It’s been 9 years since I last visited Venezuela, the country where I was born and spent much of my childhood. The name used to be synonymous with beauty and oil wealth. Now, it’s an experiment in how dictatorship and corruption can cripple a country, trigger the worst humanitarian crisis in the hemisphere and divide its people with hate.
There isn’t a day that I don’t think about Venezuela and my family. This is the plight of many migrants around the world, especially those of us who can’t afford to, aren’t allowed to or find it too dangerous to return.
Canada is my home and has welcomed me with open arms. I hope to grow old and die here. But to be away from Caracas and its imposing Avila mountain, from the places where I made so many memories… it’s a great sadness. My Catholic family always said that we each have a cross to bear. For those of us who have left Venezuela because of the hardship there, our cross may be the sadness of loving a place that has changed so much, that it exists only in our memories.
I couldn’t keep this place locked inside anymore, so it has become the setting of the story I’m writing. I hope to give to you the opportunity to see this place that I love so much but that I probably won’t see for many years to come…
My Writing Story 