The Taken House

“The Taken House” is a direct reference to the short story of the same name by Julio Cortázar, in which something or someone takes over the house, leaving its inhabitants with no choice but resignation. This time, reality mirrors fiction. This photographic series portrays families in their former homes who, caught in the midst of armed conflict, were forcibly displaced in the year 2000.

Located in northern Colombia, Mampuján is now an uninhabited town engulfed by vegetation. The inhabitants of this community, ravaged by paramilitary violence, had lost their homes, but according to them, a miracle from God spared them from being killed. After an in-depth immersion into the collective and individual memory of the residents, we uncovered raw testimonies where life triumphed over tragedy—an unusual case within the common pattern of Colombian paramilitary violence.

These people do not flee from the past; they choose to use it as a reflection to see what they once were—not to become paralyzed by it but to ignite what they can become. It is precisely this display of vitality that lends an unusual language to this documentary project. Founded in 1882 and once home to 1,500 people, Mampuján is a living example of the hardships many Colombians must endure. As its people say, it is difficult for others to understand:
“Our African ancestors were displaced from their land by slavery, our parents were displaced by the bipartisan war, we were displaced by paramilitary war. Who will displace our children?”

This series emerged as a result of a search across various departments and municipalities affected by paramilitary violence and armed conflict. Over three years of research, we encountered many abandoned towns. Countless are the stories these ghost towns and their former residents have to tell; however, we chose to focus on the two events that seemed to demand the most attention: Forced Displacement and Forced Disappearance.

Focusing on the present project—our vision of forced displacement—it is worth noting that the challenge, from the perspective of documentary photography, was profound due to the widespread and unnatural response of rejection or indifference toward these realities by society. This was a crucial factor in the creation of this work, as we had to rethink how to make the issue visible so that the viewer could perceive the harm this crime against humanity inflicts on people and their communities.

After photographing ruined houses and considering alternative ways to tell the story, we were on the verge of entering the world of photomontage when Mampuján appeared and brought us back to the universe of photodocumentary. This town, founded in 1882, was chosen for its visual richness and the ongoing need of its former inhabitants to narrate the testimony of their dispossession. We interviewed several families, and through the immersion process, we selected a group of people who shared a common pattern: displacement experienced through the lens of a house taken over by fear, memories, and unfinished dreams.

As we delved deeper into the dialogue, it became evident that the phenomenon of displacement has existed since before the formation of our history as a Spanish colony and continues through the 206 years of independence. The founders of Mampuján were direct descendants of enslaved people who had been uprooted by human traffickers to a new world, where the curse of losing land would follow them throughout their history. In the 20th century, bipartisan violence once again stripped them of their land. And just as they had managed to rebuild their lives, a new generation would suffer the horrors of paramilitary violence when the “Heroes of María Bloc” of the AUC expelled at least 1,500 people from their homes.

At the dawn of a new century, history may repeat itself. The looming threat of megaprojects for biofuel production has targeted the lands of Mampuján’s people. Uncertainty seems to threaten the fragile peace they have built while they hold on to the hope of returning.

On March 10, 2010, many of these people set foot in their old town for the first time in a decade, facing the lingering fear of violence in the region. These photos show some of them in the place where they built personal and family histories—now replaced by weeds and abandonment. Memories echo in what remains of the rooms.

The community has gained recognition for how its women, guided by Juana Ruiz (National Peace Prize 2016), have developed various cultural strategies to overcome the trauma they experienced and express their life stories through tapestries and weaving. When we spoke with them, we found that their reflections on displacement were intertwined with their healing process. These people do not flee from the past; they choose to use it as a reflection to see what they once were—not to become paralyzed by it but to ignite what they can become.

We present these photographs as a tribute to these people who transform tragedy into a foundation for growth, and we sincerely hope that by exhibiting these images, we can contribute to their cause as much as they have helped us realize a body of work we are proud of. From an aesthetic perspective, our goal was to expose the media’s superficial portrayal of displaced people. We aimed to create a space for reflection, where glimpses of the social context, often lost in the moment of capturing an image, could be appreciated—hence the importance of captions accompanying the visual reading. This combination of elements allows the evocation to transform into a historical memory that inspires respect and commitment toward the precarious conditions and neglect suffered by victims of displacement.

It is true that showing the protagonists in their former homes brings their memories to the surface, making them evident in their faces and significantly shifting the narrative. The truth is that the nature of abandonment, uncertainty, and other emotions are elusive conflicts to capture in a photograph, as they depend on the state of mind of the protagonists and the patience of the photographer to seize them in an image.

To conclude, we affirm that this experience was enriching—they returned to their taken house, and we were there as witnesses to a sublime moment. It is important to remember that there are approximately 26 million displaced people worldwide, four million of whom live in Colombia, and very few can even return to the ruins of what was once their home. These visual documents stand as testimony to a reality that must not be repeated.