It’s ironic that, coming from a family of immigrants, a descendant of people who left Syria in search of a better future and fleeing the collapse and danger they faced in that country, I find myself in the same situation, leaving a whole life behind and starting from scratch in more ways than one. The most ironic thing for me, however, is that Venezuela has been a constant source of inspiration for four years.
Without realizing it, I have written and learned about Venezuelan folklore more than any other. I know stories that I had never been told, good friends shared others with me, and I have seen my family from different points of view. I only now realize how much I have grown, and while I don’t see myself settled in Venezuela right now, I can tell that it looks different from a distance.
Four years ago
I searched for that first email I sent applying to be a book reviewer, reliving the frustrations I was experiencing at the time, the dreams that were about to materialize, and everything that living in Venezuela meant for me, only to be left speechless. I was such a different person at that time.
General Rafael Urdaneta Bridge, commonly known as the “Puente sobre el Lago / Bridge above the Lake”, an icon in Zulia, Venezuela, where the author is from [Wilfredor, public domain]
I wasn’t sure about my image, what I could and couldn’t say about myself, how honest I could be, and despite my fears I’m happy I took that step. I was never afraid to send proposals or knock on doors. To paraphrase She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, what’s the worst that could happen? If I got turned down then I looked for another opportunity, but being a part of The Wild Hunt has been more than just that. It has been an experience.
As interesting as the legends of other countries were, those of Venezuela were the ones that caught me, the ones that stayed with me, the stories that accompanied me for years. Those myths were the ones that made me understand the country where I grew up in a better way, the ones that made me see my family with different eyes, find the magic in my lineage and the land that saw me grow up.
Looking back, although as a child I loved the stories of the Greek gods, although my mother told me about the Egyptian myths, although in my adolescence I leaned towards the Celts, I found my place among La Llorona, El Silbón, Los Momoyes, Juan Hilario, El Hachador Perdido, María Lionza, La Sayona, and many more. I looked outside what I found inside without even planning it.
As far as my spiritual practice is concerned, I don’t worship Venezuelan spirits, I don’t follow a traditional Witchcraft lineage, but I understand myself better and my practice has changed after analyzing those myths and their symbolism. I did some introspection work with each of them that I couldn’t do with other stories, and although there will still be some that I don’t know, those that I can recite without problems have become special to me.
All of this is ironic because I never felt a special interest in anything Latino in general, and now that I’m away and have a different perspective on things, I look back with a certain nostalgia. Time does not pass in vain, I have known this since I was a child and listened to the stories of my parents and grandparents, who knew what it was like to be hungry and taught me to eat until the last bite. I grew up surrounded by stories, the weight of the years, the memories that are built over time, to form my own.
The Catatumbo Lightning, which strikes up to 180 days a year in Lake Maracaibo, Venezuela [Thechemicalengineer, Wikimedia Commons, CC 3.0]
When I was a child I religiously bought a magazine every week, and the first thing I did was read the section on ghosts and apparitions. I was looking forward to Wednesday, if memory serves, to discover a new Venezuelan legend. I had read Greek myths, Roman myths, fairy tales, some Japanese legends, but I only knew two or three legends that I was taught at school. Until I found that section that became my addiction.
I really wanted to walk around the country, visit the places where each one of them was, live an experience worth telling. There was a box in my room where I had them all organized by date to reread them at any time, a treasure for me. However, at some point the box disappeared, probably in the middle of a move, and going back to Venezuela is not an option for me at the moment. But I do have something to tell. More than one story, actually.
Four years later
The years do not pass in vain, these years much less. So many changes and experiences have turned me into someone different for the better, and I keep changing. When I was a child I was afraid of the world, and today I just want to explore every corner, find my special place, that corner where I can be myself. I have a legion of spirits and people around me that I can trust, it was always there, but four years ago I didn’t know it.
Four years ago I felt lost, adrift, without a future and without hope. I struggled every day to be able to smile, writing was my therapy, and day after day, suddenly time passed without realizing it, I am in a place that I never thought I would step foot, I feel calmer, happier, worried about the future, but it not robbing me of hours of sleep.
Four years later, I’m still looking for my place in the world, I’m still looking for my dreams, but I’m closer. The irony of this whole adventure is that even though I had to flee Venezuela, it was their specters that pushed me forward. As an aunt told me before I left, of course you look back, but you say “yes, I have moved on”, and you continue forward. I’ll keep going forward, and I’ll keep looking back, and I’ll look to the front stronger than before. The ghosts of Venezuela and the clan that I hope to see again taught me that.
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