Venezuela's Brain Drain

Newsweek has reported on the effect of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez's "twentieth-century socialism" on the educated classes of Venezuela and surrounding Latin American countries. Fleeing cronyism, corruption, cutbacks, censorship, recriminations, and inflation, many of the thinkers and achievers of Venezuela, Bolivia, Nicaragua, and nearby nations have fled to countries such as the United States, where they believe their talents and skills can find appreciation and funding. More than one million emigrants including scientists, writers, engineers, media producers, and professors have left Venezuela in the decade of Chavez's rule, and many more express an adamant desire to do so in the near future, citing the worldwide recession and lack of visas as the only obstacles.

A recent study by Vanderbilt University in Nashville showed that more than one in three Bolivians under 30 had plans to emigrate, up from 12 percent a decade ago, while 47 percent of 18-year-olds said they planned to leave. Many established professionals have already made up their minds. "I ask myself if I'm not patriotic enough," says Giovanna Rivero, an acclaimed Bolivian novelist who is leaving for a teaching job at the University of Florida and has no plans to come back. But "Bolivia is coming apart. There are people who've known each other all their lives who don't talk to one another anymore."

In Venezuela, Chávez has pushed hard against anyone who refuses to accept his party line. Daniel Benaim was one of Venezuela's top independent television producers, turning out prime-time entertainment and game shows for national channels with Canal Uno, a leading production house. "We had 160 employees and a 24/7 operation," he says. But after the failed coup against Chávez in 2002, the government cracked down on independent media, and programming budgets dried up. In a month, Canal Uno was down to four employees and heading for bankruptcy. Benaim redirected his business to serve the international advertising market and raked in prestigious international awards, including multiple Latin Emmys. But opportunities for non-Chávistas in Venezuela had withered. One by one, he watched the people he trained over the years leave the country. "I used to give angry speeches about the brain drain. Now I have to bite my tongue," says Benaim, who is also moving to the U.S. "We had the best minds in the business, and now there's nothing for them here."

One of Benaim's associates was Gonzalo Bernal Ibarra. He, too, had soared up the career ladder in broadcast television and until recently ran a campus network that reached 100,000 students. Everything changed in late 2007, when Chávez lost a referendum to rewrite the Constitution and began to crack down on his media critics, including Bernal. Strangers in jackets with weighted pockets—dress code for Chávez's military-intelligence police—began to follow him day and night. Then Congress was set to pass a bill obliging schools to teach 21st-century socialism. "I didn't want my kid learning that crap," says Bernal. Even shopping became a trial as spiking inflation and government price controls emptied the supermarkets of basic goods like milk, eggs, and meat. One day in late 2008, Bernal opened a bottle of whisky and held a yard sale. "I got drunk and watched my life get carted away," he says. He now lives in the Washington, D.C., area, with his wife and 6-year-old daughter, and is trying to adapt. "I was living in the most beautiful, wonderful, funny country in the world. Now a third of my friends are gone. In another 10 years, Venezuela is going to be a crippled country."

The "brain drain" bodes poorly for Latin American literature in the region, as writers can hardly find time, resources, or encouragement in such an environment. Tellingly, one of the most recent Bolivian novels to be translated into English, Juan de Recacoechea's American Passport, the best-selling novel of all time in Bolivia, chronicles a man's desperate attempt to leave his country. On the other hand, the exodus of intellectuals may result in a flowering of diasporaic, exile literature, as has been seen with South Asian novelists living in London and Canada and Iranian writers living in the United States.

Literature of the Iranian Diaspora

In 1995, Shahriah Mandanipour and 22 other prominent Iranian writers were nearly killed when an assassination plot hatched by the government failed to send their bus plummeting into a ravine. Mandanipour now lives in the United States, where he is a visiting scholar at Harvard University, and his most recent novel, Censoring an Iranian Love Story, which was written in America but is set in Iran, has recently been translated into English by Sara Khalili. Censoring is Mandanipour's first novel to appear in English translation, and it represents one installment of an emerging trend of Iranian diaspora writers, who catalog their memories of post-revolution Iran from their new places of refuge.

The "renaissance" features first- and second-generation hyphenated Iranians, among them Marjane Satrapi of Persepolis fame; Laleh Khadivi, author of Age of Orphans; and Porochista Khakpour, who wrote the post-9/11 novel Sons and Other Flammable Objects, set amongst Iranian Americans in New York City.

Censoring an Iranian Love Story is a multi-layered tale featuring a writers attempt to compose a straightforward romance while repeatedly being censored by government officials and his own anxiety.

From the article by David Mattin of The National Newspaper of Abu Dhabi:

It’s easy to see why censorship is important to Mandanipour; back in Iran he was banned from publishing entirely between 1992 and 1997:

“Censorship is emotionally crushing for the writer,” he explains, “because it weakens the connection that he has with his readers. Readers become less trusting of the writer, because they know he is being censored.

“Eventually, censorship enters every part of the writer’s life; even the way that he thinks. The writer begins to censor himself.”

That strange dance of speech and silence, Mandanipour says, came to overshadow his writing life in Iran:

“I would write entire short stories on my computer, and then delete them. If my house was raided, those stories might be used as evidence against me.

“With Censoring an Iranian Love Story, I wanted to show how it is impossible for a writer to write a straightforward love story in Iran. That story will always become something else, more complex.”

But Censoring will also provide western readers with an insight into daily life as it is lived in Iran. In particular, we witness the ever looming presence of the Basij “morals police”, and the ingenuity that young Tehranis exercise to circumvent their rules. The Islamic Republic decrees that unmarried men and women should not socialise together: in one passage, Sara and Dara meet in a hospital waiting room, where all those around them are too busy to notice their illegal encounter.

“Just as it is impossible to write a straightforward Iranian love story, it is impossible to live one,” says Mandanipour. “Iranians no longer have the opportunity to have a romantic life, and that can destroy love.”