Venezuelan journalist escapes threats, fights for truth in exile, dreams of returning home

Journalist’s notes

interview subject

Luis Gonzalo Pérez is a Venezuelan journalist and videographer known for his relentless pursuit of truth and commitment to social justice. Throughout his career, he has covered some of the most significant protests and movements in Venezuela, documenting human rights violations and state repression during the country’s political and economic crisis. In addition to traditional media, Luis utilized digital platforms to amplify his work, connecting people globally. His fearless reporting made him a target of the Venezuelan regime, and during the 2023 presidential elections, he was forced into exile after facing threats and persecution. Today, while in exile, Luis continues his journalistic work, sharing the truth about Venezuela and advocating for those who remain behind, despite the challenges of separation from his family and homeland.

background information

Venezuela’s political situation in recent years has been defined by increasing polarization and a crisis of legitimacy in government institutions. Following the 2023 presidential elections, protests erupted across the country, with thousands demanding justice in an environment of government repression. Opposition leaders such as María Corina Machado and Edmundo González continue their fight for democracy despite mounting threats and violence. This struggle has become a confrontation between human rights and authoritarianism, drawing growing concern from the international community. The situation remains volatile, with promises of a democratic future offering hope amid the darkness.

Press freedom in Venezuela has drastically deteriorated, with journalists facing violence, intimidation, and censorship. International organizations like Reporters Without Borders have documented the rising attacks on journalists, both physical and digital, leading to widespread self-censorship and diminished media pluralism. The government’s control over communication channels has left society without access to truthful information, forcing many journalists into exile while continuing their fight for democracy.
Read more on the situation here.

CARACAS, Venezuela — The warnings grew explicit, each message edging closer to danger. Internal sources confirmed my worst fears: my name appeared on a hit list. Intelligence officials tracked my movements, describing me as an “oppositionist” and “destabilizer.” The danger loomed closer with every passing day. One night, while checking my messages, a photo of my house appeared, accompanied by a chilling text: “We know where you are”. My body froze. In that moment, I realized my life no longer belonged to me. I had crossed a line. The threats were no longer abstract but an oppressive, suffocating reality.

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An early love for journalism: pursuing truth in Venezuela

My love for journalism began early, shaped by the vibrant chaos of Caracas. As a child, I dreamed of becoming a sports reporter, imagining myself on the sidelines of the world’s grandest stadiums. Over time, I realized my passion ran deeper. I longed to amplify voices ignored by others, reporting from the streets among the people. This realization led me to study social communication, unaware of the immense challenges ahead in pursuing truth in Venezuela.

My early years as a journalist fused enthusiasm with determination. Covering water shortages in a Caracas, I met residents whose voices carried frustration and hope in equal measure. Their resilience revealed how journalism extends beyond informing—it offers a platform to those silenced by neglect. Each report defied the apathy surrounding Venezuela’s struggles.

As my career advanced, I embraced politics and social issues, uncovering corruption, poverty, and repression. My camera and notebook transformed into tools of resistance. Youthful courage fueled my dream of a better Venezuela, even as the threats loomed closer.

Documenting María Corina Machado’s presidential campaign shifted everything. Acting as a videographer and reporter in a censored environment turned my work into a lifeline for many Venezuelans, while also painting a target on my back. Social media amplified my impact, connecting people but exposing me to surveillance and threats. The government branded my lens and words as threats, and fear tightened its grip on my life. Despite risks, I commit to stories that matter. The power of truth challenges oppression and inspires change, fueling my resolve to keep reporting.

Threats start: “Be careful of what you post”

The threats started subtly, faint whispers in the noise of daily life. At first, I failed to recognize the danger. My work as a videographer for María Corina Machado’s campaign and as a freelance journalist on social media gained attention. Supporters praised my efforts to expose Venezuela’s struggles, but the government viewed me as a threat. Anonymous warnings appeared in my posts: “Be careful what you post”. I dismissed them until colleagues warned me about blacklists and increased surveillance.

A call from my mother shattered any doubts. Her trembling voice described a van with tinted windows parked outside her house. Armed men stepped out, photographed the property, and lingered for hours. Their presence sent a clear message: “We are watching you.” The vans returned often, with different drivers but the same purpose. Each visit intensified the fear. At night, I tried to reassure my mother, but every conversation carried unspoken dread. The government had reached my family, using them as leverage.

One afternoon, I saw them myself. From a second-floor window, I watched men step out of the van, deliberate and menacing. My mother signaled for me to hide. Frozen in place, I felt paralyzed. They left eventually, but their message lingered. My work had turned me into a target, endangering my family.

The warnings escalated. Internal sources confirmed my name appeared on a hit list. Intelligence officials tracked my movements, branding me an oppositionist and destabilizer. The most chilling message followed—a photo of my house accompanied by the words: We know where you are. My body froze, my heart raced, and I realized my life no longer belonged to me. The threats had become an oppressive, suffocating reality.

Escaping amid presidential election chaos

On July 29, 2023, the day after Venezuela’s presidential elections, defiance erupted in the streets. Thousands marched, demanding justice. Faces reflected anger, hope, and fear, while makeshift banners waved like flags of resistance. My camera became both refuge and weapon, documenting a nation refusing silence.

The roar of chants and drumbeats clashed with the metallic sting of tear gas and the acrid smoke of burning tires. Each step forward felt like rebellion against oppression. Moving through the crowd, adrenaline coursed through me as I filmed, acutely aware of the risk. Notifications flooded my phone: “Luis, get out of there. They are looking for you.” The danger felt suffocating.

I fled, abandoning my recording equipment. Every shadow became a potential threat. Paranoia dictated my every move. I deleted social media posts, changed my number, and vanished. My life shrank to survival and protecting my family. Isolation felt unbearable, but the fire to tell the truth burned stronger. I had become a ghost in my own city, weighed down by a mission that now endangered my existence.

Pickup trucks without license plates and armed men frequented my parents’ house, their visits growing relentless. Sometimes the stalking felt subtler—vans parked just out of sight, their silent presence no less menacing. One evening, my mother begged me not to come home, to take a different path, to stay away. Though she never said it explicitly, I knew she was protecting me. Her safety, and that of my family, outweighed any story I might tell. Each return of those vans carved out more fear, squeezing the last vestiges of hope from my chest.

Leaving my country to save my life

Days and nights blurred into an endless loop of anxiety and despair. The sound of my phone vibrating became a curse, each call sending my stomach into knots and my heart racing. Voicemails, anonymous texts, and blocked numbers all carried the same sinister undertone. No matter how many times I changed my number, the nightmare followed, trapping me in an invisible prison even as I tried to move forward.

A constant tightness gripped my neck, and sharp headaches hammered at my resolve. My hands trembled without reason, even in solitude. Insomnia plagued my nights, filled with memories of engines and the fear of being captured. Nausea struck without warning, and exhaustion followed me like a shadow. Despite the toll, I kept moving. My shaking hands wrote, recorded, and documented. The growing weight in my chest reaffirmed my purpose: this fight was for the silenced, for those too afraid to speak.

On August 15, after weeks in hiding, I made the most painful decision of my life: to leave my country. That morning, my mother, in a desperate act of love, took a razor and began shaving my hair under the dim kitchen light. Her trembling hands told the story of everything we had endured. Each pass of the razor stripped away my identity, a surrender to the forces pulling me into exile.

When she finished, I saw a stranger in the mirror—bare, vulnerable, unrecognizable. My mother exhaled deeply, her silence heavy with unspoken anguish. It felt as though she was shielding me, making me less visible, less vulnerable. In her quiet gesture lay a profound, wordless goodbye.

Three months later, I still dream of walking Caracas’s streets

With dark glasses and a small bag holding only essentials, I stepped into the vehicle bound for the Colombian border. The streets of Caracas receded in the rearview mirror, each mile marking an irreversible loss. Every police checkpoint ignited fear. At one, an officer scrutinized my documents, his gaze lingering as if he could see through my disguise. My heart raced, but he waved us through, leaving me trembling as we sped away.

Crossing into Colombia brought fleeting relief, quickly replaced by an overwhelming sadness. Breathing deeply, I realized I had left behind my home, my family, and everything I loved. The moment felt both liberating and unbearably final. I promised myself I would return one day, but for now, survival and rebuilding were all that remained.

In Bogotá, vibrant streets clashed with my inner turmoil. Every day became an uphill battle—finding shelter, navigating the unfamiliar, and mourning what I had lost. News of my grandmother’s passing weeks after I left shattered me. Unable to say goodbye or comfort my grieving mother, I felt consumed by guilt and helplessness.

Though physically free, I remained emotionally imprisoned. Memories of Caracas and the faces of those still living in fear haunted me. I poured myself into work, capturing stories on Bogotá’s streets. Each photo and word became an attempt to rebuild purpose. Yet, the pain lingered—a constant reminder of the cost of exile.

Three months later, I still dream of walking Caracas’s streets, breathing the air of home. I cling to the hope of a free Venezuela—a place where journalists speak without fear, families stay together, and children grow up unburdened. My exile fuels my fight. Every story I tell, every image I capture, is an act of resistance, a step toward the dream of returning home.