Guilt

(I’m not exactly well-versed in political theories or diplomatic tactics. I’m a regular citizen, like most of the world.) 

To explain the pain one feels for their native land is hard to explain. It’s a pain that needs to be experienced in order to be understood. It’s like heartbreak- if you’ve never gone through it, you can’t fully understand it.
This is the pain that I, my family, my friends, and the Venezuelan diaspora feel each day. We are here, but our minds and our hearts are elsewhere. They are home, with our families, with our friends, with the people that couldn’t get out and refuse to get out, because it is their God-given right to live and thrive in their homeland.

About a year ago I wrote THIS post about the situation my native country, Venezuela, was going through. I’m sad to say, things have not gotten any better. In fact, they’ve gotten worse. A lot.

But should you need me to backtrack, let me break it down for you: Venezuela (Veh-neh-zoo-eh-luh) is located on the northern coast of South America.

Hi!

The capital city is Caracas, which is my hometown. It’s actually pretty close to the US. It takes the same amount of time to get to Caracas from Miami, as it does from Miami to Boston. This puts us closer to the States than Iraq, Iran, Russia, and all those other crazies who seem to be a constant threat to national security.  Also, we’re fucking rich in oil. Yep. We have more oil than the Saudis. Your car runs on Venezuelan oil. All your gasoline-powered stuff runs on Venezuelan oil, most likely.
Oh, and that chocolate? Venezuelan cocoa, baby. Miss Universe? We got it down pack- we’re the country with the most crowns. You’re welcome.

But today, people have gone from saying “Ah! Venezuelaaa!”, with a smile on their faces, to “Ay, Venezuela…”, their faces now showing worry and, dare I say it? Pity.

How is it possible that greed and avarice can take up so much strength that people are willing to stay put in power? How is it possible that even though they are fully conscious of what they are doing, they can go out and show their faces and act like all is well? How can they mock us so openly, limiting our rights, goods, resources, and freedoms while they travel around the world, live a life of extensive luxury, and turn a blind eye to the problems they are propagating with their hateful discourse?
In Spanish, we have a word for it: descaro.
Cynism.

Genesis Carmona, a student, was shot during one of the protests. She did not survive the attack.

But the one thought I struggle with every day is “why don’t I just go over there?” Why don’t I just book myself a one-way flight to Caracas, to go for a cause I believe in and support with all my energy? Guilt eats at me.
I could easily fly to Colombia, and cross the border from Cúcuta to San Cristobal. I could go via Panama, via Peru. But I don’t. Why? Because I am a coward. Because I have grown soft and comfortable in my suburbian home. Because I have landed a job I wanted, because I am able to travel freely, because I can sleep soundly at night without the worry that our house will be broken-into.
Because I’m a coward.
Because I don’t have half the strength these people have.
I have only lived their oppression from afar. I have been angered, but at a distance. I have not felt the abuses myself, save for maybe once or twice (and yes, those times were at the now-closed Venezuelan consulate in Miami.)
These people back home are abused, harassed, belittled, controlled, and mocked every day of their life.

Every day there are tweets and messages: so and so got arrested for protesting in X place, so and so was mugged by the National Guard; a special-needs citizen was beaten up until he passed out by, again, our brave and respectful National Guard. Sometimes, those who are “detained” are never found alive again.

Before going to bed, I “make my rounds”. I send messages to my friends in the barricades around Caracas, where they have learned to mix different ingredients such as drenching towels in vinegar, or mixing Maalox and water, to fight the effects of the tear gas they are attacked with every day.
I make sure they’ve not been detained. I don’t even ask if they’re ok. They’re not. This beautiful city that is home to a UNESCO World Heritage site is now a war zone, and no one is ever “OK” in a warzone.

Student-built barricades in Caracas.

But then, to have the “government” come out and call these fighters names, to say they are fascists, communists, niñitos de papá y mamá, to see them say they want “peace” when they themselves are the ones that launch attacks on the citizens, and say they are backed up by the CIA and the FBI is, even if ridiculous, infuriating. To add insult to injury, the Venezuelan government is closely allied to the Cuban government. Cuban troops roam freely around the country, “enforcing the law”.

Recovering from tear gas

Think about how bad do things have to be, and how desperate do you have to feel, to be to really put your life on the line? To feel that facing an armed and blood-thirsty “National Guard” is the only way out?

Protester being dragged by the law enforcement.

If you’re not aware of the situation, which I find hard to believe, I invite you to read this entry by a fellow blogger, who was an English teacher in a city called Barquisimeto. Read her ordeal.
I invite you to watch these videos done by a field journalist.
I invite you to read articles by CNN, Reuters, the New York Times, and the countless other articles you find on the internet (checking the legitimacy of their source, of course).

I left Venezuela fourteen years ago. I have not been back in eight years, and the pain is still latent.

If you feel compelled to help us, share the information you receive through social media. It’s the most we can do from far away. The world needs to know about us.

Venezuela, fuerza.

Identity

I wonder what it feels like to see a flag and feel instantly connected to it.

See, when I was 11, I moved to the capital of Latin America- Miami. From then on, my upbringing, though it ocurred in a very Venezuelan household, was situated in one of the most diverse cities in the world.
This, obviously, affected my outlook on things.
The fact that I come from a nation with deep political and social turmoil that affects even those who have left generations ago exacerbated my desire to set myself apart from the new arrivals. I rejected my own nationality, my own brethren.

I see a Venezuelan flag and, yeah, it’s my flag. But it’s tainted with the fact that I left.

I see the American flag, and to me, as cheesy as it sounds, it stands for the effort and sacrifices my parents have made for us. But I feel no pride, no relation.

Maybe because I was in a transitional point in my life from child to teenager when the dramatic change happened, that there’s a few things that might be a little out of place, a little twisted.
To me, the most natural thing is to move from place to place. I sometimes wonder what it feels like to be born, grow up and have a life in just one place. It would be the definition of stability, but to me, that idea is so far-fetched that in my head, surely, no such thing exists today!
And then you meet them: the people that were actually born in Miami, went to elementary, middle, high school, community college or university and got a job in the same city. They’ve seen it gradually change. They’re true locals.
I can sometimes be the quintessential Miami girl- the biggest annoyance to Miami inhabitants seeking to get out: I love Pitbull, I have a very terrible weakness for reggaeton and salsa, I love “nicheria”, I drive like a maniac (only because it’s a survival skill), I speak Spanglish, I went to FIU….

But once an immigrant, always an immigrant.

I was, at first, resisting all that was Miramar (which technically, is in Broward County, not even Dade County. My brothers are always sure to point out the fact). Why? Because what my body and spirit crave- liveliness, crowds, all things latin- were missing. Miramar is sleepy suburbia. And back in the year 2000, it was still developing. Superfuckinghorrible.
It was only until I started driving around, that I started going to school in Miami and got an internship and eventually a job there, that I was truly happy.
I love going to places like El Palacio de los jugos on 57^th and Flagler. I like dancing with strangers (DJ included) at Tapas y Tintos, I love being surrounded by the endless accents, testing the variety of cuisines- from caribbean fares to argentinian bife and empanadas. I love having options and having them all at my fingertips!

And then, I found myself wanting to leave Miami. Why? Because I made the horrible mistake of thinking I was too big for the place. I had ambition, which others clearly didn’t. I didn’t want my life to follow the dreaded path of getting a job and marrying either a Belen boy (as sexy as they may be) or some guy with a fresh tape.
Surely I was never going to go back to Miami. Ever. Ew.
But, as life would have it, I now find myself yearning it more than ever- the sunlight, the traffic, the people…I miss getting into my car with no A/C and its loud/loudest radio volume setting and driving on the highway, getting on the overpasses of I-95 and seeing the ocean in the distance. Miami was my home. My heart was there. And yet, I lied to myself and convinced my brain that I had to leave.

Little did I know that leaving would make me hesitate at a very basic question:
Where am I from? Or, in other words WHO THE FUCK AM I?
Back in Miami, I had been saying “well, I’m Venezuelan but I’m from here”, which is totally acceptable because, hey! We are all immigrants!
Now I find myself in Paris, where people don’t really care to know. It felt weird to say “I’m from the States”, because even though I hold American citizenship since June of last year, something feels really odd in my stomach when I say it. The second answer I found myself giving was “Miami”, but I felt like Miami negated my childhood and all the things that still form part of my Venezuelan identity. Third try. “Venezuela”, I reply.
This answer has triggered the same reaction over and over again. A broad smile from men, and threatening looks from women (hooray!)

And yet, I have rebuked all things Venezuelan the past few years. I only have a few Venezuelan friends (and funny enough, they are from my same litter: pulled from the country right before adolescence), I didn’t particularly care for our food as I was more into getting my cuban coffee…I was not Venezuelan in the community’s eye. They refused me the way I refused them.
It actually took me forever to put into words what was going on in my head. I knew something was floating about in my brain but it was actually my former roommate (whom I know from Miami) who looked me dead in the eye and said: “You are dying to belong. You are dying to connect and you know this. Stop fighting it”.
I may have shed a tear or two.
He was right.
It took some slaps in the face in a foreign country to realize that all along I was suppressing a desire to still belong.

It was only during a time of an extremely complex political scenario that I went back to feeling patriotic (in a way). I went to protests to show my discontent with the powers that be, I tried to keep myself as informed as possible and tried to support a cause from overseas. And still I get called names, get called out on the fact that I no longer live there, I get scolded for “not knowing anything”. Sometimes it’s a big turn-off to want to be part of a society that will give me a slap in the wrist for trying to reintegrate myself.

But this is precisely why, despite all the bullshit I have had to put up with here, I do not regret coming to Paris: The ordeals I have lived here, the situations life has handed me while I am on my own here have changed me, for they have rattled my very core. I have had to rely solely on myself when my source for support checked out. I was forced to dig- really dig– inside and analyze who I really am and where I come from. It has pried my eyes open, broadened my scope of things. Shit, it has given my gray area a trillion nuances of the color!

I am a citizen of the world, who had the luck to be born in a beautiful country, with resilient people and utter shit leaders.

And that’s actually pretty cool!

(…except the shitty leader part, of course!)

Venezuela

What’s up with all this stuff on my newsfeed? Vene-what? Is that in Africa?

No.

It’s a country that pumps the oil that goes in your car, and grows the coffee and cocoa beans you love to mix up in your mocha frappucino (we do not condone soy milk, by the way). Also, it’s a country at the brink of a civil war.

Venezuela, my native land, is situated in South America. It has the most beautiful beaches you will ever see, the most delicious food you’ll ever try, and the nicest (and prettiest) people on the planet. Don’t believe me? We got 6 Miss Universes, and two of them were back-to-back.

You know, whatever.

But like any other country that aspired to become a utopia, there were things that were left in the back burner…this is where it gets ugly. And a lot of people will probably get angry at me, but this is how it goes:

Social mobility does not exist in Venezuela. It’s all about maintaining the status quo. You were born poor? Well, you’re going to die poor.
Sorry not sorry!

Remember the book (or movie) The Help? Society in Venezuela was just like that. Growing up, our Help had her own room, her own bathroom and her own dishes and silverwear and we were not to touch it.
How considerate, right?
No.
It’s because you don’t know where they’ve been. Lord forbids you catch poverty and illiteracy by touching it.

These women, of course, had children of their own, but it was the eternal irony of leaving their home and their children behind so they could look after someone else’s home and someone else’s children.

But that was life and I was a child and I had no idea of the irony of it all.

The lower classes were never taken care of- they were never educated, they were never given the tools to fully advance and move up in society. And everyone seemed to be fine with this.

Was there resentment? Surely. Did I see it? No. I was a kid. Did the grown ups see it? Sure. Could they do anything about it? Sure. Did they? Well…no.

I’m not going on a crusade nor am I pointing fingers and placing blame. Just pointing out facts.
And so the slums grew more and more each year- they took over the beautiful mountains that surround Caracas (my hometown). It got out of hand.

I’m not lying.

And in came a man promising equality for all- justice for all the years this lower class had been overlooked.
He was elected, democratically, with a message of peace and prosperity.
Did my social strata like this? Oh no!
But it was not because this man came from poverty. It was because his peace message was just a sugar coat over his feelings of resentment and the fact that he had orchestrated a coup d’état that failed and was consequently jailed.

Granted, Margaret Thatcher called Nelson Mandela a terrorist. But I’m neither Margaret Thatcher nor was Hugo Chavez Nelson Mandela (my most sincere apology to Mr. Mandela for putting his name next to the other one). Quite the opposite: he was a autocratic megalomaniac (Lately, it’s the latest rage in Latin American politics!)

Crime skyrocketed, private companies became property of the government, the economy took a nosedive and all of a sudden, our oil (our KING) was being gifted around. Alliances were formed with such happy nations as Iran, Cuba, North Korea. We were the bad kids in the playground.

Usually bad kids grow up to be bad adults.

And so, our bad-ass government became, well, bad.

People starve due to shortages brough on by mismanagement and a blatant lack of conscience/care. Even abroad people are controled. Ask people about CADIVI: the government has to approve a credit card with a set amount of money which is your allowance abroad. Doesn’t matter if you’re going for 2 days, 2 weeks or 2 months.

You’re fucked.

And yet, people trudged on living their every day lives. People left the country, the diaspora abroad did nothing because there was nothing to do.

Then, this man (Henrique Capriles Radonsky) whom I had heard of before came around saying he wanted to be president.
Do you, now?
He spoke about peace, he spoke about patience, he spoke about unity and democracy. He called Caracas, the crime and kidnapping capital of the world heroica (heroic). This man gave Caracas its dignity back! No more “revolution”, no more allusions to El Che or the Castro brothers.
And guess what? This guy was totally believable!

If not strike me dead, for this is a small token of  the people that took to the streets to support him.

What is this little feeling bubbling up inside me?
Is it hope? Oh my God! Is this what hope feels like? It’s exciting, it’s refreshing, people will be able to move up, to have jobs, to eat! Holy shit!! \(^^,)/ This man actually has a plan. He wants to give Venezuela its sovereignty back. He believes in social justice, in helping your fellow man.
I sound polarized. How do you know this guy is not like the other? After hearing messages of violence, of military propaganda, of severing ties with other nations, rampant crime and escalating inflation this man is a breath of fresh air.

October 7^th, 2012 rolled around. Election time. Everyone was convinced Capriles would win. He did not. It was a bitter day.

Then Chavez had to leave for some cancer treatment in Cuba. We did not hear from him for months. It was rumored he had died. On New Year’s Eve, we got a phone call: Chavez was dead. Just like that. It was the weirdest feeling. Anticlimactic, almost. All these years waiting and waiting and then the resolution was too easy.
These news did not become official until March 6^th, 2013.
If the government had acknowledged Chavez was dead was because they have a plan.

Sure enough, elections were called but those who were not register to vote from the elections 6 months ago were not allowed to register. Super fair, huh?

The interim president was Nicolas Maduro. A man who rose from union leader to…president. Sounds a lot like the american dream except this man never went to school and has no idea what it takes to run a country.
Do I?
Well, I have a hunch you need a degree and some knowledge in economics, management, history, and geography to begin with.

But nevermind this. This man embodied what people could become. What all these repressed citizens who had been cast aside wanted. Even if it meant bringing everyone down.
So these emergency elections took place on April 14^th of 2013 and the results were nearly 50/50.
This is fraud.
How do you know, girl?
Because not even the past elections were so tight. Also, polling places were being closed, people were being intimidated into voting for Maduro and oh! Witnesses form tables got killed when they reported irregularities.

Venezuela found itself in the center of the international eye with fraudulent elections, a population divided in half, and a civil war about to break out.
People are ready to take to the streets, but Capriles is urging there be peace. El que tiene razon tiene que tener calma. Those who are right must be patient. Tensions are mounting, a recount is still being demanded,  and he is still insisting in being calm.
The other guy? He’s losing his marbles.

So, in a nutshell, this is what’s going on. If you care to read more, check out these guys:

Home

Also, I don’t expect people to understand. I also don’t expect for people to care, but if you’ve made it this far reading this, then maybe you do. I just wanted to get your attention because my family back home wants a future and I want them to have one too.
They want peace, safety…they want to break the cycle of violence and anarchy of the past 14 years. I want all my friends who are young professionals are able to have long, fulfilling careers in their home country, not abroad out of necessity. I don’t want to hear the word “revolutionary” ever again in my life when it comes to describing the governing bodies, I don’t want to see people wearing red as a sign of the “revolution”. I don’t want to see any more militant propaganda. I, along with 14 million other people are tired of this caudillo (look it up in the dictionary). I am tired of the word “democracy” being thrown around when there is clearly a violation of even the most basic rights. I’m tired of people lying and others allowing themselves to be lied to.

We learned our lesson.

As I write this, I have live TV streaming on my computer. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is walking down the streets of the city I grew up in for Maduro’s inauguration. Try and imagine how that feels. Try and imagine how it feels to be robbed of everything, to have to leave your country behind (and your family, and your friends) and not know if you’ll ever come back.

Let it sink in.

And a big fat fuck you to the United Nations and the Organization of American States for turning a blind eye to Venezuela and the world for all these years. It’s too late to care now. Let us do our will.

Fuck you a million times.