It's been almost nine years since Colombia celebrated a landmark peace agreement between one guerrilla group and the government, and three years since President Gustavo Petro vowed "total peace." But in reality, the country's decades-long internal conflict continues - making it one of the oldest in the world.

Violence surged in early 2025, the most intense uptick in years. Fighting between two armed guerrilla groups in the northeastern Catatumbo region killed dozens of people and displaced tens of thousands more. Since the largest armed group - the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, known as FARC - signed the 2016 peace accord, more than 400 signatories have been killed. Meanwhile, more than 1,200 social leaders and human rights defenders have been assassinated.

We often define peace as the absence of war. The problem with thinking about peace and war as an all-or-nothing binary, however, is that it obscures the violence that takes place in "peaceful times." For Colombians, that paradox is nothing new. In many communities most affected by the violence, thinking about a "post-conflict era" feels utopian.

As a Colombian researcher who has collaborated with Afro-Colombian leaders for over a decade, I have noticed that emphasizing peace talks and accords erases the historical violence that is still present, especially for racial minorities. Colombia has the largest Black population in Spanish-speaking Latin America. In Choco - a region on the Pacific coast where I conducted my research - Afro-Colombians form a majority.

Communities there are contending not only with the contemporary conflict, but also ongoing challenges from the legacies of slavery, colonialism and extractive industries. Many residents, particularly women, work together every day to try to bring peace and justice within reach.

Colombia has been mired in war for over six decades, as legal and illegal armed groups across the political spectrum fight for territories and resources. The conflict is estimated to have killed around 450,000 people and displaced around 7 million.

Black and Indigenous communities have disproportionately suffered the brunt of the war - especially in rural areas, where their lives and territories have been threatened by armed groups and companies alike. In Choco Department, the site of my research, the region's remoteness and biodiversity have attracted illegal groups and practices like drug trafficking, as well as mining and other types of resource extraction that threaten traditional livelihoods. Mercury from industrial mining poses an additional danger to people's health and the environment.

Black rural communities in the Pacific lowlands, where most of Choco is located, have a legal right to collective ownership of their territories and to be consulted about development plans. In reality, land grabs and targeted killings over illegal crops, mining and other extractive practices have become the norm here, as is true throughout rural Colombia.

The conflict has intensified racism and gender hierarchies, with Black women, particularly activists, especially vulnerable. Vice President Francia Marquez Mina, for example - who has won awards for her activism against illegal mining - survived an attack near her home in the nearby department of Cauca in 2019. She and her family have received other threats on their lives since then.

Even in "postconflict" times, peace is a challenging task. It requires social change that does not happen overnight. Rather, it is the accumulation of tiny sparks in people's daily commitments.

In my book "Postconflict Utopias: Everyday Survival in Choco, Colombia," I write about how Black women's organizations care for their territories and communities. The "comisionadas," for example, belong to one of the largest such groups in Colombia, called COCOMACIA. These women travel the Atrato River and its tributaries to lead workshops about the organization, as well as territorial rights and women's rights.

Everyone in the community is welcome to participate in dialogues about issues such as women's political participation, land ownership and related legislation. Comisionada Maria del Socorro Mosquera Perez, for example, wrote a song to share the importance of Law 1257, a landmark 2008 law against violence and discrimination against women.

In her story for the research project that I discuss in my book, "Mujeres Pacificas," comisionada Rubiela Cuesta Cordoba says it best: "The best legacy that one leaves to family and friends is resistance."

One focus of these women's groups' work is the Atrato River itself. Since 2016, the same year of the peace accords, Colombian courts have recognized the river as a legal person, with rights to protection, conservation, maintenance and restoration.

The river is a source of food and transportation between many basin communities where potable water, electricity and other amenities are scarce. But it is also intertwined with politics and spirituality. Pilgrimages like "Atratiando," a trip along the river and its tributaries that has taken place multiple times since 1999, highlight that there is no life without the river. Participants travel through areas where paramilitaries and guerrillas are active, showing solidarity with vulnerable communities.

COCOMACIA's comisionadas are part of many other organizations - highlighting how survival is not only intertwined with lands and rivers, but other regions and countries. The struggle for women's rights has led the comisionadas to collaborate with other organizations, creating wider networks of care. These include La Red Departamental de Mujeres Chocoanas, a feminist coalition of women's organizations in Choco; La Ruta Pacifica de las Mujeres, a feminist movement of 300 organizations from across Colombia; and Women in Black, an anti-militarism network with members in over 150 countries.

Their solidarity is a reminder that peace and justice are a collaborative, everyday effort. As Justa Germania Mena Cordoba, leader of the comisionadas at the time, told me in 2012: "One cannot change the world by herself."