From Caracas to London

A couple of years ago, I was chatting with the mum of one of my son’s school friends about her plans to return to her native Germany after 17 years living in London. She was excited about her new life ahead but also felt sad to leave a place she had come to love so much. She had given birth to her four children here and had built some long-lasting friendships that she would now have to say goodbye to.

This is a common tale in London, a centre of the world where people from even the most remote places and diverse backgrounds converge, leave a mark on each other and then carry on. London is an organic city that swallows you down to its core; a place where “intensely” is the only way of living and the only way of parting.

What really struck me about my conversation with this woman, however, was the way she described her upcoming return to her native town in Germany. She said, “these have been some crazy years, so many things have happened!,” and then, placing both hands over her chest, exactly where the heart hides, she continued, “but now the time has come to return home.”  She was moved by her own words, a world of memories only known to her shuffling behind her humid eyes.

Home is such a beautiful word. Speaking it from a distance, it evokes a mixture of intimate emotions, wrapped up in cosy memories and a definite, but unfortunately elusive, sense of belonging. Blending the sounds of those four letters together “h-o-m-e” from foreign lands -and in a foreign tongue- awakens a dormant pain, one that requires dolorous effort to soothe back into sleep.

My story and the reasons behind my arrival in London are surely very different from the reasons that had encouraged my German counterpart to move to this city many years before me. In 2007, I left Venezuela in deep frustration by the re-election of a president who had, from the beginning of his period in 1998, prompted a moral, economic and social downfall with no precedent in our history. Inflation was quickly escalating and violence in the streets was becoming endemic. Home was not such anymore. It wasn’t safe and the political discourse of division and oppression made me feel alienated. Throughout the years since I left, up until eight days ago, the hopes of rescuing my capsized country had been almost inexistent. But the results of the Parliamentary elections on Sunday 6 December, finally opened up real opportunities of setting the country upright and of healing our wounds as brothers and sisters navigating the same boat called Venezuela.

These are, of course, early days and the challenges ahead are nothing short of colossal. But I will not engage in the minutiae of the process or the pessimistic predictions. Yes, it will be difficult and yes, there will be setbacks. The only certainty I have is that history has proven that conflicts between and within nations can be solved. Economies have been recovered and countries have managed to overcome disasters of all sorts; it only takes unity and genuine disposition to achieve it. Look at Colombia and Chile; look at Japan and look at the European countries that have undergone so many wars. It has happened before and it will happen to Venezuela. The results of the recent elections prove that we have finally reached some consensus and most people are willing to sacrifice something for the common goal of fixing Venezuela. We have lived and are still living some very difficult times, both government supporters and opposition. We will need to show maturity and plenty of humility -a common trait of the greatest leaders in History- if we really wish to overcome this umprecedented disaster.

I had my two sons here in London. They are now four and seven years old. My father, mother and brother have not seen them grow, as we are all separated from each other. This was never in the plans. There is no history of migration in my family. Venezuela has never been a country of migrants. That’s how special my country is: once people arrive in our beautiful land, they just never want to leave.

Despite the sacrifices, I still consider myself fortunate for the learning journey that was set in front of me when I departed my home in 2007. Britain has taught me so many valuable lessons: the importance of austerity and modesty (fundamental signs of real class); the beauty of tradition, tolerance and diversity; and by all means, properness! -of manners, speech and behaviour-. Britain is a very wise nation, which lives up to its old age and history. Venezuela, instead, is such a young nation! We are still not used to so much hardship and it will probably take us a few more centuries to accept that history is just a reflection of life: a combination of difficult and joyful times -no shortcuts to the latter allowed-.

The light of hope has lit up again in my heart. I must confess it fills me with joy but also with pain. After living away from home for so many years, something has changed inside of me forever. If I ever bring my hands to my chest and proclaim that my time to return home has arrived, I will be bursting with joy, no doubt; but the fact will remain that I will always be an outsider. That is the curse of us who have chosen to live in exile. Reflecting upon this, however, leads me to a most certain conclusion, which is this: it is a far better option to be a rebel at home than a wandering soul, far away, in foreign lands.