San Andrés is a popular tourist destination known for its beaches, coral reefs, scuba diving, snorkeling, and duty-free shopping. It has been recognized for its beauty, gastronomy, and activities in well-known journals like the New York Times. Although it is a wonderful place, full of amazing attractions, it also has its dark side. Like many places, San Andrés faces significant challenges related to poverty, water scarcity, health issues, and resource constraints, which has led to increased tensions on the island between residents and raizales.

San Andrés is a forgotten place, while tourists may be enchanted by the beaches, the cays and the food, we will continue struggling with poverty, corruption and inequality in our island.

Reegen Antonio, Raizal.

I am Catalina Mariana Fitata Emiliani, but you can call me as my family does: Mariana, Marianita, Mari, Mar or Marimar. If you don't like one of those, feel free to call me as my friends prefer: Catalina, Cata, or Catica.

I was born in the magical and beautiful island of San Andrés, famously known as the “Sea of Seven Colors", where my story begins.

My dad, a raizal man, met my mom, an island-born resident, when they were 17 and 18 years old. From that moment, they were inseparable, and although both families initially disapproved their relationship, my parents decided to start a family regardless of their opinions.

Due to this unique union, my childhood was a beautiful blend of diverse cultural experiences. On one side, I grew up immersed in the rhythms of calypso, jumping polka, and mento. I enjoyed traditional island food like breadfruit, rondon, empanada de cangrejo, and mazamorra de breadfruit, while listening to old tales of pirates, who hidden treasures in the island decades ago. On the other hand, I was also exposed to the rhythms of vallenato and champeta, and I enjoyed eating patacón with queso costeño, while watching my grandmother scolding my cousins and threatening to hit them with a rama de tamarindo for climbing trees.

I can't lie, I didn't experience the called "honeymoon" stage of culture shock. For me, it was a direct shock. Nothing about the city pleased me. Not the loud noises, the chaotic public transportation, nor the overwhelming smells. Everywhere I turned, I looked for the beautiful sights of home. I longed for the sound of the waves, the cool sea breeze, and the sun that warmed me to the bone.

As I grew up, I realized that to connect effectively with each part of my family, I had to adapt to their unique communication styles, but at that time it was challenging. When I was with my father's relatives, they sometimes said that I was too noisy, a reflection of my mother's lively influence. Conversely, my mother's relatives would say I was too serious for someone so young, urging me to talk more and relax. These contrasting expectations required me to constantly shift my behavior and communication style, depending on which side of the family I was with.

At times, this situation made me feel uncertain, caught between two worlds with differing expectations. However, as time went on, I got used to this dynamic and learned to embrace it. Although my families were different in many ways, and expressed their ideas, their beliefs and their love for me in different ways, these differences did not make them less important or valuable. On the contrary, each family's unique qualities taught valuable lessons that shaped who I am today.

My father's side taught me to be more serious, thoughtful, and precise in my communication. Conversely, my mother's side brought vibrancy and energy into my life. From them, I learned to be more relaxed, to laugh loudly, and to express myself freely. Each side complemented each other and enriched my life. They taught me to balance seriousness with lightheartedness, to navigate different social contexts with ease, and to appreciate the diverse ways people can show love and care. Each side of my family with their unique traditions and communication styles helped me to see the world from multiple perspectives.

It was like there were invisible lines dividing us, and each group mostly stuck to their own.

As a legal "raizal" islander, I initially felt a sense of belonging with this group. However, my inability to understand and speak fluently in creole acted as a barrier, preventing me from fully integrating into this circle. Due to this, I started to distance in some way to this group, to fully integrate myself with the Spanish-speaking students from the mainland and Arab communities.

Previously, even though I struggled to understand the creole conversations, there was still a sense of friendship among us. We bonded over shared interests like music and the delicious food of our island. However, it felt as though those connections had faded into thin air, leaving behind an indifference.

Seeing those connections slip away left me feeling lost. It was like our shared culture was slipping through my fingers, leaving me caught between worlds. All I wanted was to feel that sense of belonging again, to find my place in the community that used to feel like home.

It was all a statement that I wasn't enough to be Raizal. It felt like every difference, every little thing that didn't match their expectations, was used against me. It was a painful reminder that in their eyes, I didn't quite measure up to what it meant to be truly part of the community.

Due to this experience, I learned that conformity to a prescribed standard is the price of acceptance in our island, and any deviation from this norm is met with disdain.

On one hand, I was too calm, simple, and quiet compared to my costeña peers, who were always noisy, laughed out loud without shame, and had strong accents. Even compared to my islander peers, I was much quieter and more introverted; because they, with their strong attitudes, always made themselves heard and noticed in class. On the other hand, my hobbies didn’t fit with any of the groups either. I loved listening to a British boyband and reading love books until the dawn, while my classmates preferred to go out to the beach, enjoy time with friends, and try new drinks.

These differences left me feeling like a lonely teenager, struggling to identify with any group and share interests with my classmates. This led some people to describe me as "creída" or rude because I preferred to spend my time with small groups that made me feel comfortable and loved. Due tp this, I received even more criticism, with some saying I thought I was too "smart," too "pupi," or better than them. In reality, I was simply trying to find my true self and hadn’t yet find it.

Through experiencing the tensions between different cultural groups at school, I learned to appreciate the unique blend of influences that shaped me. I realized that my value and identity were not diminished by my inability to perfectly fit into either the Raizal or other categories. Instead, my mixed heritage and diverse experiences became a source of strength and pride.

These encounters taught me that self-acceptance comes from embracing all aspects of my identity, without needing to conform to stereotypes. I discovered that I could create my own space within the culture, where I belonged simply by being myself. This journey helped me understand that the richness of my identity lies in its complexity and that belonging is about connection and authenticity, not conformity.

Mariana knows that her inability to speak Creole fluently does not define her connection with her heritage, because each of the stories, tales and knowledge about her culture is inside her. Marianita recognizes that unlike many islanders, she can not swim with the grace and ease that seem inherent to people from the island. And Mar, Mar aunque no sabe nadar ama el mar, ama por las olas danzar, bajo el sol brillar, en su abrazo nadar, y a(mar) sin cesar.

Catalina has a beautiful family, with millions of cousins costeños who love to laugh and sing. Cata is addicted to patacones, carimañolas, bollo con queso, and sancocho, and every time she travels to visit her grandmother, she enjoys those delicious food. And Catica, Catica doesn't like vallenato, nor champeta, and she knows that rhythm flows through her blood, but not through her body when it comes to dancing.

And each and every one of them, Mariana, Marianita, Mar, Catalina, Cata, and Catica are part of me, of my identity, and the person I am. I am an islander, with caribbean roots, with a Colombian heart, and I love each one of my versions. Because in each of them, you find me, my family, my roots, and my culture. Each one intertwined for who am I.

For months, I longed for home

but then I realized that all was gone,

The road was long, the nights were cold,

and I was walking the path alone.

This feeling of disorientation and unfamiliarity led me to withdraw and not socialize with others. The only thing I wanted was to be at home, reading and sleeping. Due to this, my first months in Bogotá were quite lonely; I only went out to study, came home, and slept. This feel of loneliness was also due to my lack of ability to deal with uncertainty. Whenever someone talked to me or invited me to go out, I automatically just thought, what if we don't get along just because we are from different places? What if I get lost going out? What if I get robbed? I only thought about the worst scenarios and didn't give myself a chance to experiment and open up to new things.

My adjustment stage in this city was also difficult because my understanding of Bogotanos was based on stereotypes. Everything I thought and understood about them was based on what I had heard from my relatives: los cachacos are very cold, very serious, very boring, and that they don't know how to dance. All these preconceptions stopped me to interact with them in first months, because I thought that all Bogotanos were uninteresting, and that did not motivate me to get to know and interact with them. Moreover, unsuccessful interactions where they made comments like, "You don't look like an islander," "Are there any schools in San Andres?" or "Most of the islanders I know are lazy," did not help my interest in socializing either.

I also began to explore more the city, discovering its parks, museums, restaurants, and markets. With each new place I visited, my confidence grew. I got lost many times (I still get lost if I don't use the Maps app), but each misadventure turned into a story and a learning experience. I learned to use the transmilenio, and with this newfound "ability", my fear started to diminish.

These experiences taught me that stepping out of my comfort zone was crucial for my growth. I learned that people, no matter where they are from, have more in common than I initially thought. My time in Bogotá became a journey of self-discovery and cultural understanding. I found a new home in this city, not by replacing my old one, but by expanding my sense of belonging. This journey helped me to see that home is not just a place, but a feeling that you carry with you, shaped by the people you meet and the experiences you embrace

First and foremost, all these encounters have heightened my awareness of self. By navigating the complexities of my cultural identity—embracing aspects of both Raizal and Caribbean cultures—I have come to appreciate the multifaceted nature of my own being. Although sometimes my way of being, thinking and acting differs from those of my peers and friends, this does not make me less valuable or important.

These encounters have also enhanced my awareness of others. Through dialogue and exchange with individuals from diverse backgrounds, like Bogotanos, Costeños and Paisas, I have learned to listen to others, to validate their experiences, and to leave the stereotypes behind to take the time to get to know the person who is really behind.

Additionally, these encounters have opened my mind to new ways of being, living, and thinking. Through interactions with people from diverse backgrounds, I have been exposed to alternative worldviews, belief systems, and cultural practices. This exposure has broadened my horizons, challenging me to question my own assumptions and preconceptions. I have learned to embrace ambiguity, uncertainty, and complexity, recognizing that there is no just one right approach to life.

As I continue on my journey, I carry with me the lessons learned from these experiences with different cultures. They remind me to approach each day with curiosity and an open mind, to seek out opportunities for connection and understanding, as in this world, it is our differences that make us unique, and our shared humanity that bind us together.

In my view, residents and non-natives have contributed to the decline of our island. Many newcomers came to enrich themselves at the expense of the island's resources, showing little concern for its inhabitants, culture, and environment. However, they are not the only source of the problem. The government has been a fundamental part of the decline on the island. Many of the last leaders have done little to improve the situation for the island's inhabitants, and they have taken advantage of existing tensions to feed hate speech against residents and non-natives, thereby evading its share of the responsibility. For years, they have blamed residents, migrants and non-natives for the island's situation as a way to distract us from other equally important problems. They have distracted us from the multimillion-dollar thefts that have been made in the island. They have distracted us from the numerous projects unfinished, that leave the island in a state of disrepair. They have distracted us from the fact that we don't have a good university, and that thousands of students like me must leave home to get a college degree. But above all, they have distracted us from the fact that our island’s decline is not just exclusively produced by residents, but also due to the actions of our own leaders (Raizales and island natives) who have exploited the island for personal gain for decades.

San Andrés, well-known for its sea of seven colors, is facing a decline due to the arrival of new residents who have exploited its resources for decades. However, this decline is also due to the government's systemic failures. Over decades, they have perpetuated a divisive discourse, blaming others to deflect from their own culpability, and to avoid accountability for their thefts, their broken promises, and their administrative failures. For me, the real issue lies in the corruption and mismanagement that have plagued our government system. By pitting islanders against residents, the elites ensure that we remain distracted and divided, unable to unite against one of the biggest sources of our problems.

To overcome this situation, one of the most important steps to take is to leave the differences behind and start to really reflect on the root of the problems. Is it the residents? Is it the migrants? Or is it the government?

It is time to look beyond surface narratives and question the motivations behind them. Although it will not be easy, nor will it be a quick process, we must start looking past our differences, and focus on what will truly move us forward. We all live in a shared space, and even though it's not the ideal situation, to start noticing the change, a collaborative effort is essential to challenge the status quo maintained by our leaders and to build a more just and equitable future for San Andrés.

Only by looking past our differences and focusing on our shared goals we can achieve real progress and create a brighter future for our island.