I arrived in Caracas in January 1999 on the eve of the start of the Bolivarian Revolution’s rule, and I left Venezuela in January 2024, on the eve of the revolution’s 25th year in power. I lived a sheltered life, away from what is deemed normal society but as a passenger on the sidelines across 25 years’ worth of an ongoing tragedy that I never voted for in the first place — but once which I collectively inherited alongside millions more.
At the very least I got to experience some of the pre-revolution Venezuela during the first years of my life, that is not the case for younger generations of Venezuelans. There are so many now like, say, my younger cousins, who do not know a life outside of this socialist disaster. One of my youngest cousins, who I never got to meet in person but who was named after my grandmother and mother, was born after power blackouts and shortages became the norm.
More than two decades’ worth of failures of the opposition’s disreputable politicians at ousting the regime left everyone worn out and burned of it all, myself included, which is why I have such a hard time believing in Venezuelan politicians anymore. That said, right as I was making my way out a new attempt to oust Maduro took place in the form of the 2024 presidential elections. Maduro lost the elections, but he just simply stole them and persecuted anyone who dared oppose him. Maduro doesn’t care if you know he steals elections, he wants you to know he did, that’s the point.
Braver men and women than me took up to the streets to fight against the regime ever since I was a kid. Although their efforts were admirable, there was only so much they could do, especially during the brutal repression campaigns in 2017 and 2024. Unlike some whom I’ve seen doing it here and there, what right do I, who fled the country, have to call others to bleed in the name of freedom.
My only advice to them, and to those that may come, is that if they want to fight for Venezuela, they should do it for themselves and their loved ones, not for a politician or candidate because look at how that went since the 2002 protests onwards.
A few years ago, back in 2017, I was interviewed by someone over the internet. Although I am not an political analyst of any kind, I reasoned that it was more likely for the regime to fall by means of an hypothetical internal schism between its own inner factions — one so severe that it would lead to their own demise from within. I argued that this was far more likely than expecting the Venezuelan opposition to finally succeed at that which they had failed time and time again.
I still maintain that assertion, not because I am smart or educated, but it’s a conclusion distilled from personal experiences. There are simply far too many groups of interests, both internal and external, that would prefer to keep the tragedy going, as it benefits them one way or the other.
This is a narcosocialist regime we’re talking about, but touch upon their interests, and they might just turn on one another, maybe.
If I had to describe how the revolution and the inexorable collapse of its once-celebrated take on socialism changed me, it is that it left me living under a quasi-permanent state of reactive survival, always expecting the worst, always preparing for the worst. I cannot shake this fight or flight mode, even if it’s been over a year since that plane took off.
Always preparing for the next water ration, always on the edge that power could go off at any minute, or that a surge will fry yet another appliance. Always planning ahead so as to budget with inflation in mind, on the edge that next week things might change completely, that something new will be blocked, that there will be yet another regime-introduced obstacle to your life.
This, and added to the fact that my sheltered life led to me skipping a lot of experiences throughout my youth, and which I haven’t yet experienced, makes up for a life that, suffice to say, I wouldn’t recommend partaking in. That’s why I’m do not consider myself a role model or hero, nor do I have such delusions of grandeur.
The regime has destroyed and taken so much from us, so much time wasted, money mismanaged and stolen, our collective sanity sapped away, and now, more and more families separated, scattered across all four corners of the world as a result of the nation’s migrant crisis. Perhaps that is the crowning jewel of Maduro’s accomplishments.
Venezuela’s cities are a shadow of their former self. Take my birthplace, Maracaibo, for instance. A once proud city facing endless blackouts, poverty, barely-functional running water — but paradoxically with one of the fastest internet speeds in the whole of South America, courtesy of dubious companies that may or may not be money laundering fronts. Its proud lake is heavily polluted with constant oil and chemical spills, a complete health hazard and yet, no one bats an eye, especially leftist environmentalists, because the “heroic” Maduro regime “fights da United States” or something like that, I don’t even know anymore.
There may come a day where I get to see Venezuela free again, where doctors and professionals like my mom don’t have to look yonder in search for actual wages, where its infrastructure actually functions, where there’s education, opportunities, and safety — but the truth is that even if the regime would vanish tomorrow, you cannot undo over 25 years of structural, cultural, and societal damage overnight.
There may come a day where Hugo Chávez’s mausoleum crumbles, where all of his statues are crushed and turned to dust, where Maduro, and all of his cronies face justice, Divine or otherwise. There may come a day where Venezuelan literature, works of art, comedy, drama, and all that flourishes once more.
Even though I lived most of my life sheltered and isolated from it all, my journeys throughout Maracaibo, Punto Fijo Caracas, Paramaribo, and on the online world allowed me to cross paths and meet with a lot of good people, many of whom have dreams worth fighting for. People who I went to school with, whose names and faces I’ve started to forget. I wonder if they all left the country, or are at least safe and sound in Venezuela.
In the case of Venezuelans, and largely because of that viral World of Warcraft tweet, I got the pleasure of meeting with so many connationals, some of which have long since left the country too. Some of them are trying to contribute towards the country at local levels, and that’s highly admirable and something I wholeheartedly respect.
I may be dumb, slow, ugly, and not the sharpest tool there is. I cannot save lives like my mom used to, nor understand how and why someone died like my dad does. I may not be able to save Venezuela or contribute anything meaningful towards restoring it — but if I can find the means to help others achieve their dreams, to exploit those passions in fields such as art, music, or literature, then I can help them preserve that Venezuelan unbound spirit of creation. That would be one way to help preserve the essence of the country.
Perhaps, the fact that I had to live under so much destruction for 25 years of my life is why I have this urge to create something everlasting, something that endures and exists far after I’m gone from this world. My passion project being one such goal.
To create, to finally live, to finally smile for real and not have to fake it, to take care of my brother and build a better life for him like I promised I would to, to finally find fulfillment and my own place in this world that I’ve been barely able to be part of, and to finally be able to help others and repay the world for all the kindness I’ve received — those are my goals right now.
The world is not fair, and will never be. People can live virtuous life and then get slapped with a rare form of cancer, then you government will stop importing the meds you need to survive, and then you just die. At the same time, you can be the most cruel person, commit physical and verbal abuse against your own for years, and get rewarded with the American Dream.
I missed out on life, and maybe I don’t have enough time to catch up on lost time, but what else can I do but to keep going, maybe, just maybe, I’ll someday be on a position where I can help and inspire others for real — find meaning to my life in the process.
What I also can do is to help contribute, one word at a time, towards a grander testimony so that this tragedy is never repeated elsewhere and never again. Mine is but one story, out of 30 million Venezuelans. I’m only one out of the 8 million that left the country. A man of two nationalities, but with no connection to either land, a pariah in every sense of the word, searching for what role does God have in store for me in all of this.
All my teenager mistakes aside, it is likely that I, and millions more, would be living far different lives today had Hugo Chávez never been elected. Maybe my mom would be alive today, maybe I wouldn’t have ever gone through a bread line or water ration hour, who knows.
The consequences of the 1998 Venezuelan election, the rise of his allies in the region, the migrant crisis, and everything else… what a mess it all made, not just for us, but for pretty much every country on this planet, or at least almost all of them.
As a friend, far more eloquent with words than I am capable of, once said: “Socialism and authoritarianism of every variety comes from an uneasiness with human beings as they are.”
The word socialism promised Venezuelans a utopia, a just, fair world. Back then, Hugo Chávez rallied his followers under one slogan: “Fatherland, Socialism, or Death.”
It sure brought death, aight.