Alberto Franco* has long lost count of how many times he has had to hide in the forest until the gunfire dies down. The southern Colombian forest where he grew up has been a battlefield for decades. Over the last few years, armed groups have robbed his people of their freedom.

Franco was born in the upper part of Buenavista, in Putumayo, an Indigenous reserve that was formalized in 1983 and is referred to as the ‘ancient root.’ It is a community founded by seven families led by Arsenio Yaiguaje, a visionary taita (elder). Franco is the son of a Mestizo father and a Siona mother and found himself growing up between two worlds, though he ultimately chose his mother’s. His true schooling, however, was from his grandparents and the use of yagé (ayahuasca). In 2008, he became a governor and later went on to coordinate the Indigenous guard.

The Siona have ancestrally been the guardians of their territory. They have protected the river with the boa, the earth with the tiger, and the sky with the eagle, according to their spiritual history. However, in 2014, when the Colombian oil company Amerisur attempted to enter their communities, they discovered that spiritual defense alone was insufficient. That was when they decided to formalize the Indigenous guard, the same group they had tried to organize seven or eight years prior, despite many setbacks.

By 2015, the Buenavista Indigenous guard had grown to 35 members and consolidated its spiritual and political mandate. Three years later, the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (IACHR) recognized the guard as part of the Siona’s traditional system, but warned that the ongoing armed conflict threatened the group’s survival.

The Siona community in Putumayo had an estimated population of 2,578 people spread across six reserves and six councils, based on censuses conducted between 2009 and 2012. In 2017, Franco counted 171 families, representing a total of 633 inhabitants. Displacement and the need to flee to cities and towns due to the armed conflict have weakened the community, he said. Today, the whereabouts of some members remain uncertain.

For years, local sources said the war put Siona people at risk of both physical and cultural extinction, a reality recognized in Colombia’s Constitutional Court Ruling 04 of 2009, which ordered measures to protect the fundamental rights of Indigenous peoples in the Amazon. Yet today, little has changed.

Unmet commitments

In their own language, the Siona call themselves gantëya bain, which translates to ‘people of the Putumayo River.’ They are an Indigenous people who have lived along the Putumayo River, in the municipalities of Puerto Asís and Puerto Leguízamo, near the Ecuadorian border. There are also Siona communities along the banks of the Piñuña Blanco and Cuehembí rivers.

The forest and the rivers, Franco explained, are a living grocery store, a wild pharmacy, and a spiritual guide where yagé provides the signs needed to act, both in everyday life and during life’s most important decisions. From the land and rivers, the Siona people say they have everything they need to live in harmony with nature. Like their ancestors, they rely on the chagra (traditional gardens), fish and forest animals. Yagé and yoco (a caffeinated vine) are their spiritual foundation. Rayana (a type of root), casabe (a type of flatbread), and cassava chicha (a fermented or non-fermented drink) are staples of their diet. “We’re a people of peace, passive but beaten,” said Franco.

On July 14, 2018, the IACHR issued protective measures for the leaders and members of the Gonzaya (Buenavista) and Po Piyuya (Santa Cruz de Piñuña Blanco) Indigenous reserves. The decision responded to a request alerting about serious threats and violence from armed actors in the territory.

After reviewing the information, the IACHR deemed the situation urgent and requested that the Colombian government take necessary measures to protect the lives and safety of Siona leaders and families: Many of them appeared on blacklists and faced imminent threats. The request included providing adequate protection and guarantees for safe living, facilitating safe movement, removing explosives, preventing forced recruitment, improving emergency communications, coordinating measures with the community, and investigating incidents.

Since 2018, the IACHR has monitored the situation through information requests, six working meetings and two public hearings. Despite the urgency and seven years of ongoing dialogue, Franco said the government has failed to take meaningful action. The lack of concrete progress has led many Siona people to feel that the measures were “just words.” At this point, Franco said he sensed a rising feeling of hopelessness in his community.

Given the ongoing risk, on Aug. 21, 2024, the IACHR expanded its protective measures through a new resolution. The precedent for this decision was devastating: In 2023, 713 people were displaced or confined (444 people from the Siona Buenavista community and 269 from Santa Cruz de Piñuña Blanco). Civilians were caught in clashes between two dissident groups from the former Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) — the Carolina Ramírez Front 1 and the Border Command — which still operate in the area, according to a press release at the time. Many of those displaced, coming from different rural settlements, fled to Puerto Silencio, a small village within the same reserve, where they spent several months living in constant fear.

“You could hear the gunfire, rat-tat-tat … When I got there, he told me, ‘Come on, we have to evacuate right now.’ Armed men went by in a boat telling us to get out as fast as we could because there was going to be a shootout from all sides and a stray bullet could kill us,” a local resident recounted at the time in a testimony gathered by the José Alvear Restrepo Lawyers’ Collective (CAJAR). On Dec. 2, 2023, it became known that one of the armed groups had drawn up a list of people they had planned to target later that month.

Despite the IACHR’s ongoing calls for the Colombian government to report back and ensure coordination between state institutions and the community for the effective implementation of the protective measures, none of this has reached the territory. Testimonies gathered for this report describe noncompliance with protective measures, a lack of cultural appropriateness in many actions, militarization by the security forces, and insufficient resources.

These failures to comply with the 2018 protective measures are detailed in the IACHR’s 2024 follow-up resolution. However, it also notes some progress reported by various state bodies. For example, the National Environmental Licensing Authority (ANLA) has conducted prior consultation processes for extraction projects and environmental licensing in Indigenous territories, a process that was previously irregular. The document also states that the government has reported progress in criminal investigations, including one for aggravated sexual assault (resulting in a conviction in May 2022), and others for aggravated sexual abuse, contempt of court for violating territorial and collective rights, and the illegal recruitment and use of minors, as well as two ongoing investigations for threats.

The deputy minister of the interior, through the Directorate of Indigenous, Roma, and Minority Affairs (DAIRM), maintains that the 2018 IACHR protective measures do not directly apply to its mandate as defined by Resolution 2340 of 2015. DAIRM told the Vorágine media team that it will coordinate with the Foreign Ministry to provide a more detailed response on the matter. However, DAIRM states that it has supported the Siona people by coordinating inter-institutional dialogues, providing humanitarian aid during displacements and confinements (restrictions on mobility and access) in 2023, and offering logistical support for 16 Siona authorities at a follow-up meeting on the measures in September 2023. DAIRM also stated, in a report sent to the Vorágine team, that it has made progress on the safeguard plan required under Constitutional Court Order 004 of 2009 through community assessments and consultations. However, projects such as building an Indigenous government center are still pending due to budget limitations.

DAIRM also reported delays in implementing the collective protection measures outlined in Resolution 4611 of 2017, including human rights training and organizational capacity-building. However, it says that these actions have been rescheduled. DAIRM also added that it is supporting the development of comprehensive collective reparation plans for Buenavista and Piñuña Blanco, which are currently being drawn up, and that it has coordinated with the Victims’ Unit and local entities to provide emergency assistance.

In response to the issues plaguing their territory, the community implemented peaceful resistance methods through its Indigenous Guard. For Franco, the organization is much more than just a strategy — he said that the guard is evolving, having gone from being a group of “errand runners” to a “training school.” He said he sees it as a deliberative organization that not only follows orders but also proposes and participates in community decisions. For Franco, the concept includes all members of the reserve. A crucial point for him, he said, is that future leaders and authorities must come from the guard.

This is a continuation of the Siona people’s centuries-old role as caretakers of the land, he said. Initially, this dedication was purely spiritual in nature. But after being revitalized in response to threats from extractive industries and the lack of progress in the land restitution process — a right that guarantees victims of the armed conflict the return of land that was seized or abandoned due to violence — their focus shifted to the protection and recovery of their ancestral territory.

In this regard, Franco pointed out that the greatest challenge the Indigenous guard faces is the restriction of movement, even within their own territory, due to the presence of landmines and armed groups. Each member only carries one tool for protection: a chonta staff, a symbol associated with the boa.

Lina María Espinosa is a lawyer and human rights defender with the organization American Frontlines, supporting Indigenous guards. She cited extractivism as a major threat, but also illegal mining and deforestation linked to drug trafficking. Ultimately, she said, it all comes down to land.

“When you layer all these factors, you begin to understand that these are territories where people have long been exposed to multiple pressures and risks. And the common denominator is abandonment, the structural absence of a state that fails to provide guarantees or protect basic rights,” she explained.

And, as Espinosa also said, everything stems from the land: “These people have an inherent vocation to defend their home. There’s a common saying, ‘an Indian without land is not an Indian,’ and it’s true, because their relationship with territory is fundamentally different. Their land is their only asset, in material, spiritual, and identity terms.”

A guard made up of men, women and children

The sun had yet to rise over the Amazon horizon when Ramiro Reina* set out on his journey from the heart of his territory to Puerto Asís. It was 5 o’clock in the morning, and the task seemed simple: Deliver a set of vests, pants and sweatshirts to members of the Indigenous guard living in the town center.

Many of the forest guardians had to move to a neighborhood in a town of over 60,000 people. However, fleeing the forest has not stopped members of the Indigenous guard from participating in its activities; they continue their community work from their current location.

Reina was born 40 years ago in the Santa Cruz de Piñuña Blanco reserve, where the Piñuña stream flows into the Putumayo River, a strategic point between Puerto Asís and Puerto Leguízamo. He is now married with five children. From a young age, Reina knew what it meant to run at the sound of distant gunfire. He experienced displacement firsthand because of the war and also what it meant to return, only to face new threats.

The Piñuña Blanco Guard began to take shape in 2015, during a ceremony in which the elders decided what needed to be done. The process began with men, women, youth and children, focusing on understanding what it meant to be a guardian through spirituality.

Over the years, the guard developed its own vision, rather than simply replicating other models. Though Piñuña Blanco and Buenavista evolved independently, they eventually came together to work toward shared goals.

Reina describes four core principles that shape the structure of the guard: strengthening spirituality, learning about the organization’s process, political awareness, physical and mental preparation, and what he calls “malicia indígena” (Indigenous savvy). He adds that being part of the guard encompasses many roles: “Some run, others cook, some weave, others teach, others learn — we all take care of our own.” In addition to all this, the guard’s focus remains on reclaiming their traditions in the face of the threat of cultural eradication.

The greatest challenge the guard has faced is earning the respect of external actors, including security forces, armed groups and, more broadly, state institutions. It has taken time for others to understand that the guard is rooted in their constitutional right to autonomy. Within the guard, women hold the same roles as men. The only difference is that women may choose not to take medicine in spiritual spaces, although they, like everyone else, are expected to participate in ceremonies and follow the guidance of the elders.

Land restitution and landmines

For the Buenavista and Piñuña Blanco reserves, expanding their territory means reclaiming, legalizing and titling approximately 52,000 hectares (nearly 130,000 acres) of ancestral land.

Reina and Franco agree that this cause is essential to the Siona people’s survival and ask for nothing less. It is not only about accessing vital natural resources, such as water, food, medicines and materials for crafts, they said, it is also about preserving their cultural and spiritual practices. The request, filed with the National Land Agency in 2014, has faced complex obstacles. Chief among them is the presence of armed groups and landmines.

The landmines, mostly planted by FARC and other illegal groups seeking territorial control during Colombia’s armed conflict, have caused some of the largest forced displacements and confinements ever recorded among Indigenous populations. Between 2009 and 2012, FARC was known to have indiscriminately planted landmines in the Buenavista area. The threat is not only immediate but long-lasting: These explosives can remain active for more than 50 years, leaving a lingering humanitarian danger.

The landmines are a consequence of a conflict that has not ended. According to the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), in 2024, Putumayo experienced 763 mass displacements and 6,062 cases of confinement, representing a 300% increase compared to the previous year.

Where there are landmines, no one can walk. People’s freedom of movement is so restricted that at times that the forest becomes a prison, said sources. They are unable to access vital areas for hunting, fishing, gathering medicinal plants and connecting with sacred sites. Even children’s access to education is compromised due to the danger along paths. Leaders such as Reina and Franco have voiced how the constant threat of landmines prevents them from moving freely through the ancestral territory they are trying to reclaim.

Although military demining operations have taken place in the area, the threat remains, with reports of re-mining in zones that were previously cleared. Recent findings by authorities confirm that armed groups continue to use landmines as a war tactic. In July 2024, the army discovered a cache of 248 improvised explosive devices (IEDs) in Puerto Asís, and this April, more than 1,000 landmines were seized in the municipality of Puerto Garzón.

Reina, for example, points to the lack of progress in demining efforts in Piñuña Blanco, despite the community’s attempts to identify hazardous areas. The government has carried out some initiatives, such as mine risk education, which has mostly taken the form of community workshops.

In 2020, the Colombian government informed the IACHR that progress on humanitarian demining had stalled, largely due to mobility restrictions caused by the COVID-19 pandemic. Fourteen areas had already been identified for intervention: 10 in Puerto Silencio, one in Buenavista, and three in Santa Cruz de Piñuña Blanco. In 2022, the government stated that operations to remove the explosives were underway, with partial clearance of one zone projected for completion by December 2023. During meetings held that year between the community and various state agencies, humanitarian demining remained a pending issue under negotiation.

In Buenavista, the community knows all too well what it means to lose a loved one to a landmine. The stories are countless. Plácido Yaiguaje testified before the IACHR about the death of his mother, Eloisa Payoguaje, who stepped on an explosive device while out fishing. The incident occurred on Dec. 21, 2012, in Puerto Silencio. By 2016, the army had detonated four more landmines in the same location and declared the area safe. However, community members have since discovered additional devices there, which have been georeferenced and recorded in official landmine reporting forms.

The first part of Reina’s journey to deliver supplies to members of the Indigenous guard living in Puerto Asís took place on the Putumayo River, the main artery linking the communities. Aboard a fiberglass canoe powered by an onboard motor, Reina traveled for about an hour, leaving the forest behind.

In an area known as Arriaga, he traded the canoe for a bus that would take him, after another hour’s journey, to the streets of Puerto Asís. When he had cell service, Reina spoke of wild boars, tapirs, macaws and chirping parrots — the creatures that give meaning to life in the forest. He also mentioned yagé, yoco, tobacco, cedar and granadillo. Caring for the territory, he said, is not about environmentalism as Westerners understand it. It is about living in harmony with Mother Earth.

The goal of the trip to Puerto Asís was to extend the protective reach of the Indigenous guard to the nearly 30 families who, for various reasons, had settled in the city but remained an essential part of the community’s structure.

The delivery of supplies occurred around 9 a.m. on March 23. For Reina, this simple act symbolized the continuity of their struggle and the commitment to ensuring that distance would not diminish the essence of his people.

*Names changed to ensure sources’ safety.

This report is part of a collaboration between Vorágine and Mongabay Latam.

Banner image: Since 2014, the Siona people have reported the presence of landmines in their territories, planted by illegal armed groups. Image by Sara Arredondo (Baudó Agencia Pública).

Editor’s note: 1. This coverage is part of the project “Amazon rights in focus: People’s and forest protection,” a series of investigative reports on deforestation and environmental crimes in Colombia, funded by Norway’s International Climate and Forest Initiative. All editorial decisions are made independently and are not influenced by donor support. 2. Several days after this report was published, due to escalating conflict and growing danger in the region, the names of some sources were changed to ensure their safety.