It's my turn (Personal story)

Warning: This post is purely emotional.

As the days go by I realize one thing: Soon it's my turn.

I have never liked to relate politics with the things that I share here, since I believe that this is a free space where many people escape. Lately I've been talking with my grandmother, which has led me to suffer a hard blow of reality: I'm going to emigrate.

The situation in Venezuela is not secret to anyone in the country, maybe it's unknown by many outside of it, nobody owns the absolute truth. A hard reality that takes away the strength of all of us who live here, a reality that separates families, friends, a reality that fills us with impotence and above all things.. It steals our dreams. That's why I have decided to leave too, leaving behind a whole life, leaving the few loved ones who will stay here, leaving my home, leaving everything behind; all for new opportunities.

I bring up the conversations with my grandmother because that's where this post begins, my grandmother at the time was an immigrant in Venezuela. Yes, she, like many others, came to Venezuela with a heart full of dreams and looking for a better life. My maternal grandmother, Violette, was born in Aleppo (Syria), she was only 6 years old she arrived in Venezuela in 1947. She always tells me how she and her family got on a boat, with nothing but the goat that she had as a pet, a pair of clothes each and a little bit of money. Upon arriving in the country, they settled in Caracas for a couple of years, my great-grandparents managed to open their own perfume shop. When my grandmother turned 14, they moved to Maturin, Monagas state, likewise they continued with their perfumery.

Here they are, newlyweds.

At age 15, my grandmother meets my grandfather, Antonio, who was 17 years old. They already had enough time in Venezuela, in fact he was born in Caracas, his parents (my great-grandparents) came to the country from Lebanon around the year 1920. The customs and traditions of the Arabs (Muslims for the most part) are a bit orthodox (my whole family is catholic), although my great-grandparents eradicated many of their customs when they emigrated, they maintained the fact that their children had to marry someone of the same ancestry as them (in other words, they had to marry someone who was Arab). My grandparents got married upon reaching the age of majority, according to the laws of Venezuela.

According to my grandmother, this photo was taken in one of their trips, she thinks it was in Spain (of course she doesn't remember that well).

They turned out to be a couple that attracted everyone, the couple that was always the soul of the party. In their first years of marriage, they dedicated themselves to travel and take advantage of their youth, my grandfather said he wanted to show the world to his black woman, since her family was "more comfortable" than my grandmother's, he had more chances in what traveling is concerned. They visited many countries, from Egypt to Argentina. My grandfather became president of the Arab Club of Maturín, my grandmother member of the committee of ladies of the Club.

The following photos were all taken at the Arab Club:

Of course, they were partying hard.

The story of anyone who leaves their home will always be hard. Maybe there are people who "leave the nest" by nature, which is fine, not to reproach. There are also cultures in which it's normal for teenagers to leave the nest and fly away, much I have been told about Europeans (I don't really know anything about that, I just repeat what I heard). But what about Venezuelans? Why do we feel the issue of migration so tragic? I guess it's due to a series of unfortunate events. Despite having been the country that hosted many at the time, today the Venezuelans are not very well seen anywhere and we as a society are to blame for that. Our migration history is tragic because of our situation at home, we are quite beaten, it's difficult for us to fly with broken wings.

My grandparents had a happy life in Venezuela, they never missed anything. My grandfather died in 2012 of cancer, my grandmother emigrated last year, she left home again, in search of peace. When my grandmother left Syria with her family, she fled the war; my grandfather's family did it because Venezuela was a country of opportunities.

This is my favorite photo of them, my granpa looks all stud:

I've heard enough stories about how wonderful this country was. It's my turn, it's the only thing I can think about. It's my turn to leave the nest, it's my turn. What happened in Venezuela? I hope some day to read the truth in history books, I hope someday to see a documentary about how a country went to ruin, I hope that one day the world will remember us differently, I hope my people learn, grow and improve. I hope someday, returning to Venezuela.

The call with my grandmother ended with: "I left Syria fleeing the war, you will leave Venezuela fleeing from hunger."

So I write this, in order to tell myself that it's going to be fine, we're going to be ok. As Kelly Clarkson's song says: 

I'll spread my wings and I'll learn how to fly
I'll do what it takes til I touch the sky
And I'll make a wish, take a chance, make a change
And breakaway
Out of the darkness and into the sun
But I won't forget all the ones that I loved
I'll take a risk, take a chance, make a change
And breakaway.

As I always intend to show the beauty that remains in Venezuela, now I intend to show a little bit what happens inside of all us, that inner battle we have.. In order to let everyone knows that we don't give up and we deserve to be heard.