Samuel Alejandro, the grandson of Eduardo Rodríguez, a 44-year-old Venezuelan living in Bogotá, has just celebrated his second birthday. It is the same age as the Temporary Protection Statute for Venezuelan migrants. She was born by caesarean section in a hospital in the Colombian capital the same week in February 2021 that the government announced this massive regularization, a vowed response to an unprecedented challenge of enormous proportions. “Truly, Colombia has never denied us anything,” Eduardo repeats, grateful for the country that is hosting him and almost three million Venezuelans, where he has already survived a pandemic.
“We had the opportunity to grow, more every day”, although he arrived “clean”, he says, summing up the five years he has been in Bogotá, where his wife, two daughters and his son-in-law live live. Neither of them have traveled to Venezuela in that time, not even when their mother died, but they plan to visit in May, also so that Samuel Alejandro can be Colombian-Venezuelan if they want to return one day. “We did well, all with effort and work,” he adds with contagious optimism. “I felt no discrimination.”
In Venezuela he used to drive a trailer truck – or gandola, as they say across the border – but in Colombia he didn’t get a driver’s license and struggled through various jobs. He was an auxiliary mechanic and security guard before turning his attention to construction and is now responsible for maintaining the rental apartments in a building in the Galerías sector that he built with other Venezuelan workers such as his compatriot Armando Blanco. Both are from Carola in the state of Lara, a town an hour and a half from Barquisimeto. With the family’s savings, they bought a hair salon run by his wife and eldest daughter, the only one who is still having trouble getting her papers.
“Those who persevere succeed,” he says of his compatriot Armando, who now drives a SITP vehicle, Bogotá’s bus system, although he yearns to be behind the wheel of an articulated Transmilenio. He tells it, overcome with nostalgia for being a muleteer – or a ransom driver – but explains that getting a license costs a lot and he prefers to send money to his people. “Sometimes I need my country,” he admits. “But Venezuela is still very tough. You have to have a lot of dollars to survive.”
Eduardo Rodríguez, a Venezuelan construction assistant, in Bogotá, in a photo taken in February 2021 and another in February 2023. Camilo Rozo / Juan Carlos Zapata
The Venezuelan exodus has lost relevance in the public debate in Colombia, but the numbers continue to rise. More than 7 million people have left the neighboring country in successive waves, driven by the political, social and economic crisis. Although scattered across the continent, Colombia is by far the main destination of this diaspora, with a welcome policy at the forefront of Latin America. The most recent figures – up to last October – show that 2.9 million Venezuelans have traversed the moors and mountains by bus, foot or hitchhike in search of opportunities to settle in Colombian cities. In other words, more than 5% of Colombia’s residents are recent Venezuelan migrants, most with a vocation to stay. 615,000 of them live in Bogotá, the cold capital more than 500 kilometers from the border. The accent can be heard in every corner.
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There are as many stories as there are migrants. In February 2021, Iván Duque’s government introduced the Temporary Protection Statute for Venezuelan Migrants (ETPV), valid for 10 years, proposing to legalize them all. By then nearly a million were undocumented – having entered through paths known as informal steps, or having exceeded the terms of the permit initially granted. More generally, it is a plan to integrate them and give them access to formal work, education and health. A door to the offer of government services. Two years after this milestone, EL PAÍS revisited a group of migrants that it was consulting at the time.
So far, in the midst of resuming relations with Caracas, completely broken with Duque, the immigration issue has not become a priority in either President Gustavo Petro’s speech or the National Development Plan. However, the immigration authorities have pledged to develop the law further and the foreign ministry is preparing a regional migration summit with a focus on labor mobility.
Lian De Gouveia, a Venezuelan political scientist, in Bogotá, in a February 2021 picture and another from February 28, 2023. Camilo Rozo / Juan Carlos Zapata
Yoleibys Pérez, a 29-year-old psychologist, now six, in Bogotá, runs a clothing store in the traditional Chapinero neighborhood. Originally from Valencia in the state of Carabobo, he worked for several years in a nearby shop of his uncle’s typical Venezuelan arepas, where he still goes at night to help out. When he left Venezuela, he did so as soon as he graduated from university because they “went through hardship”. Shortly thereafter, her partner followed her, passing the path and leaving Colombia. They are still at a distance together.
Although he cried out at the announcement at the time, he does not feel that the statute, the restoration of relations or the reopening of the border have affected his life as he has always had his papers in order. At first he was discriminated against, but not anymore, he protests without bitterness. “I like Bogota very much. I was lucky enough to meet very nice, very warm people, but obviously I miss my country, my home, my family.” When he visited in December, he didn’t want to go back. “We had to work hard to help our relatives,” he says. Overwhelmed by nostalgia, she’s “seriously” considering returning, but hasn’t decided yet.
Yoleibys Pérez, a Venezuelan psychologist, in downtown Bogotá, in a February 2021 picture and another from March 6, 2023. Gena Steffens / Juan Carlos Zapata
When the statute was promulgated, Lian De Gouveia, a 30-year-old political scientist originally from Los Teques, Miranda state, but of Portuguese descent, was determined to move to Europe with her husband, José David. She felt rejected. They even came to have tickets for this very February. But since then, new opportunities have opened up. “Colombia changed my life and transformed me. 2022 was one of the best years for me. At times I’ve improved a lot professionally,” he says. Among other things, he worked for a foundation and was closely involved in immigration processes. She is now the marketing coordinator for a cryptocurrency company. “Colombia has entered a real integration process with the Venezuelans. At some point society will start to accept that we are a part of it,” he estimates.
Bogotá had been an emergency destination. He weighs 22 kilos more than when he arrived, as he was well under his weight. Lian was a senior in the student movement and wanted to get into politics, but left after the 2017 protests against Nicolás Maduro’s government. The change they sought on the streets never came. He was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress. The day before she left, she married her boyfriend José David. “In a way, the migration was a honeymoon,” he says.
He assembled shoes, baked donuts, sold cell phone minutes, called in a call center, washed cars, campaigned for elections, and was a minister’s community manager, among many other jobs. “It’s been five years of total madness, but a lot of learning. I wouldn’t be the professional I am today if I hadn’t come to Colombia.” Now she feels at home here and is in the process of starting her own business to maintain ties with the country no matter what the future holds. “It’s like pulling a plant from its roots and letting it grow on another piece of land, but that other piece of land has welcomed me so well that I can be calm,” she appreciates. Despite everything, Colombia was a fertile country.
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