In mid-January 2025, people living among rural hills and rivers of the Catatumbo subregion of Norte de Santander —along Colombia’s border with Venezuela— faced a drastic and sudden surge of violence. Rival armed groups clashed in a territorial battle that forced tens of thousands of men, women, and children to flee their homes in a matter of weeks. According to available estimates, more than 56,000 people were displaced during this outbreak. Entire communities were uprooted almost overnight. Families left behind crops, homes, and schools as they escaped through mountains, carrying little more than what they could hold. Some families traveled for days on foot, crossing rivers and unpaved trails, hoping to reach towns where humanitarian aid might be available. The journey itself was dangerous, exposing them to natural hazards, extreme weather, and the constant threat of encountering armed actors along the way.
The clashes also cut off humanitarian access, collapsing local health services and leaving thousands without food, shelter, or protection. The United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs reported that several municipalities, including El Tarra, Tibú, and Teorama, remain difficult to access even for aid convoys due to the presence of landmines and ongoing combat. These obstacles reveal not only the magnitude of the emergency but also the absence of a unified response strategy capable of addressing overlapping humanitarian, political, and security challenges. Medical teams attempting to bring vaccinations and essential medicines often have to reroute through alternative paths, delaying assistance to families in urgent need. Aid organizations have emphasized that the lack of reliable roads, combined with intermittent communications, hampers coordination and prevents the full scale of needs from being properly assessed.
A Conflict That Refuses to End
For many in Catatumbo, this is not a new story. The region has long been a zone of contestation, where fertile land, strategic routes, and a history of coca cultivation have drawn armed actors for decades. Despite multiple peace efforts, the Colombian government and the National Liberation Army (ELN) have failed to reach a lasting agreement, even after several rounds of talks in 2024 and early 2025. These breakdowns in dialogue have left a dangerous power vacuum, allowing the ELN and the dissident Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) fronts to consolidate control in certain areas and tighten their grip on communities. Negotiations, often mediated by international actors, faltered due to persistent mistrust, accusations of non-compliance, and ongoing attacks during ceasefire periods.
Without a credible peace accord or strong state presence, civilians remain trapped between armed factions. Extortion, forced recruitment, and targeted assassinations continue to define daily life. In municipalities like Tibú, local residents report that shops must pay protection fees to avoid being attacked, while teachers and health workers face direct threats if they refuse to comply with armed groups’ demands or resist recruitment campaigns targeting young people. The persistence of conflict is also tied to the strategic importance of Catatumbo’s geography; its dense forests, mountainous terrain, and border with Venezuela make it a natural corridor for smuggling, illegal mining, and drug trafficking. Both the ELN and FARC dissidents use this border to move arms and coca paste, while Venezuelan armed groups exploit the instability to expand their influence.
For local residents, peace talks that never materialize mean that promises of safety remain words on paper, while violence continues to dominate daily life. As one community leader told the newspaper El Espectador in February 2025, “We are living between two wars—the one that happens in the mountains and the one that happens in silence when no one comes to help us.” This sentiment is echoed across Catatumbo, reflecting the frustration and fear that residents endure as cycles of displacement and insecurity continue year after year.
When the Crisis Fades from View
Despite the urgency and scale of this crisis, national and international coverage faded quickly after the first wave of reports in January and February 2025. That silence matters. When forced displacement disappears from headlines, so do the people living it. This invisibility normalizes neglect, delays humanitarian responses, and weakens accountability.
Based on the most recent protection analysis report, by April more than 62,000 people had been displaced and an additional 27,000 confined in their homes, unable to move because of landmines or threats from armed groups. Yet beyond a few humanitarian updates, public attention dwindled. One reason lies in the geography and access issues of Catatumbo. Journalists and medical staff face severe restrictions: entering many rural zones requires permission from the military or local armed actors. Donor fatigue also plays a role: international organizations have limited budgets and often prioritize higher-visibility crises. As a result, funding for Colombia’s internal displacement response in regions like Catatumbo has lagged.
The invisibility of the crisis is not just informational, it is political.
The Stakes: Life, Dignity, and the Fabric of Communities
When a family flees their home at night carrying only what they can, they are not just moving, they are losing a way of life. Land, livelihood, and community ties are abruptly severed. Among those displaced in Catatumbo, families are separated, elders lose access to medication, and children miss months of school. Young people face a heightened risk of recruitment or exploitation. Humanitarian workers warn that amid the chaos, gender-based violence, human trafficking, and child recruitment are on the rise. These are not isolated incidents; they are part of a broader pattern of rights violations that undermine communities’ social fabric.
This is not only a crisis of numbers—it is a crisis of rights and belonging. When the state cannot or will not guarantee protection, internal borders form. These lines are not drawn on maps, but rather through abandonment, neglect, and fear. Those living within these invisible borders are often left to face violence alone. The humanitarian system’s focus on immediate relief, without long-term strategies for restitution or reintegration, risks perpetuating these cycles of vulnerability.
Cúcuta: The Border City Bearing the Weight
The humanitarian fallout has spilled into Cúcuta, one of the largest cities in Norte de Santander and a key crossing point to Venezuela. As displaced families arrive seeking refuge, schools, shelters, and hospitals are overwhelmed. Local authorities struggle to register new arrivals and provide basic assistance. Many displaced people sleep in overcrowded houses or informal settlements near the border, where conditions are precarious. Limited job opportunities push most into informal labor or survival economies. Meanwhile, the influx of people has intensified pressure on already fragile public services, deepening social inequality and tensions in host communities.
Organizations like the International Rescue Committee (IRC) and Pastoral Social have set up temporary aid centers offering hygiene kits, psychosocial support, and legal counseling. However, these efforts often operate with minimal funding and no long-term sustainability. Teachers in Cúcuta’s public schools have reported overcrowded classrooms, with some hosting up to 50 students, many of them recently displaced or migrants from Venezuela. Children often struggle to keep up academically, while parents face pressure to find income quickly, forcing many into informal work that provides little security.
Human rights observers, including the ACT Alliance, the Norwegian Refugee Council, and UNHCR, have warned that unless there is sustained national support, Cúcuta and the surrounding municipalities could soon become the epicenter of a prolonged displacement emergency.The city’s local government has called for international coordination, urging Bogotá, UN agencies, and the Venezuelan authorities to establish a humanitarian corridor. However, bureaucratic obstacles and diplomatic tensions between the two countries have stalled progress. Even when aid is allowed, delays and limited resources prevent sustained coverage for both immediate relief and long-term recovery.
Documentation and the Demand for Accountability
In the midst of this crisis, documentation plays a crucial and often lifesaving role. Human rights groups, journalists, and even the survivors themselves aren’t simply keeping track of events; they are building a record that can shape humanitarian responses, inform policy, and hold perpetrators accountable in the future. Organizations like Human Rights Watch, the Norwegian Refugee Council (NRC), and the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) rely heavily on reports from the field to see what’s really happening, identify urgent needs, and spot patterns of abuse. They collect this information through interviews with displaced families, surveys in affected communities, and photographic or video evidence of destroyed homes, schools, and infrastructure. Each record isn’t just a statistic—it’s a voice, a story, and a testimony from people whose experiences are too often ignored or silenced.
For families, documentation gives words to experiences that are otherwise invisible. It allows survivors to describe what happened, who was affected, and who is responsible. Lists of victims, personal testimonies, and photographs are far more than records, they’re tools for protection, reparations, and accountability. Imagine a parent reporting that their teenage child has been forcibly recruited by an armed group; that report isn’t just a number in a database. It can trigger emergency protection measures, alert authorities to ongoing recruitment campaigns, and eventually inform broader policy changes. Photographs of destroyed homes, abandoned fields, or burned schools can serve as concrete evidence in legal and advocacy processes, ensuring that destruction and loss don’t go unnoticed.
But documentation on its own isn’t enough. In Catatumbo, the state is often absent, and political will is inconsistent at best. Armed groups operate with near impunity, while local authorities may lack the capacity, or the security, to act on reports of abuse. Without a platform to turn these records into action, documentation risks becoming a snapshot of suffering rather than a catalyst for change. This is why media attention, advocacy, and international solidarity are so essential. Without them, even the most thorough documentation can sit in databases without effecting any real-world impact.
The Colombian Truth Commission (CEV) has stressed that remembering is key to preventing repetition. Its final report highlights how collective memory plays a central role in breaking cycles of violence. But if testimonies simply sit in a database without leading to policy reforms or justice initiatives, then impunity continues, and survivors remain vulnerable. In other words, documentation must have a purpose: it must feed into action, whether through legal avenues, public policy, or protective measures.
Local communities have also taken matters into their own hands. Community radio stations like Voces del Catatumbo act as informal archives of survival. They broadcast updates, report abuses, and provide essential information about displacement, health, and security. These stations give residents a platform to be heard in real time and foster a sense of connection in a region where isolation is a constant threat. They are also a reminder that documentation isn’t just a bureaucratic process—it’s lived, community-driven work that can save lives.
What We Can Do as Readers, Citizens, and Advocates
Keeping eyes on Catatumbo is both a moral and political act. Sharing verified information, reading humanitarian updates, and amplifying local voices helps keep the crisis visible. International partners can support local organizations with funding and technical assistance, while citizens can call for greater accountability from their governments and international institutions.
We must hold two truths together: the urgency of humanitarian needs today, and the necessity of long-term justice and inclusion. Attention, when sustained and informed, can make a difference.
If we listen to the people of Catatumbo—and now those arriving in Cúcuta—we learn that rebuilding is not only about returning to what once was. It is about imagining what could be: a community whose safety, dignity, and memory are protected, not merely by the absence of conflict, but by the presence of justice.
