The Other side of the border
The other side of the border:
An ongoing illustrated book project inspired by forced migration and poverty dynamics. 
These illustrations are based around real testimonies and stories from Venezuelan migrants. 
I left Venezuela with deep sorrow, a big backpack with a couple of brushes, a change of clothes and my accent on my shoulders. Like many others I felt the need to be two things: faithful to my old home and articulate in this new one but the moment I crossed the border I became an migrant on both soils.

 The country I miss, no longer exists.
My abuelita often tells me the same story, over and over again, but in each telling, i feel sadder. She usually takes all her cash stuffed inside her underwear (if you're from Venezuela or any other country drowned by inflation, you know it's a lot and nothing at all at the same time). She doesn't go to the mercado alone unless my uncle goes along... She always tries to hide her grocery bags and does not take her wallet or phone with her because she's too afraid of being robbed again. 

One day, a kid was sitting at the bus stop alone, she didn't noticed him at first but right when she was taking the bus to go home, the kid dragged her, ripped off her bag and ran away with a couple of tangerines. She felt really sad because those tangerines were a little bit spoiled, she had picked them from the floor to feed her parrots. 

— "I wish I'd had something else instead!" she recalled.
This was the first place we could call home, on the other side of the border. A tiny room in a very old house rented by a really kind man and his sad dog. Funnily enough, the neighborhood was called "La Soledad".
When we’re away we spend so much time craving home and thinking about what has been taken away from us. But I’ve noticed that we are also left with a crippling fear of returning home to face, once again, the reality we once lived and... to find everything but the country we remember. A simple walk around offers an eerie display of decay, a new problem on every corner and the lack of well... pretty much everything.

 But even though it hurts, even though everything seems like a cruel sad joke... there’s nothing like home. Home is where our pets, our loved ones, our memories, even our fears are. Home is where the heart is, i supposed. And as our hearts got shattered, we would have to keep transforming the meaning of home.
A migrant caravan, crossing the border and sometimes an entire country by foot is the only option for those unable to pay for a plane or a bus ticket. Covered by the cold and the unknown, los caminantes walk away, juggling overstuffed suitcases and backpacks that desperately try to resemble the ghost of what it used to be their home.
The monster under my bed is not like other monsters, he's not scary at all. He likes to hide under my bed and sometimes, behind my back. He's sad most of the time, kinda like me. There's always a little piece of sea where he lies and when he leaves, he finds his little spot dry and swept, so he starts crying all over again. Do you have a monster under your bed? How does he look like? Do you live with him in peace? Is he scared of you like mine is of me? 🛏️🐟
Maybe someday I'll be able to finish it 
and maybe someday we'll be able to go back home. 

This is an ongoing project, so...
Come back soon!
The Other side of the border
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371
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Published:

The Other side of the border

An ongoing illustrated book project inspired by forced migration and poverty dynamics. These illustrations are based around real testimonies and Read More
78
371
12
Published:

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