War Through The Eyes of a Child
Personal memoir while living in Venezuela
I was about eleven or twelve years old and things had all been getting worse. It still dents the back of my head. Things had always been bad. People had always wanted to escape this city, but this time it was different. The streets of the city, full of life, suddenly seemed to darken and gather with people of all kinds opening trash bags to eat for the day. I knew there was something wrong. I remember the sky looking gray and hazy, almost polluted. The same way it does when there’s a wildfire.
“Papá, what's going on? Why are people eating trash out in the streets? Is it true they killed the president? Papá, what's going on? I demanded.
Silence, silence coupled with the eerie screeching of the city heard from the balcony of the thirteenth floor. My dad stood there, scrolling through his phone and looking up, still, and not saying a word.
The next day, in the very morning, laying on my bed, I noticed how the city woke up exasperated, Caracas yelled in pain and I ran to my window to grasp onto the concrete and get a sense of what had woken me up. The avenue right in front of the apartment was flooded with people. Countless little dots that resembled ants trying to escape after a little kid has flooded their anthill.
“FREEDOM, FREEDOM. WE HAVE NO ELECTRICITY, WE HAVE NO RUNNING WATER, WE HAVE NO FOOD!” Chanted the masses.
Soon enough, dozens of white tanks and tiny green men and women showed up to the demonstration. I wanted to get out, I was eager to go down and help them in any way I could, but I was demanded to tuck my head down and avoid windows. Then the fire commenced. I could still peek my head through the lower window and in between the curtains. People were fleeing the scene at the rhythm of the gunshots that had an uncanny echo to them, each bullet having no regard for their lives.
Policemen and the military went ahead and did everything in their power to bury our freedom. They ran over people, shot at little kids on the streets, and had no mercy for any of us. And when people responded, it got even more dreadful. This was not a fight for more freedom or change, but also basic human rights and a voice amid chaos.
Some ladies on the first floor opened the gates to let people shelter themselves inside the lobby of the nearby apartments. They ran and reached as fast as they could into any crevice there was, but once the military realized what was happening, they plunged into the gates with the trucks and the glass panels of the lobby of our building, letting themselves in and going up the stairs. Hunting, shooting, and releasing toxic gas inside the structure and making even more damage to our morals as a nation. Not even our own little home was safe anymore.
The aftermath was always the worst part. Deserted roads among barricades. Used canisters and bombshells resting on the grass and, unclaimed dead bodies laying on benches and sidewalks. Their faces usually destroyed by a mix of teargas and bullets shot directly to their face.
They were mothers, sons, fathers, daughters, and students. Nobody was going to get them back and, it generated great outrage in the country. Shrines honoring the young kids that died in the protests could be found across the whole city. But when you turned on the news, the government-run national approved news at least, they dismissed the whole situation.
For months it all remained the same, and when the government successfully killed enough of us and scared everyone else that, nobody wanted to even dare come out the door, the situation was kept unchanged. People were dying every day because of famine, censorship on TV and online, people eating out of the trash in the streets, no medicines available or hospitals working. But they had killed thousands, and there was nothing we could do about it.
It shaped me as a little kid, and once I got to escape the vast force of the “Chavista Socialism,” I realized that things didn’t have to be that way. Several times now I get asked:
“Where are you from?” or “How’s life in Venezuela? Like why did you move here?”
And it is no wonder why it is so hard to answer both of those. Three years after fleeing, I feel at home in the states and why did I leave? - Too complicated to explain.
So when I don’t have an answer for you, now you know why.
About the Creator
Jesus Eduardo Lopez Alvarez
This is kind of my personal diary, writing things in times of despair or awe :)
Keep reading
More stories from Jesus Eduardo Lopez Alvarez and writers in Confessions and other communities.
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Within me, there’s a small light of deep resentment. Deep resentment towards myself especially, because doesn’t matter what I do, I don’t seem to fit the beauty standards anywhere in this world. I once dreamed of becoming a model. A model in a world that seems to only want straight, light-hair, fair skin, and sky blue eyes. A model in a world that pushes you to the limit every time and categorizes you as an “alien”, both on paper and in society. Then I decided I couldn’t possibly be a model. I couldn’t keep up with the expectations, however, from the trees above me came a cold breeze, whispering in my ear how beautiful I was because of my “exotic, dark curly hair", brown eyes, and foreign accent. By listening very closely, I realized it too, had assumptions of what I was or would be like. Yes, they firmly believed I was more attractive than they ever expected, but in the end, it was only a matter of being different, new, and not really deemed as beautiful as everything else in the world. I then, found myself in a never-ending forking path, trying to figure out what it was that made me less in the eyes of everybody else. I straightened my hair, I dyed it, I learned to speak like them, I wanted to be them. But the truth is, I didn’t really grow up fishing on the weekends, nor playing football in an extensive backyard. Yes, my family was well-off, but you would’ve seen me climbing up a mango tree rather than watching the “Super Bowl”. And, as I keep traveling and getting to know new cultures, I keep seeing the same patterns I always saw. I am tired of it. No, my name isn’t Cole, and no I don’t have blue or green eyes. Yes, I have curly hair but it isn’t blonde, my vacation spot isn’t Hawai'i and I don’t go to fun European family trips. I used to wish I was like you, but now, now I despise you. I hate the fact that you are deemed "pretty" solely for the fact of wearing long sleeve shirts and Lululemon shorts. I hate the idea that you are the perfect boy because your family is well put. You don’t have to move a finger and can easily fake a perfect life on social media. I hate the way you know you are the standard and thus exploit it. Whenever you look over your surroundings and realize what’s your impact over our society, give me a call, and then, maybe we’ll talk. But being in your position must feel nice, doesn’t it?
By Jesus Eduardo Lopez Alvarez2 years ago in Poets
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When you have a godawful experience for years (perhaps French lessons) and need to write about it as part of the healing process and already you feel parts of your cognitive machinery trying to “clean it up” (guess it’s French lessons) for public viewing by default since it’s likely to make some toes curl up (sorry, but definitively French lessons.)
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The Times of Clive Levy
As I tell you this story I am crying not tears of defeat but tears of joy. I will tell you why later. My story begin in Florida where I was born. Clive as the first child of Ella and Phillip Levi. And my family was normal and stable as long as Momma was around. She had a few more children and I had to help around the house. But I was glad to do anything for my Momma. She loved me. She really really loved me. And she was pretty and she was kind and smart. And she wanted me to be something. Momma was the best gift I got from God I thought as a child. And the family grew and was stable. Then suddenly out of nowhere Momma passed away leaving a husband and four children. My father made me quit school and work to make ends met. My father was a harsh man and very stubborn. And as I grew older he became more and more strict. One time I beg to go out and spend time with some friends and my father threatened to beat me. And I beg my father many times and reminded him of what it was like to be young and adventurous but my father did not listen. So I held in my desire to explore the world and I kept to myself. Then the war broke out, World War 2 my father and I signed up for the military. My father tried to take my paycheck too but they would not let him. I had freedom. The military was much freer than being at home with my father. And I had friends and met other women. I went to the bar and I was likable. I did not want to leave. But eventually the war ended and we went home. My father tried to empty my accounts and put me back under his rule. I believe my father hated me. He would never tell me that he loved me especially after Momma died. He became mean and surly. He was always angry and mad. He treated us like property than children. And he outright did what he wanted but left me to take care of my brothers. I started to go to church and make friends. I met some cousins. And I told them what my father was doing. And they saw that he was mean and surly and how he treated me like a slave. I was older now, a soldier and a man and I was not gonna take it anymore. Cousin Ralph and I was leaving. So we plotted our escape at church and everybody went to church both night and day, well we met there one night and fled. My father was onto us the next day. Ralph and I escaped with jobs in the local churches and on farms because back then you can find a job on the farm or church and they will pay you and feed you and clothe you and give you a place to stay with some money. And we stall my father for weeks and enjoyed freedom. Then my father had the police looking for me. So I realized that Ralph and I had to escaped as far as possible up North for freedom. I knew my father would leave me alone if I go up there. And my father caught up to us. I tried to avoid fighting my father because the Word says Honor your father and mother. I just told my father before we catch the train. Leave me alone Father. And he said No I won't you will serve me till you die boy. And I said You're suppose to love me and you don;t. You hate me ever since Mom died. And I am not your property. Now I am leaving and you will never see me again. And Ralph and I jumped on a random train. And my father threw a fit in the field and left angry because his shotgun was unloaded and the train left before he could loaded it. I was freed. No more slavery. I was a man. Ralph made fun of what my father said and I laughed freely and without restraint or worries. I prayed and thanked God and I worn the cross that the church gave me. And I thought Ralph what if he tries to come for me to kill or threatened me. Ralph said Change your last name, he's Levi you can change yours to Levy. And I said Yeah my father is not the smartest man. And I won't go by my middle name either. On our way up North I met this beautiful woman Victoria. Oh man she had to be taken as lovely as she is. Ralph was my wing man but I remember she told me what church she went to. And then I saw her at the Jazz Club and I read a love poem to her. And next thing you know it we were married. And my father was dead then. Victoria had family issue but not like mines. She had been married but she was available and single. And she loved playing the piano. Her parents had issues too but she had a better family than mines and they were really welcoming. She was alone up North and we started our family together without anyone else except ourselves. You see Matt that's how your grandfather lived, that's how I became the man that I am today. You can too be somebody I know it. Keep up the grades and do what's right and God will bless you too.
By Matthew Primous4 days ago in Confessions
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