The Children Left Behind

Holding back a surge of tears, Aura Fernández kissed her children and climbed aboard the bus, the first leg of her long journey to Colombia.

“I love you,” she said. “Study hard.”

With that, Fernández became part of the flood of Venezuelan parents who have left their country—and their children—in order to find work to support them.

Seven years into an economic collapse, Venezuela’s migrant crisis has grown into one of the largest in the world. Millions have already left. By the end of 2020, an estimated 6.5 million people will have fled, according to the United Nations refugee agency—a number rarely, if ever, seen outside of war.

Holding back a stream of tears, Aura Fernández kissed her children and climbed aboard the bus. It was the first leg of her long journey to Colombia.

“I love you,” she said. “Study hard.”

With that, Fernández became part of the flood of Venezuelan parents fleeing the country. They’re leaving their homes and their children to find work to support them.

Venezuela is seven years into an economic collapse. Its migrant crisis has grown into one of the largest in the world. Millions have already left. By the end of 2020, an estimated 6.5 million people will have fled, according to the United Nations refugee agency. That’s a number rarely, if ever, seen outside of war.

But hidden inside that data is a startling phenomenon. Venezuela’s mothers and fathers, determined to find work, food, and medicine, are leaving hundreds of thousands of children in the care of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and even siblings who are sometimes children themselves. Many parents don’t want to put their children through the grueling and often very dangerous upheaval of displacement. Others simply can’t afford to take them along.

“This is a phenomenon that is going to change the face of our society,” says Abel Saraiba, a psychologist at an organization that provides counseling to Venezuelan children. These separations, he adds, have the potential to weaken the very generation that is supposed to one day rebuild a battered Venezuela.

But hidden inside that data is an alarming trend. Venezuela’s mothers and fathers are determined to find work, food, and medicine. To do so, they’re leaving behind hundreds of thousands of children. Grandparents, aunts, and uncles have stepped in to care for many of the children. Some have even been left with siblings who are children themselves. Many parents don’t want to put their children through the difficult trip and disrupt their lives. Others simply can’t afford to take them along.

“This is a phenomenon that is going to change the face of our society,” says Abel Saraiba, a psychologist at an organization that provides counseling to Venezuelan children. He adds that these separations could have negative impacts on these children. That could have far-reaching consequences as they’re part of the generation that is supposed to rebuild Venezuela.

The deepening crisis is what has prompted growing numbers of parents to flee the country in search of work. The exodus is so large—one group estimated that 1 million children have been left behind—that it’s reshaping the concept of childhood in Venezuela, sending grade-schoolers into the streets to work and leaving them vulnerable to abuse.

The arrival of Covid-19 has isolated these children further. To combat the spread, Maduro has announced a countrywide lockdown, sending the military into the streets to enforce the measures. That’s cut many young people off from the teachers and neighbors who may be their only means of support. At the same time, borders are now closed, severing these children from the rest of the world and making it impossible for their parents to come and retrieve them.

The deepening crisis is what has caused growing numbers of parents to flee the country in search of work. One group estimated that 1 million children have been left behind. The exodus is so large that it’s reshaping the concept of childhood in Venezuela. Now, grade-schoolers are working in the streets, where they’re more vulnerable to abuse.

The arrival of Covid-19 has isolated these children even more. To combat the spread, Maduro has announced a countrywide lockdown. He sent the military into the streets to enforce the measures. That’s cut many young people off from the teachers and neighbors who may be their only means of support. At the same time, borders are now closed. That’s cut these children off from the rest of the world. And it’s making it impossible for their parents to come and get them.

In the state of Zulia, where Fernández left her children in January, the economic collapse is particularly stark. It was once the Texas of Venezuela: rich in oil and cattle and home to a flourishing class of petroleum workers who bought nice cars and took expensive vacations. Today, it’s home to rolling blackouts and jobs with monthly wages that barely buy two days’ worth of rice.

When Fernández left, she carried a purse crocheted by her oldest daughter, packed with little more than her Bible, a toothbrush, and a bottle of perfume. She also carried an empty blue suitcase that she planned to pack with goods to bring home to her children. But Fernández had no phone, and it was unclear when she would see her children again.

“I did not abandon my children,” she said during a stop along her journey.
“I left them because the situation is very difficult in Venezuela.”

Fernández had once managed cleaning supplies at a food company in Venezuela but found that she couldn’t survive on the meager salary. She left for Colombia for the first time in late 2016, placing her children in the care of her parents. But both parents have health problems that make it difficult for them to get out of bed some days.

 In Colombia, Fernández found a job as a housekeeper, and she began to send money home every two weeks, about $35 a month.

But when Fernández came back last December, for Christmas, it was clear that not much had changed. Her sister had joined her to work in Colombia, also leaving her children with their grandparents. That put the ailing grandparents in charge of 13 kids, with the occasional help of aunts and uncles.

Despite the money she’d been sending home, Fernández’s children were still eating only once a day. So she set off again.

In the state of Zulia, where Fernández left her children in January, the economic collapse is hard to miss. It was once the Texas of Venezuela. It was rich in oil and cattle. It was also home to a successful class of petroleum workers who bought nice cars and took expensive vacations. Today, it’s home to rolling blackouts and jobs with monthly wages that barely buy two days’ worth of rice.

When Fernández left, she carried a purse crocheted by her oldest daughter. Only a few things were inside of it, including her Bible, a toothbrush, and a bottle of perfume. She also carried an empty blue suitcase that she planned to pack with goods to bring home to her children. But Fernández had no phone, and it was unclear when she would see her children again.

“I did not abandon my children,” she said during a stop along her journey. “I left them because the situation is very difficult in Venezuela.”

Fernández had once managed cleaning supplies at a food company in Venezuela. But she couldn’t survive on such a small salary. So, she left for Colombia for the first time in late 2016. Before departing, she put her children in the care of her parents. But both parents have health problems that make it difficult for them to get out of bed some days.

In Colombia, Fernández found a job as a housekeeper. She began to send money home every two weeks. That averaged about $35 a month.

Fernández came back last December for Christmas. When she arrived, it was clear that not much had changed. Her sister had joined her to work in Colombia. She also left her children with their grandparents. That put the ailing grandparents in charge of 13 kids, with the occasional help of aunts and uncles.

Despite the money she’d been sending home, Fernández’s children were still eating only once a day. So she set off again.

Many families in Zulia are barely getting by and making the same difficult decision. The Casa Hogar Carmela Valera is a boarding school for girls in need run by nuns in Zulia’s state capital, Maracaibo. In the past, students came here after parents died or began to use drugs. Today, at least half of its residents have a parent abroad.

The school has seen better times. It has running water for a short period about every two weeks, so the girls usually shower, cook, and flush the toilet using water they save in any containers they can find. They have no light bulbs for one of their two bathrooms, which means they brush their teeth on slippery floors in the dark.

Sister Wendy Khalil says the home is desperate for everything: antibiotics, shampoo, toilet paper, vegetables, and water tanks. But her biggest concern is providing a degree of normalcy for the girls, keeping them busy with homework and the occasional movie night.

One day this past February, the girls woke just after dawn and headed to the chapel, where a priest led them in prayer.

“Father,” they shouted together, “we pray for Venezuela!”

Many families in Zulia are barely getting by and making the same difficult decision. The Casa Hogar Carmela Valera is a boarding school for girls in need. It’s run by nuns in Zulia’s state capital, Maracaibo. In the past, students came here after parents died or began to use drugs. Today, at least half of its residents have a parent abroad.

The school has seen better times. It has running water for a short period about every two weeks. As a result, the girls usually shower, cook, and flush the toilet using water they save in any containers they can find. They also don’t have light bulbs for one of their two bathrooms. That means that some of them have to brush their teeth on slippery floors in the dark.

Sister Wendy Khalil says the home is desperate for everything. That includes antibiotics, shampoo, toilet paper, vegetables, and water tanks. But her biggest concern is making life feel as normal as possible for the girls. That’s why she keeps them busy with homework and the occasional movie night.

One day this past February, the girls woke just after dawn and headed to the chapel, where a priest led them in prayer.

“Father,” they shouted together, “we pray for Venezuela!”

At 10 years old, Ana is one of the older students at the school, and she sometimes climbs into bed at night with the littler ones, comforting them as they cry.

“We are living in a time of crisis,” Ana says. No one explained the country’s collapse to her, she says. “I realized it on my own.”

Experts agree with Ana’s assessment.

“This is a country that is falling apart,” says Shannon O’Neil of the Council on Foreign Relations. “The economic crisis can only be solved
by changing the government.”

At 10 years old, Ana is one of the older students at the school. She sometimes climbs into bed at night with the younger ones, comforting them as they cry.

“We are living in a time of crisis,” Ana says. No one explained the country’s collapse to her, she says. “I realized it on my own.”

Experts agree with Ana’s assessment.

“This is a country that is falling apart,” says Shannon O’Neil of the Council on Foreign Relations. “The economic crisis can only be solved by changing the government.”

With reporting by Julie Turkewitz of The New York Times.

With reporting by Julie Turkewitz of The New York Times.