He turned his grief into a public demand for justice
In a country where political violence has long silenced the left, Iván Cepeda — philosopher, senator, and son of a man murdered by paramilitaries — has advanced to Colombia's presidential runoff with 41 percent of the vote. His candidacy, born partly from the conviction of former president Álvaro Uribe in a case where Cepeda himself was victim and witness, asks whether a nation's deepest wounds can become the source of its leadership. On June 21, 2026, Colombians will choose between his vision of continued leftist transformation and the right-wing alternative of Abelardo de la Espriella — a choice that is also, in some measure, a reckoning with what the country has been willing to do to its own people.
- A man who watched his father's assassination become a statistic has spent thirty years refusing to let Colombia forget — and now stands one election away from its presidency.
- The conviction of Álvaro Uribe, one of Colombia's most powerful figures, in a case Cepeda spent thirteen years pursuing, transformed a quiet senator into a symbol of vindication overnight.
- With 41 percent in the first round against the right-wing de la Espriella's 44 percent, the runoff is close enough to feel like a genuine contest between two visions of Colombia's future.
- Critics are pressing hard on his vulnerabilities — no executive experience, allegations of guerrilla ties, and a socialist platform that unnerves business sectors already anxious about fiscal strain.
- Supporters counter that Cepeda's patience and conciliatory temperament make him a steadier hand than Petro, and that his life of witness gives him a moral authority no poll can fully measure.
On the afternoon of August 9, 1994, a leftist senator named Manuel Cepeda Vargas was shot dead in his car in Bogotá, killed by paramilitaries working alongside state agents. His son Iván, then 31, arrived minutes later and made a choice that would shape the next three decades of his life: he faced the cameras and demanded justice. That refusal to let his father's death disappear became the foundation of everything he would become.
Now 63, Cepeda is a philosopher trained in Bulgaria and France, a senator since 2014, and a man who has spent his adult life investigating paramilitarism, negotiating with armed groups, and advocating for victims across Colombia's long conflict. He has done it under threat, in exile, and without ever fully escaping the shadow of political violence. Until recently, almost no one imagined him running for president — colleagues described him as quiet, reflective, a man who made pottery at home in his spare time.
Then, in August 2025, a Bogotá court convicted former president Álvaro Uribe of bribery and procedural fraud in a case that had dragged on for thirteen years — one in which Cepeda was both victim and witness. The verdict felt like vindication. Social media erupted with calls for him to run. Emails poured in from victims' associations and activists. 'I have to do it,' he told a friend. Even when an appeals court overturned Uribe's conviction months later, Cepeda's momentum held. He entered his party's primary and won decisively.
On May 31, 2026, he finished second in the first round with 41 percent, advancing to a June 21 runoff against right-wing lawyer Abelardo de la Espriella, who received 44 percent. Cepeda's platform continues Gustavo Petro's leftist project: constitutional reform, challenges to the central bank, and ongoing peace negotiations with armed groups including the ELN. His opponents paint him as more radical than Petro and question his lack of executive experience. Critics on the right have repeatedly labeled him 'the candidate of the Farc,' a charge without conclusive evidence but one that resonates in a country still processing its peace with that guerrilla group.
Political analyst León Valencia, who wrote Cepeda's biography, argues the hostility stems from ideology and his long rivalry with the revered Uribe — but describes Cepeda himself as more patient and less confrontational than the current president, without messianic pretensions. His deficit is governing experience: he has negotiated, investigated, and testified, but he has never run a ministry or managed a large institution.
What he has done is survive, and turn survival into a vocation. In the weeks before a runoff that could make him Colombia's first president who is also a documented victim of state crime, Cepeda is asking voters to trust that the same conviction that kept him standing at his father's murder scene can carry a country forward.
On August 9, 1994, Manuel Cepeda Vargas, a leftist senator and former communist, was shot dead inside a car in southwest Bogotá. The killing bore the hallmarks of paramilitaries working in concert with state agents. His son Iván, then 31, arrived at the scene minutes later and did something that would define the next three decades of his life: he turned his grief into a public demand for justice. Standing before cameras, he called on the nation's president and judiciary to stop the political murders that were ravaging the left. He refused to let his father's death become another forgotten crime.
That moment of defiance became the foundation of everything Cepeda would become. Now 63, a philosopher trained in Bulgaria and France, a senator since 2014, he has spent his adult life investigating paramilitarism, negotiating with armed groups, and fighting for the rights of victims scattered across Colombia's long conflict. He has lived much of it under threat. His mother, a communist journalist and politician, died of illness in 1981 when he was 19. He was exiled twice—once to Eastern Europe as a teenager, again to France in his thirties. He has never known a time without the shadow of political violence.
But until recently, almost no one imagined him as a presidential candidate. Colleagues described him as quiet, reflective, patient—a man who spent his free time making pottery at home. He denied any presidential ambitions to friends. Then, on August 1, 2025, a Bogotá court convicted former president Álvaro Uribe, one of Colombia's most powerful politicians, of bribery and procedural fraud. Cepeda had been both victim and witness in that case, which had dragged on for thirteen years. The verdict felt like vindication. Within hours, social media erupted: "Cepeda for president." He laughed when asked about it, saying the trial seemed easier than running for office. But emails poured in—from victims' associations, activists, supporters urging him to run. "I have to do it," he told a friend over lunch.
When the Higher Court of Bogotá overturned Uribe's conviction on October 21, Cepeda filed an appeal to keep the case alive. But by then he was already moving toward something larger. Five days after the reversal, he entered his party's internal primary and won decisively. The polls have favored him ever since.
On May 31, 2026, Cepeda finished second in the first round of voting with 41 percent, advancing to a June 21 runoff against Abelardo de la Espriella, a right-wing lawyer who received 44 percent. Cepeda is positioned as the heir to Gustavo Petro's leftist project, which began in 2022 with promises of social reform, greater state involvement in the economy, and peace negotiations with armed groups. Cepeda's platform echoes Petro's: constitutional reform through a constituent assembly, challenges to institutions like the central bank, a continuation of "total peace" talks with guerrillas including the ELN. He is married to Pilar Rueda, an anthropologist and human rights worker, and has no children.
Yet his path to the presidency is contested. Political opponents paint him as more radical than Petro, a characterization that unsettles parts of the business sector. Economists worry about Colombia's fiscal crisis, already strained by rising public spending, and question whether Cepeda's social agenda can be sustained. Critics—particularly from the right—have repeatedly called him "the candidate of the Farc," a charge without conclusive evidence but one that sticks in a country still processing its peace with that guerrilla group. Cepeda has acknowledged receiving reports of armed groups pressuring voters in certain territories and condemned such actions categorically.
Political analyst León Valencia, who wrote Cepeda's biography and knows him personally, argues that much of the animus stems from his ideology, his rivalry with the revered Uribe, and an ideological firmness that exceeds Petro's. Yet Valencia describes Cepeda as less confrontational and radical than the president—patient, conciliatory, without messianic pretensions. His weakness, Valencia notes, is his lack of executive experience in government. Cepeda has never run a ministry or managed a large institution. He has negotiated, investigated, testified, and advocated. He has not governed.
What he has done is survive. He has turned personal tragedy into a life of witness and repair. Now, in the final weeks before a runoff that could make him Colombia's first president who is also a victim of state crime, Cepeda is asking voters to let him extend the leftward turn that Petro began—to continue the work of transformation in a region moving rightward, and to do it as someone who has paid the price of political conviction in blood.
Citas Notables
I have to do it— Cepeda, to a friend over lunch, after deciding to run for president
Cepeda is son of perestroika—he returned from Bulgaria with a reformist, modern vision of socialism that distanced him from his father's communist orthodoxy— Federico Díaz-Granados, writer and family acquaintance
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did it take so long for Cepeda to run? He's spent thirty years in human rights work. What changed in August 2025?
The Uribe conviction was the catalyst, but it was also permission. For decades, Cepeda had channeled his energy into justice for others—victims, guerrillas, the state. Running for president meant stepping into the spotlight himself, which goes against his temperament. The court victory made it impossible to ignore the public's desire for him to lead.
His opponents call him "the candidate of the Farc." How does he respond to that?
He doesn't seem to flinch. He's spent years negotiating with armed groups as part of peace efforts. Valencia normalizes this—you can't mediate between guerrillas and the state without talking to guerrillas. But the accusation sticks because Colombia is still raw from the conflict. Trust is fragile.
What's the real difference between Cepeda and Petro, then?
Petro is a showman. He uses social media as a political stage, exhorts crowds, sets the agenda through spectacle. Cepeda works in plazas, speaks to his base in traditional ways, appeals to the forgotten and the marginalized. He's less theatrical, more patient. But his policies are similar—more state, more reform, more negotiation with armed groups.
Is he likely to win the runoff?
The polls favor him, and Petro's popularity—despite crises—gives him momentum. But he's running against a right-wing candidate in a country nervous about radical change. His lack of executive experience is a real vulnerability. He'll have to convince centrists that he can manage the economy without deepening the fiscal crisis.
What does it mean that he's a victim of state crime?
It's both his strength and his burden. It gives him moral authority—he's lived what he's fighting for. But it also means his entire political identity is bound to trauma and justice. If he wins, he becomes a symbol of reckoning. If he loses, it's another kind of loss.