Disastrous floods in Colombia reignite debate over hydroelectric dam

MONTERÍA, Colombia — In the suburb of La Palma, in the city of Montería, Córdoba, two boys stand knee-deep in water. A shimmering film of dirt spreads across its opaque surface. The two are piling family possessions into an upturned refrigerator – a makeshift raft used to ferry their belongings toward dry land.

Across the street, Ana Castillo, 33, watches them from her doorway. Her home sits just a few inches above the water. By her side, a dark stain rising 1 meter (3.3 feet) up the wall marks where the water line was just a few days earlier.

“This took us by surprise,” Castillo says. Broom in hand, she tries to sweep the last of the water from her front room. “It’s sad to see your things half-submerged in water.”

La Palma is one of the 27 neighborhoods in Montería affected by severe flooding during the region’s dry season. What began as torrential rain in early February turned into a regional disaster: 24 municipalities in Cordoba were affected, and seven people died. The causes are still under debate; while scientists have pointed to unstable weather patterns and the influence of climate change, locals, some experts and high-ranking politicians say high water levels in the Urra Dam, a hydroelectric project long contested by Indigenous communities, have aggravated the floods.

Amid the debate, authorities continue to grapple with the logistical challenges of a disaster on a scale never before seen in Córdoba.

“This type of situation was not anticipated,” says Carlos García Suárez, secretary of government in Montería. “Risk management and hazard planning are based on historical peak levels — and this event exceeded what had been foreseen.”

Climate change vs. natural variability

According to Colombia’s Risk and Disaster Management Unit, an atypical cold front sweeping through the Caribbean region brought unusually elevated rainfall, with some parts receiving 130-180% of their average monthly rainfall February 1-6. According to the government decree declaring a state of emergency in the flooded regions, rainfall in January reached 222.6 millimeters (8.8 inches), nearly three times its historical average of 77 mm (3 in), while February surpassed its typical monthly average of 91 mm (3.6 in) within the first five days of the month.

Scientists have linked the severity of the floods to climate change; according to analysis from ClimaMeter, a multi-institutional climate research consortium, warmer air temperatures in Colombia have resulted in a 10-15% increase in rainfall, while stronger coastal winds have pushed more moisture inland toward the Caribbean coast — changes that researchers say could have compounded the extreme rainfall triggered by the cold front. The report adds that natural climate variability — in this case, the cold front dwelling over the region — cannot alone have caused the floods.

The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) suggests that rising global temperatures may continue to increase Colombia’s susceptibility to future flooding, projecting that an increase of 1.5° Celsius (2.7° Fahrenheit) would increase the country’s flood-affected population by 100-200%.

Amid changing environmental conditions, local authorities also acknowledge that they may have to adapt to increasingly extreme weather patterns. “Experts are telling us that cold fronts are likely to arrive more frequently than in the past,” says García Suárez. “So, we have to build with this in mind.”

But for some residents and experts, the disaster happened because of more than extreme weather.

“This is 100% the fault of Urrá,” says Luis Eduardo Gámez, 40, vice president of the Community Action Board in El Toro, a village about 80 km (50 mi) south of Montería. El Toro sits about 25 km (15.5 mi) from the Urrá hydroelectric dam, a 7,400-hectare (18,285-acre) project located on the Sinú River, upstream of Córdoba’s most severely affected areas.

Locals, experts and politicians have alleged that Urrá S.A. E.S.P, the state-majority-owned company that manages the dam, has compounded the flooding by retaining elevated reservoir levels prior to the rainfall, releasing large volumes of water during the emergency, and contributing to a decades-long process of ecological transformation that has damaged the region’s natural flood defenses.

Among those who say Urrá bears responsibility for the flooding is Colombian President Gustavo Petro. “Every spillage from Urrá onto rural people is the continuation of an environmental crime,” Petro wrote on social media. “The manager must resign immediately and assume criminal responsibility.”

In a separate social media post, Petro said the dam had exceeded permitted water levels on 27% of the days over the previous two months, which he said led to the forced release of large amounts of water during February’s heavy rainfall. He went on to suggest that this is part of a broader strategy to keep reservoirs unusually full, restricting cheaper hydropower output in order to secure electricity contracts priced against more expensive gas-fueled generation. He also accused another Colombian hydroelectric dam, Hidroituango in Antioquia, of employing the same strategy.

Juan Acevedo Rocha, former president of Urrá S.A. E.S.P., resigned within hours of Petro’s social media posts, though he has since denied the president’s claims.

On Feb. 9, Colombia’s National Environmental Licensing Authority announced that it had ordered a sanctioning procedure against Urrá, citing the alleged systematic exceeding of the maximum volume of the reservoir.

Urrá S.A. E.S.P did not respond to Mongabay’s request for comment.

But Colombia’s energy sector has hit back at the criticism, with some arguing that the reservoir has actually helped to mitigate flooding. “In the Sinú River basin, the Urrá reservoir has controlled more than 96% of flood events over the past 25 years, reducing risk for the region,” Natalia Gutierrez, president of the Colombian Association of Electric Power Generators, said in a social media post.

Gutierrez also refutes claims that Urrá has a financial interest in excessively filling the dam. “Spilling water means stopping electricity generation and losing revenue,” she says. “There is no economic incentive to do so.”

In a document released by Urrá, the company says its main purposes are “the generation of energy and flood control.” The company states that “in the case of floods, the reservoir has played an important role in mitigating their impacts.”

But other experts allege that Urrá’s contribution to the disaster stretches back to before its inauguration in 2000.

“Its role in the floods is not only measured in cubic meters of water released, but in decades of decisions,” says Paulo Ilich Bacca, subdirector of Dejusticia, a Colombian legal and social research center.

Ilich Bacca characterizes the dam as a key component of a decades-long social and ecological transformation of the region that has heightened vulnerability and weakened natural flood defenses. “It has been established that the drying and alteration of marshes and wetlands reduced the natural capacity to buffer extreme floods,” he says, adding that extensive cattle farming has also contributed to soil degradation in the Sinú Basin.

He argues that the project did not meet standards of free, prior and informed consultation with the Embera Katío communities that inhabit the region, communities that have vehemently opposed the project since its inception in 1977, citing deep concerns over its impacts on the environment and their traditional livelihoods.

Constructed during a period where paramilitary groups were consolidating territorial control in southern Cordoba, the dam also has historical ties with increased violence against Indigenous populations; in 2001, Embera Katío Indigenous leader Kimy Pernía Domicó was kidnapped and killed after opposing the project. According to Colombia’s Truth Commission, former commander of the AUC paramilitary Salvatore Mancuso testified in 2007 that Pernía Domicó was killed on the orders of Carlos Castaño, another paramilitary leader, because of his opposition to the Urrá Dam. No formal relationship between Urrá and the paramilitary group has been legally established.

For Ilich Bacca, these factors converge to increase the region’s social and ecological susceptibility to flood damage. “Urrá is a catalyst of vulnerabilities that already exist,” he says. “It does not by itself cause the floods, but it has decisively contributed to them becoming a disaster.”

A state of vulnerability

Though more than a month has now passed since the flooding began, the department of Córdoba remains in a state of crisis.

According to García Suárez, 4,800 people are now housed in government shelters in Montería alone, with more being forced to stay with friends or relatives. Across the department, at least 69,000 people have been displaced.

“Life has changed for the people of Córdoba,” says Sandra Aruachan, director of Fundación IMAT, which supports children affected by cancer. The foundation is running shelters for the displaced and distributing supplies to impacted communities.

Among the displaced is Ramona Cuadrado, 70, who in the first week of February was forced to leave her home in Montería, where she lived with her daughter and son-in-law. Cuadrado is now staying with another family in an accommodation supplied by her daughter’s employer. “We couldn’t do anything. Everything was lost.”

For many, the floods have stolen their life’s work. “It’s agony — watching your things being lost,” says Felix Diaz, who was displaced from La Palma. He is staying with his wife and 6-year-old daughter in the same place as Ramona Cuadrado.

Every day, he goes back to La Palma to guard his home against thieves.

In the flooded streets of Montería, abandoned belongings float in the murky water.

“That stagnant water brings mosquitoes, viruses and diseases,” Diaz says.

According to García Suárez, sewage systems have overflowed in affected areas of the city, with dengue and other mosquito-borne diseases raising concern. In 2025, according to the local government, Montería had 853 cases of dengue per 100,000 inhabitants, the highest incidence in the department.

Amid fears that flooding could cause a spike in cases, García Suárez says that cleaning and fumigation have already begun in the flooded areas. But in some parts far from the city, where floodwaters are still high, affected communities are receiving no such support.

“When the waters go down, the mud comes, dengue comes, illness comes,” says Libardo de Jesús Arrieta Fernández, 25, a resident of Los Patos, a community in the municipality of Lorica, about 60 km (37 mi) north of Montería.

Residents in Los Patos say dengue cases have been recorded in a nearby town. But here, poor access would render widespread fumigation very difficult.

Ankle-deep in water, Arrieta Fernández watches as several small canoes arrive in the community, carrying bags of food and supplies. Before him, water spreads as far as the eye can see. Distant trees cast shimmering reflections on a landscape where cattle usually come to graze. On a small strip of dry land, a few pigs lie sleeping just feet from the water’s edge. Residents say most of the livestock were killed in the flooding.

To reach the next town, Nariño, residents must paddle in small, wooden canoes for almost one hour. Some here report having to sleep in houses that are still underwater.

“Right now, we are isolated,” says Yiseth Johanna González, 37, another resident of Los Patos. She says a nearby bridge built by the community just one year ago was destroyed by the flooding; when it fell, it damaged several water pipes, leaving the community without running water.

They are currently relying on aid from relief organizations, which, according to residents, arrives roughly once every four days.

“Now we have to start again,” she says.

The Embera Katío are also among those affected by the flooding.

“When the river came, I lost my house,” says Leonardo Chavarri Domicó, 47, an Embera Katío man living in the village of Banquito Uno, Tierralta. He is perched on a plastic chair in the local shelter, an improvised structure of sheet plastic and corrugated metal.

With one arm, he swats at a cloud of mosquitoes, the other resting lightly on a pair of crutches; Chavarri Domicó lost his right leg to a land mine in 2010. A young girl skips toward him, carrying a plate of rice and beans. The hot food is a small consolation.

“The good things I had — the river took everything,” he says. Along with his home, he also lost farm animals, a corn field and half a hectare (about 1 acre) of plantain to the floods. “I was left with nothing.”

A short distance down the road, a black tarpaulin shakes in a light breeze, spread precariously between a few wooden posts that jut from the ground. For four Embera Katío families, this makeshift tent is now home.

“We can’t go back because the house is still not dry,” says Rosa Elena Domingo Bailarín, 24, an Embera Katío woman and mother of three young children. Beneath the black plastic, various family members are crowded into the one hammock in the shelter. Others sit on the dirt floor.

“We have children here,” she says. “We are lacking many basic necessities.”

García Suárez also confirms that one Indigenous Zenú community in the municipality of Montería had been affected by flooding.

Across the department of Córdoba, it is the most vulnerable who are bearing the brunt of the disaster. Eighty km north in the city of Montería, Esperanza Pacheco, 26, rests one hand on her stomach.

Six months pregnant, she was displaced with her husband and 5-year-old daughter from an area known as La Gran Victoria, a so-called “invaded neighborhood” (barrio de invasión) and one of several informal settlements on the outskirts of the city.

According to García Suárez, these makeshift settlements are some of the most susceptible to flooding in the region. “They are areas that are built on environmental management zones,” he says. “Historically, they were water reservoirs and similar areas, where the river always used to reach, and so they were the first to be affected.”

Three years ago, Pacheco and her family built their home from old sacks and corrugated metal. Today, the floodwaters reach the roof. When they finally recede, little of the house will remain.

For now, the family has found refuge in a shelter for pregnant women, run by Fundación IMAT.

“It’s difficult to leave a place where you’ve come up from nothing, where you’ve built things up with what you had,” she says. “It’s hard to think, where am I going to go?”

It’s Ash Wednesday, Feb. 18, and a faint charcoal cross is smudged across her forehead. Her young daughter wheels across the tile floor to her side.

“Yesterday we did an ultrasound,” she says. “I’m having a girl.”

When the house was flooded, she lost her fridge, bed, mattress, clothes and most of her possessions. The first thing she saved was her pregnancy file.

Banner image: A flooded home in the community of Nariño. Written on the door are the words: “God is in this house, and he blesses my home”. Image by Euan Wallace.

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