Caracas Chronicles

To leave the country, Juan and his wife had to sell some of their belongings, including their son’s collection of children’s books. “He thought we were just going on a trip. Little by little, we’ve been explaining to him what’s really happening,” Juan says.

This was no family vacation. It was one more case in the wave of forced migration, one poorly documented but widespread, driven by fear of political repression that intensified in Venezuela after the presidential elections of July 28, 2024.

Juan, who requested anonymity given threats still follow him abroad, was a professor at the Central University of Venezuela (UCV) in Caracas. He never thought his academic work would put him in danger. That changed, too.

For Venezuelan professors, survival has long meant scraping by on poverty wages, dealing with instability that takes a toll on their mental health, and lacking the resources to pursue research or scientific production. More recently, they’ve had to face restrictions on academic freedom, watching what they say even inside the classroom. The testimonies gathered for this La Hora de Venezuela report show the extent of the risks.

When Juan joined UCV in 2014 as a Center for Peace and Human Rights researcher, where he became a leader and spokesperson, he caught the attention of a government intent on silencing dissent.

A full-time tenured professor with more than 15 years of service, a completed doctorate and multiple publications earns 522.16 bolivars. That’s less than three dollars a month.

In 2017, during the wave of anti-government protests, the police arrested economist and retired University of Carabobo professor Santiago Guevara for publishing political opinions online. Juan was among the lawyers and human rights defenders who took on his legal defense.

From then on, Juan was photographed and filmed at every demonstration. Police and soldiers threatened him repeatedly. When Nicolás Maduro’s government created a presidential commission to “recover” the university in 2021, Juan and his colleagues at the Center for Peace and Human Rights denounced the entry of security forces and armed civilians to the UCV’s campus.

By early 2024, the pressure was closing in. “Two weeks before Rocío San Miguel was arrested [on February 9, 2024], we had met at a national meeting of human rights defenders. We kept in touch afterward, planning joint work. Then I got scared when she was arrested,” he says.

After the July 28 elections unleashed a new wave of repression, Juan realized he could no longer delay leaving. He and his wife began selling their possessions to raise enough money to get out.

According to the Human Rights Observatory of the University of Los Andes (ODH-ULA), there were at least 60 cases of political persecution against Venezuelan university communities in 2024, including 47 arbitrary detentions of students, professors, and staff. Most of them occurred during the postelection crackdown.

Juan has been abroad for almost a year. Roughly as long as the UCV Center for Peace and Human Rights has remained shuttered. The place where he worked and fought for over a decade.

Surviving on three bucks a month

Professors who remain in Venezuela don’t need statistics to explain the economic collapse of their sector. All they have to do is check the daily exchange rate from the Venezuelan Central Bank to see their salaries evaporate, like salt in water.

A full-time tenured professor with more than 15 years of service, a completed doctorate and multiple publications earns 522.16 bolivars. That’s less than three dollars a month. That barely covers two days of public transportation in Caracas.

“It’s not something we talk about much, because it’s not about playing the victim, but it’s real. Sometimes the shoes we wear are gifts from siblings overseas,” Afonso admits.

The picture is even bleaker for newcomers. A newly hired full-time professor earns 320 bolivars ($1.84 at the official exchange rate on Friday, September 26), while a part-time professor makes just 70 bolivars ($0.40) a month. Salaries have been frozen since March 2022.

José Gregorio Afonso, president of the UCV Professors’ Association (Apucv), describes the situation as one of desalirización (“desalarization”). While the crisis has dragged on for years, he notes, the worst stretch was during hyperinflation and the run-up to the pandemic.

Most professors are forced to juggle multiple jobs. By late 2022, more than 44% of Venezuelan professors either worked in other trades or left the country, according to Apucv. Afonso cites the case of a PhD holder who drives a taxi to make ends meet. “It’s not always permanent, but it happens,” he says.

Others rely on remittances from relatives abroad. “It’s not something we talk about much, because it’s not about playing the victim, but it’s real. Sometimes the shoes we wear are gifts from siblings overseas,” Afonso admits.

The Observatory of Universities (OBU) reports that Venezuelan professors are the lowest paid in the region—even below their Cuban peers, who average $29 a month. Brazilian professors top the list with salaries of $4,231.

Since 2008, autonomous universities have faced budget cuts that have crippled research. The University of Los Andes (ULA) received just 4% of the funds it requested last year.

The problem goes beyond low wages, Afonso points out. It places professors in technical extreme poverty. International standards, including those used by the UN Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean (ECLAC), consider a household to have surpassed food poverty only when its income covers the cost of a basic food basket.

“Not even with the $40 and $120 bonuses [for food and the so-called ‘economic war’ bonus], which aren’t even part of the salary, can you cover the food basket. And that’s the bare minimum to avoid being classified as extremely poor,” Afonso stresses.

Research in decline

It isn’t just about wages, of course. Since 2008, autonomous universities have faced budget cuts that have crippled research. The University of Los Andes (ULA) received just 4% of the funds it requested last year. At ULA, science students have to pay out of pocket for lab supplies. In other cases, professors show them practical exercises via YouTube videos.

Biology student Abel Carrasco says that failing basic services also damage equipment that can’t be repaired or replaced due to lack of funds. “Power outages have ruined centrifuges, fume hoods, microscopes. We have fewer and fewer tools. We’re also missing supplies like reagents and chemicals that are essential for our labs,” he explains.

A recent investigation by the Venezuelan Network of Investigative Journalists and CONNECTAS detailed the failure of Misión Ciencia, a social program launched by Hugo Chávez in 2006 to spur national development through public investment in research and technology. Nearly two decades later, science indicators only show regression.

When Alberto saw her, he said, “Come in, bachelor, and sit down.” Lisseth smiled, turned back, and finished breakfast. He went on teaching his imaginary class.

“According to SCImago Journal and Country Rank, Colombia overtook Venezuela for fifth place in Latin American scientific output back in 2006, measured by published articles per country,” the report notes. By 2024, Venezuela had fallen to 11^th—the only country in the region with negative growth.

The exodus of scientists, driven by poverty wages and political turmoil, has compounded the decline. Between 2006 and 2020, 2,288 active researchers left the country.

Mental health on the line

“Orlando, solve for X. You can’t move on if you don’t solve it.” That’s what Lisseth heard from the kitchen one morning while making breakfast. It was her husband, Alberto, sounding as if he were teaching a student.

But they were alone in the house. She walked into the living room and noticed his face had changed.

“It was like before, when he went to the faculty every day. My husband has been a sad man since he stopped teaching,” she recalls.

When Alberto saw her, he said, “Come in, bachelor, and sit down.” Lisseth smiled, turned back, and finished breakfast. He went on teaching his imaginary class.

When she returned, he was sitting with his elbow on the table, hand on his forehead, looking worried. She asked him about the “class,” but he didn’t know what she was talking about. “He got angry. He told me to stop making things up, asked where I’d gotten that from,” she says.

This happened last year. Alberto, an engineer with a PhD, is 65. He began teaching at the University of Zulia (LUZ) when he was 27. Nine months before this first “episode,” as specialists call it, he had lost his job. The subjects he taught at LUZ were not enrolling any more students, though he found some work as a thesis advisor at private universities.

“I’m proud of the intelligent man I married, even if this country’s crisis drove him to lose his mind,” says Lisseth.

He wasn’t the only one. Other professors in LUZ’s Faculty of Engineering faced the same fate. The building was abandoned even before the pandemic: no maintenance, no students. Authorities eventually shut it down entirely. Salaries, budget cuts, and student migration sealed its fate.

“Even when there was nothing but trash and weeds, Alberto still went to the faculty. Even if he had no class or students enrolled, he still went. Because when we talked about the future, we imagined him continuing his research, with me always by his side,” says Lisseth.

The advising work helped a little. “We ate through his salary and even our savings. The worst was when he said: what are we going to do with the five dollars I earn?” Lisseth recalls.

Forced retirement

After 38 years of service at LUZ, Alberto had nothing left to do in 2024. “When we were young, he said research would always be his calling. He developed projects, and even led the curriculum design for part of the mechanical engineering program,” his wife says.

But the first day he had nowhere to go, he didn’t get out of bed. He stayed in pajamas, skipped breakfast, didn’t leave his room. “It was like a wasted day. He ate little, pretended to sleep. The days after were more or less the same,” says Lisseth.

A couple of former university professor friends began visiting. They had chosen to retire, unlike Alberto. They discuss topics he used to enjoy. “Sometimes he liked it, other times he didn’t want to see them. When I told this to the psychologist treating him, she said it was part of the process. That my husband has dementia, and depression and anxiety pushed him there,” Lisseth admits.

Two psychologists interviewed for this report explained what may be happening in cases like Alberto’s. “Social factors accelerate disorders like depression, panic attacks, or episodes of sadness, especially losses, in our country. Losing a job can trigger that amongst older adults,” said one.

The other added: “When someone already has dementia, a traumatic event can speed up the decline or make symptoms much more visible. Depression sets in, and then the symptoms escalate.”

Alberto is not their patient, but one specialist suggests what’s happening is that “he’s using his most significant memories to fill the gaps. These are intrusive, automatic memories that pop up out of nowhere, or when something triggers them. His brain latches onto them, keeping him stuck in that loop.”

Now Alberto’s routine includes memory exercises, brain training, documentaries, and occasional visits from friends. “Some days I find him tapping the table like he’s on a computer. Other times, he’s teaching imaginary classes. I sit and listen. I’m proud of the intelligent man I married, even if this country’s crisis drove him to lose his mind,” says Lisseth.