Photos: Colombia’s Indigenous Nasa push back against cultural loss to reconnect with nature

PANCE, Colombia — Ofelia Opocué’s life has been shaped by loss, she says. Twenty-three years ago, the FARC gave her family an ultimatum: leave their fertile land in Toribío, in Colombia’s southwestern Cauca department, within 72 hours or become part of their armed group. The family chose to flee, leaving behind cornfields, livestock and, what they underlined, the spiritual connection to their ancestral territory. Carrying what little they could, they journeyed 89 kilometers (55 miles) to the outskirts of Cali, exchanging their rural life for an urban one.

“You leave behind your people, your roots, the customs you’ve lived with — the food, the way of life. Everything changes,” says Ofelia, a 65-year-old Indigenous Nasa woman.

Years after their departure, in 2016, she, her husband and other families registered their own cabildo, an Indigenous governing body recognized by the Colombian government. Called Cabildo Dxi’j Pha’dena Abriendo Caminos (Opening Pathways), it connects nearly 100 displaced Nasa people in the village of Pance in the southwest of Cali.

With this, they’ve revived the Saakhelu ritual under the guidance of elders who remember rituals from their past.

Saakhelu means “awakening of the seeds” in Nasa Yuwe, their native language. The Nasa ritual hasn’t been celebrated widely for many years, but since the 2010s it’s been growing in popularity in the department of Cauca. Held under the light of the full moon in August or September, the ritual marks the start of the rainy season and the planting of new crops. For the Nasa, this is a time to harmonize with Mother Earth, celebrate the cycle of life, and ensure a good harvest while preserving native seeds, they tell Mongabay.

The last ritual brought together some 60 displaced people hoping to reconnect to where they came from. It took place on a small piece of land called Finca Yolandia, rented by the cabildo in the mountains near the village of La Vorágine. It’s far from where many actually came from. But the customs and language are more or less the same — a tenuous tie to what they say they’ve lost.

Ofelia says she began the cabildo and revived the ritual to recreate a semblance of her past, something she’s gotten used to trying to do while near the city. When her family settled on the outskirts of Cali, she still tried to raise chickens and grow food in the hard city soil.

But replicating other aspects of their previous lifestyle wasn’t possible. Communal farming was replaced by construction work, and mornings began not with birdsong but with the clamor of urban life. Without communal land, there was no longer any call for the traditional mingas, the collective workdays for planting crops. Ofelia’s connection to her Nasa identity frayed over the years, she says. Far from her community, she rarely had the opportunity to speak Nasa Yuwe.

“We can’t let us lose what is our own, we always have to strengthen what is us,” Ofelia says.

She and her family are among the more than 5 million internally displaced people in Colombia, according to the government. Of the 51,623 reportedly displaced people in 2024, about half are Indigenous or Afro-descendent peoples. Of the 216 children recruited or used by nonstate armed groups in 2024, 58% also are members of Indigenous or Afro-descendent peoples. About one in four Indigenous people in Colombia are registered as victims of the country’s armed conflict.

More than a decade ago, the Colombian Constitutional Court warned that some Indigenous peoples were at risk of cultural and physical extinction due to the armed conflict that began in 1964 with a FARC-led insurgency, and persists today despite a 2016 peace deal. Indigenous communities are particularly vulnerable to cultural loss following displacement, as their cultural and spiritual practices are intricately tied to their ancestral lands, according to Indigenous researchers. The U.N. Commission on Human Rights also sounded the alarm on the mental and emotional impacts of displacement and violence that Indigenous communities face.

In Colombia and elsewhere, Indigenous communities are already facing the widespread loss of their culture and beliefs that value their lands and connection to the Earth. This is due to myriad factors, including younger generations moving to cities, evictions from their territories, loss of language, and pressure from the extractive industries.

Adriana Anacona Muñoz, a professor at the School of Education, Culture and Community at the University of the Valle in Cali, says poverty and racism are central challenges faced by newly displaced Indigenous people once they arrive in urban areas. Many of these individuals come from agricultural backgrounds, leading to limited job opportunities, often confined to domestic work or gardening.

For those who can’t find a community, the sense of being unanchored becomes overwhelming, which is why rituals such as Saakhelu, they say, can offer a sense of reconnection to their ancestors and the land.

Trying to revive community and culture

The road to Finca Yolandia, where the ritual is held, is steep and muddy. But the land offers a sanctuary for the displaced Nasa community, say members, and is a work in progress. Three big bamboo structures stand upright. Under a round roof, wooden seats are arranged in a spiral, leading from the fireplace in the middle to the outside. In a small garden, medicinal plants grow, including coca. Under another roof, a tulpa, or traditional meeting space, serves as a gathering point. Meat, spices and eggs sit on the countertops in the corner.

When the Saakhelu ritual begins, the members of the cabildo gather, many bringing faded tents, musical instruments such as flutes and drums, and lots of food to share. Unlabeled plastic bottles filled with the alcoholic beverage chicha are passed around, not only for drinking but also for toasting to the earth. Before each sip, the ground receives three “sips” as a sign of gratitude. Participants dance, offering thanks as they plant seeds, gather fruits and honor the land.

At the heart of the ritual is a bull, purchased from a neighboring farmer, whose head is offered to Saakhelu, the spirit of the ritual representing the constant connection with the Earth. They hand the head up in the Saakhelu tree while the rest of the bull is prepared into food.

“Creating spaces where we mark the territory through rituals is a source of hope,” says Muñoz, the sociologist.

For the younger generations at the ritual, it’s a journey of rediscovery, they tell Mongabay. Dayana Campo, 24, born into a family uprooted by conflict, grew up on the outskirts of Cali, far removed from her family’s traditional land and customs. Now working as a secretary for the governor of her community’s cabildo, Dayana says she’s trying to embrace her heritage. She documents rituals on social media, learns about healing plants, and helps organize community events.

On Finca Yolandia, they plant 300 seedlings of the nacedero tree (Trichanthera gigantea) along the riverbank to prevent it from drying out. These acts are intertwined with the spiritual and cultural significance of the ritual. Other seeds, including varieties of beans such as petaco (Phaseolus coccineus), fulfill part of the Saakhelu ritual, a tradition that involves planting seeds for the coming year. Ofelia, cradling a mix of seeds in her hand, says preserving them seeds isn’t just an agricultural act — it’s one of resistance.

“Without seeds, there is no abundance,” she says, tiptoeing around small plants from past Saakhelu. She and her grandson try to plant as many different seeds as possible each year on their small piece of land, all local varieties including beans, tomatoes and pumpkins.

Carrying on traditions

The evening of the Saakhelu is marked by the voices of the elders, seated closer to the center of the spiral in the tulpa. As they chew coca leaves, they tell past stories and share advice with the younger generations. Their message, they say, is that traditions like the Saakhelu must endure as one way to remind people of the balance between humans and nature.

Central to the ritual’s conclusion is the spiritual marriage of the sun and moon. Wooden figures representing these celestial beings are hung in trees, and as the ritual progresses, they’re brought together until they finally touch, symbolizing harmony and balance in the universe. The chosen Saakhelu tree, honored with offerings of chicha, serves as a sacred connection between the community, nature, and the divine.

Despite the spiritual and cultural richness of the Saakhelu, challenges remain. Yuly Viviana Gonzalez Moreno, governor of the cabildo, says the most pressing issue is the lack of sufficient land to grow their food. Finca Yolandia, where the ritual is held, he says, is an important achievement, but it can’t fully sustain the needs of the community.

Meanwhile, the cabildo is growing. Every year, about five displaced families express an interest in joining.

“I hoped that if we formed a cabildo, the children would learn and follow,” Ofelia says.

Banner image: The chosen Saakhelu tree, honored with offerings of chicha, stands as an axis, connecting the community to its environment and the divine. Image by Anna Abraham and Tony Kirby.

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