On Jan. 3, I was at the beach on the coast of Paraguaná, Venezuela, after days of New Year's celebrations. My family and I were ready to sleep in the quietness of a holiday night at a hotel. It was about 3 a.m. when my mom came to my room to tell me Nicolás Maduro had been removed from power, and the reactions unfolded in real time. Some of us celebrated, others rushed to gather their things and leave, and many simply sat down making phone calls to try to understand what that moment would mean. What I did not see was panic.
I am Venezuelan. I spent most of my life there with the warmth of my immediate family, who still live in the country. It is always gratifying to return to the place I belong, with the people I love most, and to the country that shaped the person I am today. Returning last Christmas was not a political exercise, but a return to my roots.
Before the breaking news spread, the Christmas atmosphere in Venezuela was typical: people shopping for the holidays, lively nightlife and daily family gatherings. Although everyone’s lives seemed to go on as normal, when I asked around, I noticed most people were aware of the international conflict, and I personally feared that a war could break out at any time.
In the morning of Jan. 3, I was informed that the U.S. military forces had attacked Caracas and captured Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, who were on their way to the Metropolitan Detention Center in New York. Commenters and news broadcasters on social media outside Venezuela spread fear, worry, condemnation, and assumptions of chaos, while the local community expressed, on a more personal level, a sense of relief, celebration and cautious hope. Social media like WhatsApp and Instagram were quickly filled with people’s content on this event. Many believe Venezuelans were terrified or opposed the takeover, but what I witnessed was very different.
Many Venezuelans have endured more than a headline can capture. Years of economic contraction made Venezuela the country with the highest poverty rate in South America, making even basic groceries unaffordable for much of the population. After decades of repression, loss and shortages of food, medicine, water and electricity, Venezuelans learned to live in a constant survival mode. That moment in early January—however uncertain—felt like an unexpected space to breathe again for many, uplifting not only the nearly 8 million Venezuelans who immigrated in search of a better life over the past decade, but also those who endured the hardships of trying to stay in the land that raised them.
From a country with very limited freedom of speech, it is expected to receive misconceived reactions; Venezuelans are only allowed to express so much, and we are often spoken for, not listened to. The fear of being censured for expressing ourselves too loudly does not minimize the fear of living in a state of survival for years. The global reactions to the events this January lacked empathy for those who lived them firsthand, and it is important to understand that people are allowed to feel relief even amid uncertainty.
Talking to my family and friends during those moments of suspense made me realize that, while we can control many aspects of our lives, sometimes our only options are to hope for the best and to treasure those we love most. Venezuelans deserve dignity, the power to shape our own future, and to define our own hope. For that, we need understanding, and empathy—it all begins by listening.
The Student Movement is the official student newspaper of Andrews University. Opinions expressed in the Student Movement are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editors, Andrews University or the Seventh-day Adventist church.