Families huddle in their homes, afraid to move.
In the ancestral territories of the Awá people in Colombia's Nariño department, more than a thousand indigenous men, women, and children have been rendered prisoners in their own homes by the crossfire of competing armed factions. Since late November 2022, the rhythms of daily life — walking ancestral paths, tending to the vulnerable, moving freely across the land — have been suspended by a violence that is not theirs but that falls upon them entirely. It is a condition as old as colonialism and as urgent as this morning: those with the least power bearing the full weight of conflicts they did not choose.
- Over 1,000 Awá people across four resguardos have been confined indoors since late November, unable to move as FARC dissidents, ELN fighters, and Gaitanista paramilitaries wage territorial war around them.
- A 22-year-old man lost the use of his face and eyes when he stepped on an antipersonnel mine on an ancestral path his community has walked for generations — a quiet, devastating symbol of how thoroughly the land itself has been weaponized.
- Children, pregnant women, the elderly, and people with disabilities shelter in makeshift spaces with no clean water, no food security, and no sanitation, while the government has yet to issue a single official humanitarian declaration.
- The Awá's representative organization has formally documented the crisis and issued an imminent mass displacement alert, demanding that Colombia's 'total peace' policy move from political rhetoric into protective action on the ground.
- If the government fails to respond — activating emergency aid, invoking Decree 1874 of 2022, and opening genuine dialogue — indigenous leaders warn they will reactivate the Humanitarian Minga, a collective act of resistance that signals the community's last recourse.
For more than a week, Awá indigenous families across four resguardos in southern Nariño — Hojal La Turbia, El Gran Sábalo, Quejuambi Feliciana, and Santa Rosita — have been confined to their homes as armed groups clash in their midst. The territories, spanning the municipalities of Tumaco and Barbacoas, became battlegrounds in late November when gunfire erupted near a school in Salví and fighting spread across multiple communities. By December 1, families had stopped moving altogether, trapped between active crossfire and the silent danger of antipersonnel mines buried across the land.
The human cost had already announced itself. On November 19, a 22-year-old named Alfredo Canticus was walking an ancestral path with his mother and sister — a route connecting several communities that his people have used for generations — when he stepped on a mine just past the Río Verde. The explosion left him with severe injuries to his face and eyes.
The Unidad Indígena del Pueblo Awá documented what the government had not yet officially acknowledged: families sheltering in makeshift spaces with no potable water, no food, no sanitation. Children, pregnant women, the elderly, and people with disabilities were among those most exposed. Three armed factions — the Frente 29 of FARC dissidents, the ELN's Frente Comuneros del Sur, and the Gaitanista Bloque Pacífico Sur — had been identified by the Defensoría del Pueblo as competing for control of the region, with the Awá caught between them.
The government convened an extraordinary session in Tumaco, bringing together the Army, Police, Prosecutor's Office, and Ombudsman. But for the Awá, meetings are not medicine. Their leaders are demanding that Colombia's proclaimed 'total peace' policy be applied urgently and concretely in their territory — through humanitarian agreements, differential protections for vulnerable populations, and direct engagement from the High Commissioner for Peace. They have also invoked Decree 1874 of 2022, which mandates urgent attention to their people. Should these demands go unanswered, they have warned they will reactivate the Humanitarian Minga for the Life and Dignity of the Awá People — a collective act of resistance that signals not desperation, but resolve.
For more than a week, the Awá indigenous communities scattered across four resguardos in Nariño's southern reaches have been trapped. Armed groups clash in their territory. Families huddle in their homes, afraid to move. Children, pregnant women, elderly people, and those with disabilities wait in makeshift shelters with no clean water, no reliable food, no safe place to sleep.
The violence erupted in late November across resguardos named Hojal La Turbia, El Gran Sábalo, Quejuambi Feliciana, and Santa Rosita—territories that straddle the municipalities of Tumaco and Barbacoas in the department of Nariño. On November 30, gunfire broke out near the community of Salví and a local school, lasting roughly an hour starting around 5 p.m. The same day, fighting flared again in Quejuambi Feliciana. By December 1, multiple clashes had forced families to abandon normal life and confine themselves indoors, trapped between the crossfire and another, quieter threat: antipersonnel mines scattered across the land.
On November 19, a 22-year-old named Alfredo Canticus stepped on one of those mines while traveling with his mother and sister along an ancestral path that connects several communities. The explosion tore into his face and eyes, leaving him with severe injuries. He had been walking just 200 meters past the Río Verde, heading toward kilometer 84 of the Pasto-Tumaco highway—a route his people have used for generations to move between Sabaleta Sábalo, Cuchilla Albí, El Verde, and Güiza Sábalo. Now that path, like so much else, had become dangerous.
The Unidad Indígena del Pueblo Awá, the organization representing these communities, issued a formal alert warning of imminent mass forced displacement. They documented the presence of armed actors and the constant firefights. They named what they saw: families with nowhere safe to go, children and elderly people in extreme vulnerability, pregnant women without prenatal care, people with disabilities unable to flee. The makeshift shelters where some had already sought refuge offered nothing—no potable water, no food security, no basic sanitation. Yet despite these displacements already underway, the government had issued no official declarations, provided no humanitarian assistance.
The armed groups themselves remain unnamed in the indigenous leaders' public statements, but the Defensoría del Pueblo's early warning system identified them clearly: the Frente 29 of FARC dissidents, the Frente Comuneros del Sur of the ELN, and the Bloque Pacífico Sur of the Gaitanista Self-Defense Forces all operate in Barbacoas, all competing for control. The Awá are caught in the middle of their territorial dispute.
On the surface, the government has responded. An extraordinary session of the Transitional Justice Committee convened in Tumaco, led by Mayor María Emilsen Angulo. The Army, Police, Prosecutor's Office, and Ombudsman's Office attended. They discussed the situation. But for the indigenous communities, discussion is not enough. They are demanding that the government's recently announced "total peace" policy be implemented urgently in their territory—that it move from rhetoric to action, that it produce humanitarian agreements capable of reducing the violence that surrounds them.
The Awá leadership has made their position clear: accelerate the peace implementation, activate emergency humanitarian attention, provide differential protection for vulnerable populations, ensure the Ombudsman's office activates its protection mechanisms, and create spaces where the High Commissioner for Peace can actually listen and respond. They have also invoked a specific presidential decree—Decree 1874 of 2022—that mandates urgent attention to the Awá people. If these demands are not met, they warn, they will reactivate the Humanitarian Minga for the Life and Dignity of the Awá People, a form of collective indigenous protest and resistance. The choice, they are saying, belongs to the government now.
Notable Quotes
Between these families are minors, women, youth, elderly, people with disabilities and pregnant women who remain in extreme vulnerability and require immediate and differentiated humanitarian attention.— Unidad Indígena del Pueblo Awá (UNIPA)
If the situation persists under these conditions, we will unfortunately be forced to reactivate the Humanitarian Minga for the Life and Dignity of the Awá People.— UNIPA leadership
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why are these particular communities so exposed to this conflict?
They live in territory that multiple armed groups want to control. The geography—remote, connected to Ecuador, rich in resources—makes it valuable. The Awá just happen to be there.
And the government knows this is happening?
Yes. The Ombudsman's office has issued alerts about armed group presence in Barbacoas. An extraordinary committee met in Tumaco. But knowing and acting are different things.
What does "total peace" mean to them?
It means the government's new policy of negotiating with armed groups should produce actual agreements that reduce violence in their territory. Right now it's a promise without implementation.
Why mention the antipersonnel mine injury so specifically?
Because it shows the layered danger. It's not just crossfire. The land itself has become a weapon. A young man's face was destroyed on a path his ancestors walked.
What happens if the government doesn't respond?
They've said they'll escalate their own resistance—reactivate what they call the Humanitarian Minga. It's a way of saying: we will make this impossible to ignore.
Are they asking for the armed groups to leave?
No. They're asking the government to negotiate with those groups in ways that protect indigenous life. They want peace, not just the absence of their own people.