Arepa, Chavez, and Our Condemnation. 

Getting to know a conflict is one thing, and feeling a conflict is a whole different concern. Possibilities of turning on your TV and finding out about what the hell is going on in the world are a lot, but finding someone that can narrate you what does it feel to see your country falling apart is something that does not happen everyday. I've known conflict, I've seen people living in the streets with their families because they were forced to leave their towns. It's part of the Colombian idiosyncrasy; seeing people suffering in the streets and then going home and turning on the TV to watch the 8pm telenovela and forgetting about everything else around you. Many individuals argue that Colombia is experimenting a period of productivity, prosperity, and relative peace, and Latin America in general is living that phase too, except for one country. 

Since I was very young I was forced to watch the news forecast every night, and through the time I got used to it. Some may say I actually like it. It started as an effort of my family to get me informed, to introduce me to the "evils" of this world. However, there was something that changed my perspective, actually, it was someone. 

One can get tired and grow sick of seeing the same face in TV every afternoon, saying the same crap over and over again. Viva la revolución Bolivariana, and the next day you're dead. Pathetic. Half of the country crying, lauding someone as the reincarnation of Simón Bolivar, and the other half drunk in ecstasy and alcohol over a corpse. Who is going to be the president now? The sunburned copy of Santa Claus (for those who don't understand the irony, of course it is Maduro) or Enrique "The only hope for the people" Capriles. Elections? What the hell is that thing for? Democracy? Chavez vive, He is alive, I swear, I saw him and he was a bird, He came to me and talked about the revolution. 

19/4/2013. Maduro was invested as the president of Venezuela, and everything went nuts. Honestly I was living inside my Colombian-American bubble and it was more important for me to contemplate the ceiling of my house than to get to know what was going on right next to me. But then she came, speaking in English and talking about musical theater. She was able to pop that bubble for me, and she did it with four words. I'm Venezuelan, you know?

Yes, She was Venezuelan, and even though she'd lived in the U.S for almost 5 years, she still carried that sweet and innocent accent that Venezuelans have. She was friendly, talented, loyal, a little lazy though. Emily taught my what a true arepa was, how Punto Fijo, estado Falcón, is the national center for refining oil, and the human nature of the conflict, a conflict that forced her out of her country. In my mind she seemed so unconnected to that crisis, always smiling and singing. I got to know her family, and that idea buried in my mind for a long time. She never mentioned her feelings regarding what her family that was living in Venezuela was going through, and I felt that I had not the right to ask.

One song, one Venezuelan Christmas song, finally showed me that this girl was not as tough as she claimed. She missed her country, of course she did! In a minute Emily felt more than a thousand emotions, she was sad, angry, desperate, lonely, and then calmed again. And as always, in moments of pressure and anxiety, I said something stupid. "Don't you worry, Colombia was even more destroyed some years ago,,. and now..." I could not finish. What is the point of thinking about a better future if you don't know if the present is going to explode? 

During the following weeks she told me about Cacerolazos, peaceful protests with metal pots in which the main objective is to produce as much noise as possible. She told me about Diosdado Cabello and the corruption, and about how one university of my city was planning to invite Leopoldo López, a Venezuelan opponent of the regime, and how much she wanted to go. I promised I would go with her.

I learned the different accents in Venezuela, and even though they all sounded the same to me, for her they were completely different. Her eyes lit up every time she heard one of us trying to copy the accent, and for an instant she smiled and our mission was completed. Emily came with different faces everyday, and we learned to decipher those faces in the newspapers. I learned to feel the pain of a country that is less than 400 kilometers away from where I am standing. I learned that Emily was my compatriot.

And if I'm getting tired and angry at this, I can't imagine how tired Emily and her family are. Almost a year has passed since that stupid presidential possession, and things are getting worse. Just some days ago Emily came to school and said that her cousin was protesting in the street and saw how another student, who was right next to him, was shot by a police officer. She did not seemed surprised. I felt the world crumbling under my feet. I'm getting more and more worried. I feel powerless, I feel like a part of the problem.

And that guilt will never stop growing. I figured that Emily and I are condemned to an awful and almost eternal wait, she wants her country to find peace again, and I want her to find peace inside her again.

Today, and after days of violent protests in Venezuela, Harvard educated Leopoldo López, who was accused of sedition by the regime, is going to surrender and go to jail. Emily did not come to school today, and even though she is always absent, today I'm more anxious than ever.