Power,Mobility,and Space: Human Security for Venezuelan Refugees in Colombia

Abstract

Executive Summary

The near collapse of the Venezuelan economy since 2015 and the concomitant erosion of public order have led to an exodus of over seven million people by mid-2023, the largest forced migrant flow in recent Latin American history and the second largest globally after Syria. It occurs against a global backdrop of a 400 percent increase in persons displaced across borders between 2010 and 2021. Colombia hosts the largest number of Venezuelan refugees — with about 2.5 million officially recorded by the government. This has occurred during a politically tumultuous period in Colombia, which has featured the reconfiguration of competing illegal armed groups since the signing of the 2016 Peace Accord between the government and the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC), a major COVID-19 outbreak in 2020–2021, and a crippling and protracted national strike in 2021.

Within the hemispheric context, Colombia serves as a stop-gap to stem the flow of Venezuelan refugees northward, roughly similar to the role played by Mexico to intercept and diminish migration to the United States. This has especially been the case since the January 5, 2023 announcement by US President Biden, which specified that refugees cannot declare asylum in the US if they attempt to cross the US border without first seeking asylum in their initial transit country. For Venezuelan refugees, the first country they enter is typically Colombia. Further, in May 2023, the Biden administration announced it was considering sending US troops to the Darien Peninsula in Panama, and will perhaps train Colombian forces, to diminish the “trafficking” of Venezuelan refugees and other refugees passing through Colombia and headed north. The result, according to leaders of NGOs and other who work directly with refugees, has been more pressure on Colombia to retain them.

The argument here is twofold. First, human security threats for Venezuelan refugees should be viewed intersectionally in the particular spaces through which they pass — from the collapse of order in their home countries (which qualifies them as refugees), through the borderlands with Colombia that pose specific threats to their safety and wellbeing, and to their destinations within Colombia that offer their own peculiar array of opportunities and human security challenges. Second, regularization programs such as the Estatuto Temporal de Protección de Migrantes Venezolanos (ETPMV) are the best way to promote human security for refugees in Colombia in the short and medium terms, but this process needs to be more inclusive.¹ The first half of this paper discusses the conceptual underpinnings that link power/mobility/space to human security for refugees. The second part brings those concepts to life through interviews with an assortment of refugees.

The paper draws from a database of interviews with 72 Venezuelan refugees in Colombia in 2022 and 2023 regarding the intersectional nuances of human security. It also relies on interviews with dozens of security, migration, and human rights experts in Colombia since 1997. A unique conceptual perspective is developed regarding critical human security for Venezuelan refugees.

Migrants Versus Refugees — Legal Terminology and Practical Realities

The breakdown of Venezuela’s system of governance has both propelled an exodus of migrants and arguably provided them with the legal status and rights of refugees rather than irregular migrants. The United Nations typically refers to displaced Venezuelans as refugees (UN High Commissioner for Refugees 2021), although it is ultimately up to receiving countries to determine whether they are assigned refugee status and protections (Freier 2022). The 1967 Protocol on the Status of Refugees, which amended Article 1 of the 1951 Refugee Convention, focused on political persecution and related fear of governmental punishment as being foundational elements of what it means to be a refugee. However, the 1984 Cartagena Declaration on Refugees broadened this definition. It reads: “. . .the definition or concept of a refugee to be recommended for use in the region is one which, in addition to containing the elements of the 1951 Convention and the 1967 Protocol, includes among refugees persons who have fled their country because their lives, safety, or freedom have been threatened by generalized violence, foreign aggression, internal conflicts, massive violations of human rights or other circumstances which have seriously disturbed public order (italics and bold added for emphasis; Cartagena Declaration on Refugees 1984).”

Under this standard, the disintegration of public order in Venezuela is a key factor in refugee deter-minations. Venezuela’s gross domestic product (GDP) dropped a calamitous 75 percent from $372 billion (US) in 2012 to $93 billion in 2022. This economic disaster is at the root of public disorder in the form of unemployment, as well as shortages of medicine, electricity, gasoline, and other basics (Quintero and Polanco 2018). ² For example, the Pharmaceutical Association Venezuela estimated an 85 percent shortage of basic medicines at hospitals (Raphelson 2018). A drastic weakening of social services, escalating crime rates in large cities such as Caracas, rising corruption of underpaid government and military officials, and the proliferation of powerful armed criminal groups along the border with Colombia and in southern Venezuela ³ (Alsema 2022), are other manifestations of the social disorder in the country (Roht-Arriaza 2019; Bull and Rosales 2020). Persistent human rights violations, and curtailment of political and democratic rights, have been a particularly serious problem in the country.

Declining oil prices and escalating US-led pressure against the country have contributed to the disastrous state of Venezuela’s economy (Shatzker 2021). Endemic corruption and mismanagement, especially within the country’s oil company Petróleos de Venezuela, S.A. (PDVSA), have also contributed to Venezuela’s near economic collapse. While US sanctions began during the Obama Administration, they became a major tactic employed by the Trump administration to topple Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro (Congressional Research Service 2021) ⁴ . US allies have also applied economic pressure on Venezuela. The Bank of England, for example, refused to release to the Maduro Government about $1.2 billion (US) in Venezuelan gold from its vaults (Browning 2021).

In the context of economic implosion, the system of order in Venezuela fell apart — in terms of the highly depleted provision of general government services, the lack of sufficient medicine and health care, shortages of basic food and energy supplies, and escalating crime and corruption (Briceño-Ruiz 2019; Danies 2019; Bull and Rosales 2020).

Some important contributions have been made to the debate regarding how to classify those who do not quite meet the 1951 definition of refugee, such as Betts’ (2013) notion of “survival migration,” which refers to “persons who are outside their country of origin because of an existential threat for which they have no access to a domestic remedy or resolution.” But the pertinence of the Cartagena Declaration to the collapse of order in Venezuela suggests that refugee is indeed the proper legal nomenclature in this case, as Freier, Berganza, and Blouin (2022) and others have vigorously argued.

Colombia is a signatory to the Cartagena Declaration. A 2009 Presidential decree indicated the country’s commitment to the refugee definition set forth in the Declaration (Government of Colombia 2023). Despite the Venezuelans’ legal qualification as refugees in this sense, the practical reality is that Colombia treats them as migrants, many of whom it intends to offer temporary residency permits. To consider them officially as refugees would mean a broader, longer, and more expensive commitment by Colombia, since it would involve offering them permanency, voting rights, provision of passports, and other indicia of membership. Given that Colombia is a developing country with limited means, the provision of refugee status for millions of Venezuelans may not appear to be a prudent option for Bogotá. Of the 2.5 million Venezuelans registered in the country, Colombia’s Advisory Committee for the Determination of Refugee Status granted refugee status to only 1,224 Venezuelans by the end of 2022, and these entailed cases of political persecution more consistent with the 1951 definition of refugee (Rossiasco and de Narváez 2023). While the miniscule number of those designated officially as refugees represents a topic worthy of a separate analysis, this paper will focus on the decrees and legislation that concern the vast Venezuelan population that Colombia officially deems to be migrants.

Venezuelans are granted a distinct set of legal rights depending on whether they are considered irregular migrants, asylum seekers, or refugees (Vera Espinoza et al. 2021) ⁵ . Refugees, as noted, receive most of the rights to which the host country’s citizens are entitled. There is no recognized legal definition of a migrant, but the United Nations defines them as people who leave their home country “mainly to improve their lives by finding work, or in some cases for education, family reunion, or other reasons (United Nations Refugee Agency 2016).” Somewhere between refugee and migrant is the liminal designation that provides a slate of rights on a temporary basis. As we shall see, Colombia has provided temporary permits to Venezuelans that allows access to social services and the right to work legally. The most recent and significant of these laws is the Estatuto Temporal de Protección de Migrantes Venezolanos (ETPMV; Gobierno de Colombia. 2022b), which provides a Permiso por Protección Temporal (PPT — Temporary Work Permit). It provides access to social services and labor rights for 10 years.

The Literature

There are three broad streams of relevant literature. These concern the historic role of the Colombian State, the nebulous and dynamic nature of the Colombian-Venezuelan borderlands, and the emerging work on Venezuelan refugees. The historic development of the Colombian State is germane for the purposes at hand since it directly relates to the Colombian government’s capacity and perceived responsibility to assist refugees in its territory. Colombia’s penchant for a decentralized and anemic state structure traces back to the dynamics following the Constitution of Cucuta in 1821 (Samper 1969; Jaramillo 1997, 118–22). Each Colombian department had its own army, among a vast assortment of private armies. The centrifugal arrangement of power was amplified by the lack of internal hegemony of either the Conservative or Liberal Parties and by the animosity between them. It resulted in civil wars between them in 1830–1831, 1839–1842, 1851, 1854, 1860–1862, 1876–1877, 1885, 1895, and the devastating War of 1000 days in 1899–1902. The latter exhausted the country, and violence did not emerge again in a major way until La Violencia (1948–1958), the final conflagration between the two parties following the assassination of Jorge Eliécer Gaitán that left between 100,000–300,000 dead. Key points follow from this. First, violence in Colombia historically has represented a prevailing means through which political disputes were settled, as discussed in now classic works by Pécaut (1997, 891–930), Orquist (1980), Deas and Gaitán Daza (1985), and Pizzaro Leongómez (1991). The national government often has been too weak or compromised to engage in successful conflict resolution, and generally has not been autonomous from the party in power at the time. Against such a backdrop, clientalistic politics prevailed, as Ramírez (2022) has shown (pp. 29–60). Overall, Colombian politics have been historically fragmented and power has been dispersed.

More recently, the notion of the “absence” of the Colombian State in territory dominated by extractive and illicit industries has been analyzed with important insights from critical perspectives (Rochlin 2020). Serje (2012) and Clemencia Ramirez (2022) have argued that this absence has been deliberate at times. They also suggest that it has been used in peripheral regions as an excuse to introduce locally unwanted intervention in the form of petroleum extraction. Further, in some cases, the government has reached an understanding with private interests that serve as local governments or a “a state within a state” in a manner that benefits national politicians. These perspectives suggest that the lack of State presence in key parts of the country reflects an element of political intent.

Two related issues are central for our purposes. The first concerns the relatively weak presence of the Colombian government in the borderlands, through which the majority of Venezuelan refugees pass. Travel through these areas can sometimes impose important human security risks. Secondly, the absence of the Colombian State in 50 percent of the nation’s territory and for 30 percent of its population ⁶ must be acknowledged when addressing the question of Colombia’s capacity to manage Venezuelan refugees.

Let us turn to the literature on borderlands. ⁷ While in one sense the presence of borderlands is obvious, it does not constitute a definite shape. The space of the borderlands is defined by the dynamic constellation of social forces within it. In the Colombian borderlands, key actors include the government, insurgent and paramilitary forces, criminal organizations, local communities, and so on. Communities located in the transnational borderlands consider the largely unenforced border line as an obviously failed attempt to separate communities that are united in everyday life, as observed by analysts such as Reyes Novaes (2015), Jimenez Aguilar (2015), and Bustamante and Chacon (2013). There are 17 official border crossing points along the 2,219 km border. The regions along the border are distinguished by ethnicity, culture, and economy. This paper fills gaps in the literature through an analysis of human security threats to refugees in the borderlands, as well a series of other locations throughout Colombia, from 2015 to 2023.

There is a rich and vibrant literature on Venezuelan migration. Much important work has been done in relation to women, security and migration in border communities, including papers by Calderón-Jarmillo et al. (2020), Zulver and Idler (2020), Makuch (2021), Kersh (2021), and Hawkins (2021). Their focus is upon the physical, mental, and reproductive threats to human security. There have been some detailed studies on indigenous groups such as the Wayuu in relation to migration and border commerce, including important analyses by Carabalí Angola (2019), Massulo, and Zulver and Idler (2021). There also have been studies regarding the governance performed by armed groups at the borderlands, including works by García and Mantilla (2021), Bustamante and Chacon (2013), Villa and Souza (2019), Idler (2018), and Martinez (2017).

Further, insightful analyses by Bahar and Palma Gutiérez address the aims and effectiveness of Colombian government programs to promote various aspects of human security for refugees (Bahar, Ibáñez, and Rozo 2021). Palma-Gutiérrez (2021), Del Real (2022), and Castro Franco (2021) have made crucial contributions regarding the early phases of regularization programs for refugees, especially with regard to their precarity and nuances. Ordoñez (2019), among others, has analyzed the effectiveness of, and need for, regional political responses to Venezuelan migration in relation to managing illnesses such as refugee settlement and government regulatory practices (pp. 158–64).

Concepts and Context

Colombian President Gustavo Petro, in a rupture from his predecessors, adopted the human security approach as a centerpiece of his government’s strategy in 2022 (Petro 2022). Human security is a particularly useful lens from which to analyze the plight of Venezuelan refugees. This framework foregrounds marginalized groups and individuals with regard to security, rather than the traditional realist focus on the nation-state as the principal level of analysis (United Nations Development Programme 1994). It suggests that, especially in the Global South, the notion of security must address everyday threats to human survival and well-being. Applied to refugees, these include lack of access to food/housing/social services, human rights abuses, internal warfare, stark gender and ethnic discrimination, hazardous working conditions, labor exploitation, and xenophobia. While the traditional human security perspective makes an important contribution, it does not address the systemic roots of the wide array of security threats it identifies, nor does it explore alternatives for their resolution. This work relies on critical human security, which fills those gaps with insights from political economy and Foucauldian perspectives.

A political economy approach can help address the key questions of who wants to migrate and why, who can leave and when, and where refugees may go. ⁸ We already noted the political economy of the country’s near collapse that propelled the exodus of refugees from the country. A political economy approach can also contribute to an understanding of mobility. The amount of funds to which one has access determines if one can travel, the mode of travel — from a jet to walking — and whether one can afford basic comforts during the journey and upon arrival, etc. It can determine the roster of countries to which one is welcome. ⁹ For example, wealthy migrants with money to invest may be welcome in developed countries, while refugees with little means may find themselves at the margins of the law in neighboring developing countries such as Colombia. Furthermore, the cost of visas, passports, and applications for permanent residence can be prohibitively expensive for many.

The power to be mobile, of course, is not just a matter of economics. One must have the physical capacity to leave (Kaufman 2019; Mcllwaine and Bunge 2019). There may also be extenuating circumstances that forbids a would-be refugee to depart. These may include duties to serve family or friends. Even if one does have the capacity to leave, there are various factors that contribute to gradations of difficulty in the migration process. Single parents with young children, the aged, and children traveling by themselves, may face more difficulty with mobility than, say, a single, healthy, and fit adult. An intersectional approach is crucial when considering human security threats to refugees (Hill Collins 2019).

Mobility is about space, time, and power. Foucault (1994) argued that space is fundamental to power, echoing classic global political theorists such as Thucydides (1996), Sun Tzu (1988, 143–5), Machiavelli (1952), and Clausewitz (1976, 214–15, 451). Virilio (1977) built on that work by focusing on the relation of time, space, and power. Migration can be viewed as circulation, the temporal movement of people through space (Virilio 1977, 3, 30). It is not just movement that matters, it is the speed of motion ¹⁰ — speed is a reflection of power. ¹¹ Conversely, the more one must wait, the less power one has. ¹² Related to migration, those with wealth and power may be able to get on a jet and quickly be welcomed in developed countries such as the United States and those in Europe. Those with less power, such as Venezuelan caminantes, slowly walk to their destinations, often traversing hundreds of kilometers in sometimes tre-acherous conditions. They often wait for long periods regarding humanitarian assistance and migration procedures.

Systems of discipline and governance structure a given space (Foucault 1997), and are key to an understanding of refugee power relations. With regard to mobility, refugees pass through distinct systems of governance as they leave their national space, pass through the transnational borderlands, and then arrive to their destination in the host country. Let us consider how these governance structures affect the human security of refugees at various phases of their journey.

In terms of governance in the borderlands, the government of states on either side of the border officially preside over their territory, but often the reality is far more complex. In many areas of the borderlands, there may only be a flashing presence of the State, and usually this entails rare and fleeting military operations. Governance within it is reflective of dynamic constellations of power between a number of actors, including the State, an array of illicit armed groups, local communities that reside in the region, and refugees who pass through or temporarily reside there.

There has been important work done regarding the governance performed by armed groups, and it demonstrates that it is highly variable both temporally and spatially (Bustamante and Chacon 2013; Martínez 2017; Idler 2018; Garcia and Mantilla 2021). Since the FARC demobilized in 2016, there has been much contestation between armed groups to take control over illicit economies dominated by the defunct guerrilla organization, including those located in the borderlands (Rochlin 2020). Competing groups include the Ejercito de Liberación Nacional (ELN) and some of its offshoots, thousands of FARC “dissidents,” the Clan del Golfo, and a series of rightist paramilitaries. These groups have corrupted and further weakened the State. ¹³ Often they cultivate consent from communities in which they operate, since they provide jobs, a system of justice, and offer protection from competing groups (ibid.). There are often strong social links between members of these organizations and the communities, in terms of family ties, friendships, and so on. ¹⁴ The mixture of consent and coercion between specific armed groups and their communities is variable (Osorio 2022). But even in these regions where residents live under the strict discipline associated with warfare, community power asserts itself in sometimes astonishing ways. For example, the mayor of San Calixo, in Catatumbo, was kidnapped by an armed group for three days in May 2022, but local residents who demanded her release held a large rally and halted all traffic in the region (La Opinión 2022b). The mayor was released.

Method

The methods used in this study flow from a critical human security framework, one that seeks to understand the causes for human security threats to Venezuelan refugees and to probe feasible means to systemic changes necessary to redress them. Qualitative methods were used in the form of 72 semi-structured interviews with refugees between January 2022 and June 2023. Refugees were interviewed in various locations throughout Colombia, since a key objective of the project was to identify human security threats in particular spaces. These include Bogotá, Cúcuta, Riohacha, Santa Marta, Cartagena, Medellín, Bucaramanga, and Pereira.

At the beginning of the project some refugees were recruited for group interviews through NGOs whose directors I met with in advance to discuss my work, especially the intersectional nature of human security for refugees. Additional interviews occurred at the offices of NGOs assisting refugees where a casual conversation bloomed into an interview. Snowball-sampling occurred whereby refugees I interviewed suggested other refugees for interviews that fit within the project’s human security and intersectional framework.

The sample size of 72 was large enough to gauge intersectional nuances of critical human security among refugees (Hill Collins 2019), but small enough to permit time for the cultivation of extensive conversations with each of them. Important work has been done regarding the human security of refugees in relation to gender (Calderon-Jaramillo et al. 2020; Zulver and Idler 2020; Hawkins 2021, 210–20; Kersh 2021, 750–66; Makuch 2021, 280–96) and ethnicity (Carabalí Angola 2019; Masullo et al. 2021). This study builds upon this earlier work through the inclusion of interviews with a diverse assortment of refugees that reflect intersectional distinctions involving ethnicity, gender, class, age, social navigation skills, employability, an urban or rural background, whether the refugee was traveling/residing alone or in a group, and education level.

The timing of the interviews between January 2022 to June 2023 was important, since significant political changes relating to human security for refugees occurred during this period that have not been treated by the existing literature. Three points stand out: (1) for the first time the refugee situation in Colombia had become relatively normalized compared to the crises of massive refugee arrivals between 2015 and 2019, the period of COVID-19 from 2020 to 2021, and the National Strike during much of 2021. Many of the refugees interviewed had been in the country between three and seven years, and were able to reflect on their changing experiences with regard to human security during the shift from crisis to “normalization”; (2) due to a recently introduced provision, many of the refugees could now choose to regularize their stay in Colombia for up to 10 years; and (3) tension between Colombia and Venezuela, which resulted in the border closures between 2015 and 2022, seemed to subside gradually after the June 2022 election in Colombia of the leftist President Gustavo Petro. This rendered the possibility of eventual return for refugees to be more likely, if only for temporary visits.

Refugees were asked a number of questions surrounding the concept of critical human security specific to particular political spaces. To protect their anonymity, I asked only for a first name that did not have to be their real one. ¹⁵ The interview data was analyzed through an inductive process. There were 28 women and 44 men interviewed.

Security, Power, and Documentation

The Venezuelan refugee crisis represents the first time Colombia has had to deal with a major international migration issue. In the past, the focus had been on the hundreds of thousands of Colombians who emigrated to Venezuela post-1970 in search of work during the oil boom. Venezuelans arriving in Colombia prior to 2015, and to the country’s near collapse, tended to be more educated, wealthier, and often had a passport, which made registration for regularization programs easier. Those arriving since 2015 have tended to be poorer, as the economy sank into crisis. They often lacked documentation since access to passports became limited.

Especially when official border checkpoints were closed unilaterally by Venezuela for much of the period between 2015 and 2022, refugees attempting to cross into Colombia had to cross through trochas — illicit paths spanning the border — and were commoditized by the armed groups who controlled them and who had already established routes to move illicit drugs, guns, and minerals (de Córdoba 2022). The reasons behind the border closures vary, ranging from Caracas’ attempt in 2015 to stem to flow of subsidized Venezuelan products that were leaked out of the country and resold in Colombia, to numerous diplomatic contests between these governments, which have been bitter rivals (BBC 2015). In 2019, for example, the border was closed by the Maduro government after the Venezuelan opposition attempted to force its way past army blockades to enter the country from Colombia with food and medicine during a media spectacle. Official border checkpoints reopened in 2022 due to a thaw in bilateral relations with the election of President Petro in Colombia. But refugees continue to cross through trochas due to reasons mentioned below.

A major program was introduced by Colombia in 2021 to regularize refugees. This kind of regularization process has occurred in Turkey and elsewhere in Europe in response to the immense numbers of refugees from Syria (Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe 2021). Such programs are designed to promote the human security of migrants, and to prevent potential security problems associated with an uncounted and otherwise anonymous population.

Let us trace the development of the Colombian regularization programs. Colombian Presidential Decree 1067 (2015) and Resolución 6045 (2017) sought to regulate refugee admissions, deportations, and expulsions. ¹⁶ The eight Colombian regularization programs between 2017 and 2021 originated as Presidential decrees, and not from legislative processes. They are viewed as more fragile than laws, since the President can revoke a decree at any time. Seven have been versions of the Permiso Especial de Permanencia (Special Permit of Permanence), known as PEPs. All of these have been free of charge for applicants. To be eligible for five of the PEPs, refugees had to have an official passport stamp (and therefore official ID), no criminal record, and no deportation order. Two additional PEPs have addressed the hundreds of thousands of refugees who have traversed the borders through trochas as a result of either the official border checkpoints being closed by the governments of Venezuela and Colombia or because they did not have official identification. In 2018, the Administrative Registry of Venezuelan Migrants in Colombia (RAMV) registered refugees without official documents. Shortly afterwards, it created the RAMV-PEP, allowing those who registered with the RAMV to be eligible for this special PEP. But as Del Real (2022) observes, “fearing a nativist backlash the government did not announce that those who registered for the RAMV would qualify for the RAMV-PEP,” so it did not attract the attention it might otherwise would have received (p. 3586). In 2020, Decree 117 was introduced to give Venezuelan refugees without official migration documents access to the PEP for the Promotion of Formalization, but to receive this the refugee had to have a formal work contract, formal Venezuelan ID, and a clean criminal record. Since Colombia’s informality rate is high, formal contracts are difficult for most Colombians to obtain, and all the more so for Venezuelans. ¹⁷

In 2021, President Duque created the ETPMV, a program designed to provide most refugees up to 10 years of temporary residency. It includes access to social services such as health and education, as well as labor rights. Participants can apply for permanent residency after five years via a separate residency visa application (at a cost of about $250 US). Another separate application is required for citizenship. To be eligible for the ETPMV, refugees must already possess a PEP or a prior iteration, or be refugees without official migration documents who can prove that they were in Colombia before Jan 31, 2021, or be Venezuelans who entered the country between 29 May 2021 and 28 May 2023 with passports through official border checkpoints. All must have a passport or official Venezuelan ID (these can be expired passports), no criminal record, and no pending expulsion or deportation orders. Also, they must not have refugee status in Colombia or elsewhere or be in the process of applying for one, they must live in Colombia, and have registered for the Registro Unico de Migrantes Venezolanos (RUMV; Gobierno de Colombia 2022a).

These programs are not without their faults. While the temporary residence permits represent a significant step forward to promote the interests of refugees, it is obvious to the government that they may not universal appeal (Isaza 2022). Some refugees may lack proper documentation and be unwilling or unable to create such documents, they may be suspicious as to how information provided to the government may be used, and/or they may be apprehensive about navigating government bureaucracies and paperwork. Some may lack basic information about the program or about how to apply, among other reasons. One astute observer has argued that the program perpetuates a liminal legality “that is stratified and produces illegality among the most disadvantaged members of the targeted population (Del Real 2022, 3596).” This is because it excludes those without proper documentation to apply for regularization, who typically are the poorest refugees.

Most refugees have access to temporary residence permits, which can place them on a path to improved human security in terms of access to social services and government-regulated (formal sector) work. However, such programs need to be expanded to include those refugees who may fall through the cracks. The program is too young for formal evaluation, but refugees offer helpful insights on their impact. ¹⁸

Refugees and Human Security: The Spaces of Borderlands

The borderlands can pose human security threats for refugees since the State is absent in much of this territory and competing armed groups attempt to dominate it, as shown by Reyes Novaes (2015), Jiménez (2015), and Bustamante and Chacon (2013). Entering Colombia by land involves choices such as which region to traverse and whether or not to cross at an official checkpoint if one has the documentation to do so. Analysts such as Idler (2020) have tracked the changing fortunes of armed groups along the border and the shifting alliances between them. Refugees must navigate these dynamic constellations of power when they enter the borderlands. Due to episodes of open warfare and vigilantism, refugees mostly avoid the conflict-ridden areas of Catatumbo and Arauca. These areas offer jobs in the illicit economy, but life there can be perilous. Two Venezuelan youths, for example, were accused of stealing food, tied up by locals, and later found dead in Catatumbo in 2022 (Pozzebon 2021). About 10 percent of the victims of armed conflict in Catatumbo have been Venezuelan refugees between 2016 and 2019, and about 25,000 Venezuelan refugees reside there (Human Rights Watch 2019).

The majority of refugees originate from Caracas and the interior of Venezuela. For them, the most efficient route is to pass through the Cúcuta region, while those from Maracaibo and coastal Venezuela choose the Maicao/Riohacha area to enter Colombia. Because official border crossings were closed much of the time between 2015 and 2022, refugees had no choice but to cross at the trochas and faced the human security threats posed by armed groups who control them. These groups differ depending on the location (Martinez 2017; Idler 2018). For example, a group of paramilitaries from the Wayuu population, as well as a mix of FARC dissidents and ELN members, dominate the Maicao/Riohacha region, while the Clan del Golfo dominates the Cúcuta area. These groups extort refugees and traffic them to other destinations within Colombia or to the United States. They also recruit refugees into their ranks, and may provide them with jobs in the illicit economy, including the drug and sex trade ¹⁹ .

Even after official checkpoints re-opened in the fall of 2022, some refugees with the proper documentation to cross at official checkpoints have chosen to cross at trochas. Refugees and NGOs I interviewed in 2023 reported instances in which refugees had their passports or other documentation torn up or confiscated by migration or security officers at official checkpoints. In this way, corrupt officials, working with armed groups, dominate refugees and ensure their dependence. Michael — a 19-year-old refugee in Bucaramanga who was traveling with his grandmother, his two-year-old son, and his 17-year-old brother — chose to cross at a trocha near Cúcuta in June 2023 rather than an official checkpoint. He did so even though his family had the required documentation, and said a migrant network warn against crossing at official checkpoints (Michael 2023). ²⁰ Thus, refugees weigh distinct human security threats associated with the space they choose to cross, but this information may not be accurate.

In the trochas near Cúcuta, armed groups, the ELN, and corrupt military and migration officials charge poor and desperate refugees $30 to cross the border (Osorio 2022). Refugees are charged the same price to cross trochas in Rioacha/Maicao, but here paramilitary organizations controlled by components of Wayuu indigenous groups — and to a lesser extent members of the ELN, FARC dissidents and corrupt government officials — extort refugees attempting to cross (Flores 2022).

Near the gate of an official border checkpoint, I spoke with a trafficker in Maicao, La Guajira, who wanted to charge me $30 to cross into Venezuela without a passport, and provided options for two distinct paths, though he said one was more secure from theft. The areas surrounding the official border crossing and nearby trochas in Maicao were shoulder-to-shoulder crowded with hundreds of refugees with tense expressions, carrying suitcases. An academic expert on borderlands at the Universidad de la Guajira described it as a space of “constant and often frenetic movement” of refugees and a variety of contraband, including cocaine, gasoline, and so on (Carabali 2022). Loud motorcycles slip through the crowds and dusty roads and offer transportation to those who can afford it, while makeshift currency traders exchange nearly worthless Bolivares for dollars or pesos. This is everyday life at the border. Refugees may not be threatened by warfare, but they face a host of human security concerns. They are easy prey for theft and robbery. They face huge uncertainty, and often lack information regarding how to navigate the country. Typically, refugees have insufficient cash to cover basic expenses such as food and accommodation.

Refugees and Human Security: Border Cities

Border cities are unique and important spaces for refugees. They are the first community with which refugees interact when they enter Colombia, usually in Cúcuta or Rioacha. While many refugees reside in those cities, most pass through on their way to other destinations. There are opportunities and human security threats in these spaces. Refugees can opt for the human trafficking services operated by armed groups to travel to other destinations within Colombia or to the United through the Darien peninsula, or they may seek work from such groups in illicit economies under their control, including the drug and sex trade. Armed groups are present in various locations throughout the country. However, they dominate the border region, and the threats they pose to vulnerable refugees are particularly strong at border cities.

There are recent instances of armed groups atte-mpting to manipulate refugees for criminal objectives. For example, police and analysts in Cúcuta observe that a wave of heroin micro-trafficking has struck the refugee population between 2022 and 2023. Small amounts of heroin are initially provided free to refugees who then become addicted, and are subsequently assigned by members of organized armed groups to steal various items in exchange for further drugs. The national police in Colombia regard this development as the latest manifestation of an ever-changing crime scene driven by a booming illicit economy, competing armed groups and a vulnerable refugee population (Chavarro Romero 2023).

I spoke with five refugees in Riohacha. They crossed the trochas at different times and said they felt intimidated crossing near Maicao, with armed men they presumed to be Wayuu paramilitaries pointing guns at them as they collected fees. Norberto, who was originally from Maracaibo and deserted the Venezuelan military, has resided in Riohacha for since 2011 (Norberto 2022). He said military salaries were too low and participation in corruption was necessary to survive. He said corruption was rife in the armed forces, including trafficking in drugs, arms, and minerals. While the border cross points were open at that time, he crossed the border through a trocha since he is a deserter. He said he cannot return to Venezuela and has made his home in Riohacha with his wife and four children. The Colombian military debriefed him upon arrival. He has a PEP, and intends to apply for the ten-year ETPMV and for citizenship, but he was not familiar with the steps or expense associated with that process. Norberto said he appreciates the tranquility, low crime rate, and affordability of Riohacha, which differentiates it from Cúcuta. He supports himself as a physical trainer and team coach, and sells wares along the beach occasionally. While he and his family have access to all social services, and live at the same standard they did in Venezuela before the economy imploded, he said they live economically precarious lives in the informal sector. Norberto said that he and his family felt some stigmatization at first, but now feel as if they are full-fledged members of the community.

“Johana,” from Barquisimeto, arrived in late 2014 with her husband and three children, just after former President Hugo Chavez passed away and the Venezuelan economy began to deteriorate sharply (Johana 2022). Without official identification, she had to cross at the trochas. She intends to spend her life in Riohacha, and likes the city for the same reasons “Norberto” identified above. Since she lacks proper identification from Venezuela, she has not been eligible to apply for the temporary residence programs Colombia offers. However, due to what she said is the intimacy of living in a small town such as Riohacha, she and her family have received the full array of social services that locals enjoy, including health care and education for her children. She produces handicrafts sold by her family members in various spots around the city. She also had to cope with the uncertainties of working in the informal sector.

“Yifmary (2022, p. 27),” who is also from Bar-quisimeto, crossed the trochas alone in 2019 near Maicao when official checkpoints were closed, and said she was afraid because men with guns controlled the path. She arrived with official identification, has a PEP, and applied for the ETPMV. However, she has no intention of pursuing citizenship in Colombia because she wants to return home to Venezuela to live with her family and long-time friends, though she does not know when the Venezuelan economy will be strong enough for her to return. She works informally at restaurants, and reported that she has experienced xenophobia on occasion. She said she was making enough money to subsist and to send a remittance back to her family. Venezuela received $3.54 billion (US) in remittances in 2021, and that $442,984,500 of this amount came from Colombia (Yahoo News 2022).

“Kelvin (2022),” from Maracaibo, arrived in Riohacha in December 2021, and had been here just three months when I spoke with him. He came with his brother just as the Covid-19 pandemic diminished, and both are seeking work to send remittances back home. He said they felt intimated at the trochas near Maicao as they crossed with armed men looking on. Kelvin has a wife and six children residing in Maracaibo. He is hoping they will join him in Riohacha once he establishes himself economically. He did not complete secondary school. He sells seafood on the streets of Riohacha, and makes about $10 (US) a day. He was uninformed regarding the PEPs or the new ETPMV, and indicated that he does not know if he will apply. But he said he hoped his family would be able to live in Colombia permanently.

Some prefer Cúcuta and Riohacha as destinations due to their location near the border and therefore to their home country. They also like that they are binational cities and culturally similar to home, as the Director of Regional Migration in La Guajira suggests (Romo Benito 2022). Riohacha, with a population of about 270,000, is much smaller than Cúcuta. Some refugees prefer Riohacha due to its promotion of human security through community intimacy and cultural ease of integration. It has a small-town feel, and lacks big city crime. However, it is a poor city and has much fewer of the economic and professional opportunities than larger places.

Cúcuta, with a population of about one million people, is the only major city to straddle the borderlands of Colombia and Venezuela. It is a draw for refugees due to its proximity to the border, and for its vibrant economy. Discussions with twelve refugees on the streets of Cúcuta revealed various nuances of subsistence strategies, and an array of human security threats they face in everyday life. There are a number of obviously talented musicians playing for motorists stalled in traffic in the city, and most of these appear to be refugees. They typically make about $8–$15US/day. “Rayana (2022)” is a 35-year-old music teacher from San Cristóbal, Venezuela, who sings to passersby. She has registered to work legally through the ETPMV. She has a passport, but had to cross by trochas when the frontier was closed. She paid armed extorters $100 (US) due to her “excess baggage,” and found the experience frightening. She indicated she feels secure in Cúcuta, and confident in her ability to navigate the system. She said she was content with her new life.

Equally confident were “Carlos” and “Samuel,” ages 22 and 45 years respectively, who played guitar on the streets and who have registered to work legally (Carlos and Samuel 2022). They said they would eventually like to pursue citizenship, but were unsure of the process. They have resided with their wives in Cúcuta for four years, and wish to make it home. They both described intense xenophobia from Colombians working in the informal sector, who are resentful about competition for work.

Six refugees with whom I spoke indicated that they did not intend to register for the ETPMV. Four young women between 26 and 35 years old, who were working on the streets as vendors or musicians ( Indira et al.2022), did not apply since they would like to return as soon as possible to Venezuela to be with family and friends. However, they have no idea when the economic situation will permit their return. Two of them left young children with their family in Venezuela. Two 18-year-old men said they did not attempt to seek official registration in Colombia due to anxiety over the long bureaucratic process (David 2022). Both had only primary education, and were focused on day-to-day survival rather than future plans. One of them lives in Cúcuta with his pregnant wife, who has been receiving good medical attention. He left Venezuela when his family in Caracas told him they could no longer afford to feed him. He has been in Colombia for five months. The other 18-year-old was with his mother (Antony 2022), and both were street workers — he cleaned car windows, she sold things to motorists. They shared a room in an apartment with other refugees, and each earned about $8–$10 (US) per day. All said they assumed they had no access to social services, with the exception of the young man whose wife is pregnant and receives medical care

I spoke with a group of eight refugees who started out as caminantes, but who eventually settled in Cúcuta (Miguel et al. 2022). They were between 23 and 40 years old. Three were women with children. They worked informally in the same restaurant for $15 (US) per eight-hour shift. Three worked as street vendors, and two were musicians playing on the streets for tips from passersby.

The focus group was organized by the coordinator of an NGO, Caminantes Tricolor, who also operates a daily radio show in Cúcuta aimed at providing information to Venezuelan refugees (Peralta 2022). These refugees indicated that armed groups permit people to cross the trochas only during the daylight, with the nighttime designated for contraband traffic from Colombia of gasoline, food, guns, medicine, drugs, minerals, and mining products. A few refugees were permitted to pass at a time, on cross-boards set up over the river. All were extorted by groups of heavily armed men. Three said armed groups tried to recruit their friends or relatives, while they were crossing the trochas. However, that occurred in Catatumbo and in Arauca.

The economic situation in the city has been difficult since the refugee crisis began in 2016. In 2019, Cúcuta ranked first in the country for its rate of labor informality, at 73.3 percent (La Opinión 2019a). Unemployment there rose from 12.5 percent in 2015 to 29.2 percent in June 2020, before settling at 14.4 percent in early 2023 — the fourth highest in the nation (La Opinión 2022a). The large numbers of refugees in the city allows employers to offer Venezuelans a fraction of what they were paying Colombians. Venezuelans also lack job security due to their informality. Refugees are often subject to labor exploitation, as recognized by the Defensoría del Pueblo (national ombudsman; Isaza 2022). This has triggered race-to-the-bottom wages in the city. It has also led to a devastating reduction in household income for many in an already impoverished community. Cúcuta has the second highest gini coefficient in Colombia, and migration has exacerbated this inequity. Poverty in the city rose from 32.9 percent in 2015 to 36.2 percent in 2018, and to 53 percent in 2021 (La Opinión 2021).

Crime in Cúcuta increased 30 percent between 2016 and 2019, especially burglaries, robberies, and prostitution. By 2022, about one-third of those detained by police for crimes were Venezuelan refugees, although these were overwhelmingly non-violent cases such as property theft by refugees to subsist (Buitrago 2022). Homicides increased 24 percent from January to August 2020 over the same period during the previous year (La Opinión 2019b). Cúcuta is a major global trading hub for cocaine and other contraband, and this likely contributes to violent crime. By 2021, the city was ranked as among the 50 most dangerous cities in the world in terms of homicide and violent crime (Cuervo 2021).

There are human security threats as well as opportunities for refugees in Cúcuta. The city offers economic opportunities, but refugees must compete for work in the context of high rates of unemployment and informality. They are vulnerable to crime (Knight and Tribín 2020). Refugees notice xenophobia in the community, but many also enjoy a sense of community and a familiar culture in border cities.

Refugees and Human Security: Caminantes

While some refugees reside in a particular locality in Colombia, others are “walking” to a destination within Colombia, or elsewhere. The walkers are known as caminantes, though they sometimes receive free vehicle rides or are able to earn enough money along the way to afford a bus ticket. These are among the most vulnerable of refugees because they do not have a reliably secure space and instead are on the move through new and unfamiliar territory. Many sleep outside, have limited access to food, water and hygienic facilities, and have insufficient clothing to endure the vast shifts in weather. Because many lack sufficient funds for their trek, they may attempt to work informally and thus subject themselves to labor exploitation or participation in risky illicit economies.

I spoke with a group of caminantes in the community of Los Patios, about 30 miles outside Cúcuta and very near the Venezuelan border. I talked with them as they visited an NGO that provides food and vital information regarding the location of outreach organizations along their journeys to destinations throughout Colombia. ²¹ “Maria,” age 22, is from Sucre. She was traveling with her husband and two children, ages two and four (Maria 2022). The couple used to work in the textile industry, but their jobs were eliminated. They were walking to Montería, where she has family, and where she intended to start a new life. They hoped to work informally along the way to pay for the trip, which they expected would take as little as a month. With no passports, they paid an illicit armed group $60 (US) to let them cross. The groups pointed guns at them as they paid. They have no cell phone or other means of communication. Maria indicated she was fearful not only during the crossing of trochas, but regarding the lack economic and other security for the duration of the trip to Montería.

In a similar situation, “Marcela,” a 20-year-old who was almost six months pregnant and traveling with her husband, was told by the armed group who extorted them to “run as fast as you can” across the frontier (Marcela 2022). They are from Portuguesa. They lost their jobs in the agricultural sector. They planned to walk the relatively short distance to Cúcuta, and intended to reside there permanently. She expected to receive free medical care for her pregnancy. They want a place to live where they can work, and Cúcuta is the first point across the Colombian border that has a vibrant economy.

Young women are among the most vulnerable refugees in terms of threats to human security. In the 34C heat of the afternoon, “Desiam (2022),” a 24 year old woman, said that she intended to walk alone to Peru, where she had family. She is from an agricultural town in Venezuela in the state of Yaracuy, but there was no work and she could not afford to stay. She had no intention of returning to Venezuela. She worried about sexual assault while crossing the trochas, but crossed safely. She was also concerned about assault during the remainder of her long journey. She worried most about lacking sufficient clothes to meet the climate extremes during the trip to Peru, ranging from near freezing temperatures in the mountains to scorching weather on the lowlands. She was also concerned about lacking sufficient food and money to travel, but hoped to work informally along her trek. She had no cell phone or other means of communication.

Another caminante on her own is “Keyla,” 45, who was walking to Cali, where she has family (Keyla 2022). She began her journey in Caracas. An asthmatic, she worried not only about the grueling walk and potential insecurities along the way, but also about her lack of asthma medication.

Refugees and Human Security: Small Cities

Small cities present their own array of support for, and threats to, human security for Venezuelan refugees. These include cities such as Santa Marta (pop. 546,000) and Bucaramanga (pop. 1.380,00). These cities offer a less hectic social atmosphere than larger ones, and they do not host the intensity of crime associated with major urban centers. But because their economies are relatively small, they do not offer the economic opportunities that larger cities do in either the formal or informal economies.

Santa Marta is a small and relatively safe port city on the Atlantic coast. Its economy is larger than Riohacha’s. It has a vibrant tourist sector that hires refugees informally. “Jesús,” age 51, deserted the Venezuelan military near the border at Cúcuta in 2014 (Jesus 2022). He said that being in the Venezuelan military was extremely difficult and offered paltry provisions, unless one was tied to the military “cartels” involved in trafficking humans, arms, drugs, mining equipment, and gasoline. He said he could not tolerate the corruption, or the inequity between those belonging to the cartels and those that did not. He deserted and migrated along with his wife and two children. The Colombian military debriefed him upon arrival. Jesús lived in Cúcuta for two years, but said he received several threats which he presumed were from networks attached to the Venezuelan military. He and his family did not feel secure in Cúcuta, and subsequently moved to Santa Marta, which he finds safer and tranquil. He indicated that Cúcuta hosted a number of transnational armed groups clandestinely, and that there were deep security problems in and around the community. Jesús was afraid to register officially in Colombia for permanent work, since he feared it would be a means by which the Venezuelan military could trace him. Despite his family’s lack of citizenship or temporary registration in Colombia, his two children have been enrolled in Santa Marta schools for the last few years and his family has received medical services.

A man I shall refer to as “A,” age 28, left Táchira, Venezuela due to political persecution (A 2022). He ran for office in the state for a political party opposed to Maduro, and was the political strategist for another person who ran for office in that party a couple of years earlier. As a result, he says he was arbitrarily placed in prison for two weeks, and was socially ostracized by the community due to fear of being associated with him. He and his wife, a binational Venezuelan-Colombian, decided to move to Santa Marta, where her family resides. He intends to start the process of registration. He said he has not adjusted from being a young Venezuelan who thought he was headed for a career in politics to being a street vender in Santa Marta.

“Alex” and his wife are street vendors, and together earn about $60 (US) a week. These refugees have been in Santa Marta since May, 2018, and despite not having a PPT or access to social services, he said they enjoy a tranquil and affordable life here (Alex 2023). “Ariana,” age 45 years, has been in Santa Marta since 2018, with her two teenage children who attend high school. She has a PPT, and says she likes raising her children in a small city such as Santa Marta due to its lack of crime and ease of social integration (Ariana 2022). Marie, age 27, is a university graduate from Caracas who taught English to oil executives, but her work started to disappear in 2015. She left in 2018 and had to cross by the trochas since the official checkpoints were closed. She has documentation that permitted her to secure a PEP. She found a good job in management at a major hotel in late 2021 when the COVID-19 pandemic subsided. She said she enjoys residing in Santa Marta due to the low cost of living, low crime rate, and friendly feel of the community (Marie 2022).

The director of an NGO dedicated to socially and economically integrating refugees into the Santa Marta community indicated that this small city is mostly a transit point for refugees on the move (Acosta 2023). His group estimated that there were about 9,100 refugees residing in the community, and that his agency served over 4,800 Venezuelans from December 2022 to May 2023. Lack of jobs is the main reason refugees move on, though the relatively low crime rate and low cost of living are inviting.

Bucaramanga is a small city, but more than twice the size of Santa Marta. For caminantes, it is an eight to ten hours walk from Cúcuta, and there is a sizeable caminante population passing through the city. “Yelitza” left Merida with her husband and two children in 2015, when the economy had deteriorated sharply and they could no longer sustain themselves. Her husband was offered a job at a university in the city and he had the documentation to accept the position and eventually received a PPT. She applied for a PPT in late 2022, but had not received it by May, 2023. She said that her family feels secure in this small city with a relatively low crime rate. Due to its proximity to the border, it is easy to assimilate culturally here. She said there have been no instances of xenophobia and no perceived human security threats, though she would still like to return to Venezuela to join her family if the situation improved there (Yelitza 2023).

“Jesus,” who has an MBA from a major university in Caracas, left the city in 2012 when his salary could not cover his cost of living. He found a university position in Bucaramanga, and had a passport and other documentation that allowed him to work. He said that there is a great divide between refugees who are educated and have some monetary savings, versus poorer and uneducated refugees, who mostly arrived after 2016 and who he has observed working on the streets in highly vulnerable situations (Jesus 2023).

Refugees and Human Security: Big Cities

Bogotá, Colombia’s largest city, is attractive to refugees due to its strong economy and relatively high wages. However, it can take about a month to walk to Bogotá from the border, and the cost of living is higher in Bogotá than in other Colombian cities. It also has the highest crime rate in the country, according to government statistics (DANE 2023). Among the human security problems faced by refugees are threats to their physical security. “Ruby” is a 52 year-old Venezuelan indigenous woman, who crossed the trochas into Colombia and took a month to walk from Cúcuta to Bogotá in 2018 (Ruby 2022). She said three of her family members were assassinated by armed groups in the borderlands — two in Catatumbo and one near Cúcuta. Her son, with whom I spoke, bears the scar from being stabbed in the neck while trying unsuccessfully to cross the trochas at night without paying an extortion fee to armed groups (Dixon 2022).

With a population nearing 12 million, Bogotá offers refugees economic opportunities. “Leonardo,” a bike-delivery person, paid $500 (US) for a Venezuelan passport and crossed the trochas when the official checkpoints were closed. He has a PPT, but he lacks formal skills and makes deliveries six days a week for about 10 hours a day, about earning $35 (US) daily. He said this city has the highest wages in the country, allowing him to remit monies to his family in Venezuela. However, he said that xenophobia is high and he is stigmatized as a criminal (Leonardo 2023).

The relationship between crime and refugees is nuanced. A young refugee with a BA in economics who was working as a delivery person in Bogotá said that he got his cell phone violently stolen from him by a Venezuelan motorcycle gang (Alex 2022). That city is notorious for equating Venezuelan refugees with criminals, but many refugees are in fact victims of crime. One refugee in Bogotá always took his four-year old son with him while selling things on the street so that locals do not think he was a criminal (Johán 2022). The city’s mayor, Claudia López, has been viewed as xenophobic by some due to comments she made regarding Venezuelan refugees and crime (Wolf 2022). “Johan,” a refugee who makes motorized bicycle deliveries, acknowledged the presence of common crime, but said that Bogotá is still safer than his home town in Zulia, Venezuela, which he said was rife with corrupt police and violent criminals (Johan 2022). When refugees evaluate crime as a human security threat in Colombia, they do so in relation to the situation they left in Venezuela.

Highly sophisticated organized criminal organizations operate in large cities such as Bogotá and Medellín. For refugees, one manifestation of this threat is the organized sex trade, which targets young women and girls. The incorporation of refugees into the sex trade is a significant human security problem in large cities such as Bogotá, and ranges from prostitution to the proliferation of technologically sophisticated internet sex shows, according to the director of a human rights NGO run by Venezuelan lawyers (Aponte 2022). A program director for US AID in Medellín underscored the vulnerability of young women and girls to the sex trade in that city (Quirós 2023). An analyst at another NGO in the city devoted to socially integrating refugees observed that young Venezuelan women are often falsely stigmatized as sex workers, and that Venezuelan sex workers have evoked resentment from their Colombian counterparts by creating more competition and lower pay.

Medellín, with a population of 4.1 million, is an important destination for refugees due to its status as the country’s second city. Refugees reported that it has a reputation for being welcoming to those wanting work, and that there is less perceived xenophobia in Medellín than in Bogotá. “Carlos,” age 32, has a university degree in business. He chose Medellín as a destination for the reasons set forth above. He has sold small electronics from a booth on the street for three years, nearly had the savings to open a small store. His wife, a former teacher, is now a hairdresser. They are good examples of those who have applied for the PPT– they are educated, have economic skills, and wish to remain in Colombia permanently. This couple had the capacity to save for Carlos’ store and also send remittances back to their family in Yaracuy, Venezuela, who are taking care of their young children. To accomplish this feat, they share a single room in an apartment with rooms rented to other refugees (Carlos 2022).

“Mikey,” by contrast, has been in Medellín for three years, but will not apply for the ETPMV because his aim is to go to the United States. He intends to pay a coyote $500 (US) for a perilous journey that starts at the Darien Peninsula at the border between Panama and Colombia and ends at the entrance to Mexico’s southern border. He would pass through Mexico northward and then pay another coyote $500 to enter the United States. He intends to make that journey with his wife and young daughter, and with his brother and his family who also reside in Medellín.

Beyond economic need alone, “Joshua” said he left Caracas with his young son three years ago due to shortages of electricity, gasoline, food and other necessities. He said he found the escalating crime rate, and the fear of simply walking on the street, to be intolerable. This harkens back to the point that refugees leave not only for economic motives, but due to a broader breakdown in public order. Joshua liked Medellín due to its dynamic economy, friendly environment, mild weather, and lack of perceived xenophobia (Joshua 2022).

Cartagena is a large coastal city with strong industrial, tourist, and energy sectors. It has been a draw for refugees associated with PDVSA and related energy industries due to its large oil refinery and associated businesses. Former oil workers hope to find work in Cartagena, but job opportunities are scarce. “Pedro,” age 48, worked for PDVSA for 30 years before he left in 2018 when his work dried up. He works on commission for a travel agency, selling trips to tourists. He makes about $10 (US) a day. He was unsuccessful finding work in Cartagena’s energy sector, and indicated that he felt lost and dejected having such limited means and no economic security. Pedro wanted to leave Cartagena soon for Bogotá, hoping prospects are better there for higher-paying work. He said he felt xenophobia in the city, and that some wrongly suggested he was a communist for having stayed so long in Chavista Venezuela (Pedro 2022). In a roughly similar situation is “Jován,” age 51 years, who worked for an excavation company that served PDVSA, but left in 2016 when the Bolívares (official Venezuelan currency) became virtually worthless. He makes about $100 a week selling handicrafts on the streets of Cartagena, which is enough to survive and to send remittances home to his mother (Jován 2022).

Cartagena is perceived by many refugees to have less xenophobia than other major cities, and its coastal culture is welcoming for Venezuelans, according to representatives of various NGOs and refugees. “Pedro” received his PPT in June, 2023, 18-months after arriving in Cartagena, drawn by the weather and prospects for work. He sells bread he bakes at home, and is saving to purchase a small bakery. He said he found it easy to integrate socially in the city, and that having work was a good way to do so (Pedro 2023). The director of an NGO dedicated to social integration for refugees indicated that only about half the refugees that pass through her office, which sees about 200 a day, have the documentation required to obtain a PPT. Housing is a particular problem for refugees in Cartagena, she said (Martínez 2023). Her office refers refugees without documentation to agencies willing to provide them with social services, including heath care.

Overall, large cities offer refugees economic and educational opportunities that smaller towns cannot, and have strong NGO networks dedicated to serving their significant refugee populations. Refugee communities also provide support for their members. However, human security is threatened by notoriously high xenophobia in larger cities such Bogotá, by vulnerability to sophisticated crime, and by the relatively high costs of living.

Policy Recommendations

The Colombian State has been historically weak and absent in a considerable part of its territory. Against this backdrop, Colombia has shown remarkable strength in its management of Venezuelan refugees. This study suggests that regularization and the provision of a temporary residency permit have proven to be the best measure to ensure that the basic human security needs are met for Venezuelan refugees, such as access to medical services, education, and labor rights.

The focus becomes how to improve that program. The first recommendation is to attempt to provide a PPT to refugees who are not yet registered or regularized. An initial step is to establish a relatively accurate estimate of the size of this population. Migration Colombia estimated that there were 311,729 such refugees in October 2022, though leaders of NGOs that work directly with them place their number between 900,000 and 1.2 million as of mid-2023 (Migración Colombia 2022). ²² An information campaign that targets these refugees would need to be deployed, and existing programs could be bolstered to assist them to obtain or create the necessary identification to receive a PPT. Regularization policies in Colombia are supported by US AID and other international agencies. They should provide Mig-ración Colombia, in concert with relevant NGOs, the funds to achieve this goal.

Secondly, programs should be aimed at capacity building and increasing agency among refugees. They need to: (a) take into account common patterns among groups of refugees; (b) incorporate intersectional approaches toward them; and (c) recognize the specificity of human security threats associated with distinct spaces. A striking point derived from the interviews is the lack of sufficient and reliable information for Venezuelans as they cross into Colombia. Programs should be bolstered and developed to provide accurate information for incoming refugees through local radio and electronic sources, such as those operated by Caminantes Tricolor, with refugees themselves taking a leading role in the direction of such programs and the provision of reliable information. This would not be an expensive endeavor, and could be funded and coordinated by Migración Colombia.

Another program could target caminantes and the common human security threats they face. Providing transportation for caminantes to their final destinations would render them far less vulnerable. Various NGOs in Colombia already do this work in a limited way, such as Integrate and Caminantes Tricolor. Their funding comes from US AID, from ACNUR and other international aid agencies, and so additional funds would need to be provided by them or others.

While programs should prioritize the most vulnerable, it is important to build on the achievements of the relatively successful group of refugees. For example, a number of those I interviewed had strong entrepreneurial skills and have already met with success in their endeavors in Colombia. They could benefit from strategic loans or education aimed at growing their businesses. This is pertinent, for example, to the refugee in Medellín noted earlier who ran an electronic booth on the street and hoped to move to a small storefront, and to the bread maker in Cartagena who baked from his small home oven but aspired to operate a bakery. Given Colombia’s limited capacity as a developing country, funding would need to come from international agencies such as US AID and its cohorts in other developed countries.

Capacity building programs, and those designed to bolster the agency of refugees, also need to take into account intersectional nuances. Factors such as age, gender, class, physical health, social savvy and family support can be important in determining which refugees are the most vulnerable to particular threats and to craft programs designed specifically to reach them. For example, special programs administered by the Colombian government and NGOs should be aimed at the lost generation of young Venezuelan refugees — those who were 15 or so when they left Venezuela and who have had their schooling disrupted, curtailed or discontinued. They are at a point in their lives when well-crafted programs can help to ensure that they become educated, socially integrated, and possess marketable skills. Such programs could be initiated by Colombia’s educational system and by NGOs that focus on young refugees, such as Integrate, but would require international support through US AID and its cohorts.

It is clear that particular locations are associated with distinct human security threats. For example, a trend was observed at the borderlands in 2023 whereby refugees that possess the documentation to cross through official border checkpoints chose instead to cross through the trochas since they feared the loss of their documents by border authorities at official sites. This renders them vulnerable to armed groups. Programs need to be developed and prioritized to ensure refugee security at official border checkpoints. This is a primary responsibility of Migración Colombia.

Finally, we observed that in Cúcuta in 2023 there was a wave of heroin micro-trafficking operated by armed groups that targeted street refugees, which spawned further crime and xenophobia. Programs could be developed to assist refugees living on the streets of that city, especially in relation to criminal vulnerability. Larger cities such as Bogotá, Cúcuta, and Medellín host sophisticated criminal organizations and armed groups that target a specific profile of refugees. Young women and girls are particularly vulnerable to the sex trade in those cities, and so existing programs run by NGOs — such as Entre los Fronteras and Integrate — could be fortified to lure them out of the sex trade or to promote their health and security as much as possible if they remain in it. Overall, policies to promote human security among Venezuelan refugees in Colombia need to take into account intersectional distinctions as well as threats associated with specific spatial locations.