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Logbook to despair. Part XI

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And just like that, my passport is issued. I go and retrieve it, I get a couple of other things done, I am able to finish all I came to do.
And it is time to leave home, to go home.
I find myself again at the Maiquetia airport, waiting for a plane to take me away. It is not a happy place. In a country where people are being forced to emigrate this is the obvious place where many of them do so. I will board the plane and the young woman next to me will start crying, sad that she is leaving her country. Her final destination is Chile, where she will try to make it. I wish her luck.
I have cried already for the last two days, because leaving my family is so tough. It is not just the leaving, is where I am leaving them at. Life here, as I have said, is not easy. It is a country where the term STRUGGLE is not out of line when describing the situation. And that gives me a sense of angst that is not easy to deal with.
But there is something else. There is my issue with (or against) Venezuela. And this is my dilemma:
All my life, I have felt that the concept of “nationality” is one of the stupidest concepts concocted by man. Arbitrary lines drawn on arbitrary maps, denoting “where you are from”, as if the differences were real. As if it mattered, as if it made you more or less human. And to me, there is also something else: of the many things throughout your life that you will have absolutely no control of, where you were born was one of the first. You had no say, no control, no choice on where you were born, on this fictitious affiliation imposed on you by this silly concept. And my problem stems from there, because regardless of what I say, what I do and how I feel, I am Venezuelan. To the core, to the bone. And that will not change, ever. I am not going to wake up one morning and my papers will say I was born in Sweden. I will never be born in Colorado. No, I was born here in Venezuela, and even if I were to one day change my nationality, which I may be forced to do so because of political issues, in reality I will remain Venezuelan forever. I might be at odds with my culture but it is my culture. I might have severe problems accepting my country but it is my country. And it is not my country because of the geography; I already said that the geography does not make a country. It is my country because the people I love, my real friends, the people I belong to, are from here too. They are Venezuelans too. They shared that same ridiculous lot and we were all born here and this is where our affections were forged.
And that will not change. And the contradiction between my reasoning that countries are stupid contraptions and my feelings for those that I love make it very difficult for me to reconcile all the feelings I have for Venezuela: love, hate, despair, hope, enmity, friendship.
I did not cry because I left Venezuela. I cried because I left Venezuelans behind. I left my people. And the only Venezuelan I keep trying to leave behind is me, and I can’t. And therefore, at least a few of the tears that I cried were for myself.

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