A Way Forward

Maria Balanta is one of hundreds of Colombian "desplazados" who Mercy Corps is helping with programs ranging from backyard vegetable gardens to life counseling to skills training. Photo: Miguel Samper for Mercy Corps

Cartagena, Colombia — For María Balanta, the lone banana tree on her tiny plot of land is not a reminder of a past she'd rather forget, but rather a symbol of a future she's trying to forge.

María's family used to grow and export bananas in Antioquia, a fertile and cool valley in the Colombian Andes, on land that required 30 hired laborers to tend. Their comfortable life came to an abrupt end five years ago, when anti-government guerillas invaded their ranch, stole their livestock, torched the home and killed María's brother and husband.

María fled with her mother and five kids — the youngest only two years old — on a rickety fishing boat. They headed upriver to Cartagena, a hot, coastal resort town that's home to the oldest and largest Spanish fort in the New World — and an estimated 75,000 families displaced by "La Violencia." The long-running civil conflict involving left-wing guerrillas, right-wing paramilitaries, drug traffickers and the national army has displaced nearly three million people in the last 10 years — more than any other conflict outside Sudan.

When she arrived, María settled on government-owned land, patching together a makeshift dwelling with plastic sheeting donated by the army, wood gifted from a church and empty canvas rice sacks. The family survived on whatever domestic work María could find for the day.

"I went from house to house watering plants, sweeping, and people would pay me what they could," says María. "It wasn't enough. We'd go hungry a lot."

Today, along with 470 other families in Cartagena, María is getting assistance from Mercy Corps and its local partner, Volver a la Gente. Together, we're offering families in poor neighborhoods densely populated with "desplazados" an opportunity to address their trauma, regain their self-esteem and find a way forward.

Residents in all three neighborhoods where the program operates — whether they're displaced or not — are eligible to participate in a wide range of activities. They include psychological counseling, training to become a legally recognized "conciliator" in Colombia's justice system, sexual and health education, human rights education, community organizing workshops, and opportunities to learn new skills and join group entrepreneurial ventures.

María found that simply talking about her ordeal — even five years after her trauma — "alleviated a great weight." In fact, María admits, she contemplated suicide in the days before a staff person from Volver a la Gente knocked on her door to inform her about the program. Many of the "desplazados" feel ignored by the government, which usually offers only a 90-day package of emergency aid, and discriminated by a society that they say fails to address their problems.

"Participating in the program made me feel better and motivated me to get involved in my neighborhood," María said.

Now María motivates others by helping spread the word about workshops and programs that Volver a la Gente offers. She also oversees benefits for 50 families eligible for the government's emergency aid, which relies on a network of neighborhood organizers to administer the program.

She and her family still live hand-to-mouth, relying on piecemeal work that her now-21-year-old son obtains. Her small, dirt-floor house is a testament to their meager resources. Pieces of corrugated metal cover holes in the rotting wood siding where last year, she says, robbers broke in and tried to rape her two eldest daughters. (Her neighbors heard the commotion and came to the rescue.) There's a single light bulb strung from the rafters.

María says she hopes the Mercy Corps program leads to a job or self-employment. She'd like to be able to afford material to shore up the exterior walls, and to build a fence around her property so she can raise chickens as part of a livelihood. Despite a backyard that's no more than a patch of sand with an outhouse, María sees potential. There's room to wedge a second banana tree in the corner opposite the existing one, with its unripe fruit dangling out of reach. And space for a patch of vegetables, too.

"Next time you come," she tells her guests, "we'll share a harvest."