The transformation of a Medellín neighborhood: From landfill to thriving community

On a bright afternoon in Moravia, locals are tending to the gardens atop El Morro de Moravia, a hill that stands at the heart of this vibrant working-class neighborhood in Medellín.

Inside the greenhouse, visitors admire the vibrant orchids in every shade of the tropics, alongside rows of bromeliads, their waxy leaves holding striking orange blossoms.

Outside, children chase colorful kites in the wind, their delicate plastic sails trembling in the gusts before soaring into the clear blue sky. Nearby, families gather to chat, taking in panoramic views of Medellín from this hilltop perch, 35 meters (115 feet) above the neighborhood.

Concrete steps, inscribed with words like 'dignity' and 'difference', wind their way up the hill. Along the path, black-and-white photos of the park's past highlight its unexpected transformation from a once-forgotten space.

Much like the rest of Medellín – once named the world's most dangerous city by Time magazine in 1988 – this neighborhood is barely recognizable. Beneath the ground lies a decade's worth of garbage, remnants of what was once the city's main landfill.

'A once-forgotten, dangerous corner of the city that no one dared enter.'

The 52-year-long armed conflict between left and right-wing militant groups in Colombia, which only ended a few years ago, devastated rural areas, leaving hundreds of thousands dead and more than seven million people displaced as they fled violence in search of safety.

Many of them found refuge in Moravia, a once informal neighborhood on the edge of Medellín.

In the 1970s, as Medellín expanded, local authorities chose Moravia as the site for the new municipal landfill. Existing residents were relocated to distant areas on the outskirts, while those who remained – calling themselves 'The Resistance' – struggled to survive next to the growing waste pile.

Survival often meant turning to recycling, as each day the landfill received a staggering 100 tons of waste – the equivalent of a Boeing 757-200 in weight.

When the landfill officially closed in 1984, desperate families – many with children – started building homes atop the rubbish. Over the next two decades, El Morro's population grew to over 15,000, all living in makeshift shacks built from whatever materials they could salvage.

"The first house I built was made of cardboard, plastic, and wooden poles," recalls Elsy Torreglosa Gallego, who arrived in 1986 with her four children. The living conditions were dire, with unsanitary conditions and the constant threat of fires due to cramped, flammable homes and the toxic gases rising from the landfill.

However, an even more immediate concern was the rampant violence.

During the 1980s and 1990s, Medellín was plagued by a bloody conflict between drug cartels, with the infamous Pablo Escobar leading one of the most powerful. In Moravia, rival gangs and armed groups preyed on the neighborhood's youth, recruiting them into their violent ranks.

Moravia quickly gained a reputation as a no-go zone, with residents facing stigma for living in one of the city's most dangerous areas.

"Moravia used to be a shadowy, off-limits part of the city where no one dared venture. When we tried to find work elsewhere, people would refuse us simply because we were from Moravia. We had to lie about where we were from just to get a job," recalls Gallego.

From trash, flowers bloom.

Everything began to shift in 2004.

Believing that change was possible, community leaders began knocking on every door they could – the government’s, organizations, anyone who might help address the neighborhood’s pressing needs," says Gloria Ospima, who moved to Moravia with her family in 1968 at age six and is now one of over 100 community leaders, mostly women, in the area.

The government responded with the Moravia Integral Improvement plan, which involved clearing the slums from the former landfill and transforming it – in part by covering the trash with soil – into a sprawling 30,000-square-meter urban park.

The government also made significant investments in new community facilities. As part of this initiative, residents living near El Morro were granted the opportunity to legally purchase their homes and land.

"When the mayor announced that they would focus on Moravia and support us, those 15 minutes changed everything," recalls Gallego.

Today, the neighborhood is almost unrecognizable from its past.

Gallego is a member of Cojardicom, a group of women who nurture the flower beds that now adorn the slopes of El Morro. The area flourishes with colorful grasses and over 70 plant species. At the summit, in a large greenhouse, they cultivate flowers to sell at fairs across the city, embodying one of the most powerful symbols of transformation: turning waste into beauty.

A vibrant local life

This inspiring story of community activism has attracted visitors to the neighborhood, thanks to tour companies like Real City Tours. These tours offer the chance to engage with residents and local leaders, culminating in a reflective moment and breathtaking panoramic views at the top of El Morro.

Down below the hill, Moravia is thriving as well.

One of the city’s most densely populated areas, Moravia’s streets are lined with a patchwork of concrete and brick homes that rise in a cascade, each story larger than the last. Its walls are splashed with vibrant street art, celebrating the community leaders who have driven the neighborhood’s remarkable transformation.

Scattered throughout are small eateries serving freshly squeezed fruit juices and deep-fried, cheese-filled buñuelos, their enticing aromas blending with the hum of mopeds zipping down narrow streets. A few local gift shops have popped up, selling handmade jewelry and providing much-needed income to the community.

Tours also visit the Centro de Desarrollo Cultural (Cultural Development Centre), an impressive modern structure located just 300 meters from El Morro, designed by the renowned French-Colombian architect Rogelio Salmona and completed in 2008.

If El Morro serves as the green lungs of the neighborhood, this cultural center is its vibrant heart.

Seventeen paid staff members and a dedicated team of volunteers run a wide range of cultural and educational programs, from ballet to breakdancing, woodworking to weaving. Local artists and theater groups also have the opportunity to showcase and perform their work.

Ana Maria Restrepo, the center's general coordinator, is clear-eyed about the profound impact it has on the local community.

"We understand that art and culture are powerful tools for connecting people, and these connections open up new worlds of knowledge," she says passionately. "A fresh perspective on the world can change everything for people here, who have historically had limited opportunities."

A future hanging by a thread

Despite more than a decade of steady progress, a new development plan now threatens the neighborhood’s survival.

Introduced in 2018, the Moravia Partial Renovation Plan proposes transforming half of the area into a public park, while replacing a quarter of the existing homes with 20 high-rise apartment buildings. Critics argue that this plan will displace a third of the current residents and radically alter the social fabric of the community.

One of the plan’s critics is Maximilian Becker, co-founder of the architecture collective Oasis Urbano, which has worked alongside community leaders since 2016 to empower local residents through a model that centers the community in the decision-making process, blending top-down and bottom-up planning approaches, Becker explains.

These high-rise apartments, he argues, will lack basic infrastructure, shopping, or cultural spaces – in short, everything that defines Moravia. "It’s the complete opposite of what Moravia stands for," he says.

However, the looming threat of displacement is not the only challenge residents face.

In recent months, around 1,000 new makeshift homes have appeared on El Morro, with community leaders attributing the surge to a wave of Venezuelan refugees and a lack of government action.

The future of the project now hangs in uncertainty.

"We’ve lost about 20 years of progress," Gallego argues, reflecting the deep frustration of residents and community leaders who feel the government has failed to stop families from returning to the hill despite their previous efforts.

Overcoming stigma and finding a voice

Despite the prevailing uncertainty, new projects continue to emerge.

Oasis Urbano and local leaders are working to bring Taller Tropical 2.0 to life, the second iteration of a bamboo-built open-air workshop that hosted over 10,000 people for cooking classes, concerts, and workshops over three years before being dismantled earlier this year when the lease expired.

With the help of crowdfunding, they aim to rebuild and expand the space into a four-story community center, which will house a cooking school, restaurant, community kitchen, workshop areas, and a library.

With the election of a new mayor in 2019, residents are optimistic that the controversial relocation plans will be less likely to move forward. There’s renewed hope that dialogue between the government and the local community will foster a rethinking of the plan, giving the people who have fought so hard for Moravia a chance to be heard.

If tourists continue to visit and hear the neighborhood’s inspiring story of hope, community strength, and transformation, it may help ensure the changes are sustainable for the long term.

An essential part of this progress involves overcoming the stigmas that still linger, particularly from other Colombians who, unlike international visitors, remain hesitant to enter the neighborhood.

"Moravia was once a place no one dared to visit. It was plagued by violence, unpleasant smells, and swarms of mosquitoes," Ospima recalls.

"But today, people from other countries come to learn about our story. This is a testament to what we’ve accomplished in this neighborhood and our ability to improve and transform it."