Between Xenophobia and Solidarity: My Story of Migration to Colombia

This story by Mi Historia and translated by Melissa Vida originally appeared on Global Voices on October 26, 2025. 

By Sofía (pseudonym), a member of Mi Historia, a journalistic project in Colombia made by and for teens.

I was 12 years old when my mother decided to migrate to Colombia from our home in Venezuela. I never imagined the hardships that awaited us in a country that was not our own.

I remember that before we left, my grandmother and father asked me not to go. They made comments that I thought were prejudiced against Colombians, and since I didn’t share that view, I ignored them. They also insisted that, because of the massive migration of Venezuelans to Colombia, Venezuela was deteriorating and that I would only find suffering there. But none of that mattered to me — all I wanted was to be with my mother, because she was the one I needed to be with.

On January 13, 2021, the day of the trip finally arrived. We set off for Saravena, Arauca, a border region marked by the constant movement of migrants in transit and by those who settle there.

At the time, I had no idea of the scale of the migration phenomenon — thousands of Venezuelans were entering and leaving Colombia. In 2021 alone, approximately 1.84 million migrated to the country. By 2025, according to the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR), 7.9 million people are expected to have left Venezuela in search of protection and a better life.

Venezuelan migration was driven by multiple factors: the economic crisis, food and medicine shortages, insecurity, lack of job and educational opportunities, and the deepening political and social crisis that had plagued the country for years. Amid all this, Colombia became one of the main destinations for those seeking better living conditions.

I remember that after crossing the Arauca River, we headed straight to Saravena. Since we didn’t know the Colombian currency, we were charged 130,000 pesos per person (about USD 33) for a car ride. Without realizing it, we had paid more than six times the actual fare, which was around 40,000 pesos (USD 10) at the time.

I experienced many things alongside my mother that, at my age, I shouldn’t have had to. But those experiences shaped who I am today, someone with a past full of fear and pain.

In Colombia, my mother started working as a street vendor. She didn’t have the legal documents to do it formally, and there were no stable job opportunities. However, because of her fragile health, she couldn’t keep up with the poorly paid work. Since we didn’t have access to free healthcare, we tried to avoid taking risks.

Even so, in April 2021, she had to be admitted to the intensive care unit. The anguish was twofold — her condition and the high medical costs that, as foreigners, we couldn’t afford. After many procedures, and with only me by her side, the hospital finally agreed to cover the expenses. During that time, I received help from kind people, though I also suffered discrimination. “This happens everywhere,” I kept telling myself.

When my mother was discharged from the hospital, she managed to find a formal job. However, her salary was very low — around 300,000 pesos (USD 76) per month, while the minimum monthly wage at that time was 908,000 pesos (USD 231). The 608,000 pesos (USD 155) gap felt like an abyss, and at my age, I couldn’t work to help cover the expenses.

In 2022, the Colombian government introduced the Temporary Protection Permit, which allowed migrants to access healthcare services and register with a Health Promotion Entity (EPS). My mother and I completed the paperwork, but unfortunately, her application was never approved — only mine was. In early 2023, her health deteriorated even more, and we had no choice but to return to Venezuela.

The discrimination we faced, especially my mother, was one of the hardest experiences. Xenophobia in Colombia became a growing problem amid the Venezuelan migration crisis. There have been reports of stigmatization, violence, and rejection toward migrants in different parts of the country.

Even so, I learned that not all Colombians act that way. Many people showed solidarity and genuine support. There were also efforts from authorities and organizations to combat discrimination through awareness programs, human rights advocacy, and the promotion of peaceful coexistence.

Thanks to those who extended a helping hand, our stay in Colombia wasn’t entirely bitter. From them, I learned that nationality doesn’t determine whether we’re better or worse — it’s our identity and character that truly define who we are.

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