In my country, there’s no room for gray areas; in Venezuela, the nation was divided, defeated, and families were torn apart after the New Year’s Eve embrace. The regime monopolized a discourse of socialism, justice, equality, care, and love for one’s neighbor. It chewed it up and spat out guns at us. On the other side, candles were lit for the adversaries: capitalism, imperialism, conservatism. “Burn down the working-class neighborhoods,” many said, “because poverty is the fault of the poor who want everything handed to them” and “the poor vote for Chávez/Maduro.” In the middle, hatred: oligarchs, outcasts, “escuálidos” [scrawny], “enchufados” [those with political connections], they shout at one another from one side to the other.
The regime, however, knew very well how to inhabit the blind spots of the extremes. To the world, they presented themselves as a solid, popular, and decolonial left. Inside the country, between Canaima National Park and Amazonas State, in the mining arc, our indigenous peoples were displaced, exploited, and—if they resisted the armed theft of their lands by miners and the military—murdered. Over the past 26 years, our rainforest has become fertile ground for child labor, water contamination, the felling of ancient trees, the extermination of wildlife, and the use of women—each time younger—as bargaining chips [1].
Following the same macabre logic, they “feminized” the language: the first lady became the “first combatant,” and for the first time, words like “ingeniera” [female engineer], “arquitecta” [female architect],” or “lideresa” [female leader] were heard on TV. Now celebrated, women became a key part of the grand project known as “the Bolivarian Revolution.” Inclusion in exchange for volunteer labor; women empowered exclusively in their role as caregivers—from the private sphere of the home to the public sphere of their community [2]. This essentialist view of women allowed them to condemn anything that strayed from the mold of the “good revolutionary”—a woman willing to take up arms for her country, yet imprisoned if a complaint about hunger or a lack of services were to slip through a whatsapp group shared with ill-intentioned neighbors.
“You have in me a brother, a president who not only declares himself a feminist but also believes that women are superior to any man in their sensitivity, dedication, and humanity,” said Nicolás Maduro in 2018, on the occasion of International Women’s Rights Day (March 8). However, when it comes to reproductive rights, abortion is illegal in Venezuela (the only exception being when the mother’s life is in danger), sex education in schools is extremely inadequate (if it exists at all), period poverty is a reality that affects the lives of the vast majority of menstruating people in the country [3], and mere access to contraceptives has become a vague memory of the past, due to high costs and shortages.
As in so many other countries, impunity and gender-based violence are also used as tools of domination. This is evidenced by unaddressed reports of gender-based violence, high rates of femicide [4] and sexual exploitation, the stigmatization of the LGBTQ+ community, as well as the torture and sexual assault endured by hundreds of women imprisoned for political reasons. Such is the case of Emirlendris Benítez, who was accused without evidence of terrorism in August 2018, imprisoned while pregnant, tortured until she suffered a miscarriage, and subjected to an unauthorized uterine curettage that left her wheelchair-bound [5].
When I decided to leave Venezuela, I not only wanted to escape state-sanctioned and street violence; I also wanted with all my might to leave behind the cruelty of political polarization, to escape that discursive nightmare where defending social policies or daring to name patriarchy makes you an accomplice to the dictatorship. Or, in the opposite but identical scenario, where taking a stand against the dictatorship automatically turns you into a bloodthirsty capitalist/colonialist/anti-feminist. But to my surprise (and great naivety), polarization is not exclusive to totalitarian regimes. It wasn’t even a month before someone told me, in a language I barely understood, that there was no dictatorship in my country, that I didn’t know what I was talking about.
Little by little, I learned to argue in a borrowed language and to brush off people who—living life to the fullest with access to healthcare, food on the table, family Sundays, and, in short, freedom of expression—wanted to explain to me the virtues of the Venezuelan government. I also eventually managed to quell my frustration whenever a colleague from Latin America dismissed my experience in order to comfortably uphold their theory and activism… Until January 3, 2026.
On that day, following months of airstrikes on Venezuelan vessels accused (without evidence) of drug trafficking [6], followed by the arrival of the United States’ largest aircraft carrier in the Caribbean Sea, Caracas was bombed in the early morning hours on the orders of the Donald Trump administration. Nicolás Maduro—removed from the Miraflores Palace along with his wife, Cilia Flores—woke up in New York, after a brief layover in Guantánamo, ready to be transported to the prison where P. Diddy is also being held.
Then everyone had something to say about Venezuela. Fortunately, public opinion continues to be outraged by the United States’ interventionist policies, by the endlessly repeating history of countries in the Global South being plundered in the name of salvation, as well as by the violation of international law. The attack on Venezuela opened up a new realm of possibilities regarding the violation of sovereignty, and everyone, quite rightly, feared for that of their own country.
However, peoples do not only disappear into the darkness; they also disappear due to an excess of visibility: “too much light blinds,” says Georges-Didi Huberman [7]. In the media and on social media, our oil (ours?) became a trending topic, and people condemned both Trump’s actions and the Venezuelans who rejoiced at Maduro’s capture. People talked about Venezuela, but said little or nothing about the humanitarian crisis we’ve been enduring for decades, about those deprived of their liberty in torture centers for political reasons, about hunger, forced disappearances, or the 8 million migrants. Ironically, those who condemned Trump’s actions had eyes only for Venezuela’s oil—and not for its people.
And in the deepest darkness when it comes to international visibility: the camps set up by the families of political prisoners outside the regime’s most notorious prisons. The vast majority are women waiting night after night for news of their loved ones, who have been arbitrarily detained by Nicolás Maduro’s regime. Mothers, sisters, grandmothers, and wives—many of whom have traveled from other states to the capital, leaving behind jobs and homes and living in extremely precarious conditions—are demanding the release of their loved ones or at least confirmation that they are alive, as they have received no information since their loved ones were abducted by the regime.
At the time of Nicolás Maduro’s capture, there were nearly 1,000 political prisoners, including hundreds of minors and people with disabilities, subjected to inhumane conditions of detention and accused of terrorism, treason, and criminal conspiracy without any evidence to support these charges. This figure is likely far below the actual number, considering that many people did not report the arrests of their relatives for fear of reprisals. Since then, interim President Delcy Rodríguez—who, before becoming vice president, headed SEBIN, the police agency responsible for disappearances and torture; a close confidante of Maduro and endorsed by Trump—pledged to push for an amnesty law to free political prisoners, which was finally approved on February 19, 2026 [8]. At the time of this writing, 409 people remain in detention [9].
Meanwhile, these women continue to resist outside the prison walls, standing in solidarity with one another and forming a solid front despite their fear and despair. They organize, provide names and numbers, and fight for their fellow prisoners; those who can bring them food and clothing, while others shout from outside, hoping to be heard so that the prisoners know there is someone waiting for them on the outside. They have begun a hunger strike, hold vigils, set up and reestablish camps, and follow their relatives from prison to prison, as the unjustified transfers of prisoners are a constant in their daily struggle.
Six of them have lost their lives: Carmen Dávila, nearly 90 years old, died without knowing that her son had already been released; she was hospitalized after a year of waiting, and by the time he was released from prison, she was already unconscious. Yarelis Salas, 39, suffered a cardiovascular event during a vigil outside the prison where her son was being held. Omaira Sánchez also died of a cardiovascular event after four years of trying to find out her son’s whereabouts. Yenny Barrios, a cancer patient accused, her also, of terrorism and imprisoned for months without access to her chemotherapy, died alone in the hospital without being able to reunite with her son, who was imprisoned for posting a video in which he requested to switch one medication for another to treat his mother. Then there is Carmen Teresa Navas, who, at age 82, spent 16 months desperately searching for her son, without a clear response from the authorities, who sent her from one prison to another, only to confirm to her on May 7, 2026, that her son had died in July 2025. Carmen died 10 days later [10]. And María Concepción Sánchez, another stroke, passed away upon learning that her son was not among those recently released [11]. Unfortunately, this list keeps growing. How much violence can a body endure?
To discuss U.S. intervention without taking these women into account—or the history of the country that has led them to where they are today—is to ignore what we Venezuelans have endured over the past 26 years under a government that proclaimed itself socialist but quickly devolved into a military dictatorship, where dissenting voices are systematically silenced. We can rejoice at seeing a self-proclaimed leftist dictator in prison while at the same time condemning U.S. interference. And if reflecting on these contradictions unsettles us, then perhaps it is time to face that discomfort head-on. As one of the mothers, Evelis Cano, told the police officers monitoring the protests by the relatives of political prisoners: “Remove your hearts of stone” [12]. In this world of polarities, I would like to champion listening, care, and empathy over a political stance incapable of self-reflection.
[1] UN. (2020). Venezuela: UN Publishes Report on Criminal Control of the Mining Region and on Justice Issues in General. https://www.ohchr.org/es/2020/07/venezuela-un-releases-report-criminal-control-mining-area-and-wider-justice-issues
[2] Nueva Sociedad (2018). The Feminization of Chavismo: Poor Women as Instruments of Social Policy. https://nuso.org/articulo/la-feminizacion-del-chavismo/
[3] Córdova, E. (2025). Poverty and Social Exclusion Complicate Menstrual Management in Venezuela. Runrun.es. https://runrun.es/noticias/580977/pobreza-y-exclusion-social-complican-gestion-menstrual-en-venezuela/
[4] According to Utopix (2025), in 2025, a femicide was recorded every 53 hours. https://utopix.cc/pix/septiembre-de-2025-son-17-casos-para-un-total-de-123-femicidios-en-venezuela-en-9-meses/
[5] Foro Penal. Political Prisoners in Venezuela: Between Prison and Oblivion. https://foropenal.com/presas-politicas-en-venezuela-entre-la-carcel-y-el-olvido/
[6] The New York Times. (2025) What the Videos of Attacks on Ships in the Caribbean and the Pacific Reveal. https://www.nytimes.com/es/2025/11/26/espanol/estados-unidos/video-ataques-barcos-venezuela.html
[7] Georges Didi-Huberman. (2012). Peuples exposés, peuples figurants. Paris: Les Éditions de Minuit.
[8] BBC Mundo. (2026). Venezuela’s National Assembly passes an amnesty law that human rights organizations consider limited. https://www.bbc.com/mundo/articles/c99j105gkvro
[9] According to the real-time tally conducted by Foro Pena, an NGO that provides pro bono legal assistance to people arbitrarily detained in Venezuela: https://foropenal.com/
[10] Efecto Cocuyo. (2026). Carmen Navas, the 86-year-old mother who traveled from prison to prison searching for a son whom the state had already buried. https://efectococuyo.com/la-humanidad/carmen-navas-la-madre-de-86-anos-que-recorrio-carceles-buscando-a-un-hijo-que-el-estado-ya-había-enterrado/
[11] elDiario.es. (May 25, 2026). Death of a Political Prisoner’s Mother. https://eldiario.com/2026/05/25/muerte-madre-preso-politico/
[12] El País. (2026). The Desperate Struggle of the Mothers of Political Prisoners in Venezuela. justicehttps://elpais.com/america/2026-01-28/la-desesperada-lucha-de-las-madres-de-presos-politicos-en-venezuela-no-tienen-misericordia-exigimos-justicia.html
* Nancy Moreno Pinto (Venezuela) studied literature before joining the team at “Lugar Común”, a bookstore and cultural center in Caracas, first as a bookseller and later as the cultural programming coordinator. In 2015, she co-founded the traveling library “Pasa la Cebra,” with the goal of bringing reading to children in Petare, a disadvantaged neighborhood in Caracas, and promoting the reclaiming of public space through cultural activities.
In 2017, she moved to France to continue her studies and obtained a master’s degree in Urban Mediations, Knowledge, and Expertise from the University of Lyon 2. She subsequently joined the “October Octopus” team as a cultural programmer, where she conceives and coordinates cultural projects in France and internationally, including festivals, book fairs, and academic programs.
In 2017, she moved to France to continue her studies and obtained a master’s degree in Urban Mediations, Knowledge, and Expertise from the University of Lyon 2. She subsequently joined the “October Octopus” team as a cultural programmer, where she conceives and coordinates cultural projects in France and internationally, including festivals, book fairs, and academic programs.
[1] Translated from the Spanish and French by Andréa Balart-Perrier.
© Mariangela Abbruzzese
* Mariangela Abbruzzese. A Venezuelan woman living in Mexico. Full-time professor at the School of Communication at the Universidad del Claustro de Sor Juana.
IG: @recortaymueve
Author's Note (July 29, 2026): This article was written before the double earthquake that struck Venezuela on June 24, 2026, which, according to official estimates, left 5,500 dead and 16,700 injured (figures that are likely far below the actual numbers, considering that many of the deceased or missing are not listed in any official records).
Thousands of Venezuelans lost their loved ones, their homes, their entire communities, their daily routines, and the lives they had known until then. Today, more than a month after this tragedy, there are still people trying to find the bodies of their relatives beneath the rubble, in a race against time and against the regime, which insists on demolishing everything to erase the evidence of its incompetence.
Although in this context anything that doesn’t address what my country is going through may seem futile, this article is a call for empathy and for the discomfort of navigating the gray areas in a world of polarities. Today is not about invasion, nor about oil, nor about Maduro. It’s about a people trying to save themselves, despite their government.
So let’s talk about Venezuela as we did on January 3, even if it’s less of a trending topic than a U.S. invasion. Less political posturing and more humanitarian action. There are many ways to help from afar; donating to local organizations or volunteering is one of them; keeping the conversation alive, another conversation.
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