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PALMIRA, Colombia — Douarleyka Velásquez made a significant shift in her professional life three years ago when she left her role in human resources. Now working as a cleaning supervisor at a migrant shelter in Colombia, she finds her new position rewarding, as it allows her to offer comfort to fellow Venezuelans who, like her, have fled their homeland in search of a brighter future.

At the Pope Francis Migrant Shelter in Palmira, Velásquez, 47, feels a strong connection to the individuals she assists. “I feel that here I can help my brothers, my countrymen who come and go,” she expressed. The U.N. refugee agency, UNHCR, reports that more than 7.7 million Venezuelans have left their country since 2014, marking the most significant migration crisis in Latin America’s recent past. Most of these migrants have found refuge across the Americas, especially in nations such as Colombia, Brazil, Argentina, and even Canada.

Colombia currently accommodates the largest community of Venezuelan migrants, with numbers surpassing 2.8 million as of mid-2024. Established in 2020, the Pope Francis Migrant Shelter was created to assist those impacted by this crisis, as noted by the Rev. Arturo Arrieta, who manages human rights initiatives within the Catholic Diocese of Palmira.

Palmira is primarily a transit hub for migrants, according to Arrieta, many of whom are on their way to the dangerous Darien Gap en route to North America. A minority, unable to continue their journeys or wishing to return home, may stop at the shelter. “It’s one of the few shelters along the route,” he explained, pointing out that funding from the international community has diminished as they mistakenly believe it might deter migration. He emphasizes that this lack of resources only leaves vulnerable migrants unprotected.

Those who arrive at the shelter are permitted to stay for up to five days, with some exceptions. Velásquez joined the shelter team upon settling in Palmira, similar to Karla Méndez, who finds joy in preparing traditional Venezuelan meals for the shelter’s residents. Arrieta noted that the shelter mostly welcomes families, women traveling solo, and members of the LGBTQ+ community. Essential services like food, clothing, and spiritual guidance are provided, along with amenities such as showers and a playground for children, making it a supportive environment for migrants.

In addition, the staff offers education on human trafficking, as well as assistance to women facing abuse and to unaccompanied minors. Arrieta highlighted the plight of Venezuelan mothers who are desperately searching for lost family members during their journeys, particularly through the perilous Darien Gap. “Families are searching for loved ones who disappeared while migrating,” he recounted.

Although there are no formal statistics on the number of migrants who go missing, human rights organizations and local Colombian authorities have recognized this issue. “In recent years, we have found unidentified bodies whose clothing or belongings indicate they are migrants,” stated Marcela Rodriguez, a member of a local missing persons unit.

While Arrieta acknowledges the challenges in safeguarding every migrant from danger posed by illegal armed groups, he remains committed to providing comfort within the shelter walls. “Our motto is that we are a caress from God,” he declared. “We want them to find an oasis here.” Velásquez, who traveled from Venezuela with her husband, two children, and grandson, shared her mixed emotions about the difficult journey but expressed pride in her role. “I feel very proud of what I do,” she noted, emphasizing her efforts to inspire hope in others: “I tell people that all will work out wherever they go.”

Twenty-year-old Mariana Ariza shares the uncertainty many migrants experience regarding their next steps. After fleeing Venezuela in 2020 and arriving in Bogotá with her two-year-old, she found herself in the difficult position of seeking work through sex work to support her child. “It’s really hard to migrate and not have a job,” Ariza commented, now a mother of two. She grapples with whether to return to Venezuela to reunite with her family or continue onward to Ecuador for better opportunities.

“Some say I’ve taken this job because I lack skills, but that’s not true,” she countered. “I’ve learned many things, yet I just haven’t had the finances or the chances to get ahead.” Meanwhile, in Bogotá, the Rev. René Rey has dedicated decades to helping local sex workers and LGBTQ+ individuals affected by HIV, expanding his reach to include Venezuelan migrants over the past few years following escalated protests in Venezuela that peaked in 2017.

Many of the Venezuelan migrants are young women, aged 21 to 24, entering the sex work industry. Rey collaborates with a Catholic organization called the Eudes Foundation at a site known as “The Refuge,” where they provide meals and HIV-related information. This space serves as a gathering place for both locals and migrants, offering a sanctuary for some transgender Venezuelan sex workers to express their faith freely.

“We simply tell them: ‘God is around here, how are you? We would like to be friends’,” Rey shared, believing that these genuine interactions foster new beginnings filled with hope. Within the prayer groups he oversees at The Refuge, Lía Roa, a Colombian transgender woman, facilitates one group, having transitioned from being a seminarian to advocating for acceptance within the church. Rey’s suggestion to involve her further in the community received enthusiastic support from church leaders.

Most Saturdays, Roa meets with a small group of transgender sex workers, primarily from Venezuela. They come together to share meals and engage in prayer and meditation. “It’s been a challenge because Santa Fe is like a Mecca for trans women,” she explained. Many group members recount their migration as a search for safe spaces that they could not find in Venezuela. Even if they are just passing through Bogotá on their way elsewhere, Roa feels that their gatherings at The Refuge are impactful, fostering genuine friendships.

“As they share, this process becomes spiritual nourishment for their journeys,” Roa noted. “They leave with a renewed vision, for once they’ve been told that God hates them due to their identity, hearing affirmations of love from both a priest and another trans individual reinforces their worth.”
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