We are forced migrants, with the aggravating factor of having been displaced from our roots in our own home. But answer us: Is there still a home for a displaced person? And will Catatumbo be our land again?

This is the question we ask in a loud voice, from exile, where we hear the boots of those who have exiled us at gunpoint and continue to pursue us in the mountains, in the jungle, in the border cities that have welcomed us. We are women and mothers, who have had all dignity stolen from us, to the point of suffocating the illusion of dreaming that our son will once again be the fruit of Mother Earth and a peasant servant of the same.

We cannot show ourselves in public, because they carry our photos, they have our names and nicknames and they seem like hunting dogs that sniff us out with the hatred of their owners. Anyone who looks into the shelter that has welcomed us could be an emissary of the guerrilla, an infiltrator who identifies us and turns us in. We feel that they have placed a prize on our heads, a prize to kill us.