Imagine a place where the very air reeks of oil, where once-thriving wetlands now choke on black sludge, and where speaking out against environmental destruction could cost you your life. This is the grim reality in Barrancabermeja, Colombia, a region once celebrated as a biodiversity hotspot, now transformed into a death zone. But here's where it gets even more heartbreaking: the very industry that fuels Colombia's economy is also accused of systematically destroying the delicate ecosystems that sustain its people. And this is the part most people miss: the human cost of this environmental catastrophe is just as devastating as the ecological one.
Yuly Velásquez, a fearless advocate for sustainable fishing, stands waist-deep in her wooden canoe, machete in hand, hacking away at reeds clogged with oily muck. Nearby, a ruptured pipeline has spewed crude oil into the San Silvestre wetlands, suffocating the water and its inhabitants. This isn’t an isolated incident—it’s a recurring nightmare. The controversy here is stark: while Barrancabermeja is Colombia’s oil capital, producing up to 250,000 barrels of crude daily and meeting 80% of the nation’s fuel demand, its operations have allegedly turned this biodiversity haven into a toxic wasteland. The wetlands, once home to endangered river turtles, manatees, and roaming jaguars, are now a shadow of their former selves.
For decades, Ecopetrol, the state-owned oil giant, has faced accusations of dumping oil and toxic waste into rivers and wetlands, causing leaks that devastate fishing grounds. Environmentalists and locals describe the impact as catastrophic: fish populations have collapsed, water quality has plummeted, and manatees—once revered as guardians of the wetlands—are teetering on the brink of extinction. A damning report by the Environmental Investigation Agency and Earthworks uncovered over 800 instances of ‘major environmental damage’ caused by Ecopetrol, mostly between the mid-1990s and mid-2010s. The report, based on leaked documents known as the Iguana Papers, also exposed a ‘web of deceit and cover-ups,’ with a fifth of incidents unreported to Colombian authorities.
Ecopetrol denies these claims, insisting it complies with Colombian law and invests in environmental protection. But the evidence on the ground tells a different story. By late last year, vast areas remained contaminated from a pipeline fracture, with oil slicks coating the water and the air thick with the stench of petrol. For riverside communities, the impact is undeniable. ‘If we can’t fish, we can’t eat,’ laments Luis Carlos Lambraño, a fisherman of 37 years, his voice heavy with sorrow. Ronaldo Martínez, a water buffalo farmer, adds, ‘The buffalo drink the poisoned water and die. We’ve lost about 30 in the last five years.’
But here’s where it gets controversial: while Ecopetrol points to its efforts to remediate leaks and protect wildlife, critics argue that these measures are too little, too late. The company’s rejection of the Iguana Papers’ allegations, claiming misinterpreted data and restored contamination sites, rings hollow for those whose livelihoods are destroyed. And this is the part most people miss: the environmental crisis is compounded by the rise of illegal armed groups, or ‘gasoline gangs,’ who steal fuel from pipelines, further polluting the waterways. These groups have turned fishing into a perilous activity, with activists like Velásquez facing threats, intimidation, and even assassination attempts.
‘They said to me, “If we ever see you here again, we’ll kill you,”’ recalls Eñi Salazar, a 66-year-old fisherwoman who has been intercepted and threatened by armed men. Amnesty International reports a pervasive atmosphere of harassment, with fishing families forced to flee their homes. ‘Whoever controls the water controls Barrancabermeja,’ notes Alejandro Jiménez Ospina, a researcher for Amnesty International. This grim reality has displaced 26 fishing families in 2025 alone, and Velásquez estimates that 100 of her colleagues have abandoned fishing out of fear.
Yet, amidst this despair, there is resilience. Velásquez refuses to wait for others to act. ‘We can’t wait for someone else to come and take care of it for us,’ she declares. Her community’s demand is simple yet profound: ‘We want to be left alone to live in peace, to enjoy our marsh, our river, day and night, without limits or restrictions.’
Here’s a thought-provoking question for you: Is it possible to balance economic development with environmental preservation, or are regions like Barrancabermeja doomed to become sacrificial zones in the name of progress? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s spark a conversation that could shape the future of places like this.
