People voted for him because of that rhetoric. That is deeply alarming.
In a country still carrying the weight of decades of armed conflict, Colombia has chosen as its next president Abelardo de la Espriella — a defense attorney who built his career representing paramilitaries and the accused, and who now arrives at the threshold of power promising to remake the state in the image of the hemisphere's most authoritarian experiments. His margin of victory, 250,000 votes across an electorate of 41 million, was razor-thin, yet the mandate he claims is sweeping. What Colombia does with this contradiction — and whether its institutions prove durable enough to absorb the pressure he has promised to apply — may define not only the country's future, but the trajectory of democracy across Latin America.
- A lawyer who once defended paramilitary leaders and a pastor accused of sexual abuse has won the Colombian presidency by the narrowest of margins, sending shockwaves through civil society and human rights communities.
- De la Espriella has promised 90 executive decrees on his first day alone — a governing blitz that legal experts warn could strip rights faster than any court can intervene to restore them.
- His pledges to withdraw from international human rights systems, build mega-prisons, legalize civilian firearms, and replicate El Salvador's mass-incarceration model threaten to destabilize a nation already fractured by criminal violence and forced displacement.
- Feminist leaders, legal advocates, and democratic watchdogs are sounding alarms not merely about his policies, but about the fact that voters chose him knowing his rhetoric — misogynistic, exclusionary, and dehumanizing toward opponents — and chose him because of it.
- With little legislative support and a platform assembled from the far-right playbooks of Trump, Bukele, Bolsonaro, and Milei, De la Espriella takes office August 7 as a test of whether Colombia's institutions can hold against a leader who has promised to dismantle much of what they protect.
On a Sunday in June, Colombia handed its presidency to Abelardo de la Espriella — known as "El Tigre" — a 47-year-old defense attorney who had never held elected office and whose client list once included paramilitary commanders, an evangelical pastor accused of sexual abuse, and a man US authorities identify as the financial architect of Nicolás Maduro's regime. He won by 250,000 votes out of 41 million cast, replacing Gustavo Petro, the country's first and only leftist president, in one of the sharpest political reversals in recent Colombian history.
De la Espriella's rise was a study in contemporary populist spectacle. His rallies featured drone shows, AI-generated videos, and pop concert energy. He campaigned behind bulletproof glass, arrived at his victory speech in an armored vehicle dubbed the "tigermobile," and sold — rather than gave away — branded merchandise, including a tiger-head statue for $640 and a watch for $5,800. He secured an endorsement from Donald Trump, studied Nayib Bukele's gang crackdowns in El Salvador, borrowed Javier Milei's feline mascot and promise to slash the state by 40 percent, and filed more than 100 lawsuits against journalists.
His platform is as sweeping as it is alarming to legal observers. He has promised to issue 90 executive decrees on his first day in office, withdraw Colombia from the UN and the inter-American human rights system, build ten maximum-security mega-prisons, legalize civilian gun ownership, and pursue an anti-abortion and anti-LGBTQ+ agenda — while issuing a statement claiming no one would be persecuted for their sexual orientation. Analysts warn that his promised 40 percent cuts to the state could inadvertently empower the very criminal groups he vows to destroy, by creating vacuums they are well-positioned to fill.
For those who have spent careers defending Colombia's democratic fabric, his election is not merely a policy shift but an institutional threat of a new order. Feminist editor Catalina Ruiz-Navarro said his victory "frightens" her. Legal advocate Ana Bejarano Ricaurte warned that his rhetoric — misogynistic, hateful, exclusionary — was not something voters tolerated despite knowing it, but something many embraced because of it. "That," she said, "is a deeply alarming sign for the health of our nation."
On August 7, De la Espriella will inherit a Colombia still scarred by decades of armed conflict, where criminal networks contest territory, cocaine routes, and civilian lives. His victory speech promised respect for the constitution and the rights of all Colombians. His campaign promised to "disembowel" the left and kill criminals like "rats and cockroaches." Which version of El Tigre governs — and whether the institutions built to outlast any one leader prove equal to the pressure he intends to apply — is the question Colombia now lives inside.
On Sunday, Colombia elected a lawyer who once told a court that women accusing an evangelical pastor of sexual abuse were merely social climbers trying to exploit the system. That lawyer, Abelardo de la Espriella, won the presidency by 250,000 votes—a margin so thin that it barely registered across an electorate of 41 million. He will take office on August 7, replacing Gustavo Petro, the country's first and only leftist president, and in doing so will complete one of the sharpest political reversals in recent Colombian history.
De la Espriella, 47, calls himself "El Tigre"—The Tiger—and has never held elected office. He built his fortune as a defense attorney, starting with small civil cases before pivoting in the early 2000s to represent paramilitary leaders during their demobilization negotiations with the government. From there, his client list grew to include the pastor accused of abuse, the operator of a financial pyramid scheme allegedly used to launder drug money, and Alex Saab, whom US authorities say was the financial architect of Nicolás Maduro's Venezuelan regime. His legal victories, he claims, funded his expansion into rum, wine, menswear, construction, and agribusiness—though an investigation found most of these ventures operating at a loss. He obtained US citizenship in 2023, holds Italian citizenship as well, and spent years showcasing his wealth on social media: yacht trips, private jets, homes scattered across continents.
His campaign was a masterclass in modern populist theater. He announced his candidacy last July, a month after a rival rightwing senator was shot during a campaign event. Heavy investment in social media won him backing from influencers and footballers. His rallies became pop concerts—drone shows, giant screens flooded with AI-generated videos, songs. He appeared in a bulletproof vest behind bulletproof glass. The armored vehicle carrying him to his victory speech, fitted with a transparent enclosure, drew comparisons to the popemobile and became known as the "tigermobile." Rather than distribute campaign merchandise, he sold it: six-dollar stickers, seventeen-dollar keychains, a roaring tiger-head statue in Colombian flag colors for $640, a watch for $5,800.
His platform drew inspiration from across the far-right landscape of the Americas. He admired Donald Trump, who endorsed him. He studied Nayib Bukele's gang crackdowns in El Salvador and promised to replicate them. He borrowed from Brazil's Bolsonaro family the symbolism of the national football shirt. From Argentina's Javier Milei, he took the feline mascot and the promise to shrink the state by 40 percent—cuts that legal analysts warn could trigger economic crisis and inadvertently strengthen criminal groups by creating a vacuum they can fill. He vowed to withdraw Colombia from the UN and the inter-American human rights system, to extradite Petro to the US, to build ten maximum-security mega-prisons, to legalize civilian gun ownership, and to capture or kill ten major crime leaders within his first ninety days. He supports fossil fuel extraction and fracking. He has filed more than 100 lawsuits against journalists.
With minimal legislative support, he has promised to issue 90 executive decrees on his first day in office—a governing style that mirrors Ecuador's Daniel Noboa, who has faced widespread criticism for his reliance on presidential decrees and states of emergency. Legal experts warn that while these decrees may eventually be challenged in court, the rights they curtail may be lost long before the courts rule. De la Espriella has also promised an anti-abortion agenda and an anti-LGBTQ+ agenda, though he issued a statement saying no person would be persecuted or discriminated against based on sexual orientation. He has been accused of homophobia for mockingly imitating a gay candidate and of sexism on multiple occasions. He is an atheist who became a devout Catholic after a relative's death.
Catalina Ruiz-Navarro, co-founder and editor of the feminist magazine Volcánicas, said his election "frightens" her. "Despite Colombia's strong institutions, we're facing an institutional threat unlike anything we've experienced before." Ana Bejarano Ricaurte, a lawyer and co-director of El Veinte, a legal advocacy organization defending freedom of expression, called it "a threat of this magnitude" never before confronted. She noted that his promised agenda represents "a regressive approach in terms of civil rights and fundamental rights," and that his rhetoric—"misogynistic and full of hatred and exclusion"—was not something people voted for despite, but because of. "That is a deeply alarming sign for the health of our nation," she said.
De la Espriella's victory speech promised respect for the constitution and the rights of all Colombians. But his campaign centered on promises to "disembowel" the left, to use lethal force against protesters, and to kill criminals like "rats and cockroaches." His election marks the latest confirmation of a far-right wave sweeping presidential contests across Latin America. On August 7, he will inherit a country still scarred by decades of armed conflict, where criminal groups fight each other and the military for control of territory and cocaine trafficking routes, fueling killings, forced displacement, massacres, and kidnappings. What he does with that inheritance—and whether the institutions that have held Colombia together will withstand the pressure he intends to apply—remains to be seen.
Notable Quotes
Despite Colombia's strong institutions, we're facing an institutional threat unlike anything we've experienced before.— Catalina Ruiz-Navarro, co-founder of feminist magazine Volcánicas
People voted for him because of that rhetoric. That is a deeply alarming sign for the health of our nation.— Ana Bejarano Ricaurte, lawyer and co-director of El Veinte
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does the fact that he was a defense lawyer matter so much to this story?
Because it shows how he built his power and fortune. He didn't rise through politics or military service. He rose by defending people the state wanted to punish—paramilitaries, accused abusers, alleged money launderers. That's where his wealth came from, and it shaped how he sees the world: as a place where the powerful hire lawyers to escape consequences.
The margin of victory was 250,000 votes out of 41 million. That's less than 1 percent. Does that change what his presidency means?
It means he has almost no mandate. He won because the left was divided or exhausted or angry at Petro. But it also means he has no political cover. He can't claim he was chosen by a landslide. So he's promised 90 decrees on day one—he's going to move fast, before anyone can organize against him.
What does it mean that he's an outsider who's never held office?
It means he doesn't understand how institutions work, or he doesn't care. He's a lawyer who won cases by finding loopholes and exploiting them. Now he's going to run a country the same way. And he's promised to shrink the state by 40 percent in a country where the state barely functions in large parts of the territory already.
The women who accused the pastor—what happened to them?
The pastor was acquitted, though the case is still under review by the supreme court. But the real damage was done in the courtroom, when the lawyer—now the president-elect—called them social climbers. That footage resurfaced during the campaign. And people voted for him anyway. That's what one of the lawyers I quoted said: they didn't vote for him despite that rhetoric. They voted for him because of it.
What are analysts most afraid of?
That he'll use executive power to dismantle protections for LGBTQ+ people, abortion access, freedom of expression, and human rights oversight before anyone can stop him. And that by cutting the state so drastically, he'll create space for criminal groups to expand. He's promising to fight crime with an iron fist, but his own policies might make it worse.