Yuvelis Natalia Morales Blanco, a Colombian environmental advocate, received her first death threat at 19. Now 23, Morales Blanco, the public face of the country’s youth-led fight against fracking, finds herself at a crucial intersection: Not only does she live in the most dangerous country in the world to be an environmental leader, but also, according to a 2021 global survey, she belongs to an age group disproportionately affected by the psychological burdens of the climate crisis — a crisis that, in turn, will hit rural communities in the Global South like hers the hardest.
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Colombia has been embroiled in a fierce debate over the future of fossil fuel extraction, specifically whether to utilize fracking or hydraulic fracturing, the process of injecting a high-pressure liquid into rocks to extract oil or gas. In 2019, then-President Iván Duque announced four pilot projects to determine fracking’s viability on a large scale — two of which were slated for Morales Blanco’s hometown, Puerto Wilches, a small community in the country’s northeast corner, on the banks of the Magdalena River. Attempts to ban the practice have failed in Congress, and although the projects are at a temporary standstill, they could restart if political winds shift in the 2026 presidential election.
In an interview, Morales Blanco, the daughter of a fisherman, details her fight to stop fracking in Puerto Wilches and nationwide, her struggles with mental health following years of persistent threats and violence, and the lack of recognition and institutional support available to environmental leaders.
This firsthand account includes graphic references to violence and self-harm. The interview has been edited for length and clarity.
In 2019, a group of local kids, college students, came and invited [my friends and me] to a meeting. In the eyes of everyone else in town, they were social outcasts. A community leader told me, “Yuve, don’t go. Think about your mother … it’s dangerous.”
I didn’t go, but I saw pictures of the event and they had signs that read, “Say No to Fracking.” Fracking? I had no idea. Then, my Facebook homepage started filling with stuff about it and a group called Fracking Free Colombia Alliance started calling for meetings. I started going because I wanted to understand. It touched on everything I’ve always cared about — protecting our biodiversity, our river, and our town.
We were leaving after the second or third meeting, and a man and woman passed by. They saw we were really happy, full of energy, and they told us, “You’re gonna get yourselves killed.” Our mindset changed. It wasn’t a playful thing anymore. I’m from a town where people are killed, and they tally the numbers. The idea of us being little heroes [by being activists, by stopping fracking] crumbled from then on.
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Doing this work, I discovered abilities in myself that I didn’t know I had — leadership, instant planning, being resourceful. Things that start to awaken in you, I guess, and I said, “This is it.” That’s how Agua Wil, the youth movement against fracking in Puerto Wilches, was born.
We started doing door-to-door promotion, going to all the neighborhoods, and talking to everyone. It was two weeks of almost no sleep. There was never a moment of sadness because there was a very beautiful sentiment, as if of fraternity, very veintejulístico [a reference to Colombia’s independence day on July 20], very of “this homeland that is ours!”
