Colombia’s Catatumbo: A Region Gripped by Conflict and Humanitarian Crisis

The bus had been bouncing along a rutted, broken road for almost five hours. Inside, the heat built up, and dust clung to skin. Suddenly, the vehicle screeched to a halt at the gates of Tibú, the capital of Catatumbo, in northern Colombia. Anywhere else, it would have been just a stop. But in Catatumbo, it wasn’t.

A civilian guerrilla fighter, rifle slung over his shoulder, climbed aboard. He identified himself as belonging to the National Liberation Army (ELN), one of Colombia’s armed groups that seems to bring death wherever it plants its flag. He questioned the passengers, noticing a few blonde and redheads. “What are you doing here? Foreigners?” he asked, then pressed, “A humanitarian convoy?” His skepticism hung in the air.

Simultaneously, a young man on a motorcycle confronted the convoy’s only armored vehicle. He brandished a silver revolver, a melting mango popsicle dangling from his mouth. “Roll down the windows! Put your hands up!” he shouted, mango juice splattering on the ground. But the armored vehicle’s windows didn’t budge.

Tension eased when a soldier approached within 30 meters. The proximity of opposing forces sparked a new fear among those watching: being caught in the crossfire. Thankfully, no shots were fired. The incident felt like an anomaly, but in Catatumbo, this is daily life. A routine where no one enters or leaves without permission, where freedom of action and speech is curtailed. For over a year and three months, simply leaving home – or even staying in it – carries the risk of being caught in a shootout.

This is a war of movement: of roads that can’t be taken, towns that can’t be exited, and families resigned to staying put. Catatumbo, one of Colombia’s largest coca-growing enclaves, is embroiled in a conflict that receives little international attention. For the residents of this border region with Venezuela, the violence isn’t new, but it has escalated since January 16, 2025, reaching levels not seen in decades. It began with the murder of a funeral home owner, his wife, and their infant in Tibú, inside the hearse itself. This sparked a bloody dispute between the ELN and Front 33, a faction of former FARC guerrillas who didn’t sign the 2016 peace agreement. And with it, Colombia’s most severe humanitarian crisis in 20 years unfolded.

Since then, 99,000 residents, mostly farmers, have been forced to abandon their homes and crops, according to the organization Vivamos Humanos. There have also been over 4,000 emergency evacuations, more than 170 civilian homicides, and at least 262 violent incidents in 2025, making Catatumbo the country’s most dangerous area. Commerce has ground to a halt, and people live in fear of working or even cultivating their own land. Every day, finding safety becomes more demanding. In places where internet access is only available via satellite and there isn’t a single doctor for miles, the war has brought its own innovations: landmines on roads, drones with explosives in the sky. “This is a factory of victims,” laments César Ruiz, a community leader representing over 12,000 residents.

The conflict isn’t driven by ideology so much as control of territory rich in oil, coal, and coca crops, and control of a key corridor to Venezuela for drug trafficking and movement of armed groups. It’s a fratricidal war: many of those shooting at each other have known each other for years – relatives, friends, or acquaintances now on opposing sides. And the victims are the civilians: displaced, killed, mutilated, spied upon, terrorized, desperate to depart.

The roads through Catatumbo pass ghost towns. The bus crawls past boarded-up facades, “For Sale” signs, and gates warning of landmines. On the way to Kilometer 25, one of three towns visited by El País, the Las Reinas del Norte bar has lost even its last bottle, dust settling on the billiard tables. No one plays anymore. No one stops. Graffiti with the initials of the guerrillas marks the empty houses and the school, a supposed shield against attacks, stands deserted.

Beyond the zinc roofs lies the jungle and the mountains, the habitat where guerrillas hide and conduct their business. But not everyone can leave, or knows where to travel. They ask for help from the state, which doesn’t always arrive. Lucía, a 40-year-aged farmer, registered as displaced four days after the war began and has been waiting ever since. In all of Norte de Santander, the department where Catatumbo is located, there are 421,607 people registered as victims, primarily due to homicide, threats, and forced displacement. “The slowness has been tremendous… There’s no aid, no income. And there’s nothing to live on in the town,” she laments, refusing to reveal her true name. She hasn’t slept on her farm for over a year: “At night, it sounds like gunpowder.”

Kilometer 25 greets visitors with the ELN’s red and black flag. Once a guerrilla group combining Marxist-Leninist doctrine with liberation theology, its beliefs are now unclear. Children with platinum blonde hair stand out in this town of mestizos and indigenous people. They are a legacy of the oil boom that brought North American companies, wells, currency, settlers, and attempts to exterminate the Barí indigenous people. Here, people live in open-air cages. They don’t even leave to give birth. Babies are born without being registered. To register them, you have to go to the road.

More than 30,000 people have been confined at some point during this crisis, and over 600 remained so when El País visited. Roberto, a 30-year-old community leader and father of two, insists on staying, refusing to abandon what they’ve built over the years. “It’s not easy to leave everything behind: the farms, the animals, what you’ve achieved with so much effort,” he says anonymously. Elkin Robles, another leader resisting in the territory, hasn’t seen his mother and brother for eight months, though they live relatively close by. There’s no explicit prohibition, but he fears for his safety. “It’s not that I don’t want to go, but there’s a constant sense of risk.” He laments, “There are towns that seem like another country… like Iraq, all destroyed, but this is Colombia, and this is my Catatumbo.” “Staying is the real revolution,” he declares.

The problem, Robles says, isn’t just the war. “What’s lacking here is social investment. We’ve always been abandoned.” Paulo Téllez, another leader, questions what has been done after being heard. “We were listened to, yes, but what happened afterward?” he asks his neighbors in a camp housing 180 displaced people, including around 60 children. Their makeshift homes, built with tarps and wooden planks on the banks of a tributary of the Tibú River, are starting to look permanent.

The complete absence of the state begins with the roads, which haven’t been repaired since they were built. There’s no potable water, and in many places, people apply buckets to flush toilets. Children don’t even receive their first vaccine. There are more uniformed personnel than doctors. The new generation studies as best they can, but their elders consider their future lost. “What will they do here, no matter how many degrees they get?” they ask.

On Wednesday evening in Tibú, a loud explosion echoed. All the birds in the city took flight. Then another. They were mortar bombs launched from a battalion, attempting to stop a column of guerrillas. The same bombs that have fallen on the farms of several farmers, destroying everything. For a few seconds, only the cries of the fleeing birds were heard. The town, with its 70,000 inhabitants scattered between the city and rural areas, fell silent.

Before leaving Catatumbo, four days after that checkpoint, someone called to ask how we were returning home. “By land or by plane?” The warning came without waiting for a response: “Don’t go by land. They’re shooting.”

The Echoes of Catatumbo in Austin, Texas

The situation in Catatumbo, while geographically distant, resonates with growing concerns about instability and humanitarian crises impacting global supply chains and migration patterns – issues that directly affect a city like Austin, Texas. Austin’s thriving tech sector, for example, relies on stable international markets for components and materials. Disruptions in regions like Colombia, due to conflict and displacement, can create ripple effects, increasing costs and potentially hindering innovation. Austin, like many major US cities, has a significant Latin American population, and events like those unfolding in Catatumbo can lead to increased asylum claims and strain local social services. The University of Texas at Austin’s Teresa Lozano Long Institute of Latin American Studies, for instance, actively monitors and researches these types of regional conflicts, recognizing their broader implications.

Navigating the Fallout: A Local Resource Guide for Austin Residents

Given my background in geopolitical risk analysis and humanitarian logistics, if the trends highlighted in the Catatumbo crisis – increased displacement, supply chain disruptions, and potential migration flows – start to significantly impact you in the Austin area, here are three types of local professionals you’ll want to connect with:

International Trade Compliance Specialists: Austin’s businesses engaged in international trade, particularly those sourcing materials from Latin America, should consult with specialists who can assess and mitigate risks related to supply chain disruptions. Look for firms with expertise in conflict zone sourcing and sanctions compliance. Criteria to look for include certifications from organizations like the Certified Global Trade Professional (CGTP) and a proven track record of navigating complex geopolitical landscapes.
Immigration Attorneys with Asylum Law Expertise: An increase in asylum claims from Colombian and Venezuelan nationals is a likely consequence of the escalating crisis. Austin residents seeking to assist or represent asylum seekers should seek out attorneys specializing in this area of law. Prioritize attorneys with a demonstrated commitment to pro bono operate and a deep understanding of the legal complexities of asylum claims. The American Immigration Lawyers Association (AILA) is a good resource for finding qualified professionals.
Mental Health Professionals with Trauma-Informed Care Training: Displacement and conflict trauma can have lasting effects on individuals and communities. Austin residents, particularly those working with immigrant and refugee populations, should connect with mental health professionals trained in trauma-informed care. Look for therapists with experience working with Latin American populations and a commitment to culturally sensitive care. Organizations like the Trauma Research Foundation offer training and resources for mental health professionals.

Ready to locate trusted professionals? Browse our complete directory of top-rated legal experts in the Austin area today.

International Trade Compliance Specialists: Expertise in navigating complex regulations, mitigating supply chain risks, and ensuring ethical sourcing practices.
Immigration Attorneys (Asylum Law): Specialized knowledge of asylum law, providing legal representation and advocacy for individuals seeking protection.
Trauma-Informed Mental Health Professionals: Training in understanding and addressing the psychological effects of trauma, offering culturally sensitive care.