The tiger cannot be used in a political campaign
En los últimos días antes de las elecciones presidenciales de Colombia, una disputa sobre un símbolo animal ha revelado algo más profundo que la rivalidad entre campañas: una pregunta antigua sobre quién tiene el derecho de hablar en nombre de la tierra. Aida Quilcué, candidata a la vicepresidencia junto a Iván Cepeda, exigió desde el Amazonas que el candidato de derecha Abelardo de la Espriella dejara de usar el tigre como emblema electoral, argumentando que ese animal pertenece a un orden de autoridad que ninguna campaña política puede reclamar. En su objeción late una tensión que atraviesa 230 años de historia colombiana: la tensión entre quienes administran el territorio y quienes lo habitan como parte de él.
- A 17 días de las elecciones, Quilcué lanzó desde el corazón del Amazonas una exigencia pública que convirtió un símbolo de campaña en un campo de batalla cultural.
- La apropiación del tigre por parte de De la Espriella despertó una indignación que va más allá de la estrategia electoral: para las comunidades indígenas, ese animal es guardián sagrado del bosque, no mascota política.
- De la Espriella no respondió públicamente, dejando la disputa suspendida en el aire y permitiendo que el silencio hablara por él.
- Quilcué aprovechó su visita a Amazonas para comprometerse con comunidades indígenas en temas concretos: salud, descentralización y autonomía, reconociendo avances del gobierno Petro pero señalando deudas históricas aún pendientes.
- Ante quienes cuestionan en redes sociales la capacidad de los líderes indígenas para gobernar, Quilcué respondió que el conocimiento de la tierra es una ciencia legítima, y que ese saber los hace gobernantes más preparados, no menos.
A diecisiete días de las elecciones presidenciales en Colombia, Aida Quilcué se plantó en territorio amazónico y lanzó una exigencia directa: que Abelardo de la Espriella, candidato de derecha, dejara de usar el tigre como símbolo de su campaña. No fue una queja menor. Fue una declaración enraizada en lo que Quilcué describió como la ecología sagrada de la selva.
Quilcué habló del tigre no como un logo ni como una imagen de fuerza política, sino como un ser vivo que protege el bosque, resguarda la biodiversidad y encarna las leyes de la naturaleza. Apropiarlo para una campaña electoral, argumentó, era traspasar una autoridad que no pertenece a ningún partido. Su objeción no era táctica sino ontológica: hay cosas que no se pueden comprar ni tomar prestadas. De la Espriella no respondió públicamente, dejando la disputa sin resolver.
La visita de Quilcué al Amazonas tenía también una dimensión propositiva. Reconoció que el gobierno Petro había avanzado en materia indígena, pero insistió en que 230 años de exclusión, pobreza, racismo y violencia no se corrigen con reformas parciales. Habló del hospital de Leticia, prometió restituir capacidad institucional y defendió la descentralización como una deuda histórica con las comunidades amazónicas.
Cuando en redes sociales se cuestionó si los líderes indígenas tenían la preparación para gobernar, Quilcué respondió sin rodeos: los pueblos indígenas son científicos porque han aprendido de la ciencia de la tierra y de la realidad vivida de sus comunidades. La disputa por el tigre, entonces, no era un episodio aislado. Era parte de una pregunta más antigua: quién tiene autoridad para hablar por la tierra, y qué tipo de conocimiento merece guiar un país.
With seventeen days left before Colombia's presidential election, Aida Quilcué, the vice-presidential running mate of Iván Cepeda, stood in the Amazonian territory and issued a direct challenge to her political opponent. She demanded that Abelardo de la Espriella, a right-wing candidate, stop using the tiger as a symbol in his campaign. The demand was not casual. It was rooted in what Quilcué described as the sacred ecology of the rainforest itself.
Quilcué framed her objection in language that moved beyond typical campaign criticism. Speaking from the Amazon, she invoked the tiger as a living emblem of territorial protection and natural order. "The tiger that walks this life, the one that protects our forest, the one that safeguards the diversity that defines the Colombian jungle," she said, describing the animal as a guardian of the sacred landscape. She was explicit about what the symbol meant and what it could not be used for. "The tiger protects life, promotes inclusion, and preserves the diversity that characterizes our rainforest," she explained. "It cannot be used in a political campaign."
What made the statement significant was not merely the objection itself, but the reasoning behind it. Quilcué grounded her argument in what she called the laws of nature—principles that superseded political strategy or electoral advantage. She was not speaking as a candidate protecting her campaign's messaging, she insisted, but as someone defending the dignity of the beings that inhabit the forest. To appropriate the tiger for political purposes, in her view, was to trample on something that belonged to a different order of authority entirely.
De la Espriella, the target of the criticism, had not responded publicly by the time the article was published. His silence left the symbolic dispute unresolved, hanging in the space between the two campaigns.
Quilcué's visit to Amazonas came as part of a broader campaign effort to reconnect with indigenous communities and reaffirm commitments to their rights. During her time there, she acknowledged that while the Petro government had made progress on indigenous issues, the work remained incomplete. Two hundred thirty years of governance, she noted, had entrenched exclusion, poverty, racism, and violence—conditions that required not incremental reform but fundamental reconstruction. She spoke specifically about the public hospital in Leticia, pledging that a Cepeda-Quilcué administration would restore institutional capacity and ensure healthcare access. She also emphasized the need for decentralization, arguing that Amazonian communities had spent years demanding the return of administrative and political autonomy, and that indigenous peoples' right to self-determination had to be restored.
Quilcué addressed the criticism she had faced on social media, where some questioned whether indigenous leaders possessed the capacity to govern. Her response was direct: indigenous peoples were scientists in their own right, she said, because they had learned from the science of the earth itself and from the lived reality of their communities. That knowledge, she argued, would make them better governors. The tiger dispute, then, was not an isolated symbolic quarrel. It was part of a larger argument about who had the authority to speak for the land, what values should guide governance, and whether indigenous knowledge systems deserved recognition as legitimate sources of political wisdom.
Notable Quotes
The tiger protects life, promotes inclusion, and preserves the diversity that characterizes our rainforest. It cannot be used in a political campaign.— Aida Quilcué
Indigenous peoples are scientists because we have learned from the science of the earth itself and from the lived reality of our communities.— Aida Quilcué
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did Quilcué choose to make this demand so publicly, in the Amazonas specifically, rather than through a statement from campaign headquarters?
Because the tiger isn't an abstraction to her—it's a presence in that landscape. Speaking from the territory itself carries a different weight. It's not a campaign tactic; it's a claim about authority and belonging.
But couldn't De la Espriella argue he's using the tiger as a symbol of strength or leadership, which are universal ideas?
That's exactly what Quilcué is rejecting. She's saying the tiger isn't available as a generic symbol. It has a specific meaning tied to that ecosystem and those communities. You can't just extract it and repurpose it.
Is this really about the tiger, or is it about something deeper—like who gets to define what indigenous symbols mean?
Both. The tiger is the immediate issue, but yes, underneath it is a question about appropriation and authority. Who decides what a sacred symbol represents? Who gets to use it?
She mentioned 230 years of exclusion. Is that number significant?
It's the span from Colombian independence onward—the entire period of nation-building that excluded indigenous peoples from power and decision-making. She's saying that legacy hasn't been undone yet, and it shapes everything, including how symbols get treated.
What happens if De la Espriella ignores the demand and keeps using the tiger?
Then the dispute becomes a test case. It shows whether indigenous voices can actually set boundaries around their own symbols, or whether they're still subject to being overruled by more powerful political actors.