Negotiating the border: Contending with constraints and creating opportunity from Venezuela to Peru

Introduction

It was four in the morning and the bus was driving up a mountain towards the border when it slowed down. I was sleeping very lightly. When I woke I heard something like a hose and then the bus was going slowly but it didn’t stop and that was when they tried to rob us. They threw down a branch to stop the bus…then we heard a shot. They had shot the driver through the window and killed him. He fell and the bus swerved to the side and we were on a mountain. If a tree had not been there, we would have fallen. We would have all been killed…Most curious of all, the police suddenly arrived and everyone got off the bus. That was at 4 in the morning. The police interviewed us all…I realized that the [Venezuelan] National Police had been the very ones that had tried to rob us. The police are delinquents in uniforms. -Xiomara, ¹ age 19

When I met Xiomara, she was working as a receptionist at a hotel in Lima. She had a temporary permit allowing her to legally work in Peru, rented a modest apartment with her boyfriend, and earned enough that she was able to send money to her mother in Venezuela weekly. In many regards, Xiomara does not fit the image of a desperate refugee. Yet, her account demonstrates the ‘felt and visceral operations of power’ (Faria et al., 2020: 1155), the intimacies of fear and violence that surrounded her movement. Recent scholarship examines the links between geopolitics and biopolitics, showing how borders are inscribed on the body (Gilmartin and Kuusto-Arputon, 2019; Hyndman, 2019). Most of this research focuses on limitations and restrictions that arise from the places receiving migrants. However, among many Venezuelan migrants, fear and violence emerged most strongly from their time in Venezuela, where they find their mobility more constrained than in neighboring countries. Xiomara’s story exemplifies the trauma of leaving Venezuela. Yet, borders result from relationships of power and resistance (Ilcan, 2020), which means that the permeability and meaning of borders is constantly in flux.

In this article, I make two main arguments. First, I argue that the Venezuelan government itself, along with its accompanying border management strategies, presents the biggest challenge for Venezuelan migrants. This contrasts with many existing accounts of mobility regimes, or the complex ‘principles of closure’ (Shamir, 2005: 199), that focus on how receiving countries limit and restrict migrants’ journeys and experiences upon arrival. Mobility regimes “are designed to smooth the mobility of some, while stigmatizing and hindering the ability of others” (Schapendonk et al., 2020: 212). Second, and related, I add to literature arguing that border management consists of more than formal restrictions; rather, migrant experiences are shaped by an assemblage of practices from a range of institutions and actors (Ryburn, 2022; Schindel, 2022; Wiertz, 2021). Studies on social media as an essential tool for navigating complex migration journeys (Álvarez Velasco, 2022) and on the temporary solidarities migrants form while traveling (Diaz de Leon, 2020) provide new insights into migrant experiences. Building on such work, I argue that assistance from humanitarian organizations and local members of the population, the latter which has not received much attention, are also part of mobility regimes and provide a counter to more restrictive or physically harmful border management practices. Utilizing a feminist geopolitical lens, I draw on interviews to demonstrate the multi-scaled and embodied practices of border making and the need to consider mobility, safety and vulnerability relationally (see Valencia, 2017). Feminist geographies emphasize power and difference, theorizing places and scales as open, porous and mutually constituted (Oberhauser et al., 2018). Migrants’ accounts embody a powerful articulation of how geopolitical relationships between state actors are negotiated in people’s everyday experiences, through multiple intersecting scales.

Embodied accounts of mobility

This research builds on insights from feminist geopolitics and critical migration scholars who challenge static accounts of migration as straightforward movements from a point of origin to a point of destination (Collyer, 2007; Innes, 2016). It contributes to critical migration studies to demonstrate how the border is experienced on the body even before the migration journey officially begins (see Ilcan, 2020; Lubkemann, 2008) and to expand understandings of migrant management regimes not just as hindering movement, but also promoting or enabling it. In what follows, I first reiterate the importance of embodied accounts of geopolitics and then emphasize analyses that move beyond the state to consider how power is produced, maintained and challenged at multiple interrelated scales (Torres, 2018). Embodied accounts of migration move away from the generic to instead examine how intersecting aspects of identity inscribed on the body, such as gender and race, shape experiences (Silvey, 2005; Winters, 2020). I follow critical migration scholars in framing migration as a process made up of multiple movements and constant negotiations of identity and belonging (Alvarez Velasco, 2022; Kuusisto-Arponen and Gilmartin, 2019; Schapendonk et al., 2020).

Borders are sites of struggle; the logic of borders may facilitate or hinder movement depending on the different subjectivities of those involved (DeGenova, 2015). Policies are enacted by a range of individuals, including border guards, humanitarian workers, and local populations, in ways that not only reinforce but also contradict official state and regional policy. Within feminist geopolitical literature, it is now well-established that state-centered top-down analyses of power fail to capture the everyday practices through which power operates (and is resisted and reworked) by those who are represented as most disempowered (Hyndman, 2010). Expanding a focus on the spaces and practices of border regimes reveals how intimate spaces that are often framed as nonpolitical can be subject to geopolitical interventions (Faria et al., 2020; Gokarıksel and Secor, 2020; Williams, 2020) and better captures the complexity of migration. Studies show how border controls have been outsourced and analyze the role humanitarian organizations, community groups, and migrants themselves play in maintaining borders (Ilcan, 2020; Mountz, 2011). Massa (2020) points out that agglomerations of different mobility actors are not only restrictive but can also facilitate creative alternatives to migration journeys. Nedelcu and Sorceren (2022) also directly address how technology can also be used beneficially by migrants themselves. Diaz de Leon (2020) argues that even in situations in which migrants do not trust each other, they may form ‘transient communities’ that enable their survival through one-time acts of solidarity. I suggest that such supports, including technology, other migrants, and even local residents, are key to shaping the smoothness or friction of particular migration experiences. The intersecting range of actors that shape migrant experiences exemplifies Wiertz’s (2021) argument about biopolitics as an assemblage of different actors, institutions and knowledge forms. Recognition of the importance of informal relationships between migrants and those around them allows more space to examine subjectivities and exploitation (Huysman et al., 2021).

Borders are policed at multiple interrelated scales, moving beyond territorial boundaries and physical checkpoints between countries to also be transcribed on spaces of the bodies (DeGenova, 2015; Torres, 2018; Williams, 2020). Amoore (2006: 341) argues that biometric technologies mean that migrants’ bodies “become the carrier of the border.” Because borders are “a product of relations of power and resistance” they are not fixed but rather must constantly be maintained and reworked (Ilcan, 2020: 2). Local police and other state officials play key roles in immigrant detention (Torres, 2018). However, much scholarship frames such processes as “at the request of the more powerful receiving states” (Menjivar, 2014: 357). Here, I expand the literature to argue that many of these same processes, such as the internalization of the border, restrictions on movement, and feelings of ‘waiting’, emerge more strongly in accounts of efforts to leave one’s birth country, in this case Venezuela. Lubkemann (2008) challenges some of the taken-for-granted assumptions regarding migration, such as the conflation between displacement and movement. Instead, he argues that in the case of Mozambique, ‘involuntary immobility’ or the inability to migrate, caused many of the negative experiences typically linked with forced migration. Mezzadra (2004) suggests that the ‘right to escape’ challenges mainstream understandings of migrants as vulnerable. Focusing on escape shifts attention from obstacles upon arrival to instead look at barriers to leaving. Ilcan (2020) demonstrates how border policies are enacted at multiple points during the migration journey, including within Syria. She argues that migrants demonstrate ‘agency-in-displacement,’ strategically using protracted waiting periods to better position themselves. Here, I build on the borderization of waiting by focusing on respondents’ time in Venezuela. I argue that waiting, along with violence, fear and precarity---factors frequently linked to border crossings and refugee camps—are big parts of life in Venezuela and shape the decisions migrants make and how they experience their migration journeys. Yet, I move beyond waiting in the sense of preparation to migrate, to also examine how waiting more generally shapes the day-to-day in Venezuela and factors into migrants’ experiences and interpretations of those experiences along the migration journey and in Peru.

By connecting geopolitical accounts of migration with everyday experiences of migrants, this analysis recognizes mobility regimes and the obstacles they create (Huysmen et al., 2021) but also leaves space for bodily difference in interactions with such regimes. Collectively, migrants and the people they interact with also re-make space (Gilmartin and Kuusisto-Arponen, 2019). Analyses of the multiple and varied experiences of mobility and mobility regimes, and the way migrants respond to barriers to their movement, allows recognition of migrant agency while also considering how “embodied presence and movement of migrants simultaneously reproduces and challenges the perceived order of global economic space.” (Gilmartin and Kuusisto-Arponen, 2019: 24; Faria et al., 2020).

Methodology

The article is based on testimonial accounts of 18 Venezuelan citizens who migrated to Peru between 2016 and 2018. The use of personal narratives about migration provides intimate accounts of the workings of geopolitics and biopolitics (see Lawson, 2000). Migrants ² were contacted in a variety of ways—directly approaching them, through dormitories or houses of refuge that catered to Venezuelans, and through snowball sampling. Additionally, we also talked informally with other Venezuelan migrants who we met during our day-to-day activities, and interviewed NGOs, social service organizations, and Peruvians who worked in the informal economy to provide context. Interviews occurred in locations chosen by those being interviewed and included plazas, cafes, and places of work. In many cases, this author and the graduate assistant served in the role of listener, only occasionally asking questions of clarification as migrants shared their experiences. Narratives generally touched on life in Venezuela, journeys to Peru, experiences upon arrival, and future plans. On average, interviews lasted between one and 2 hours and were conducted in Spanish.

Of those engaging in longer interviews, 10 were women and 8 were men. Six were ages 18–24, ten were ages 25–29, and one each were in their early 30 s and early 40 s. Finally, all had some higher education, ³ ranging from master’s degrees to those who had abandoned their university studies mid-course. Importantly, interviews were conducted in August 2018 and March 2019, before the Covid-19 outbreak. All but two had arrived in time to access temporary resident permits. The window in which the respondents migrated likely played a key role in shaping their experiences.

Context

As of August 2023, around 1.5 million Venezuelans had migrated to Peru, making it the country to receive the second largest number of Venezuelans and the most formal applications for asylum (Amnesty, 2023). Nearly all this migration has taken place since 2017, when the number of Venezuelans leaving the country skyrocketed. Initially, the Peruvian government welcomed Venezuelan migrants and tried to facilitate their entry into the country and the formal economy. In 2017, the government created a Temporary Stay Permit (PTP), allocating nearly 500,000 permits, which gave Venezuelans permission to work, among other allowances. Additionally, Venezuelans could use multiple forms of identification to enter the country. This flexibility was especially important due to challenges in obtaining a Venezuelan passport, as explained below.

The Peruvian government’s efforts to welcome Venezuelan migrants were reflective of what some describe as South America’s greater emphasis on solidarity and a human rights-approach to migration (Basok, 2019). In both academic and popular media, accounts highlight the increasing hardening of borders, more restrictive immigration policies, and new technologies of surveillance (Mitchell et al., 2019). Yet, borders within South America have historically been more fluid, in part shaped by shared histories as former Spanish colonies (Grosfoguel, 2015). Organizations such as MERCOSUR, the Southern Common market, offer Residence Agreements to citizens of all member countries (Acosta, 2015). Further, the Cartagena Declaration of 1984 expanded who counted as a refugee to include “persons who have fled their country because their lives, safety or freedom have been threatened by generalized violence, foreign aggression, internal conflicts, massive violation of human rights or other circumstances which have seriously disturbed public order.” As part of the Declaration, countries pledged support for those seeking protection. However, as the number of migrants increased, the Peruvian government discontinued the PTP program. Those who arrived after 31 October 2018 were no longer eligible. Instead, they could seek a tourist visa, apply for asylum (a process hampered by Peru’s backlog in processing asylum-seeking claims), or enter undocumented.

Peru’s shifting policies directly impacted Venezuelans’ migration strategies, as well as their experiences at not only the border between Ecuador and Peru, but also border crossings from Venezuela to Colombia and from Colombia to Ecuador. Mitchell et al. (2019) suggest that embodied accounts of migration provide a way to interpret macro-scale processes. Peru’s policy towards Venezuelan migrants must be considered within its broader political context. As a country that aligns itself with the United States, supporting Venezuelan migrants with a more open migration policy sends a clear message of opposition to Venezuelan president Nicholas Maduro’s regime and the socialist country he leads (see Parent and Freier, 2018). Thus, the Peruvian government is able to further its alliance to the United States by welcoming those migrants that are presented as fleeing Maduro’s regime.

Multiple factors have contributed to the outpouring of over 6 million Venezuelans since 2015, with primacy being attributed to different factors depending on the aims of those explaining the ‘crisis’. As the number of Venezuelans leaving increased, the Venezuelan government intensified efforts to present discourses around migration ‘crises’ as exaggerated. Ilcan (2020) and others highlight the ways in which border crossings and checkpoints constitute violence, justified by a need to protect the state. I suggest the same argument applies to Venezuela’s restrictions on the movement of its citizens. Migration from countries can arguably create risk for the Venezuelan government by draining potentially valuable human capital from the country and by spreading a narrative of instability and desperation in contradiction to the controlled image promoted by the Venezuelan government.

The Venezuelan government itself actively controls the borders by limiting the ability of Venezuelans to leave. Their experiences are shaped by the particular constellation of identity components and assemblages existing in the time-spaces through which they travel. In leaving the country, respondents demonstrate a more intimate look at the impact of Bolivarian socialism and Venezuela’s relationship to other countries in the region. Their on-the-ground experiences are shaped by formal geopolitical relationships between Venezuela and Peru, as well as with Colombia and Ecuador, which most respondents traveled through on their way to Lima. The accounts below speak to the embodiment of geopolitics, reflective in the diverse experiences of border crossing and migration.

Denying documentation: An extended reach of the Venezuelan government

Accounts of migration are rife with descriptions of protracted waiting, outsourcing of border security, and violent encounters with border guards (DeGenova, 2015; Ilcan, 2020). Yet, the Peruvian government initially welcomed Venezuelan migrants, at least formally. In contrast, the Venezuelan government itself employed multiple strategies that hindered the ease at which Venezuelans could leave (see Lubkemann, 2008 for a discussion on Mozambique). Such tactics not only shaped how and when respondents left Venezuela, but also negatively impacted the ease at which they could find work in other countries. According to 24-year-old Daniel, “They [Venezuelan government officials] set up obstacles, most of all for the young people, so that we don’t leave the country. Older people do not have so many problems getting their documents but for us, yes. They say we need fingerprints. I went to Caracas to the capital to fix it and there too, they give you 1,001 excuses to not let you enter the central office.” Daniel showed the guards his identity card as a lawyer and told them he was going to the legal department. “But of course, not everyone has the possibility to do this. They have to stay outside in the cold exposed to all possible dangers because Caracas is the most dangerous capital in the world and if you have to stay there for the night, you will see all that can happen.” Daniel was able to use his personal connections and position as a lawyer to more quickly access his passport. Once Daniel obtained his fingerprints, he said the second phase of government-imposed obstacles began. “They begin to charge you for everything, to pay for a credit card for a system of taxes, to print your passport. And the managers charge you extra fees to ‘speed up the process’.” Daniel paid the equivalent of $50 to a friend to facilitate obtaining his documents, demonstrating how individuals rework state policies. By the time of this research, prices had increased to $800. Francisco, in his early 20 s, added

“they [the Venezuelan government] don’t tell you directly [that you cannot leave] but they do not give you papers to leave and the flights are very difficult to find and are very expensive…Also, there is the question of cash. I had to pay in cash and there is no cash in Venezuela.”

Carolina, in her mid-20 s, echoed the challenges of obtaining dollars. “In Venezuela, there are no currency exchanges where you can change or get dollars. So you have to buy dollars from someone who goes to the United States where they have dollars. This person sells them, but of course at a much higher exchange rate. Then we buy these dollars, little by little. They can’t sell you $200 [at once]. They sell you $20, then $20 and so on. It is dangerous to sell dollars because for example, if people know you are traveling and have dollars, they can rob you, and it is very dangerous.”

Yet not all respondents faced challenges in the same ways, revealing uneven and discretionary experiences of border control (Ilcan, 2020). Obstacles for leaving Venezuela also depend on whether migrants are leaving with passports or Andean identity cards, cards that allow migrants to travel freely between Colombia, Ecuador and Peru. Yessica, who was a special education teacher in Venezuela, explained that she had no problems at the Venezuelan border. “If you have a passport and you come legally, they do not put any inconvenience in your way.” However, if using an Andean identity card, travelers may have to wait for days until they can obtain the card. “They [Venezuelan government] give you the Andean identity card but not when you want it but rather when they feel like giving it out. For five days they might give it out, and then for five days they won’t.”

At the time of her interview, Yessica wanted to return to Venezuela but was worried about her ability to do so. “The problem with returning is how you return. To return, I have to get a stamp at the border, an entrance stamp in the airport so that they unblock my bank accounts because after three months outside of the country, they block your bank accounts. Any accounts you have that are Venezuelan, you cannot use them. You have three months of vacation and if I don’t return, they will do this to me, and they will take me from the payroll of the Ministry of Education.” Even though Yessica believed she was still officially in good standing with the Venezuelan government, she assumed that they knew she had left and were beginning the process of expropriating her accounts. Yessica’s challenge of documentation came from the Venezuelan government, rather than the Peruvian government. “Here, I am still on tourist time. But I cannot return right now. They [Venezuelan government] closed the borders and grounded all the flights. You can’t even go back.” Yessica’s situation illustrates the ways in which her mobility has impacts that extend beyond physical borders to shape her well-being both within and beyond Venezuela.

In other situations, migrants changed their route because of a lack of formal documents. Luis crossed into Colombia by canoe. He feared that without a passport, a formal border-crossing would be too difficult. “They [Venezuelan border guards] treat you badly and it takes much longer, worse since I came with an ID card instead of a passport.” Eli also migrated without his passport. Rather than formally cross the border at a checkpoint and get his passport stamped, he walked across the territorial boundary between Venezuela and Colombia, on a wide dusty road that connected the two countries’ checkpoints. “You have two options. You can stand in line legally and stamp your passport, which is what all the world should do, or you simply pass by walking, nobody says anything to you.” Eli joined other Venezuelans and Colombians who walk between the two countries in plain sight of border officials. The greater permeability of borders emphasizes a need to situate borders in their geographical context. The consequences of leaving without formal documents vary, depending on where Venezuelans migrate. Francisco explained that in Peru, “if you apply for refugee status you can still work but I believe the fear comes from going to other countries, because here they will give you shelter but I believe in Chile, you cannot go without papers.” The impact of Venezuelan restrictions needs to be considered in tandem with other countries’ efforts to regulate borders.

The examples above reveal that arguments about the extension of ‘borders’ in the context of immigration (for example, see Amoore, 2006) are also relevant to emigration; the Venezuelan government’s efforts to limit people from leaving hinders migrants’ abilities to thrive when in places like Peru. According to Mariluz, President Nicolas Maduro issued a decree that “Venezuelans who leave their country will leave without their degrees. He canceled appointments to get degrees certified so we’d have to leave without formal credentials.” This makes it much more difficult for migrants to get jobs in their field, instead increasing the likelihood that they will work in precarious jobs in the informal economy. The Venezuelan government’s strategies amount to a form of border control, shaping experiences before and after actual journeys outside of the country. Those leaving Venezuela weigh risks of each option they personally may face, as they carefully negotiate constraints and rework or create possibilities.

Humanitarian assistance: Facilitating movement

Governments, organizations, and other individuals shape the permeability of the border, and experiences at that border. In some cases, this involves the outsourcing of security and scrutinization (Amoore, 2006). But in other cases, organizations facilitate movement (Massa, 2020). Venezuelans cross multiple borders, entering Colombia and then Ecuador before ultimately crossing into Peru. Instead of focusing on the prevention of movement, international humanitarian organizations such as Global Vision and Save the Children aim to smooth the multiple stages of migration and provide material and medical assistance to those traveling. Melisa, a mother of two young girls, explained, “At the border of Colombia with Ecuador, I arrived at 5 in the morning and left at 5 in the afternoon. It was very hard. There were many children, too many children and the same people from immigration set up a room where they put tables, crayons, snacks but even so, it was hard because it was 12 hours. I had the girls there and I was watching them and all the moms of children that were in the room were watching.” In such situations, international organizations coordinated with state officials to smooth border crossing processes and mitigate some of the hardship that came from onerous migration journeys.

As is the case with processes of obtaining documents, migrants’ interactions with humanitarian organizations varied, as they reworked aspects of their identity to better fit desirable migrant profiles (Wilson, 2020). Natalia and Eli traveled to Peru with aid from a coalition of international organizations. “They gave us voluntary exit letters, and to the people who did not have passports, they gave us the Andean identity card. By taking voluntary exit my fine for overstaying my time [in Colombia] was exonerated.” Natalia learned about humanitarian assistance through connections, in this case her uncle’s friend in Bogota. “I went on a Wednesday, and they said to come back Friday with a passport or identity card…I cried so that they would sign my boyfriend up too…I asked and they said that ‘there are various organizations helping Venezuelans go to Peru because we know that getting papers here [in Colombia] is not easy, and in terms of work, food and rent also, so we are taking you with everything paid to Peru, Lima.” With the help of humanitarian organizations, Natalia’s journey from Bogota to Lima took five days, with a rest in Ipiales, Ecuador. The ability of humanitarian organizations to support travelers depended on their relationships with national governments. Maduro significantly limited the entry of humanitarian aid to Venezuela, which made it challenging for potential migrants to seek help before crossing into Colombia. When Natalia and Eli arrived at the border with Ecuador, “[humanitarian assistance workers] explained, ‘in Ecuador we cannot help you anymore. You have to look for the next organization that will help you travel until Tumbes, the next border crossing.’ They literally leave you at the border and you go looking for another organization but it is very difficult because there is a lot of demand for help from Venezuelans traveling.” Natalia explained that she was in the early stages of pregnancy; when she told humanitarian organizations, they provided her with more support. Natalia continued,

“We arrived at the border around 10 am, early, and we spent the whole day until the night but because there was humanitarian assistance, all the organizations were giving food, and hygiene kits, with sanitary napkins, towels, toothbrushes, everything you need. And to pregnant women and people with children they were giving diapers, baby food, it was all excellent. For example, you could consult with a psychologist, have a dental cleaning, all completely free, check-ups for babies, medicine, it was super complete.”

The role that humanitarian organizations play in facilitating mobility demonstrates Massa’s (2020) argument that borders not only restrict movement but can also be used by migrants as resources. At the time of this research there were no formal refugee camps for Venezuelans, which often feature centrally in analyses of the management of displacement (Weima and Hyndman, 2019). Instead UNHCR and other humanitarian organizations, provided temporary respite, along with resources as mentioned above. Such organizations arguably facilitate ongoing movement and reduce ‘waiting time,’ in direct contrast to other accounts that link humanitarian organizations with prolonged waiting. The experiences of crossing the same border can vary significantly, with intersecting identity factors, such as gender, race, wealth, and life stage (pregnancy, elderly etc), smoothing or hindering the process. But migrants’ previous experiences with precarity and violence also shape how they experience border crossings, and the meaning they assign to those crossings.

Precarity, waiting, and violence in Venezuela

At the border, Natalia had greater access to material resources than had been the case in Venezuela, where access to food, diapers, and medicine was extremely limited. Valencia (2017) argues that migrants’ experiences of violence and security need to be analyzed relationally, also considering experiences before migrating and upon arrival. Such an approach does not deny the vulnerability that many migrants experience, but also allows accounts to move beyond static portrayals of migrants as victims. While the journey from Venezuela to Peru presented physical challenges, life in Venezuela was also physically challenging. My analysis here demonstrates how the violence, fear, and waiting often linked with migration journeys and refugee camps exist even more strongly for some respondents before they officially migrate (see Lubkemann, 2008).

Multiple respondents discussed limited food, exposure to violence, and the need to wait in long lines, all factors that are also linked with violent migration journeys (Ryburn, 2022; Schindel, 2022). Katarina explained, “The truth is that before coming, life in Venezuela was very hard because everything began shutting down by 2017. Last week, for example, was a week completely without light. And often light comes in intervals, a few hours a day. The electric line crosses over a bridge and they [the government] have been changing it, but not in an efficient manner because they [government] are incapable, and the cable burned ……everything is rationed. I went from eating 5 times a day to eating twice a day.” Barbara discussed limited access to water and diapers. In the weeks before she left, she began cutting her sheets to use as diapers for her daughter, since she was unable to find diapers. Jose similarly explained that in the province where he lived, “Water arrived two times a month, at the most, and now sicknesses are spreading. They’d eradicated tuberculosis and now people are dying from tuberculosis.”

In the months leading up to their departure, thoughts were increasingly occupied with how to obtain enough food to survive. Melisa explained, “In Venezuela now it is very difficult. You wake up thinking about what you are going to eat and you go to bed thinking about what you are going to do to get what you need, and if you are able to obtain things you have to wait in line I don’t know how many hours. It is horrible…here they are calm. I don’t give them [my daughters], let’s say riches, but if we go out for the weekend I might buy them something.” As a mother, Melisa knew that a year of poor nutrition and limited education could have long-term developmental effects on her young daughters. She had to negotiate a particular moment in space and time as she shaped her migration plans. Like nearly everyone in this study, Melisa did not want to leave Venezuela for good. But she actively decided that precarity as a migrant would be better for her than precarity in Venezuela.

Learning how to migrate with solidarity from others

While government policy and the assistance of humanitarian organizations are essential to understanding borders, personal relationships are also central to influencing the management and experience of migration. It is these feelings of solidarity, albeit fleeting, that can determine migrant survival (Diaz De Leon, 2020). Friends and family often shared information about the best locations through which to cross the border, how to negotiate the actual crossing, what bus agencies to travel with (and how to find them), and what to do at each step of the journey. In Lisbet’s situation,

“I contracted my friend’s uncle who lived in San Cristóbal and he took me until the bridge. He told me, ‘Look. Get into this line. Get that stamp. Then cross the bridge and here is the stop, and here is the name of the stop. This is customs and these are currency exchanges. And my cousin in Lima helped me have a Plan A and a Plan B because all the stories I heard are not good with national guards searching you. They are capable of taking everything, even your papers, if you do not pay them.”

Jose relied on information from a Venezuelan friend who was already in Lima. “She made me a guide of how the whole process was going to be, including the cost of busses between each province, with a map. I arrived with that map and knew where to go, including what bus lines to catch.”

As has been argued by others (see Gillespie et al., 2018; Yuksel, 2022), shared information, most often communicated via social media such as Whatsapp, can be crucial to migrant survival. Here, I suggest that it is a key component of ‘migration regimes’ due to the role it plays in shaping border crossing. Because of such technologies, even those without personal connections can rely on information from others. All but one specifically mentioned accessing social media accounts. Multiple respondents explained that they learned how to migrate by reading detailed accounts on social media. Ana said that there were groups such as ‘Venezuelans in Peru’ or ‘Venecos on Instagram’ that publish logs explaining exactly what to do. “They tell you about their journeys, ‘I grabbed this, I did this, I spent 2 soles on food.’ They give you these types of recommendations so that you know what you will need to spend. You review the stories and it guides you a little bit.” Social media accounts provide a source of solidarity and support before, during and after migration journeys. The ways in which migrants utilize such technologies offers a counter to accounts that focus exclusively on technology as a means of control (see Godin and Dona, 2021). Instead, social media plays a key role in the emotional and material experiences of migration.

During migration trajectories, acts of solidarity facilitate smoother migration journeys (see Diaz de Leon, 2020). Natalia’s account, like those of many others in this study, indicates that social networks constantly expand, including en route. In the space of buses, lines, and temporary waiting areas, subjects rework and challenge uneven power relationships and politics. Natalia explained that another family had been traveling with them from Bogota. “We united forces and would each watch each other’s suitcases if the other had to get their documents stamped…We made a list with World Vision of 18 of us, many babies and children, to see if they could give us all a bus because we wanted the security of traveling together.” Diaz de Leon (2020) suggests that even temporary moments of solidary can create transient communities that exchange useful information, with the potential to act as a political force. These supports are crucial to migrants’ ability to successfully navigate borders and checkpoints, the material conditions in which they arrive, and the emotions they experience during and after their journeys.

Conclusion

The examples above add to accounts of how the border extends beyond the demarcation of territorial boundaries by revealing how borders affect migrants before they physically leave Venezuela. Border regimes shape where and how migrants cross, their exposure to risk as they attempt to acquire dollars and passports, and even their physical health while they wait: either in the hopes that the situation will change in Venezuela or while they negotiate bureaucracy to obtain documents and money for migration. In this case, the governments in the region were initially neutral or even receptive to Venezuelans’ arrival. Rather, it was the Venezuelan government that imposed many of the restrictions migrants faced. Accounts that overlook migrants’ home countries, as well as the time before technically leaving, miss important factors that shape who moves and how.

Migration is an embodied experience, informed by different intersecting identities. The Venezuelan government actively targeted younger adults and those with formal education through additional requirements to obtain passports, and by refusing to credential their degrees in an effort to hinder their ability to seek appropriately-leveled work outside of Venezuela. Socioeconomic status, distance from the Venezuelan-Colombian border, and existing connections outside of the country further shaped how migrants traveled and in what conditions. Even in situations in which the same individuals crossed the border more than once, their experiences varied, as was the case with Ruth mentioned above, who returned to Venezuela with money she needed so that her young daughter could join her in Peru. Because she was carrying a large amount of cash, the risks she faced and the stress from her awareness that if the money were taken, she would not be able to afford her daughter’s papers, made her second border crossing much more onerous. Yet, border regimes not only hinder movement but may also facilitate it. Interactions with government workers and border guards, connections formed with other travelers, and support from strangers and family alike also proved essential. Migrants watched each other’s luggage, supervised each other’s children, shared food, and physically sat alongside each other through the intensity of their journeys. Such shared experiences sometimes led to a tentative sense of camaraderie about the collective trauma of Venezuelan migration and open possibilities of further political actions (see Diaz de Leon, 2020).

The accounts above reiterate a need to consider violence and vulnerability relationally. While bus rides and border crossings are often marked by discomfort and uncertainty, many of the respondents in this study emphasized fear and precarity in their lives in Venezuela. Natalia’s description of UNHCR’s support while waiting to cross the border illustrates the importance of relationality. For Natalia, access to medical doctors and other material resources far exceeded what she could find in Venezuela. In contrast, migrants described waiting in Venezuela, not just to get documents or secure funding to migrate, but rather as part of the everyday, waiting in line for food or diapers or for teachers to return so they could resume their studies. Some even migrated specifically to avoid prolonged waiting. Thus, I suggest a need for more nuance about the relationship between waiting and migration. Venezuelan migrants negotiate multiple layers of restrictions and supports as they move from Venezuela to Peru. Their testimonies challenge uniform accounts of migration to show how particular moments and encounters shape migration experiences. Collectively, their experiences show how migration policies are (re)made, enacted, and reworked across multiple scales. Recognition of such diversity makes space to imagine alternative possibilities for migration governance.