While in Peru, I came out to my family. Despite their conservative beliefs, they accepted and supported me, offering a profound sense of freedom. For the first time, I felt like I could fully embrace myself. This period marked significant self-discovery. I experienced my first love, learned to live authentically, and explored a life that seemed impossible in Venezuela. What began as a temporary stay turned into six years.
SANTIAGO, Chile — On the night of August 30, 2017, I crossed the border from Venezuela into Brazil, escaping with only the essentials. My backpack held clothes, important documents, and two cherished books, including Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez. Tucked alongside were albums by my idols, Shakira and Adele. Beyond these possessions, I carried a suitcase packed with dreams.
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The social tension began to simmer long ago, but as a child, I only caught glimpses. Adults spoke about factory closures, relentless power outages, and how vacations and basic necessities became distant memories. By 2017, the crisis fully invaded our lives. Food grew scarce, and when it appeared, we endured brutal 10- to 12-hour queues under the scorching sun, often without water or food. In those lines, officials marked us with numbers, like 74, dehumanizing us as if we were prisoners in a dystopian camp.
Protests erupted nationwide, igniting a fragile hope for change. For nearly four months, we took to the streets, demanding a better future. But June brought brutal repression. The National Guard killed around 47 students, their lives cut short in the name of state control. Neomar Lander’s death haunts me still. At 17, he was just a boy, but his murder resonated deeply—he embodied the youthful idealism the regime sought to extinguish. At 22, I saw myself in him.
The chaos left us lost, unsure of what to fight for or expect. The state stripped us of everything—our rights, our health, and our futures. Even as a journalism student, I questioned whether to continue. Censorship and media control smothered our voices, forcing many of us into other work just to survive.
Amid the repression, the iron fist of the Maduro government crushed dreams and ideals. Yet, despite the violence, fear, and uncertainty, we protested. For many of us, it became the only way to express our discontent—a desperate attempt to remind ourselves and the world that we still existed.
During one of the last protests I joined, we marched peacefully along Valencia’s main avenue. As expected, we soon encountered a security cordon. Without warning, the so-called “saviors of the country” unleashed rubber bullets and tear gas canisters. Chaos erupted as we scattered in all directions, running for our lives. Half-choking on the gas, I darted into a residential complex, desperate to evade capture. An angelic stranger opened her door, offering us sanctuary. She gave us water, helped us regain composure, and let us stay hidden for three tense hours until the danger passed.
As I caught my breath in that safe haven, thoughts of my family filled my mind. My parents and siblings lived in constant fear of what could happen if I were caught. The horrors of places like the Helicoide and other torture centers in Caracas loomed large in our collective consciousness. Knowing the fate awaiting those who fell into state hands, I began to question everything. Was it worth the risk? Was this fight for freedom one we could ever win?
These doubts haunted many of us. The government refused to relent, and Maduro’s grip tightened with every protest. At 22, I longed for the freedom to live authentically, to explore my identity and dreams without fear. I envisioned a future where I could study, marry, and build a family on my own terms. But Venezuela offered none of those possibilities.
Faced with a suffocating reality and no viable path forward, I made the hardest decision of my life: to leave everything I knew behind and seek a life where freedom and hope could flourish.
Leaving my home in Maracay, Aragua State, I traveled quickly to Bolívar State and then to Santa Elena de Uairén, a border town. Border officials issued a 10-day transit permit to facilitate my journey to Argentina, but the reality felt far heavier. Venezuelans call this bittersweet departure guayabo—the ache of leaving everything behind to start anew.
Uncertainty loomed large. High hopes felt like leaping into an abyss, unsure of where I might land, who might welcome me, or whether I could find work and dignity. The journey stirred both anger and grief, making exile feel inescapable.
As the bus rolled forward, it passed flooded roads and cast shadows of dense vegetation on cracked windows. Memories of our struggles surfaced with every turn, haunting me like ghosts. From Santa Elena de Uairén, the journey continued to Boa Vista, Roraima, Brazil, a vibrant city where the bus threaded through streets and villages. From there, we pressed on to Manaus, near the Amazon River, without incident.
The journey blurred into exhaustion. At terminals, we leaned against our luggage, ate tuna sandwiches, and focused only on the next bus. Without real sleep, baths, or hot meals, exhaustion weighed heavily. With little money, even small comforts remained out of reach. The bus plunged into the Amazon jungle, a place where migrants often vanished. Gratitude kept me steady as we moved safely through its depths.
After six or seven days, in a city near Bolivia, my money ran out. Determined to continue, I sought help at a local square. A kind stranger at a nearby church gave me 500 reais, around $250 USD. Another helped me cross into Bolivia, ensuring my journey did not end in despair. Their compassion kept my hopes alive.
The landscape transformed as we left the lush green of the Amazon jungle and entered the desert. The relentless sun, dusty roads, and small houses with walls in warm tones reminded me of Puerto Cabello, my hometown. After hours of travel, we reached Villazón, the final stop before crossing into Argentina, my intended destination. For me, however, the journey took an unexpected turn.
At customs, the authorities refused to let me pass. Despite having the required permit, they denied my entry. I tried all three shifts, pleading with different officers, but none relented. Watching others pass without issue left me confused and frustrated. Alone and stranded, I could not shake the feeling of being singled out and discriminated against.
Returning was not an option. Venezuelans in diaspora, branded as “deserters and enemies of the homeland,” no longer had a place to go back to. Hours passed as I sat on a bench at customs, grappling with uncertainty. Everyone else moved forward, leaving me behind to devise a new plan. Desperation pushed me to scroll through my contacts until I remembered a friend in Lima, Peru. At sunrise, I called her, and her immediate willingness to help brought relief. Without her, I do not know what I would have done.
I arrived in Lima on September 8, 2017, 11 days after my departure. Looking back, the journey felt like it consumed more than just time—it claimed a piece of my life. Shortly after arriving, my family shared devastating news: my grandfather, the most important person in my life, had passed away. His loss shattered me, but I knew I had to focus on building a future—for my family and to honor his memory. Through the grief, I began searching for work.
In Peru, I quickly found stability, as the country extended humanitarian aid to immigrants. I worked in various fields, including as a waiter in a bustling market restaurant selling Peruvian dishes. My boss, Ruth Barbosa de la Cruz, transformed into an angel in my life. She welcomed me as her son, showing kindness and love I had rarely experienced. Few people open their doors to strangers as she did. Her generosity reminded me of the woman who helped us during the protests and the kind stranger in Brazil who gave me 500 reais. These rare individuals embody hope and humanity when it feels lost.
While in Peru, I came out to my family. Despite their conservative beliefs, they accepted and supported me, offering a profound sense of freedom. For the first time, I felt like I could fully embrace myself. This period marked significant self-discovery. I experienced my first love, learned to live authentically, and explored a life that seemed impossible in Venezuela. What began as a temporary stay turned into six years.
By 2022, while still in Lima, I faced a mental health crisis. I sought psychological help, grappling with questions about my purpose in society, and the challenges of life as a migrant. Discrimination weighed heavily on me. As a queer Venezuelan migrant, I endured harsh stigmas and prejudice, encountering additional obstacles. Compounded struggles, Love breakups, disappointments, and limited opportunities intensified my sense of displacement. The city began to feel too small for my ambitions, unable to fulfill my aspirations. At a crossroads, I realized I could not stay in Lima any longer.
At the beginning of 2023, I moved to Santiago, Chile, to reunite with my brothers after years apart. With slightly larger bags than when I left Venezuela, I began a new chapter. Their support eased my transition, and Santiago offered a completely different experience. I found a dignified job, built meaningful friendships, and recognized my personal growth. Despite challenges—personal, economic, and professional—I learned to persevere and realized my strength exceeded my doubts.
In Santiago, I clarified my goals and found purpose. I joined a foundation offering support to migrants living with HIV and launched a podcast, “Ruidosas,” to amplify LGBTQ+ voices. For me, this community represents people expressing love differently but sharing the same humanity. Through this project, I aim to create a loyal audience, foster solidarity, and spread the message that no one is alone. If spaces for us do not exist, we will build them. Instead of walls, we will create bridges, proving the world can accommodate everyone.
My journey has taught me the value of resilience and community. From facing violence and repression in Venezuela to starting over in Santiago, I have carried the hope for a better future. I envision a Venezuela where diverse ideologies, beliefs, and orientations coexist peacefully in a society rooted in sovereignty and democracy.
One day, I will return to Venezuela to contribute to its reconstruction. For now, I remain in Santiago, a city that welcomed me and offers opportunities to grow. While challenges like discrimination and inequality persist, this place has shown me the potential for change. People like me, forced to leave our homes, carry valuable experiences and contributions. We are not just migrants—we are individuals ready to build, share, and thrive in a world that embraces our diversity.