The road to Tibú, the capital of Colombia’s Catatumbo region, is more than a journey—it is a trial. After nearly five hours of jolting along a road riddled with potholes, the bus carrying a team from EL PAÍS and humanitarian workers came to an abrupt stop. In any other part of the world, it would have been just a pause. In Catatumbo, it meant encountering the armed forces that dictate life here. A guerrilla in civilian clothes climbed aboard, fusil slung over his shoulder. He introduced himself as a member of the Ejército de Liberación Nacional (ELN), one of Colombia’s oldest armed groups, notorious for sowing death wherever their banner flies. “What are you doing here? Foreigners?” he asked, eyeing the pale hair of a few passengers. When told they were part of a humanitarian mission, he descended quietly, but the tension had already set in.
Moments later, a young man on a motorcycle confronted the convoy’s only armored vehicle, revolver in hand, a melting ice cream cup dangling from his lips. “Roll down the windows! Hands up!” he barked. The vehicle remained closed, and only the approach of a soldier at close range calmed the standoff. Such encounters are part of daily life in the Catatumbo, where roads are contested, where villagers are trapped in the middle of a shifting war, and where leaving home is no longer a simple choice—it is a calculated risk. EL PAÍS witnessed firsthand the constant danger, the tension that permeates every interaction in this contested region.
The violence in this region is far from new, but it intensified dramatically on January 16, 2025, with the murder of a Tibú funeral director, his wife, and their infant child, all killed in the funeral vehicle itself. This atrocity triggered a violent struggle between the ELN and the Frente 33, a faction of former FARC guerrillas that refused the 2016 peace agreement. Since then, Catatumbo has become Colombia’s most dangerous flashpoint. Nearly 100,000 people have fled, thousands have been evacuated in emergencies, over 170 civilians have been murdered, and at least 262 violent incidents were reported in 2025 alone, according to the human rights organization Vivamos Humanos. EL PAÍS documented the paralyzed commerce, the abandoned homes, and the fear that keeps farmers from tending even their most basic crops. Internet reaches only sporadically via satellite, medical care is scarce, and the presence of armed actors has introduced new technologies of terror, from landmines on roads to explosive drones patrolling the skies. “This is a factory of victims,” laments César Ruiz, a community leader representing more than 12,000 neighbors.
Ideology has little bearing on the conflict today. It is a fight over lucrative resources, including oil, coal, and coca crops, and the strategic corridors leading into Venezuela, key for drug trafficking and armed movement. Many of those killing one another are acquaintances, neighbors, even relatives divided into opposing factions. Ordinary residents, meanwhile, bear the brunt: displaced, maimed, killed, and forced into hiding. Roads wind through ghost towns, past abandoned homes and “for sale” signs, with warnings painted on walls: “Caution, mined.” Schools are empty, bars shuttered, and houses marked with guerrilla insignias. Forests and mountains beyond these settlements provide refuge to fighters and conceal their illicit enterprises, as EL PAÍS observed during a multi-day visit.
Yet leaving is not always an option. Many residents stay behind out of necessity or stubborn resistance, unwilling to abandon everything they have built. Roberto, a 30-year-old community leader and father of two, explains the dilemma: “It is not easy to leave behind the little things: farms, animals, everything you have worked for.” Others, like Elkin Robles, have endured months separated from family, their movements constrained by fear. “Some towns feel like another country… like Iraq, all destroyed, but this is Colombia, my Catatumbo,” he says. “Still, I will not leave. Staying is the real revolution.” EL PAÍS spoke with families who remain despite the constant threat, witnessing their determination and the everyday courage it requires.
The absence of state support compounds the suffering. Infrastructure is dilapidated, potable water is scarce, sanitation relies on buckets, and children often go unvaccinated. Humanitarian convoys arrive sporadically, and when the state appears, it is brief and insufficient, leaving residents to navigate bureaucratic delays for essential aid. Paulo Téllez, a displaced leader, criticized the delay: “They heard us, yes, but what have they done since?” Even temporary shelters, made from tarps and wooden planks along the riverbanks, are quickly settling into permanence out of necessity. EL PAÍS documented these improvised settlements, observing the precarious conditions that leave children and adults exposed to disease, hunger, and the psychological toll of displacement.
Children are particularly vulnerable in this landscape. The ELN has repeatedly attempted to recruit adolescents, using not only promises of pay but also emotional manipulation. “Their concern is that children must not be caught in the middle of this conflict,” says María Alejandra Quintero of Madres del Catatumbo. Her organization monitors the coercion of minors and emphasizes the principle that “we do not give birth to children for war.”
Violence is a constant, punctuated by explosions that send flocks of birds into the sky and leave towns in stunned silence. Mortar shells intended to disrupt guerrilla columns often land on civilian farms, flattening crops and homes alike. Residents live in fear from morning to night, navigating a landscape where every trip outside carries risk, every encounter may be life-threatening, and the choices are stark: flee and lose everything or stay and endure. EL PAÍS’ reporting reveals a grim reality largely invisible to the international community: a conflict fueled not by ideology but by greed, opportunity, and the strategic significance of a border region abandoned for decades.
Despite the chaos, some families resist displacement. Their choice is a statement of resilience, an act of maintaining a life against all odds. Others leave out of necessity, hoping for the protection of the state or humanitarian organizations. Yet even temporary reprieves are fragile, with armed clashes resuming and uncertainty ruling daily existence. Catatumbo is emblematic of a larger crisis in Colombia: life, death, and fear coexist inescapably, every day, in a territory that remains contested, neglected, and chronicled by EL PAÍS for the world to see.
