Exilium

I have been absent for over a month. I did not write even though all hell broke lose in Caracas, and the ridicule of many an item should have been inspiring.

But something happened.

I came to France to recover from my grief, to attend an aging parent. I was supposed to be back in Caracas on May 2.  Now I have no idea when will that be.

During a medical check in February my MD asked to do an extra test and I did it one month later while in France, thinking it to be more reliable than in Venezuela. It was positive and I was immediately submitted to a shock chemotherapy.  Doctors thought my health still good enough to risk it.  It has been tough and it is just starting.

I have been in a daze. I am trying to sort out the pieces of my life, from being a widower; to be sick, going though losing all my home references. One thing is to be in holiday in France, another to have to live here for an undetermined amount of time. I am far from home, far from my kin and friends, far from my work, far from my dog, far from my books, my memories, my life.

Exile has been imposed on me because I cannot be treated in Venezuela for my condition. Having a French health insurance and relatives here where I can stay as needed may allow me to heal and to come back to Caracas intermittently, and maybe some day permanently if treatments become available again, not something that will happen as long as these murderers remain in charge.  They are murderers. They have taken away years from Ivan's life.  My parents have had to leave. I have lost most of my property, savings and income.  What is left is to survive, no golf retirement for me.  And all my memories, the mementos of my life, are left behind, just as if I had to run away for dear life. I am an exile and I could not even chose to become one, I was forced. Like a movie cliche what I have left is Ivan's wedding band with me and a picture on my night stand.  I do not even have the option to try to forget my grief by looking for a job that I could not hold.  I am an exile, a refugee and perhaps now a lost soul.

I have joined the Venezuelan diaspora, and it is not easy. We all have a choice to make, a cross to bear, be it on a Colombian freezing road or shallow breathing in a doctors office in a country that you though also yours but that in the end may have not been yours as you thought it was. You do realize that truth the day you know the country of your soul has been taken away from you.

I am not complaining, it is useless and unfair to many.  After all I do have a French passport, I can support myself simply but I can,  I have access to one of the best and most humane medical systems in the world. I am not alone. Yes, I am sick but the first results of treatment are already promising.  Compared to most my fellow Venezuelan exiles one could argue that I have it easier than most. And yet, we all have our hearts broken and we all know at what time they broke it.  We have we our before and after.

I will need lots of rest, lots of peace, I will be often very tired for days. As I get used to my new situation I suppose that Venezuela watching will help.  I will write if I can. But it will not be the same thing. My ethics will forbid me to write on Venezuela off handedly as I have seen the past week.  We are a bad show and outside of Venezuela all think they know better than us. Already I feel I am missing so much, no matter how much Twitter I may do (and write).

The fight goes on.