He understood the digital moment before most traditional politicians did
In a country worn down by years of expanding armed violence and a peace policy many felt had emboldened rather than quieted its enemies, Colombians handed a record ten million votes to Abelardo de la Espriella — a lawyer and businessman who had never held public office. His first-round victory on a Sunday in late May set the stage for a June 21 runoff against leftist Iván Cepeda, a confrontation that distills into a single ballot the deep fractures running through Colombian society. De la Espriella's rise follows a familiar arc in this era of democratic discontent: the outsider who channels fear and exhaustion into political momentum, even as the machinery of the old order quietly gathers behind him.
- Colombia's security crisis — armed groups multiplying in territory and audacity under Petro's 'total peace' framework — created the emotional fuel that carried De la Espriella to a historic first-round result.
- The death of precandidato Miguel Uribe Turbay from a public shooting, and the thirty-five bodyguards flanking De la Espriella at every event, made the violence not just a campaign theme but a lived backdrop to the entire election.
- De la Espriella's outsider identity grew harder to sustain as the Char political dynasty, former Duque ministers, and veterans of the Uribe and Santos governments lined up behind him — the very establishment he had built his brand against.
- His promises of megaprisons, coca fumigation, narco-camp bombings, and Milei-style budget cuts energized his base but left analysts questioning whether a man with no governing experience could translate rhetoric into a functioning state.
- The June 21 runoff now frames itself as an ideological collision between hard right and left, though both poles carry contradictions — De la Espriella needing the elites he denounces, Cepeda defending policies voters have already punished at the ballot box.
On a Sunday in late May, Abelardo de la Espriella celebrated behind bulletproof glass, wearing Colombia's yellow soccer jersey, having just won the presidential first round with 43 percent of the vote — more than ten million ballots. On June 21, he will face leftist Iván Cepeda in a runoff that many Colombians see as a choice between the country's two most extreme available options.
De la Espriella's path to this moment was unconventional. Born in Bogotá in 1978, he built a business empire spanning real estate, cattle ranching, and food distribution, and financed his campaign through company profits and personal loans. He had no prior political office. His entry into public life came through social media, where he cultivated a large following before formally announcing his candidacy in July 2025. But the deeper engine of his rise was Colombia's security crisis: four years of Petro's 'total peace' policy had coincided with an expansion of armed groups across the country, and De la Espriella made fear his central message.
He promised 'iron fist' governance — megaprisons, coca fumigation, the bombing of narco-terrorist camps, and a Milei-style chainsaw taken to the state budget. He admired Bukele, Milei, and Trump. His movement, Defensores de la Patria, channeled the anger of voters who blamed traditional elites for Colombia's troubles. At least thirty-five bodyguards accompanied him publicly, a constant reminder of the death threats he received — and a visual element that became part of his strongman image.
Yet his outsider credentials were complicated. His running mate had served as finance minister under Iván Duque. The powerful Char family of Barranquilla backed him. Former officials from the Uribe and Santos governments endorsed him. Analysts noted that governing Colombia without such figures is nearly impossible — the very class he denounced was quietly becoming his coalition.
His legal career added further complexity. He had represented Álex Saab, the alleged financial operative of Nicolás Maduro, as well as a former justice minister convicted of instigating the 1989 assassination of presidential candidate Luis Carlos Galán. His team framed this as ordinary criminal defense work. Critics saw a more troubling pattern.
De la Espriella converted to Christianity six years ago and emphasizes traditional family values, messaging that resonates in a country where roughly ninety percent of the population identifies as Christian. His campaign style was also deliberately provocative — dismissing political correctness, making comments about a gay politician that drew accusations of mockery, and leaning into transgression as part of his outsider brand.
Political scientists placed him somewhere between populist right and a harder edge than Colombia's traditional conservative reference point, the Democratic Center. What all agreed on was the central paradox: the man who won by rejecting the political establishment will need that establishment to govern.
Abelardo de la Espriella stood shielded behind bulletproof glass on a Sunday in late May, wearing the yellow jersey of Colombia's national soccer team, celebrating a record that would reshape his country's political landscape. The lawyer and businessman had just won the first round of Colombia's presidential election with 43 percent of the vote—more than ten million ballots cast in his name. In two weeks, on June 21, he would face off against Iván Cepeda, a leftist candidate committed to continuing the policies of outgoing president Gustavo Petro. The runoff promised to be a collision between opposing ideological poles, with De la Espriella representing a hard-right, populist movement that many opponents labeled extremist, though his team insisted it stood for "extreme coherence."
De la Espriella's rise was improbable by conventional measures. Born in Bogotá in 1978, he had no prior political office. He was a lawyer who had built a sprawling business empire—real estate, food and beverage distribution, cattle ranching, and a law firm bearing his name—and he had financed his campaign through company profits and personal loans. His entry into public consciousness came through social media, where he had cultivated a prolific presence months before formally announcing his candidacy in July 2025. He understood, as one political strategist noted, the digital moment in Colombia before most traditional politicians did. But his rise was also shaped by something more concrete: a country gripped by fear. After four years of Petro's "total peace" policy—an attempt to negotiate with armed groups rather than confront them militarily—Colombia had experienced an expansion of criminal organizations in both numbers and territory. The security crisis was real, and De la Espriella made it his central message.
He promised what he called "iron fist" governance against crime, drug trafficking, and corruption. He admired the approaches of Nayib Bukele in El Salvador, Javier Milei in Argentina, and Donald Trump in the United States. He vowed to dismantle Petro's peace framework, to build megaprisons, to fumigate coca fields, to bomb "narco-terrorist" camps, and to shoot down any aircraft or vessel carrying drugs leaving Colombian airspace. He would use a "chainsaw," as Milei had, to cut the state budget. He rejected what he called the old guard—"the same ones as always"—who had governed Colombia before Petro's 2022 election. His movement, called Defensores de la Patria (Defenders of the Homeland), channeled the discontent of voters who saw traditional elites as the source of the country's troubles. At least thirty-five bodyguards accompanied him at public events, a visible reminder that he received frequent death threats, as had other candidates. The security apparatus around him became part of his image: a man unafraid, willing to operate outside the bounds of political convention.
Yet De la Espriella's claim to be an outsider independent of traditional politics grew more complicated as the campaign progressed. His vice-presidential running mate, José Manuel Restrepo, had served as finance and commerce minister under former president Iván Duque. The powerful Char family, a political and economic dynasty from Barranquilla, announced their support in early May. Former members of governments led by Álvaro Uribe and Juan Manuel Santos backed him. Five university analysts consulted by the BBC concluded that these endorsements came from the very political class De la Espriella claimed to reject, and that "it is difficult to govern Colombia without these approvals and politicians expert in how the state functions."
His personal history added layers of complexity. As a young man in Montería, a city in northern Colombia, he had sold groceries in working-class neighborhoods and later traded in clothing, whiskey, and emeralds in the United States. He became a prominent criminal defense attorney, representing clients including Álex Saab, the alleged financial operative of Venezuelan president Nicolás Maduro, who was extradited to the United States to face criminal charges. De la Espriella said he ended that relationship in 2021. He had also defended Alberto Santofimio Botero, a former justice minister convicted in 2007 of instigating the 1989 assassination of presidential candidate Luis Carlos Galán—a killing carried out by drug traffickers working with state agents. De la Espriella had represented individuals connected to paramilitarism, communities affected by environmental damage from nickel mining, victims of gender violence, and the late leftist congresswoman Piedad Córdoba. His team framed this legal work as the ordinary practice of a criminal defense attorney and the right to legitimate representation. Critics saw it differently, viewing his client list as evidence of troubling entanglements.
De la Espriella's public persona combined the aesthetics of a strongman with conservative social messaging. He had converted to Christianity six years earlier after losing a loved one, and he emphasized traditional family values and Christian morality. His wife, Ana Lucía Pineda, a business administrator and company director, frequently appeared at his events. They had four children. Yet his campaign also embraced a deliberately transgressive style. In a May streaming interview, when discussion turned to his body and an alleged silicone implant, he asked the hosts to zoom in on a photo, framing the moment as humor. The exchange drew criticism as misogynistic. In another interview, he appeared to mock the voice and mannerisms of Juan Daniel Oviedo, an openly gay politician, saying there were things about him "that didn't work" and "had no fix." He dismissed the comment as a joke taken out of context. His team and supporters argued that he rejected political correctness as part of his outsider brand.
One senator close to his campaign, Enrique Gómez Martínez—grandson of former president Laureano Gómez and nephew of the influential politician Álvaro Gómez Hurtado, who was assassinated in 1995—described De la Espriella as "jovial, patient, punctual, energetic, and someone who sleeps little." When asked about the "extreme right" label applied by opponents, Gómez Martínez rejected the framing as ideological labeling favored by elites. He spoke instead of "founding principles and values"—security, productivity, justice, corruption, education, and values rooted in "Christian and Judeo-Christian morality." About eighty percent of Colombia's fifty-two million people identify as Catholic, with another ten percent belonging to other Christian denominations, making such messaging resonant.
Political analysts offered varying assessments. Patricia Muñoz Yi, a political scientist at the Pontificia Javeriana University, did not view De la Espriella as "so far-right," but acknowledged he had "tried to be more radical than the reference right of the Democratic Center"—the party founded by former president Álvaro Uribe. Laura Bonilla, a political analyst and subdirector of the Pares Foundation, characterized his movement as "populist right." What was certain was that the June 21 runoff would pit two candidates seen by many Colombians as representing the most extreme options available. De la Espriella's actual ability to govern would depend on the very traditional political structures and experienced state operators he had spent his campaign denouncing.
Citas Notables
He will sweep away all the crime. You can tell he's the one who will save this country.— Working-class De la Espriella supporter
No one has raised the security flag like De la Espriella. His Tiger nickname became a symbol for the discontented. With the vest, the bulletproof podium, and his security setup, he shows he won't be intimidated.— Political strategist Catalina Suárez
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
How did a lawyer with no political experience manage to capture more than ten million votes in a single election?
He arrived at exactly the right moment. Colombia was terrified. Four years of a peace-focused government had coincided with armed groups expanding their territory and their numbers. People were exhausted. De la Espriella understood social media before traditional politicians did, and he made security his entire message—simple, direct, uncompromising.
But his background includes defending people connected to paramilitarism and an alleged associate of Nicolás Maduro. How does that square with his anti-corruption message?
His team says it's just criminal defense work—that everyone deserves representation. But it's a real tension. He claims to be independent of the old political class, yet his client list and his current allies suggest he's deeply entangled with exactly the people and systems he says he'll dismantle.
What about the incidents where he mocked a gay politician and made comments women found offensive?
He frames it as rejecting political correctness, as part of being a transgressive outsider. But it also reveals something: his brand of strength includes a willingness to say things that traditional politicians wouldn't, whether or not they're defensible. Some voters see that as refreshing honesty. Others see it as recklessness.
If he wins, can he actually govern without the traditional political establishment?
Almost certainly not. Five different analysts said the same thing: you cannot run Colombia without experienced politicians and people who understand how the state actually works. He has them around him already—his vice president, his advisors. So the question becomes: was the outsider thing always theater, or will he genuinely try to govern differently and fail?
What does the runoff against Cepeda actually represent?
A country choosing between two visions it sees as extreme. De la Espriella offers hardline security and rejection of the peace process. Cepeda offers continuity with Petro's left-wing agenda. There's almost no middle ground. Whoever wins will govern a deeply divided country.