Fifteen years ago, I arrived in Pittsburgh carrying little luggage but a heavy, invisible burden — a traumatic past that clings to me like a shadow. Yet this story isn’t about what I left behind in Venezuela or the ghosts that trail me. It’s about how, in the rupture of exile, I found new roots and a place to call home.
Pittsburgh welcomed me as a writer-in-residence at City of Asylum, an organization that did more than offer refuge. It brought my family to safety and even transported my library of nearly 5,000 books. Their support showed that my identity as a writer could survive the storm of displacement.
Exile is a brutal severing. But through it, you develop resilience, a sense of solidarity and the practice of humility — qualities that are profound for an author. Leaving behind the people you love, knowing they remain vulnerable, breeds a persistent fear of reprisals. This anxiety loosened its grip slightly when my wife and daughters finally joined me here at different times in the year and a half following my arrival. Even then, with family still in Venezuela, I guarded my words carefully when asked about my departure or the circumstances that forced me out.
My healing began at the Greater Pittsburgh Literacy Council [GPLC], now known as Literacy Pittsburgh, a haven for immigrants and refugees learning to navigate their new world. Before my family’s arrival in those early days, I biked through the city, exercised to exhaust my worries and attended English classes. I also started to develop a network, meet new friends and slowly build a sense of community.
Pittsburgh embraced me with opportunities to start over and grow. It was a city with a rich cultural life to explore, offering many ways to rebuild and thrive personally and professionally. During this time, I realized exile wasn’t the end, that life could be rebuilt even when starting over at 53 years old.
I still remember a late summer morning when the first hints of autumn brushed the landscape, and sunlight spilled through the windows of the GPLC office, painting the space with a soft, golden warmth. Teachers bustled about, their energy quiet but resolute, like bees building a hive. The place felt holy, a cathedral of learning where the mosaic of humanity — Bhutanese, Russian, African and a few of us from Latin America — came together in shared purpose
I refused to fade away. Every publication, no matter how small, was an act of defiance, a way to keep moving forward, even if just by an inch, and to remain alive as an author.
Back then, I had already written much of my life’s work, but staying alive as a writer in exile is another kind of labor. When you’re expelled from your homeland, you lose more than your country; you lose your audience. Editors in Latin America and Spain stopped responding to my emails. In the already narrow market for Spanish-language books, silence spells professional death.
I pushed on, publishing with small Venezuelan presses, though even that became perilous. Recently, a publisher confided that she couldn’t risk releasing my latest manuscript. The atmosphere in Caracas was too fraught, she said. People were scared, and my reputation remained as a man antagonistic to those in power. Publishing my work could draw retaliation — not just against me but against her as well.
I refused to fade away. Every publication, no matter how small, was an act of defiance, a way to keep moving forward, even if just by an inch, and to remain alive as an author.
Now, I’ve taken even greater risks by daring to write in English as a second language. I recently self-published “The Poe’s Project,” a collection of three noir novelettes inspired by the gothic themes of Edgar Allan Poe, and I am currently working on several other books.
Today, having earned the right to retire, I have shifted my focus. Literature remains important to me, but it now shares space with a deep spiritual life and a commitment to what I call “radical charity.” This concept of radical charity goes beyond simple almsgiving or donations; it demands a commitment to one’s community — a form of love the Greeks referred to as agape, or perfect love. In this context, love means responsibility, effort and dedication to what you hold dear.
My writing now aspires to reflect a Pittsburgh identity, whereas my earlier works were distinctly rooted in Caraqueño culture. These are the roots I hope to nurture here, infused with the essence of this city.
Those early days of uncertainty have transformed into years of rebuilding, unexpected friendships and a deep sense of purpose. Pittsburgh, with its scars and its potential, has become my home.
With my recent projects, I’ve promised to donate half of my royalties to those in need. Specifically, for the “The Poe’s Project,” regardless of how much it earns, half of proceeds will go to The Red Door, a ministry long located at Saint Mary of Mercy Church in Downtown. Since the Great Depression, The Red Door has provided food and clothing to the homeless. It stands as a monument to service and is an iconic part of Pittsburgh. This is what it means to be local.
In a pleasant turn of events, I’ve come full circle to serve at Literacy Pittsburgh through AmeriCorps. For some time, I had been seeking an organization where I could channel my sense of service. This role has been enriching and purposeful, allowing me to help people with whom I can empathize deeply. Literacy Pittsburgh is more than a workplace; it’s a unique culture of care and collaboration. Here, I assist a career advisor coordinator and contribute my grain of salt to this cherished institution.
Serving AmeriCorps has brought unexpected connections. During an interview, I discovered that the person managing the program was Jan Paul, one of my first teachers at GPLC. Alongside Gretchen Costello, formerly of AmeriCorps and now the director of adult education at Literacy Pittsburgh, he had been instrumental in opening doors for me, helping me weave a connection to this city.
AmeriCorps has also introduced me to younger individuals eager to give back to their community, which is deeply moving. Some have become adult literacy tutors, equipping newcomers with the language tools needed to rebuild their lives. My role involves assisting individuals in their career searches, a task I approach with an understanding of the challenges and frustrations that come with adapting to new realities.
Now, when I look back on my arrival in Pittsburgh, I see it not as an end but as a beginning. Those early days of uncertainty have transformed into years of rebuilding, unexpected friendships and a deep sense of purpose. Pittsburgh, with its scars and its potential, has become my home.
Exile, much like art, is rarely a choice. However, if you’re fortunate, you find a place where roots can take hold, even among the stones.
Israel Centeno is an author originally from Venezuela. This essay was adapted from a post on Literacy Pittsburgh, where Israel serves as Compass AmeriCorps member.If you want to send a message to Israel, email firstperson@publicsource.org.
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