, no. The city has gone through a massive transformation. You’ve probably heard of the "Medellín Miracle." They built libraries in the slums. They put in cable cars (Metrocable) to connect the hills to the center. It’s a tourist hub now.
But La Virgen de los Sicarios serves as a permanent scar. It reminds the world that the "miracle" was built on top of a mountain of bones. The book is banned in some circles and celebrated in others, but it is never ignored.
The Philosophy of "Nothingness"
Vallejo is often compared to nihilists like Cioran. In the novel, the narrator constantly talks about "la nada" (the nothingness). He sees the beauty of the mountains as a lie because of the blood soaked into the soil.
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This isn't just a crime novel. It's a philosophical treatise disguised as a pulp thriller.
- The Narrator: An old man who has given up on the future.
- The Sicario: A young man who doesn't have a future.
- The City: A place where the past is a burden and the present is a gun.
There is a specific scene where they go to a church, and the narrator watches the boys pray. He realizes that for them, the Virgin isn't about salvation in the afterlife. She’s a bodyguard. If she doesn't protect them from the police or a rival gang, she’s "failed" them. It’s a transactional religion.
How to Approach the Text Today
If you’re going to read it or watch the movie, you have to leave your moral judgments at the door. If you look for a "hero," you won’t find one. Fernando is a miserable, cynical man. Alexis is a murderer.
But if you look for truth—the kind of ugly, raw truth that makes your skin crawl—it’s all there.
Actionable Insights for the Curious
If this dark corner of literature interests you, here is how to dive deeper without getting lost:
- Read the Spanish version if you can. Vallejo’s use of the "paisa" dialect (the local Medellín slang) is rhythmic and poetic in a way that English translations sometimes miss. Look for terms like parce, gonorrea, and traqueto.
- Watch the documentary "La Sierra" (2005). If you think Vallejo was exaggerating the lives of these young men, this documentary will prove he was actually being quite literal. It follows real gang members in Medellín and mirrors many themes of the book.
- Compare it to "Rosario Tijeras". Another famous "Sicarioliterature" book by Jorge Franco. It’s a bit more commercial and romanticized. Reading both gives you a great sense of the spectrum of Colombian "narco-lit."
- Visit the Museo Casa de la Memoria. If you ever go to Medellín, visit this museum. It’s dedicated to the victims of the era Vallejo writes about. It provides the necessary context of grief that the novel sometimes masks with cynicism.
La Virgen de los Sicarios is a difficult, beautiful, and offensive masterpiece. It captures a moment in time when a city lost its mind, and it refuses to let us forget how easy it is for a society to fall apart. You don't have to like it. But if you want to understand the dark heart of the 90s, you have to face it.
To truly grasp the legacy of this work, examine the concept of "Sicariesca" literature. This genre, which Vallejo essentially defined, focuses on the urban violence of the Medellin cartels. Start by analyzing the transition of the narrator from an observer to an accomplice; it is the most vital psychological thread in the story. Finally, look at the religious iconography in the Sabaneta sanctuary—real-world locations mentioned in the book—to see how faith and violence continue to coexist in complex ways.