Dozens of people are killed every year in Venezuela. I heard once that more people are killed here than in Irak but I don’t know if it’s true. I read the numbers in the papers and then I forget about them. After all this time, it doesn’t make a difference if the number of violent deaths this weekend was 36, 43, 54 or just 20. But for me, that number translates to 4. Four. That’s the count I never lose. That’s the number of people murdered since 2007 that I personally met. They are the tiny part of the big stat that I can put a face to it. They are four stories and four memories.
ONE : Andreína. I clearly remember that day: we were in class with a professor I deeply admire. The class happened to be on the same week the Student Movement was arising and we all were very enthusiastic about it. So much, that a guy in my class said he was lucky to be a student on a day like that one. My professor replied that neither he nor the rest of us were lucky at all. She said that when she was young she was able to hang out at night without any other worry than to have fun. She felt safe, secure and happy. For my professor, to be involved in the Student Movement wasn`t a lucky life experience; it was something shameful, the reflex of a generation who had to be involved in a political movement to demand basic civil rights (such as security) that their parents once took for granted. In the middle of the discussion, another classmate received a phone call which she was rude enough to take – perhaps she felt something was wrong – “What?” – She said over the phone – “Is she dead?” - She hung up the phone and told us her name: Andreína. I shared a couple of classes with her. She was smart, the second of her cohort. She was tall with brown curly hair and a bit shy. She was more advanced than me: when she died she had already finish the university and was writing the thesis, while I was in my last year of classes.
On that day, she went to the university to deliver yet another thesis chapter to her tutor. After that, she stopped by at a gas station near campus. I don’t know how many shots reached her; all I know is that she was killed in the act. It was around 10 in the morning. It happened in plain daylight. Her killers were not older than 18. Apparently they were hired by an elder woman, who happened to be a former jealous lover of Andreina’s boyfriend. Another student witnessed the whole event. She never met Andreina, she was just passing by. Yet, she unexpectedly shared the most valuable minutes of someone's life: the last ones. She searched the car until she found Andreina’s movile phone and call her mom telling that her daughter was hurt and thus she had to rush to the gas station . I don’t know if her mom had the time to say good bye. I just know she held Andreina’s body screaming “¡me mataron a mi niña!” – “they killed my girl!” On that same night, we went to her funeral. It was crowded. Everyone was there. Friends, family and my whole faculty: professors, students of different cohorts. Some of them knew her. Some of them didn’t but her death impressed the community so much that wanted to be there, as if their attendance could show how much they condemned the event. A small altar was arranged at the entrance of our faculty, with her picture and a short bio in the center. The altar was there for weeks. She was the first.
TWO: Andres. I was reading the news when I read a story about a young boy being killed at a parking line. After partying, he was on the way to his car with some friends when someone tried to mug them. In the confusion, he and his friends decided to run away. It was a stupid decision: the thieves started to shoot as much as they could. Their bullets only reached Andres, not his friends. His name sounded familiar to me. I checked on a list and soon knew why: he was my student. During my last year of the university, I started working as a teaching assistant. As part of the job, I had a class of 40 first year students under my charge and he was one of them. He was one of my worst students, so bad that he couldn’t pass my class at least and had to switch to another major in another – less prestigious – university. He had short brown hair, big muscles for an 18 year old, and always showed up in class wearing blue squared shorts, a white stuck t-shirt and a big smile. All I remember of him is that he was joking all the time. His life ended way before he could be remembered by me as something more than a party boy. He didn’t had that chance.
THREE: Professor García.
He taught political philosophy at the university. He was never my professor but some of my friends did take classes with him and loved his method. One night, he was on his way back from the university with his son in the copilot seat. His car was old and cheap. But either way, at the highway, someone tried to chase him and mugged him. He started to drive faster and that really pissed off his muggers whom shot at his car as much as they could. Soon after, Professor García was death. I didn’t hear the news till the next day. One of my friends had an art exhibit opening on campus. I noticed something was wrong because he wasn’t smiling as he should have; this art exhibit was a great accomplish. Instead, he was wearing black and looking at the floor like asking for an answer. He started the exhibit with a quiet voice, saying it was dedicated to his professor, killed on the night before.
FOUR: Luis.
Today, I was talking to my boyfriend on the phone. We were making plans for tonight. One of his best friends came from abroad for a few days and invited us to have a few drinks. Trouble is, that he lives far and if my boyfriend goes after work to pick me up and then to this friend’ house, we might don’t get there on time due to the horrible Caracas’ traffic. So I proposed taking a bus to my boyfriend’ office, met him when he finished his work and go straight from there to his friend’ home. I asked him to wait a minute – my cell phone is ringing: it is mom. “Do you know Luis F.?” – “Yes, Why are you asking me?” – “Well, I just found out that he was killed yesterday” – She replied – “Killed? How come?” – My boyfriend hears my responses over the phone- “You know… the usual…someone mugged him, he didn’t had enough money to give and he was killed”. I hung up my cell and continue talking with my boyfriend. I explain that now I have to find out where is the funeral and if I should go or not. “Whatever you do, do not take the bus” – He says. The news has giving him a sudden injection of paranoia– “I’ll pick up, I don’t care about the traffic”.
In my fourth year of university, I was one of those typical - a bit nerd- students involved in many activities and associations. Luis belonged to one of those. I did not like him but I didn’t dislike him either. We never were close friends but we shared a lot in those meetings and parties of the student group we both belonged to. I don’t remember if his major was accounting or engineering or economics. He was tall, muscular, with a big smile and a sense of confidence in the joy of life. He used a motorcycle to attend classes so it was very common to see him entering the meetings wearing a black leather jacket and holding the helmet under his right arm. I never saw this coming but today, he officially enters my count as number 4. As the fourth one personally known person who disappeared from this world thanks to a semi automatic gun and an anonymous bastard who used it in revenge.
While I’m thinking on a conclusion for this post, on an elegant way to finish my chronicle; I find myself busier trying to contact the people from that student group. I haven’t see most of them in years. I still don’t know how this day should end: if at number 4’ funeral or at my boyfriend’ friend home, having some drinks. What I have for certain is that death does not longer amaze me. It rather feels like something you already knew even before it happened. You know that life is short, that nothing – even less life – can be taken for granted and that you should never, ever, make an assailant go mad because he could pass from being just another thief, another high school boy with broken expectations to a killer. And then take Andreina, Andrés, Professor García and Luis’ lives in the process.
ONE : Andreína. I clearly remember that day: we were in class with a professor I deeply admire. The class happened to be on the same week the Student Movement was arising and we all were very enthusiastic about it. So much, that a guy in my class said he was lucky to be a student on a day like that one. My professor replied that neither he nor the rest of us were lucky at all. She said that when she was young she was able to hang out at night without any other worry than to have fun. She felt safe, secure and happy. For my professor, to be involved in the Student Movement wasn`t a lucky life experience; it was something shameful, the reflex of a generation who had to be involved in a political movement to demand basic civil rights (such as security) that their parents once took for granted. In the middle of the discussion, another classmate received a phone call which she was rude enough to take – perhaps she felt something was wrong – “What?” – She said over the phone – “Is she dead?” - She hung up the phone and told us her name: Andreína. I shared a couple of classes with her. She was smart, the second of her cohort. She was tall with brown curly hair and a bit shy. She was more advanced than me: when she died she had already finish the university and was writing the thesis, while I was in my last year of classes.
On that day, she went to the university to deliver yet another thesis chapter to her tutor. After that, she stopped by at a gas station near campus. I don’t know how many shots reached her; all I know is that she was killed in the act. It was around 10 in the morning. It happened in plain daylight. Her killers were not older than 18. Apparently they were hired by an elder woman, who happened to be a former jealous lover of Andreina’s boyfriend. Another student witnessed the whole event. She never met Andreina, she was just passing by. Yet, she unexpectedly shared the most valuable minutes of someone's life: the last ones. She searched the car until she found Andreina’s movile phone and call her mom telling that her daughter was hurt and thus she had to rush to the gas station . I don’t know if her mom had the time to say good bye. I just know she held Andreina’s body screaming “¡me mataron a mi niña!” – “they killed my girl!” On that same night, we went to her funeral. It was crowded. Everyone was there. Friends, family and my whole faculty: professors, students of different cohorts. Some of them knew her. Some of them didn’t but her death impressed the community so much that wanted to be there, as if their attendance could show how much they condemned the event. A small altar was arranged at the entrance of our faculty, with her picture and a short bio in the center. The altar was there for weeks. She was the first.
TWO: Andres. I was reading the news when I read a story about a young boy being killed at a parking line. After partying, he was on the way to his car with some friends when someone tried to mug them. In the confusion, he and his friends decided to run away. It was a stupid decision: the thieves started to shoot as much as they could. Their bullets only reached Andres, not his friends. His name sounded familiar to me. I checked on a list and soon knew why: he was my student. During my last year of the university, I started working as a teaching assistant. As part of the job, I had a class of 40 first year students under my charge and he was one of them. He was one of my worst students, so bad that he couldn’t pass my class at least and had to switch to another major in another – less prestigious – university. He had short brown hair, big muscles for an 18 year old, and always showed up in class wearing blue squared shorts, a white stuck t-shirt and a big smile. All I remember of him is that he was joking all the time. His life ended way before he could be remembered by me as something more than a party boy. He didn’t had that chance.
THREE: Professor García.
He taught political philosophy at the university. He was never my professor but some of my friends did take classes with him and loved his method. One night, he was on his way back from the university with his son in the copilot seat. His car was old and cheap. But either way, at the highway, someone tried to chase him and mugged him. He started to drive faster and that really pissed off his muggers whom shot at his car as much as they could. Soon after, Professor García was death. I didn’t hear the news till the next day. One of my friends had an art exhibit opening on campus. I noticed something was wrong because he wasn’t smiling as he should have; this art exhibit was a great accomplish. Instead, he was wearing black and looking at the floor like asking for an answer. He started the exhibit with a quiet voice, saying it was dedicated to his professor, killed on the night before.
FOUR: Luis.
Today, I was talking to my boyfriend on the phone. We were making plans for tonight. One of his best friends came from abroad for a few days and invited us to have a few drinks. Trouble is, that he lives far and if my boyfriend goes after work to pick me up and then to this friend’ house, we might don’t get there on time due to the horrible Caracas’ traffic. So I proposed taking a bus to my boyfriend’ office, met him when he finished his work and go straight from there to his friend’ home. I asked him to wait a minute – my cell phone is ringing: it is mom. “Do you know Luis F.?” – “Yes, Why are you asking me?” – “Well, I just found out that he was killed yesterday” – She replied – “Killed? How come?” – My boyfriend hears my responses over the phone- “You know… the usual…someone mugged him, he didn’t had enough money to give and he was killed”. I hung up my cell and continue talking with my boyfriend. I explain that now I have to find out where is the funeral and if I should go or not. “Whatever you do, do not take the bus” – He says. The news has giving him a sudden injection of paranoia– “I’ll pick up, I don’t care about the traffic”.
In my fourth year of university, I was one of those typical - a bit nerd- students involved in many activities and associations. Luis belonged to one of those. I did not like him but I didn’t dislike him either. We never were close friends but we shared a lot in those meetings and parties of the student group we both belonged to. I don’t remember if his major was accounting or engineering or economics. He was tall, muscular, with a big smile and a sense of confidence in the joy of life. He used a motorcycle to attend classes so it was very common to see him entering the meetings wearing a black leather jacket and holding the helmet under his right arm. I never saw this coming but today, he officially enters my count as number 4. As the fourth one personally known person who disappeared from this world thanks to a semi automatic gun and an anonymous bastard who used it in revenge.
While I’m thinking on a conclusion for this post, on an elegant way to finish my chronicle; I find myself busier trying to contact the people from that student group. I haven’t see most of them in years. I still don’t know how this day should end: if at number 4’ funeral or at my boyfriend’ friend home, having some drinks. What I have for certain is that death does not longer amaze me. It rather feels like something you already knew even before it happened. You know that life is short, that nothing – even less life – can be taken for granted and that you should never, ever, make an assailant go mad because he could pass from being just another thief, another high school boy with broken expectations to a killer. And then take Andreina, Andrés, Professor García and Luis’ lives in the process.