Yesterday my two girls didn’t go to school. It wasn’t a cold, or a storm, or a national holiday. They stayed home because I went to march with my fellow Venezuelans and didn’t know if I would be back in time to pick them up. Like most Venezuelans who live here, I have been to many marches before and have lost faith in their effectiveness. But every time a new march or gathering is scheduled, I find myself walking among a river of people, hoping, praying and chanting for a better future for our country. Many immigrants who’ve left their own countries and settled here say that our situation is nothing compared to what they lived, what they went through. They say that things will get much worse before they can get any better. I march because I don’t want to hit rock bottom before we begin to rebuild our country once again, I march because I want things to change before I am forced to leave.
The march on February 12th felt different from the beginning because it wasn’t political. It wasn’t an event planned by the government’s opposition to get international coverage. It was a protest led by Venezuelan students demanding personal security. It was the capital’s (Caracas) attempt to support an initiative started by students in other states asking the government to protect their citizens from increasing delinquency. Caracas marched on the 12th, the national day of youth, and the government responded with such force it killed one student and injured many others. From that moment on, many people flooded the streets in protest, increasing the number of deaths, injuries and detainees across the entire country. Many others (like me) have barricaded themselves at home. Since the government has complete control over television and radio, my actions are dictated by the information I receive from twitter and chat groups. There are rumors that school is suspended across the country and that we are in the middle of a coup. It is impossible to determine what is true or untrue, but my girls are staying home today as well.
Last night there were shots fired in my neighborhood. From my window I could see tires burning on a mayor street, blocking the nonexistent traffic. Apart from the places of protests, the city was completely deserted. I moved my two girls to my bed while they slept, away from the windows in case a stray bullet reaches our apartment. It wouldn’t be the first time a bullet reaches my window in the middle of the night. I noticed my demeanor was calm, cool and almost robotic and wondered if I would have been nervous and neurotic in my husband’s presence, if someone else was here to keep things under control and make decisions. He should be flying in today. I hope he can make it safely from the airport to our home. All we can do is stay connected and wait.
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