Caracas Chronicles

Survival is a form of resistance.

Meridel Le Sueur

I’ve come to accept that I’ll never stop imagining what my life might have been if Hugo Chávez hadn’t come to power or who I would’ve been if I stayed in Venezuela. It’s a daily exercise I go through—not out of regret, but as a way to maintain my sense of identity. 

I wonder if I would have studied medicine at the UCV, as I once dreamed. Would my friend group have stayed the same? Would I have survived another asthma attack without access to medicine? Some of my imaginary scenarios are mostly childish in theme, forever stuck as the 13-year-old girl that left. 

Yet, like any routine, imagining that alternative past where I didn’t migrate leaves an ache—a deep, lingering one. It’s the pain of a generation born and raised in the shadow of revolution. 

For those of us who are now young adults, our lives were forged in the fires of political upheaval, economic collapse, and the erosion of hope.

When I first arrived in the United States in 2015, I was angry. As a teenager, I understood, at least in part, the impossibility of staying in Venezuela, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had abandoned my country. I wrestled with the notion that leaving was a form of betrayal—that by escaping the suffocating reality of Chávez’s and Maduro’s Venezuela, I was turning my back on my friends. Leaving meant to me forfeiting my right to be part of Venezuela’s future. 

I was born in 2002, four years after Chávez came to power, and I’ve known nothing of Venezuela but life under Chávez and Maduro—nothing but authoritarianism, shortages, protests, and repression. My memories of Venezuela are not of a place but of a struggle. While I recall moments of happiness from my childhood, they are marred by long lines for basic goods, whispered conversations about politics, and the ever-present feeling that something could always go wrong.

For those of us who are now young adults, our lives were forged in the fires of political upheaval, economic collapse, and the erosion of hope.

Among my American friends, there’s a running joke that all my stories end with, “and then it got expropriated,” “they were exiled,” “the power went out,” or “they died.” It’s funny to them, and sometimes I laugh too, but beneath the humor lies a deeper truth about life in Venezuela. The constant fear, the instability, the loss—those were the themes that shaped my everyday existence, and they still haunt me.

In 2014, when I was 12, that ever-present looming became real. Protests led by young university students erupted across the country, driven by years of frustration. My parents tried to shield me from the worst, but some things couldn’t be hidden. I saw the images of young protesters like Bassil Da Costa, Kluiver Roa, and Génesis Carmona—faces of the resistance, many barely older than I was. Their deaths were more than tragedies; they were symbols of a fight we were born into but never chose.

Not alone

Over the years, I’ve found solace in conversations with other Venezuelans who, like me, left their homeland behind.

Daniela, a friend from my hometown, is one of those people. Though our paths rarely crossed in Venezuela, we reconnected after we both left. Her story stands in stark contrast to mine. Just a year away from graduating high school, she begged her mother to let her stay. Still, her parents, fearing their passports would be revoked amid escalating political persecution, refused. The move was disorienting for Daniela at first, but in time, she found healing in detachment. “Walking away from anything involving Venezuela made me start to feel better,” she confessed. She’s since graduated from university and now works in research at UCSF, fully embracing her new life. She says she could visit Venezuela, but only briefly.

Where I cling to my Venezuelan identity, Daniela has chosen to let go. Her milestones—graduating high school, getting her first job, her first car—have all happened abroad. Returning to Venezuela, she admits, feels foreign now. Even the new colloquialisms would be unfamiliar.

“Nostalgia is deceptive,” Maria said. “Not everything was as rosy as I remember. Things are really messed up over there. But when I feel like I don’t belong here, I can’t help but wonder what my life would’ve been like if I had stayed.”

Another girl I spoke with, Maria Montserrat, now navigates a new life in Spain. For her, the breaking point came during the national electricity outage in 2019. Her father had already left Venezuela, but that crisis pushed the rest of the family to flee. “What I think about most is what would’ve happened if I hadn’t left,” she shared. “Emigrating changes you as a person, especially when it’s so forced. I missed all the traditions from school that I had been waiting for my whole life. Little by little, I stopped being a constant presence in the lives of my friends and family. I could’ve gone to university with my childhood friends, but I never got the chance.”

Her tone was nostalgic but realistic. 

“Nostalgia is deceptive,” Maria said. “Not everything was as rosy as I remember. Things are really messed up over there. But when I feel like I don’t belong here, I can’t help but wonder what my life would’ve been like if I had stayed.”

María spoke to me about how any election triggers a deep, almost astronomical level of anxiety in her. For her, simple things—like the electricity staying on or not losing water service—bring excitement. The freedom to stay out late is something that still surprises her, and she often admits to feeling uneasy when walking down the street with her phone out. The color red, in particular, carries a heavy weight for María. It’s a constant reminder of the situations and events that have deeply shaped her life and behavior.

Despite the longing, Maria has found happiness in Spain. “I’m happy here. I love A Coruña and the life I’ve built. What I just told you—that’s a longing for what could’ve been, or maybe for the Venezuela my parents told me about. The Venezuela I still hope for.” She paused, then added, “I do want to return one day, but I don’t see myself living there. I grew up here, changed here. I want to visit, rediscover my country, but I don’t think I’ll stay.”

The burden

Like Maria, many Venezuelans abroad struggle with the tension between holding on and letting go. Some, like me, carry Venezuela with them wherever they go, while others, like Daniela, have chosen to release it. Both paths are valid, as my friend Daniela poignantly remarked: “It’s just as hard to stay as it is to leave. Those who stay miss you while you try to start over in another country. No one has the right to minimize either experience.”

In Texas, I met a young woman who, wishing to remain anonymous, shared her story with me. “My parents and brothers are still in Venezuela,” she began. “I came here alone because I didn’t want to waste away.” At just 19 years old, she carried the weight of her family’s survival on her shoulders. “I don’t have the flexibility to study; I have to work to send money to my family. I live in a house with five other girls. I don’t speak English yet, and traveling isn’t an option. I dream of the day I become a U.S. citizen, though I know that’s a long road, and I may only see the results when I’m much older.”

Her voice wavered with the burden of responsibility. “Without me, my family would starve in Venezuela,” she continued, reflecting on the stark reality of her situation. “There are times I don’t want to work, but what other choice do I have?” In a quiet moment of reflection, she mentioned the painful irony of her parents’ past. “My parents voted for Chávez, and now I have to deal with the consequences, even though I am old enough to remember him.” Despite the immense challenges, she held onto the hope of a better future—one that seemed distant but still within reach.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the continent, I spoke with Julia, a young girl who chose to remain in the country. Using an alias to protect her identity, she reflected on the emotional toll of watching loved ones leave: “It was heartbreaking to see my family and friends leave one by one. I often felt alone and questioned why we stayed, but my parents always had faith in Venezuela.” When asked about her future, she shared the uncertainty many young Venezuelans face. “It’s difficult to make long-term plans. For a lot of us, it’s a choice between finishing school and leaving or waiting for something to change”, she says.

Despite her hope, she acknowledged, “I speak from a place of privilege—many Venezuelans don’t have the same opportunities.” Her feelings toward her country were bittersweet. “I love Venezuela, but it also saddens me deeply,” she said. “It’s heartbreaking to witness what’s happening, but despite everything, Venezuelans are hard-working and never lose their sense of humor.” Reflecting on how Venezuela has changed, she added, “about eight or nine years ago, there wasn’t even food in the markets. Things have improved slightly with more businesses opening and creating jobs.”

I also spoke with a young man, Andrés, whose experience was filled with anger and frustration. “I don’t want to be hateful, but I also don’t want to lie to you,” he said, “I’m envious of those who left. They have a future; I don’t.” He paused, his voice heavy as he explained that he had to drop out of university because he couldn’t afford to eat and study at the same time. 

“I see people who were able to leave—they have a future. They travel, own cars, and seem happy. For them, Venezuela is an afterthought. For me, it’s a prison I can’t escape.” 

His words reflected the deep resentment of someone left behind. “My parents don’t have the money to help me leave,” he explained, “and I don’t want to risk crossing the Darién.” 

The shared thread

Each story paints a picture of the harsh reality Venezuelan youth face, whether abroad or at home, as they navigate the long-lasting consequences of their country’s collapse.

For me, the noise of motorcycles makes me uneasy, sometimes even causing panic attacks when it comes out of nowhere. For others, the simple ability to shop at the supermarket without limitations brings a joy they can’t seem to shake. A young girl I spoke with told me about the constant nightmares she has every night; like clockwork, she wakes up screaming, either reliving memories of being robbed or fearing she’ll be sent back to Venezuela. Others, now able to vote in their new homes, feel a sense of control they never had in Venezuela, as many never experienced the right to suffrage there. There are a myriad of complex psychological scars left behind by being raised in the environment that is Venezuela. 

While there is an inherent limit to the scope of the stories I can gather, I believe the themes across my generation are similar: displacement, uncertainty, new beginnings, and the persistence of old routines.

Nine years after leaving Venezuela, I’ve built a life my younger self could never have imagined. I’ve graduated from high school, finished college, and I am now pursuing a master’s degree while interning at prestigious institutions. In many ways, I’m well on my way to achieving the American dream. I chose to study politics because I wanted to understand the whispered political conversations of my past, and I wanted my voice to be informed enough to be heard—not as a girl carrying wounds, but as a woman whose ideas can bring change to her home. But even as I move forward, one question lingers: What would my life—and the life of all of those I spoke with— have been like if he hadn’t come to power? 

“I see people who were able to leave—they have a future. They travel, own cars, and seem happy. For them, Venezuela is an afterthought. For me, it’s a prison I can’t escape.”

While writing about my generation I have to acknowledge the young protesters currently being tortured by Maduro’s regime. Their bravery, love for their country, and unwavering willpower are the most powerful testaments against tyranny. While the regime has tried to silence the truth, repress childhoods, and destroy lives. Those young fighters believe in liberty and democracy and are paying a high price for it. In the face of such oppression, the fight for freedom is the greatest political act one can perform.

Policy analysts, academics, and politicians often focus on the macro-level factors behind Venezuela’s collapse—political precedents, human rights abuses, and institutional decay. However, surviving and fleeing this crisis are political acts themselves–far braver ones. They require courage and are often overlooked. My generation is not just a consequence of this collapse; we are active participants in shaping Venezuela’s future, demanding recognition for our experiences.

We are Venezuela’s lost generation—those of us who left as children or teens, too young to fully understand what we were leaving behind, but old enough to bear its scars. Others remained, some betting on Venezuela’s resilience, while others lacked the means to escape. Despite our different paths, we share a common experience.

Our stories will define Venezuela’s future, yet we must confront the deep emotional and social wounds left by the revolution. Whether Venezuela transitions to democracy or remains under tyranny, our generation will be crucial. We have inherited a country scarred by the past, and while we may not be the generation that lost Venezuela, we are the generation that knows a Venezuela lost.