In the hillside district of Usme on Bogotá’s southern edge, rows of tin-roofed houses cling precariously to the steep Andes slopes. Inside one apartment, Olga Suárez Fuentes sits beside a small altar adorned with three photographs. The centerpiece shows her and her partner, Jorge Yelian Pimiento Mejía, in a warm embrace, eyes locked in a shared smile. The two side photos depict Jorge in military uniform, bearing the Ukrainian flag.
Jorge, 34, left Colombia on August 14, 2024, to join the International Legion fighting alongside Ukrainian forces against Russian advances. “He went for a better future—for economic opportunities,” Olga Suárez says. Drowning in debt, Jorge hoped to repay his loans, marry his sweetheart, and secure a stable life by early 2025.
Tragically, he never had that chance. Only two months after arriving, during a mission in Chasiv Yar, Jorge was reportedly ambushed and killed. At least, that is what Olga Suárez has heard from former comrades, though no official document has ever been issued to her. On her phone, she keeps a screenshot from a pro-Russian Telegram channel that celebrated his death with the message “Colombian Bandido Merc down.” The pro-Russian group is a key source of information for Colombian relatives seeking information about their loved ones on the frontlines.
Jorge’s story is like that of many other Colombians who, coming from a heavily militarized society with few economic opportunities, have turned to selling their services as fighters abroad. Mistreated and thrust to the frontline in Ukraine and around the world, Colombian fighters often die for causes that are not theirs as their family members are left in the dark. Now, their relatives have banded together to push the Colombian government to help them locate their loved ones and repatriate their bodies.
The Recruitment Machine
In August, 30 men, including Jorge, left Colombia together for Ukraine; only three returned alive.
They got the idea to travel thousands of kilometers from social media. Several short videos promote the war as a job opportunity, with TikTokers giving detailed information on how to join. Dressed in military apparel, a TikToker informs his viewers that they cannot go directly to Ukraine but must first travel to Poland and then cross the border. To find the military base, they have to reach a specific city, the name of which is disclosed via Instagram or in the comments. Everyone must pay for the trip themselves. In the end he warns that “foreigners do not come to rest. All battalions are work battalions. So, if you plan to come here, think about it four or five times.”
It seems these warnings are in vain. There are more than 2,400 comments. One reads: “Someone wants to form a group and go in March?” Another viewer asks: “I am a reservist, how can I join?”
There are multiple videos like this, many of which are official productions by Ukraine’s foreign recruitment center. Some are in Spanish, a Colombian flag in the background indicating the intended audience. In one such video, a man known as “Anjey” speaks in Spanish about the calling from his heart that led him to fight in Ukraine.
For Jorge, it was money that drove him to volunteer. In Bogotá, he worked as a supervisor for a security company. Even though his only qualification was a basic police course he had taken, recruiters promised Jorge a monthly salary of 19 million pesos (approximately $4,600), about 13 times the Colombian minimum wage. He reportedly received just 1.5 million pesos (roughly $370) before his death.
Why Colombia?
Colombia has one of the largest and most battle-hardened militaries in South America—second only to Brazil in troop numbers. For over half a century, Colombia has endured the Western Hemisphere’s longest-running internal armed conflict. This protracted struggle against armed groups and drug cartels has deeply entrenched militarism within Colombian society, shaping its institutions and national identity. U.S.-backed initiatives like Plan Colombia, a multibillion-dollar security assistance program, further bolstered its armed forces, transforming them into a highly effective counterinsurgency force while also spreading paramilitary terror.
All of this has made Colombia the largest mercenary exporter in the world, an issue that gained international attention after the 2021 assassination of Haitian President Jovenel Moïse. Colombian mercenaries also allegedly killed Ecuadorian presidential candidate Fernando Villavicencio in 2023, and have been found in wars from Sudan to Iraq.
The surge of Colombian fighters abroad is not fueled by ideology but economic desperation.
The surge of Colombian fighters abroad is not fueled by ideology but economic desperation. “It’s indisputable that economic factors are the main driver,” says Mario Iván Urueña Sánchez, an international law professor at Rosario University. Colombia’s armed forces are substantial, and soldiers typically retire between the ages of 40 and 45—too old for entry-level civilian jobs but too young to cease working. Every year, about 6,000 soldiers retire.
With limited transferable skills, many ex-soldiers find only low-paying, insecure jobs like private security. Their incomes and social status plunge.
According to Urueña, official sources estimate that between 500 and 600 Colombian ex-military personnel are fighting in Ukraine, but he believes this a significant undercount. Based on information from associations of ex-soldiers and informal recruitment networks, the true number is likely much higher—possibly between 3,000 and 6,000 in Ukraine alone, and up to 10,000 globally.
“Maybe He’s Still Alive”
Favio Stefan “Roco” Rodríguez Correa fits right into this scheme. The former soldier and private security guard joined Ukraine’s fight in early 2024, sending his last message in July: “Mamá, we’ve left on a mission.” Since then, his mother, Olga Lucía Correa, anxiously awaits news of her son. She currently lives in Ecuador.
Roco paid his own way to Madrid, then Warsaw, and crossed into Ukraine by train. To raise money, he sold his furniture and other belongings. Like many others, he was recruited through social media promises of a lucrative monthly salary ranging from 12 to 19 million pesos. Those promises, however, remained unfulfilled.
Months after Correa’s son vanished in Ukraine, a photo of his passport was sent to her older son, suggesting his body had been found in a morgue in Kyiv. But Correa was never shown any images of the body, and those trying to help her were denied entry and forbidden from take photographs.
“Maybe he’s still alive… maybe a prisoner,” she whispers. “A mother never loses hope.” Since then, she has continuously contacted organizations like Doctors Without Borders and other NGOs in the field. She has received no assistance.
Staggering Death Rates
The exact death toll is hard to verify. The Colombian Ministry of Foreign Affairs officially recognizes around 65 deaths in Ukraine, but Urueña casts doubt on that figure, citing instead informal reports that claim up to 500 Colombians may have died on the Ukrainian frontlines. That would mean a staggering death rate of 10 percent.
He notes that Colombian fighters are often deployed on high-risk missions without proper integration, protection, or support. Their lack of Ukrainian language skills also makes them vulnerable, as does the xenophobia they frequently encounter. “There is a lot of discrimination, a lot of mistreatment,” Urueña says.
Colombian fighters are often deployed on high-risk missions without proper integration, protection, or support.
Many are treated as “cannon fodder,” left to die in drone strikes, bombings, or while advancing through mined territory. Their bodies often go unrecovered. Families back home are left without answers, without compensation, and without closure. “It’s not just about recruitment,” Urueña says. “It’s about how they’re used and discarded.”
“There is a high demand for Colombian fighters,” says Andrés Macías Tolosa, a UN security advisor and researcher specializing in mercenary-related activities. “They are viewed as low-cost, experienced, and replaceable.” Colombians who join the International Legion and are not employed by private military companies should technically be treated as Prisoners of War, though Russia warned from the beginning that they would treat foreigners as criminals.
Families rarely receive state support for locating, repatriating, or memorializing their lost relatives. Psychological trauma from uncertainty and abandonment is widespread. Their grief is compounded by bureaucratic indifference and legal invisibility.
Lawmakers Step In — But Will It Matter?
In response to this growing crisis, Colombia’s former Foreign Minister Luis Gilberto Murillo introduced legislation on August 21, 2024, to criminalize the recruitment, financing, and deployment of mercenaries abroad. This bill aligns Colombian law with the 1989 UN International Convention against Mercenaries, which defines a mercenary as essentially a hired killer—neither soldier nor civilian—and seeks to prohibit their use. The proposed law aims to simplify prosecution of recruiters and intermediaries while encouraging international cooperation to prevent exploitation. Murillo stressed the urgency: “We have no tools to protect our citizens conscripted into foreign wars.”
President Gustavo Petro has publicly supported the bill and advocated for expanded veteran reintegration programs to provide alternative economic opportunities to ex-military personnel. Even still, experts warn enforcement will be difficult. Recruiters often operate via encrypted messaging platforms. Without better domestic job prospects, many veterans will likely continue to accept risky contracts abroad.
To seek answers, Olga Suárez, Olga Correa, and about 70 other families have organized a WhatsApp group in which they share updates, coordinate efforts, and exchange contacts with embassies and humanitarian organizations. They are desperate for answers but facing bureaucratic hurdles and no official assistance. Most lack death certificates or the ability to repatriate the bodies of their loved ones. Some fear their family members have been trafficked to other war zones. While chats with their loved ones remain silent, they do not.
“I Just Want Him Home”
On April 17, 2025, dozens of families gathered in Bogotá’s Plaza de Bolívar, directly in front of Congress, to demand answers and support in locating their missing family members in Ukraine. Families stood silently in the cold rain, clutching portraits of men who had disappeared—fathers, brothers, partners, sons. Some wept quietly as passersby looked on, murmuring in the rain: “They were mercenaries. They died in Ukraine.”
One woman, holding a framed photo to her chest, pushed back against the label. “He wasn’t a mercenary,” she said. “He was a volunteer—he went for a better future.”
The candlelight vigil has shown some initial successes: Olga Suárez says she is now in contact with the Colombian embassy in Warsaw. “I just want him home,” she says. “Nothing more.”
Anna Abraham is a German journalist with a background in International Relations.
Tony Kirby is a Bogotá-based journalist covering Indigenous rights, climate, and environmental issues across Latin America. He has reported from Ukraine during the Russian invasion and has worked with refugees throughout the Middle East, Africa, and Europe.