After the Chocó earthquake: rebuilding differently is no longer an option, it's a requirement

Fotografía aérea que muestra a civiles buscando entre los escombros de un edificio destruido por el terremoto de magnitud 7,4, este lunes 10 de agosto en Quibdó (Colombia). EFE - Jean Arriaga

The earth shook in Chocó on August 10th, a 7.4 magnitude earthquake—the most powerful to hit Colombia in a decade—with its epicenter in San José del Palmar. And once again, the homes of Afro-Colombian and Indigenous communities were the first to collapse. Its depth, nearly 100 kilometers, should have lessened its effects on the surface. But it didn't. Where a house built according to regulations would have withstood the test, the abandoned dwelling gave way. It wasn't just nature that struck. It was negligence.

Chocó is one of Colombia's richest regions in biodiversity and culture, yet one of the poorest in infrastructure, public services, and state presence. This contradiction is not accidental: it is the result of historical neglect, whose first victims are invariably the Black and Indigenous populations. When a catastrophe occurs, we speak of fate. But there is no fate in families living in homes incapable of withstanding anything, in a region known for its long history of seismic risk.

The vulnerability here is not natural. It is constructed. It is built through the absence of enforced regulations, the lack of public oversight, and decades of investments that never materialize, arrive late, or are lost along the way. A profound earthquake of this magnitude tests an entire country, but it should not reduce to ruins the homes of those who have never received anything. When it does, it reveals the truth of a territory abandoned to its fate.

The tragedy is over. It cannot be undone. But we can decide what comes next. And that is where the debate must shift: from the humanitarian emergency, necessary but temporary, to a lasting political imperative. Rebuilding, yes, but rebuilding differently.

Other countries have shown us that resilience is learned. Japan has built a true culture of risk: strict earthquake-resistant building codes, structures designed to absorb ground motion, and public education. Chile, closer to home, implemented rigorous building codes after its major disasters, codes that now save lives. These examples are not unattainable. They are based on one decision: the recognition that the safety of all citizens, including the poorest, is a responsibility of the state.

Rebuilding differently doesn't mean importing expensive, foreign solutions. On the contrary, it means revaluing what the land already possesses. Colombia has guadua, that robust, lightweight, flexible bamboo, remarkably adapted to seismic zones and already recognized in certified constructions throughout the country. It has vernacular knowledge, ancestral construction techniques known to the communities, which, combined with technical support and clear regulations, allow for the creation of a habitat that is safe, dignified, and culturally rooted.

This point is essential. It's not about imposing standardized housing on Afro-Colombian and Indigenous communities that erases their way of life. It's about fostering a dialogue between technical knowledge and local knowledge, seismic regulations and the collective memory of the land. Building with local materials is also building autonomy: less dependence, lower costs, and a stronger sense of belonging. It's an ecological response as much as it is a social one.

What the Chocó earthquake ultimately reminds us is that racial justice, territorial justice, and environmental justice are one and the same. We cannot speak of dignity for Black and Indigenous communities while they are left to live in houses that are collapsing. We cannot celebrate the cultural richness of a territory while depriving it of the basic means of security.

The demand is simple to state and difficult to ignore: that the State finance and support a reconstruction based on local materials and the knowledge of the communities, not as an act of charity, but as the recognition of a right. The right to live in health and safety. The right, for the most vulnerable, to no longer be the first to fall when the earth trembles.

The Chocó region doesn't need fleeting compassion. It needs commitment. Today's ruins can become the starting point for a different way of building: more just, more lasting, more dignified. Provided that the decision is made. Now.