Venezuela: The final word
First published in Spanish at Saber y Poder. Translated by LINKS International Journal of Socialist Renewal.
The deafening explosions that shook Caracas, La Guaira, Higuerote and Puerto Cabello in the early hours of Saturday, January 3, were naturally followed by widespread confusion. A clear, moonlit night provided the backdrop for the infamous spectacle: for an hour, rockets streaked across our airspace and crashed, criminally and with impunity, in different parts of the capital city and the central coast, leaving a trail of death and destruction in its wake, as would soon confirm. A few hours later, the invading force was boasting about its achievements: it had proceeded to kidnap the head of state, Nicolás Maduro, along with his wife, Cilia Flores.
A week later, it is worth recording the popular reaction during those early hours of Saturday morning following the consummation of this imperial outrage. The streets were filled with calm, expectant silence, and a sense of mourning. It was a silence that was difficult to interpret, hence the imperative to try, even at the risk of misunderstanding.
It was not the complicit silence of those who were awaiting such an outcome or something similar. It was not the cautious silence of those who perhaps wanted to wait for further news before celebrating. Nor, it must be said, was it the silence of those who were eagerly awaiting a call to arms. All of the above was no doubt in the mix. But the general atmosphere resembled something more akin to mourning for a humiliated homeland. Mourning for our boys killed in the line of duty. Mourning because things should not have come to this.
It may be a mourning that befalls any people as an inalienable right, when they realise that in the worst of times their destiny is not in their hands.
A tranquility, a silence and a mourning that, far from signifying consent with what had happened, spoke of a deep-rooted discontent that finds no outlet for expression.
Today, as demands and calls for restoring our violated sovereignty multiply — as they should — we should at least take the time to understand the silence of those with whom sovereignty resides. Something similar can be said about the necessary calls for unity: this is not the first time that a few issue a call for the unity of a few, leaving the majority aside. This is not the time to reprimand those who ask questions and demand answers. It is not the time for naive and cynical calculations. At such a crucial moment in our history as a Republic, we cannot afford such actions and omissions.
Recent events demonstrate that silence does not always mean consent. Those who talk a lot can give consent, and those who are not willing to give consent sometimes remain silent. The latter remain silent because there is no one to listen to them.
[US President] Donald Trump speaks and does not stop speaking. He rants, believing himself to be the master of the world. He speaks and speaks until he strikes, not to make his country great again, but because it never will be great again. He strikes, believing us to be so small that we will celebrate his gesture. The “new human race” that we are, as Simón Bolívar would say, looks at him askance.
The numbers also speak: after the invasion, the markets reacted euphorically, oil stocks rose, and the Caracas Stock Exchange celebrated. Meanwhile, you can be certain that there are no celebrations and no more money in the pockets of the popular majority.
And yet, what prevails is tranquility, a certain “meekness,” to quote [Venezuelan revolutionary] Alfredo Maneiro, because the imperial aggression has occurred — not by chance — at a historical juncture in which tempestuous popular protagonism is absent, unlike in April 2002, when the dictatorship supported by the US government succumbed in less than 48 hours. Because one wave has passed, and another, and another, and the drops of water that will be at the crest of the next wave today lie in the trough that separates it from the preceding wave. The Venezuelan people occupy the place of still water, an apparent calm: “If anyone wants to discover in this appearance the seeds of a possible, different, and future Venezuela, they will have to push it aside and look underneath. It has always been this way, it has always been true that the darkest hour of the night is the one that precedes the dawn.”
In this dark hour when the people (including our Cuban brothers and sisters) mourn their dead, they can call it whatever they want: “staying calm,” “transition” or “being in charge of Venezuela.” The Venezuelan people will have the final word and once again ride the wave's crest.