The Lessons 234 Parrots Taught Us About Care, Freedom, and the Illegal Wildlife Trade in Colombia

By Alejandro Rigatuso, Director of Fundación Loros.

Lorenzo goes to school. And it’s not a joke.

At 5:30 in the morning, as the sun begins to gild the leaves of the saman tree, a green flash crosses the sky with a steady flutter. He has a yellow forehead, sharp eyes… and a clear direction: school.

It’s Lorenzo. A parrot. Another student.

That morning—like every morning—no one took him to school. He went on his own. He perched in the classrooms, walked among the notebooks, listened attentively to Mr. Camilo’s natural science class. At lunchtime, he joined the children in the cafeteria. In the afternoon, he flew to his favorite tree to sleep. Free. Loved. Respected.

This happens in La Esmeralda, a small settlement of barely 50 houses in the rural area of Puerto Carreño, Vichada. There, Lorenzo doesn’t belong to anyone. But everyone takes care of him.

And yet, Lorenzo is the exception. Because in Colombia, the parrots’ songs don’t always come from the forest. Often—and despite being illegal—they sound from a cage hanging in a patio, a farm, or a living room. They are parrots that don’t fly, don’t see other parrots, that have learned to repeat human words… without being able to speak their own language.

That’s why, a few months ago, Fundación Loros (Villanueva, Bolívar)—a nonprofit organization dedicated to the rehabilitation and protection of parrots, macaws, parakeets, and parrotlets—launched a literary contest with a simple but powerful idea: to invite people to tell their story with a parrot. That’s how “The Spirit of the Parrots” was born.

Everything that follows really happened.

Who are the parrots?

Before talking about cages, releases, or rescues, it’s worth pausing on a question rarely asked with the seriousness it deserves: Who are parrots? Not what. Who.

At five in the afternoon, as if an invisible bell rang above the Amazon, the sky over Leticia fills with wings. Thousands of parrots fly over Santander Park, circling the palm trees, releasing vocalizations that only their companions understand. They seek each other. They call. They recognize one another. And they sleep together.

Parrots are deeply sensitive and social beings. Studies show that—at least in some species—each chick receives from its mother a “name”: a unique, unrepeatable call that identifies it for life.

They live in tightly knit flocks of 20 to 40 individuals, sometimes more. They sing when it rains. They blend into the green when danger lurks, and sometimes—just for play—they swing on branches like children on a swing.

Their intelligence can be compared to that of a preschool-aged child. They don’t just imitate sounds: they learn. They express themselves. They recognize gestures, tones, rhythms, and—if taught—use human words intentionally.

They live long lives. Some more than 80 years. When they choose a mate, it’s for life: they are monogamous.

In the wild, they play an essential role: dispersing seeds, regenerating forests, balancing ecosystems.

Understanding who parrots are is the first step toward embracing the seven lessons their stories have left us.

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1. Not everyone who has a parrot was looking for one

It was August 2002, and fireworks were being heard across the country for the presidential inauguration of Álvaro Uribe. In Medellín, amid the noise, a small parakeet, frightened, lost her way in the sky and crashed into a family’s window. The glass broke—and so did the family’s routine: a father, a mother, a 12-year-old girl, and an 8-year-old boy.

That’s how “Lulú’s Flight” begins—one of the contest’s finalist stories—about how an unexpected winged visitor transformed an entire family’s life.

Like this one, many contest stories show the same truth: **most people do NOT go looking for a parrot. The parrot arrives.**

Sometimes, like Lulú, it falls from the sky. Other times, it appears on a road, trembling in the hands of children who just stole a nest. It arrives in cardboard boxes offered by strangers in the market, or in the arms of someone who doesn’t know what to do with it.

It usually begins with an unexpected encounter. Then comes compassion. And then… confusion. Who to call? Where to take it? What to do with an animal that needs help but has nowhere to go? The lack of clear, accessible, safe options often turns affection into captivity—not from selfishness, but from the absence of better paths.

2. Before affection, there was capture

Not all parrots arrived by accident. Some fell from a tree, yes. Others flew in through a window. But many—too many—came from a harsher story: they were taken from their nests.

Some as part of a “harmless” mischief that never should have been normalized.
One Sunday in April 2020, in Santa Catalina, Bolívar, a family found a termite mound in an oak tree—like many that parakeets use to nest in the dry tropical forest. They opened it out of curiosity. Inside, three baby parakeets chirped, blind to the world. “A gift for the kids,” they said. That night, two died. Only one survived: Cuqui.

Others out of greed, need, or habit.
Many were taken from the forest by people who knew exactly what they were doing: breaking open a nest to make a quick profit. That illegal offer reaches the market and awakens an inner voice in the buyer: “I’ll give it a better life than its captors.” Faced with the promise of “saving it,” few resist buying. The poacher sells, the buyer buys… and the cycle continues.

That’s why it’s not enough to stop demand. If we don’t stop the capture—if we don’t close the first door—the story will repeat itself.

3. Loneliness is the worst cage

One of the most repeated lessons in these stories was the silent suffering of parrots who live alone.

It’s no surprise, since in the wild parrots live in flocks: they call each other by their “names,” play, explore, preen, eat, fly, and sleep near one another. At home, they often have none of that.

When a parrot spends its days without company, without branches to climb, nothing to explore, no wind, no rain, no songs from others… all that remains is its own body. And so, one feather after another, it begins to pluck them out.

That behavior is called feather-plucking. It’s not rebellion. It’s boredom. It’s sadness. A language without words, but with clear signs.

4. Parrots are not toys or gifts for children

“She slept with me. She had her little house, but at night she’d look for me, and I—without knowing the danger—let her. Until one day we fell asleep watching TV in Medellín… and we didn’t wake up together. Chochi had crawled under the covers for warmth and ran out of air. I tried mouth-to-beak resuscitation, but it was too late.”

So told one of the contest participants. She was six when her uncle gave her Chochi.

Many contest stories began with a well-intentioned gesture: a parrot gifted to a child. But many ended in tragedy. Because, however loved, a parrot is not a stuffed animal nor a pet for learning to care.

We read about parakeets crushed by accident, parrots killed during rough play, birds treated like toys—not out of malice, but ignorance. Childhood is full of play, impulse, and carelessness. But a parrot shouldn’t have to bear the cost.

These stories don’t seek to point fingers, but to face a truth: **parrots are not toys for children.**

5. Fear of authorities also imprisons

“The parrot fell into the Magdalena River. It was injured, wet, weak. My brother dove in and rescued it, trembling in his hands. From the love I’ve always had for animals, I begged my parents to let us care for it. We didn’t know what would follow. At home we named him Stiven. But every time we called him that, he puffed his feathers and replied, annoyed: ‘No… Yoe.’ And from then on, he was Yoe.”

Thus, Yoe lived eight years with Cielo, a teenager who cared for him with devotion: she researched his species, adapted her routine to his needs, and **even chose to study Biology**—inspired by him. Knowing Yoe deserved a more natural life, she arranged his handover to the environmental authority, convinced he’d receive professional care.

Yoe was admitted, examined medically… and three weeks later, he died. The news caused deep grief.

But then comes a hard question: how can we ask citizens to trust institutions and hand over these birds if those institutions aren’t always ready to receive and rehabilitate them properly—especially when thousands are confiscated each year?

**Distrust toward institutions means that, even with good intentions, many parrots remain in captivity.**

Strengthening institutional capacity is urgent and essential so that the public’s trust doesn’t end in frustration, but in true recovery.

6. An ethical zoo or sanctuary can be a better option

Ideally, all parrots would return to the wild. But that’s not always possible. Some have clipped wings, others lost key skills or became too accustomed to humans. Still, that doesn’t mean they must live alone.

Rina’s story, told in“Chorus of Macaws”, proves it. This scarlet macaw spent decades in a cage until Andresito’s grandfather took her to a zoo in Medellín. There, she wasn’t locked up, but gradually integrated into a flock of macaws that live freely in the trees around a lake.

Ten years later, Andrés returned to the zoo as a student. As he passed near the lake, a voice called from above: “Andresito’s here!” It was Rina. And behind her, a chorus of macaws.

She regained not only movement and stimulation, but something deeper: belonging.

This example shows that when full freedom isn’t possible, an ethical sanctuary or zoo can be a bridge—a place where parrots don’t just survive… they sing.

7. Releasing isn’t always freeing: that’s why releases must be guided by experts

Opening a cage isn’t enough. For a parrot raised in captivity, freedom without preparation can be a death sentence: it doesn’t know how to find wild food, avoid predators, or fly long distances. Without a flock, its chances of survival are minimal.

Studies confirm it: when releases are abrupt, fewer than three in ten birds survive the first year; when done properly, success rates exceed 60% and can reach 100% in some cases.

**But what does a proper release involve?**
A bird strong enough to fly, capable—or ready to learn—to feed itself, and re-socialized with other parrots. It means releasing in flocks; some experts recommend cohesive groups of at least seven.

It also requires a habitat rich in food and safe for the species, and a human community that doesn’t hunt but respects it—especially if the bird has lived with people before.

Often, this means time in a pre-release aviary, adaptation to the real environment, and post-release monitoring to ensure integration and wellbeing.

From Cartagena, Natalia tells with sadness the story of Pepe, a parrot she released out of love. She wanted him to fly, to be who he was. But he never returned. His absence still hurts: did he survive? Is he alone?

Epilogue: The community is the new refuge

Among more than 230 testimonies, there were bright stories of freedom, others heavy with grief, and many in between—those who made mistakes but learned, who transformed their bond with the bird and, through it, their view of the world.

But one thing became clear: the problem isn’t solved just by releasing birds. Nor by simply stopping purchases. The challenge is much deeper: it’s cultural.

In many stories, freedom didn’t come from an open cage, but from an awakened community. That’s what happens in La Esmeralda, Vichada, where Lorenzo—the parrot who flies to school each morning—is free not *despite* his community, but *because of it*: no one cages him, everyone protects him, and there they teach something simple yet powerful—respect.

As long as we see a child climbing a tree to steal a nest as “normal,” we are failing. Because it’s not mischief—it’s a sign of what we failed to teach. And when we excuse it with phrases like “we all did that,” “it’s part of growing up in the countryside,” or “it’s just a little animal,” what we’re really passing down is permission to harm.

That transformation begins with adults. With mothers who teach their children to care, not to capture. With fathers who understand that a parrot isn’t the best gift. With landowners who forbid workers from taking chicks from the forest. With teachers, grandparents, neighbors, leaders—because education isn’t only the school’s task: it starts at home, is reinforced in school, and honored in the community.

But changing customs also means offering better options. To those children who today climb trees to take parrots, we must open new paths: environmental education programs, sports, music, volunteering, real experiences in nature—without needing to capture it.

And for communities that depend economically on wildlife trafficking, prohibition alone isn’t enough: we must offer dignified, sustainable alternatives. Creating models where wildlife is worth more alive than captured is essential for true change.

In the Eastern Plains, La Aurora shows that llanero safaris can generate income through conservation; and in Bolívar, Fundación Loros combines ecotourism in a natural reserve with the rehabilitation of parrots rescued from illegal trade.

As a final reflection, the lesson from these 234 stories is clear: respecting the flight of parrots isn’t just an ecological act—it’s an act of respect. It’s learning to care for those who cannot defend themselves, to look differently at the smallest among us. And in that simple gesture begins something greater: a culture of care, a citizenship born from empathy.

This article was first published in *El Espectador.*