Colombian guerrillas who disarmed face uncertain fate under hardline new president

In mid-June, ninety-nine guerrilla fighters arrived by helicopter at a remote settlement in southern Colombia. One by one, they stepped forward and placed their weapons on the ground—rifles, pistols, machine guns, grenade launchers—handing them to government officials. They removed their tactical vests, field packs, and camouflage uniforms and watched as the pile was set ablaze. It was meant to be a beginning: the end of their involvement in a conflict that has killed nearly half a million people over six decades.

They were the sole group to actually disarm under former president Gustavo Petro's "total peace" initiative, an ambitious plan to negotiate with and disarm all of Colombia's criminal organizations, estimated to number nearly 30,000 fighters. But the timing proved catastrophic. The ninety-nine laid down their arms just three days before a presidential runoff election. The winner was Abelardo de la Espriella, a far-right millionaire lawyer who had campaigned explicitly on dismantling Petro's peace efforts and returning to a strategy of military operations and incarceration.

Now, weeks into De la Espriella's presidency and amid his government's response to a 7.4-magnitude earthquake, the ninety-nine remain in legal suspension. They occupy a government-controlled transition zone, or ZUT, in a rural area where they live under surveillance in beige brick buildings decorated with hand-painted doves of peace. Soldiers guard the perimeter less than a mile away. They are fed three meals daily in a communal hall. One former combatant constructed a makeshift gym from metal pipes and cement-filled tins. There is an improvised football pitch. Most spend their days on their phones. Natalia Bríñez, twenty-nine, one of thirteen women in the group, described their condition plainly: "We're in limbo."

Their protection rests on a presidential decree that expires on December 25. De la Espriella has said repeatedly that his government will not negotiate peace agreements. He has not announced what he intends to do with the ninety-nine, and his office has not responded to requests for comment. Theoretically, any arrest warrants against them remain suspended, and they stay under state protection until the decree's expiration. But the president could revoke it at any time. Armando Novoa, the former government official who led negotiations with the group, warned that "the worst-case scenario would be for the new government to close the ZUT, launch a military operation and try to capture or kill them. That would be a crime against humanity, because these people are unarmed." Novoa has since resigned after the Office of the High Commissioner for Peace was absorbed into a newly created National Security Commission, a restructuring expected to eliminate more than two hundred jobs.

The ninety-nine represent a fraction of a larger armed faction called the Commandos of the Frontier, most of whom remain armed. They are part of the National Coordinator of the Bolivarian Army, or CNEB, a former dissident faction of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia with approximately twenty-five hundred members that controls the border with Ecuador. The CNEB's chief negotiator, known as "Araña" or Spider, had been in custody since February on a U.S. extradition request for drug trafficking—a process Petro had delayed. De la Espriella ordered his extradition last week.

Bríñez, who has a phoenix tattoo on her left shoulder as a symbol of rebirth, has not seen her seven-year-old daughter and ten-year-old son in person since entering the zone. She speaks to them on video calls but cannot visit until her transition is complete, a process that includes vocational training and psychosocial support. She was supposed to receive financial support of approximately four hundred twenty-five pounds monthly, which has not yet been paid. In the meantime, some of the group were planning to start a chicken-rearing business. Paula Tobo, a senior researcher at the Ideas for Peace Foundation, noted that the ninety-nine exist in "legal limbo" because their protection depends on decrees that can be revoked and there is no legal framework for their civilian transition. All of Petro's administration proposals to regulate surrenders failed in Congress, and under current law, anyone who has committed crimes such as kidnapping or drug trafficking is ineligible for amnesty.

The group wrote a letter to De la Espriella reaffirming their "irreversible decision to commit to peace" and inviting him to visit. It received no response. Adrián, the youngest member at nineteen, said the group wanted "to have a home, a family." But he also acknowledged what might happen if the government abandons them. "Honestly, I'd take up arms again, because we're keeping our side of the bargain and the government should do the same, shouldn't it?" The disarmament that was meant to signal a new chapter in Colombia's long conflict now hangs suspended between two incompatible political visions, with the ninety-nine caught in the space between.