Yesica Morais

A Voice Under Threat

My story is one of forced migration—completely unplanned.
I was a journalist and community leader in Venezuela, dedicated to reporting on the country’s political and economic crisis. I constantly informed the community about our people’s limited access to information and communication. But my work drew unwanted attention. I began receiving threats for speaking out, for telling the truth.

When the border with Brazil closed due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I knew I couldn’t wait. My safety—and my daughter’s—was at risk. So, with no belongings and no documents, I crossed through the trochas, the irregular border routes that so many desperate Venezuelans use.

A Journey of Survival

I spent four months living along the border before moving to the capital of a northern Brazilian state. Even there, I continued to speak out—denouncing human rights violations, military abuses, and the suffering of migrants. The humanitarian crisis in Venezuela persists, and people are still starving.

After arriving in Brazil, I began producing online content to protect my family and continue informing the community. My videos soon spread across the country, reaching others who sought information on how to cross safely and find refuge. While helping so many others, I realized I had never fully processed my own journey.

This wasn’t my first displacement. In 2017, I fled to Colombia for a year before returning to Venezuela for personal reasons—only to flee again in 2019. Two migrations, countless losses. Perhaps in my urgency to help others, I neglected to heal myself.

Learning to Belong

I have now been in Brazil for four years. There are days I still feel like an outsider. Social circles can be closed, and acceptance doesn’t come easily. I have faced discrimination—both in person and online. But I have learned to be strong, to let go of negativity, and to keep moving forward.

At the same time, I’ve been deeply touched by the kindness of those working in NGOs, humanitarian organizations, and public defender’s offices. They’ve embraced my advocacy, recognizing my commitment to the Venezuelan community. Their support nourishes my soul and gives meaning to my work.

The Work Continues

I live for migration—there is no separation between my life and my mission.
When the borders were closed and misinformation spread, I went to the border myself. I informed 80 desperate people about the reality of the situation and reported on immediate deportations—alone, risking everything. My coverage exposed the illegal and harsh nature of these actions, prompting NGOs to step in and provide shelter.

It was deeply rewarding to see families relocated safely, living with dignity during such dark times. Months later, when the border reopened, people could finally migrate regularly and obtain documentation. Knowing I played a role in that process fills me with pride.

Searching for Home

Home has become a complicated word for me.
Born in Venezuela to a Colombian mother and Brazilian father, I carry pieces of all three countries. I’ve lived in the same apartment in Brazil for four years, yet I haven’t hung a single picture. Home, for me, is no longer a physical space—it’s within myself.

When I visit Venezuela, I feel at home, but the reality there is heartbreaking. My house has been robbed nine times. Everyone is gone. My homeland no longer exists as I knew it. More than 90% of Venezuelans now live below the poverty line, surviving on less than $3.20 a day. Accepting this truth is painful beyond words.

Between Borders and Responsibilities

Being both a migrant and the daughter of migrants means constantly living between worlds. As a Brazilian citizen by my father’s side, I sometimes exist in a kind of limbo—facing challenges similar to refugees but without the same protections. I’ve even considered renouncing my nationality to seek refugee status, since I fled persecution.

As a single mother, my journey has been even more complex. Without a support network, I bear the full responsibility for my daughter’s well-being. Legal and practical challenges multiply—her father lives abroad, and sometimes she must stay home alone when I work. She only started attending school this year, four years after we arrived.

Still, things are slowly settling.

Building Solidarity

I’ve joined a working group focused on Latin American and Caribbean diasporas, alongside 22 women who advocate for single mothers fleeing violence and instability. Together, we fight for their rights and refuse to give up.

My message to the world is simple:
The best thing God ever gave us is one day after another.
Today, the pain might feel unbearable—but tomorrow, it hurts a little less. We can overcome anything. This isn’t romanticism; it’s lived truth.

Looking Forward

My dream is to create change—to be elected to the State Council of Migrants in Roraima, to open my own NGO, and to give visibility to the violations occurring in my country. I want the media to be more inclusive, to portray migrants not as victims, but as contributors to their new homes.

Brazil’s growth is intertwined with the work and resilience of migrants and refugees. It’s time the world saw that clearly.

Until then, I’ll keep using my voice—through journalism, social media, and my platform @yecamorais—to share information, to defend human dignity, and to remind everyone that migrants are human beings, equal in worth and deserving of respect.

No one should be exploited. No one should be forgotten.