Many might say, coldly, that this is just how war is and that Filogringo is a battleground in the current conflict involving the 33rd Front of the extinct FARC, the Colombian Army, and the National Liberation Army (ELN).
But this is only one side of the story. Filogringo and its surrounding areas are rich in natural resources that have been coveted by the wealthiest—both nationally and internationally—for nearly a century. For ninety years, the people of Catatumbo have had to defend their territory. It is not just because of the current situation, nor is it solely due to the clashes between the parties to the conflict.
What does the territory that the people of Filogringo are defending mean?
One resident explains it this way: “When we talk about our territory, we’re not thinking of a specific piece of land, but rather the entire Catatumbo region. Because culture, the love of the people, and brotherhood are one and the same. Everyone is ready to collaborate, to help, to build, and to create alternatives that allow us to stay here.”
Another leader from this deeply affected community shares:
“We defend our territory because we’ve been in a constant struggle here: a struggle for water, for the mountains, for everything. We’ve created so many things in this territory, and we defend those achievements. We built schools and health clinics; we constructed roads and bridges for vehicles—all with our own money, from the communities. I’m proud to be a farmer in Catatumbo because we know how to grow our crops without technology. We know how to plant cacao, when to prune it, how to cultivate banana trees, and when to plant corn and beans. The elders taught us all this, and all of this is what it means to build our territory.”
Finally, they explain that defending their territory means defending their history:
“In 1987, I was 16 years old. In our communities, we had nothing: no roads, no electricity, no schools. So we, the leaders of the northeastern region, decided we needed a list of demands to present to the Colombian government. With that, we joined the northeastern strike. I was very young, but we wrote that list by hand and then on a typewriter, and we joined the strikes. That’s when the government began killing the leaders. I met a young man, about 27 years old, whom they called Camaleón (the Chameleon) because of a skin condition. He lived in the neighboring community of San Luis. One morning, the army arrived at the soccer field and, in the crudest way possible, castrated him. They took him under the Cajón Bridge, where a stream of blood flowed; the young man bled to death. His memory is part of our territory.”
This is not simply about defending a plot of land, but about defending—in the face of barbarism—that territory which has defined an entire tradition and way of life as a community. It is about defending that place where dreams and plans for a dignified life are still being built.
What and whom are they defending their territory from?
The activists in Filogringo are clear about who they must confront: the Colombian state.
“I am currently 58 years old. I began participating in the Community Action Board when I was 14. From that moment on, I’ve understood that the territory is something that must be defended. We must defend it from a state that has always kept us marginalized and neglected. That same state created paramilitarism as a repressive apparatus to displace people, with the clear intention of handing over the entire region to the mining industry.”
When the residents of Filogringo speak of the state, they are not referring only to the institutional apparatus, but to everything it represents, promotes, and defends: paramilitarism and dispossession.
“Other countries, such as the United States, want to take our territory. It’s because of the minerals, oil, coal, gold, rare earth elements, timber, and water,” explains a community leader.
And it is precisely there—from that ideological perspective—that the dispute over territory arises: the idea that territory is defined by the natural resources available to be plundered, rather than by the people’s culture, their needs, and their struggle.
The region’s history shows how this has repeatedly led to mass killings and displacement.
“In the 1930s, American oil companies arrived and drove the Barí people from their territory. They formed hunting parties with dogs to go out and hunt them down, and it was legal. Later, a German settled here who logged the forests and gave our village its name: ‘Filogringo.’ On that occasion as well, Colombian military forces arrived to drive them out. But they didn’t manage to kill all the Barí; they’re still here.”
Then came paramilitarism—understood as a state policy or strategy—just as the villager quoted earlier put it. Another resident recalls that period:
“They arrived between 2000 and 2001 and claimed that the people living on the other side of the river were guerrillas, and that anyone who crossed the bridge was a military target. They massacred several people. The government was supposed to defend us, but the paramilitaries entered alongside the security forces and their repressive apparatus. Helicopters and planes bombed and fired bursts of gunfire from above, while the paramilitaries, on the ground, rounded up people, massacred them, and forced them to flee. They set fire to almost all the homes in the town. They stayed in Filogringo for four years. Very few residents remained. The families who remained had to provide services for them—bringing them groceries and things like that—not with the intention of doing their dirty work. Some went to Bogotá, others scattered to different cities across the region, and still others sought asylum in Canada. The social fabric was destroyed. It wasn’t until a couple of years later that we repopulated Filogringo and rebuilt our Community Action Board with the support of the CISCA social movement. We even created the Festival for Peasant Life in the Catatumbo Territory, which we celebrated year after year; with the funds raised, we were able to purchase a farm in the name of the entire community. We also managed to get the government to compensate us for what we suffered during the paramilitary incursion”[1].
Paramilitarism is not a clearly defined entity that can be easily identified, nor is it a group that simply mutates or changes its name to survive and expand into new territories. As a state policy and counterinsurgency strategy, it has not disappeared but has instead been reinvented: it has shifted from the large-scale, visible massacres of the 1980s and 1990s to a much quieter, more sophisticated, and clandestine form of social control. Today, the Colombian state’s operative is called Front 33 of the Magdalena Medio Bloc of the General Staff of Blocs and Fronts (EMBF, in Spanish). The population has little doubt about who is launching drones against their homes.
The fact that its territory has been militarized since 2025, when Petro’s government declared a state of internal emergency, yet that force has never been attacked, speaks volumes about the relationship between them. And although, from a military standpoint, one would assume that the main target would be the ELN, everything seems to indicate that, in reality, the target has been the population.
The day before the U.S. attack on Venezuela that led to the kidnapping of Nicolás Maduro, then-President Petro declared that Filogringo was a “symbolic zone of drug trafficking and ELN control.” In the same remarks, he added: “Until the very last day of my administration and beyond, I will strive to make the Caribbean a zone of peace and ensure that the people of Venezuela find a political solution to their differences and hold a constitutional referendum.” He announced that “the Army has already entered Filo Gringo under my orders.”
This combination of words and actions raised suspicions about the progressive government’s role in the geopolitical chess game and contributed to the historical stigmatization of the town’s residents.
But the government of Abelardo De la Espriella has taken a giant step further. Three days after taking office as Colombia’s head of state, just hours before the onset of the national humanitarian emergency caused by the earthquake whose epicenter was located in the southwestern part of the country, De la Espriella ordered the bombing of the neighboring village of Sinaí. Three peasants were injured, including a 44-year-old woman, and it was later revealed that a 16-year-old boy died as a result of the bombing. One house was destroyed, and the population was displaced.
The government reported two ELN combatants killed, but what stands out most about the attack is the harm inflicted on the civilian population.
A farmer from Filogringo reflects on the events:
“They’re bombing the farmers’ homes. This leads us to believe there may be a collusion between the military and them [Front 33] to continue killing farmers.”
Meanwhile, drone attacks continue unabated, and the damage to homes and families mounts each week. For example, the week before last—ten days before De la Espriella’s inauguration—the home of the president of ASOJUNTAS, the highest grassroots authority in the area, was attacked.
Given that drones are highly precise, it would be naive to think that this attack was a coincidence. Another community leader explains: “They’ve used technology to map out every village. With GPS, they’ve already pinpointed our homes. They know where my dad lives, where my son lives, where my family lives. This worries us tremendously about our ability to remain in the territory today.”
Second, the use of harmful chemicals as part of the war on coca poses a real threat to the residents of Filogringo and the entire region. During his election campaign, De la Espriella spoke of using “state-of-the-art bioherbicides,” and in his inaugural address, he reiterated that a herbicide would be used “that causes no harm, does not violate the Constitutional Court’s ruling, and does not harm the environment.” Everything points to ammonium glufosinate being the replacement.
However, according to Indepaz director Camilo González, research shows that “the use of glufosinate can block the enzymes that allow humans to eliminate ammonia from the body. Severe poisoning is associated with seizures, memory loss, and coma. There is also a risk of fetal developmental abnormalities and fertility issues.”
He adds that: “It can cause severe chemical burns upon contact with the skin and eyes. Furthermore, in aquatic ecosystems, it is extremely toxic to fish and aquatic plants if it enters rivers. It can also alter insect behavior, destroy bee larvae, reduce vegetation cover, and accelerate erosion. In domestic animals, ingestion can cause tremors, suffocation, and vomiting, while contact causes burns”[2].
Additionally, De la Espriella repealed the 2015 resolution suspending the use of glyphosate in the second week of his term.
A peasant leader from Filogringo illustrates the ineffectiveness of this herbicide in eradicating coca:
“Glyphosate doesn’t even harm the coca. They spray it, and six months later they’re harvesting again. But if poison lands on a cacao or coffee plant, that one actually dies. If poison lands on a cut of cassava, you can’t eat it anymore.” He adds: “Glyphosate, in addition to contaminating the water, is carcinogenic. That’s why it’s banned in the United States, where it’s produced. They’re coming to experiment again on lab rats—and in this case, we’re still the ones being used as laboratory rats.”
Abelardo De la Espriella prioritizes hydrocarbon extraction and mining as drivers of development. He has stated this repeatedly and has begun a process of relaxing the few environmental and legal restrictions that existed under the previous administration. The promotion of fracking is just the tip of the iceberg of what his hydrocarbon and mining policy will entail.
A community leader explains what this means for them:
“There’s only one obstacle standing in the way of them extracting those resources today: us—the leaders who have always opposed the exploitation of natural resources in the region. We are the counterforce to that plan to get rich at the expense of farmers. That makes us a target for them.”
“Right now, for us in Filogringo, defending the territory means sacrificing even our very lives,” reflects a peasant leader, bravely and realistically. “Despite adversity, every day we wake up with high spirits and the desire to move forward. Moving forward means continuing to produce, even though farming is dangerous because there are mined fields and ‘those who roam around and don’t want us here.’ We face logistical challenges, transportation issues, high production costs, and marketing difficulties—more than usual. But we keep working the land.”
The leaders also speak of the need to defend their culture in a context where even the most innocuous customs have become dangerous:
“We have always respected mourning. If a brother, father, or son died, you would wear black for about two years—all black. But today we can’t even wear a black shirt because they single us out (as guerrillas) just for a simple black shirt.”
They believe it is necessary to strengthen coordination among communities, foster national and international solidarity, build a defense network against potential prosecutions, and organize social mobilization with self-protection mechanisms in the face of a government that threatens to harshly repress anyone who plans to protest.
Furthermore, they know that, although De la Espriella enjoys strong support from the U.S. empire and from many governments that have joined or succumbed to the wave of fascistization on the continent, there are also people keeping a close eye on his agenda and the state of human rights in Colombia.
For this reason, reporting human rights violations plays a fundamental role in their self-protection strategies. It is also important to keep alive the memory of what the community has historically endured and to strengthen the Weavers’ Committee—a group of survivors of military and paramilitary raids that has become the organizational hub for historical memory.
Finally, defending the territory means maintaining and revitalizing social organization—a difficult task in the face of bombs falling almost every day.
“This is a crucial moment to organize ourselves better and to gain a deep understanding of what lies ahead, because it’s like when you play a soccer match: if you study the opponent, you know how to face them. We remain fully committed to helping the community. They haven’t broken our spirit,” explains an ASOJUNTAS leader.
The community leaders and residents of Filogringo, who face a reality so harsh that it keeps them teetering between life and death, are an example of tenacity, strength, and courage for other communities in Colombia and Latin America that are fighting to defend their territory and create alternative ways of life, challenging the powers that control the world.
In 2007, the Council of State ruled in favor of the community, which argued that the state had failed to protect it from paramilitary groups, and 537 residents were awarded 13,000,000 COP in compensation.
[JUDICIAL EDITORIAL. “Glufosinate: The Herbicide That Could Replace Glyphosate—and Is Already Raising Concerns.” El Espectador [online]. August 28, 2026. [Accessed September 2, 2026].](https://www.elespectador.com/judicial/glufosinato-el-herbicida-que-podria-reemplazar-al-glifosato-y-que-ya-genera-dudas/)
The Pueblos Legal Team is a human rights organization.
