The Day Medellín Chose Music: From the Approval of Agreements 3 and 4 of 1996 to the Program’s Implementation

We come from a first chapter in which we told the story of how the idea of the Network of Music Schools was born and the battles fought to turn that dream into a city law through Agreements 3 and 4 of 1996. That chapter closed with an intimate and powerful scene: the approval in the plenary session and a son calling his mother to tell her that something great had just happened. This second chapter begins right there: how did what had already been approved on paper become a reality in the neighborhoods?

If you have not yet read the first part, you can do so here:

https://www.amadeus.org.co/post/una-labor-encomendada-el-origen-de-la-red-de-escuelas-de-m%C3%BAsica-de-medell%C3%ADn. 

Now the challenge was to transform the city law — Agreements 3 and 4 of 1996 — into a functioning program: a roadmap that would allow the Secretariat of Education and Culture to launch the project, supervise it, purchase instruments, and appoint the institution responsible for managing and developing it.

It sounded simple. But then we received difficult news.

The implementation of the program had to go through a public bidding process, giving every cultural organization the opportunity to submit proposals. In other words, the very institutions that had opposed the project from the beginning — even before the agreements existed and after doing everything possible to block them in the City Council — could now compete to run it.

Create the initiative, fight to turn it into city law, secure the funding… and then compete for the chance to manage it?

Still, my Amadeus team and I stepped forward, convinced we were the best prepared to face that challenge, especially because the initiative had been ours from the start. So we followed every instruction and guideline and got to work immediately.

The day proposals were submitted felt deeply uncomfortable and confusing. Everything was presented in sealed envelopes, and we found ourselves standing alongside the same cultural organizations that had once opposed the project.

If they had fought against it, why did they suddenly want to manage it now?

Strange. Even so, we greeted each other politely and wished everyone good luck.

Those environments leave you feeling genuinely disoriented. I could not find understanding either within the government — whose officials were simply following orders — or among the city’s cultural and social organizations, many of whom seemed unable to grasp the significance of the moment. It felt as if everything revolved around money: surviving, sustaining institutions, or profiting from what was being viewed as a business opportunity. I had no idea how much I had already invested from my own pocket, from my family, and through Amadeus itself to bring the project this far — and there was still so much left to do.

In the end, we prevailed: we won the bid. It was finally time to enter the neighborhoods, begin implementing the program, and establish our first relationships with the communities — relationships that would last forever and therefore had to be built with care.

We started renting houses, adapting spaces, hiring teachers, secretaries, and administrative staff at Amadeus, and selecting instruments according to the available budget. We placed the signs outside. Everything looked perfect. We opened the first schools. And no one came. Eventually a few children arrived, but nowhere near the numbers we had hoped for. We asked mothers and community members what was happening.

“Fear,” they said. People were afraid to send their children because, as many women told us, “Nothing that good can really be free.” “You mean teachers, instruments… all for free? Paid by the government? Won’t they charge us later? Or ask us to vote for some politician? Nobody has ever given us anything for free. That’s what scares us.”

We had to prove ourselves. We visited schools, knocked on doors, handed out flyers, announced the program in churches, invited priests and families, and brought local musicians to perform the first melodies the students had learned.

Slowly, the schools began to fill. Then came the next challenge: there were hundreds of children, and we had to find a way to welcome all of them. By the second year, enrollment had reached one thousand students, and the number continued to grow dramatically.

One of the most emblematic stories from those early days is that of Doña Amanda Soto from the neighborhood of Manrique — a remarkable community leader who worked tirelessly both for her neighborhood and for Bellavista prison. She had lost her son in the conflict, and that loss deepened her commitment to social work. She fought relentlessly to bring a small music school to her neighborhood. She visited me every single day, though the decision ultimately belonged to the government, not me. Eventually, a school was assigned to Manrique Las Nieves, and I went there with a group of teachers to see the space she had prepared for the children. We were amazed by her energy. She simply could not stay still.

But when we saw the room, we exchanged silent glances. It was tiny — around 60 by 60 feet — and we were planning to work with around 150 children there. Still, we did not want to discourage her, so we told her to gather around 40 children for the following Monday and that we would send teachers to begin registration. Everything seemed fine.

But because we expected only a small group, we sent just one teacher carrying a guitar.

Very early that morning, he called me in panic.

“Come up here right now! This is complete madness and I don’t know what to do!”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Doña Amanda invited several communities. There are around 700 children here, the street is blocked, local television has arrived — this is insane!”

Hours later, things finally calmed down and we managed to register all the children who attended. The issue of space remained unresolved, but we started anyway — in that tiny room and in several homes throughout the neighborhood. We served the vast majority of the children.

As time passed, a group of mothers from the community came to my office to talk about the school. Everything was going well, and they had followed my advice to involve the local priest. They told me he spoke positively about the school and wanted to host concerts there. Then, almost in whispers, they said:

“The priest lives in a very large parish house with many rooms. Why don’t you ask him if he could lend us some space for classes?”

It seemed reasonable, so I agreed. I spoke with the priest, and he kindly offered some rooms, which everyone celebrated and appreciated deeply.

A few months later, the same group returned.

“Juangui,” they said, “we looked over the back wall and found more rooms. Let’s ask him for those too.”

At this point, the adventure was becoming bold, but I could not extinguish their enthusiasm or commitment. Reluctantly, the priest agreed again. Months later, they returned once more, confessing they had discovered additional connected spaces behind another door. Despite his growing frustration, the priest once again accepted. Then they discovered something astonishing: the priest had already sold the house to the municipality years before, but because no one had formally reclaimed it, he had continued living there unofficially.

A few months later, we all watched as the priest walked out carrying his suitcases, head lowered and visibly upset. From that day forward, the music school of Manrique Las Nieves finally had a permanent home large enough to welcome every child Doña Amanda had gathered. And like every neighborhood and every school we created, this one carried its own unforgettable stories.

Everything was built through determination, with the support and trust of the communities themselves. The children quickly began showing results. They performed in schools, churches, and public parks. Soon they were invited to every neighborhood event, and before long they became the pride of their communities.

Then the instruments arrived.They were distributed among the twenty schools, and people cried with joy because it felt impossible to believe.Children treated the instruments like babies — with extraordinary care. When we allowed them to take instruments home on loan, parents told us their children slept beside them and hugged them like stuffed animals.

One day in the neighborhood of El Limonar, the arrival of the instruments — those large black cases — caught the attention of a young man who used to steal in the area.

Curious, he offered to help unload the instruments while secretly trying to figure out what he could steal. Years later, he told us he opened one of the cases and started experimenting with the sounds. Then he discovered the largest instrument of all: the double bass. He fell in love instantly.After learning what the project was about, he enrolled in classes. He stole nothing. Instead, he later became one of the best double bass players in the program and an extraordinary leader with a generous heart.

The schools began to resonate with music. Wind and percussion schools formed their own bands, while string students created the city’s first children’s string orchestras.

This fulfilled one of our greatest dreams and laid the foundation for future youth symphony orchestras. The violin became popular. It erased old stereotypes that once separated social classes and cultures. I had always dreamed of seeing children walking through neighborhood streets carrying violins on their backs. And thankfully, I lived long enough to see it happen.

If there was one thing this beginning taught us, it was that music is a path to dignity, not a luxury. Entering neighborhoods with respect — listening first, building collectively, and creating visible results in a short time — builds trust and opens doors that bureaucracy never can. And the continuity of a program matters just as much as its quality. This was never simply about producing concerts. It was about protecting life processes.

At its heart, the Network exists to place children and young people at the center: to help them recognize their own potential, rebuild social fabric, and expand opportunities.

That has always been the mission. And the promise.

And like every good story, this one is only beginning. Soon, the full story of this program — intertwined with the life of our founder, Juangui — will be published.

Because there are still many chapters left to tell, many adventures, challenges, and lessons that go far beyond the story of the Network itself. They reveal how a deeply human cause can emerge from adversity and become a source of inspiration for children, youth, families, and leaders who seek to contribute — through truth, vulnerability, kindness, and courage — to the creation of a more just, dignified, and humane society for all.