Venezuela has always been broken. There has always been trash on our streets, graffiti on our walls, and corruption at every level. People in key positions have always charged a fee to push things through. Venezuelans have always cut corners. And still, Venezuela is beauty in the absence of perfection, much like a colorful bird with a broken foot. An exotic animal that looks spectacular in the air but has trouble landing. Those who fall in love with Venezuela, do so because they yearn for the imperfection, people who like the color and messiness of life.
Currently we are beyond broken, we have stepped into the destructive realm of breaking down, our fabric is coming apart and there might be no way to fix it. The last 20 years has changed our core, our common identify; we have become divided, cynical, resentful and angry rather than the happy people we used to be.
When the brokenness becomes overwhelming I look at the alternative with longing, I consider taking my kids out of this chaos to a place of order, progress, rules and routine. I consider all the time saved if the bank teller worked, if the lights didn't flicker out, if I always had water to bathe, if I only had to shop at a single supermarket. I stay one more year because my girls are young, because they are happy and largely unaffected by the anarchy. At least that is what I tell myself.
But when I walk outside and breathe in the cool breeze coming from El Avila, or when I find good conversation with strangers everywhere I go, or when teachers hug and appreciate my girls like family, or when men stop to open a door, or when people around me smile and make jokes of the crisis we are all living through I can't help but wonder if life is not about fluidity, comfort, and saving time but about finding the beauty in the mess, color and brokenness.
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