“We were just trying to survive. Sometimes I’d wait in line six hours just to buy a piece of bread. Our son is only eleven, and we didn’t want him to realize that we didn’t have any food, so my wife and I didn’t eat. I lost forty-five pounds. But I still stayed in Venezuela as long as possible. I didn’t want to break up our family. Then one morning I was walking my son to school, and we saw a dead man in the street. He’d been shot. A crowd had gathered. And that’s when I decided to leave. I explained to my son that I’d be home soon. Then I crossed the border into Colombia and took a flight to Spain. I’ve been here for a year now. I live in a flat with four other refugees. I’m making enough as a bike messenger to send home $100 every two weeks. It’s enough to buy them food and medicine and anything else they need. My son always asks when I’ll be home, and I just keep saying ‘soon.’ And even though I’m lonely, I’m much calmer now. Because at least I know they’re eating. The plan has always been to bring them here, but the problem is passports. The government has stopped giving passports. We applied five months ago but nothing happened. So three weeks ago I gave $600 to a man in government. He promised to help. I’ve been checking the application status every day, but still nothing. I don’t know what’s happening. I thought it would be done by now.”
(Madrid, Spain)
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