The Silva Family
In 2021, I worked on a photojournalistic story about the Silva-Barreto family, living in Morocho Hernández, in the Propatria area of western Caracas. The written story was reported by journalist Sofía T. Pérez, and I was responsible for the entire photographic work. My role was to enter their home, spend time with the family, and try to understand their reality through images rather than simply illustrate the story.
Propatria is part of the Sucre parish, a densely populated area in the western part of Caracas and part of the larger urban landscape of Catia. Within its neighborhoods, the city changes quickly from established streets and apartment buildings to steep hillsides and informal settlements.
The Silva-Barreto family lived high on the hillside, in a small structure made largely of zinc and cardboard. Reaching their home meant climbing more than a thousand steps. Inside, a small kitchen, an improvised bathroom, and a single room were shared by the parents and their three children.
The story took place during one of the most difficult moments of the COVID-19 pandemic. Franklin, the father, had earned a living unloading trucks carrying vegetables, but the lockdown left him without work. Tibisay, his wife, had previously worked cleaning houses but had stopped because there was no one to care for their children. Their income became dependent on occasional small sales and government assistance, while food became increasingly scarce.
What stayed with me was not only the poverty surrounding the family, but the effort they made to protect their children from it. Tibisay had previously traveled to Colombia with her children, seeking medical attention for her youngest son, who had been born with respiratory problems. After his condition improved, she returned to Venezuela with the children, reuniting with Franklin.
As I photographed them, I tried to look beyond the circumstances described in the story. I wanted to preserve the gestures, the silences, the spaces, and the small moments of tenderness that existed within that difficult reality. For me, the photographs became a record not only of deprivation, but of dignity, family, and the determination to keep moving forward when even the most basic things had become uncertain.
