Caracas Chronicles

 “There will be no need to fear or hope, only to look for new weapons” —Gilles Deleuze

Overseen by Trump’s Special Envoy, the first “repatriation flight” arrived in Venezuela on February 10 and materialized the controversial agreement made earlier this month.

Although Maduro’s meeting with Ric Grenell came as a surprise, it’s not shocking that the President of the United States would “pay” for the reception of deported Venezuelans by allowing Chevron’s oil license to be renewed. Deals happen when both sides have something the other needs—Venezuela needs export markets, and the U.S. needs places to deport people. In the following days, reports also surfaced suggesting that Harry Sargeant Jr, a key Republican donor in Florida that previously traded asphalt with Maduro, may have helped facilitate the meeting.

The truth is that the January 9th fiasco and this meeting may have ended the latest cycle of Venezuela’s opposition. Historically, every major opposition leader has embodied a temporary political opportunity, only to become irrelevant or harmless afterward. It happened with Capriles and Guaidó, and now it seems to be happening with María Corina Machado.

Perhaps that’s why, after Trump’s return to the White House, Machado has not only focused on foreign policy—where she hopes to regain lost ground—but has also increasingly leaned toward the right, which she seems to view as her natural ally in a mystical struggle reminiscent of Lord of the Rings.

But we live in a chaotic, multipolar world—one much more like Game of Thrones. Her open and unnecessary support for Noboa in Ecuador, her fervent enthusiasm for Netanyahu’s Israel and Bukele’s El Salvador, her warm greeting to Santiago Abascal and Patriots.eu, and, above all, her tepid response to the stigmatization and persecution of Venezuelans in the U.S. do not strengthen her leadership. Instead, they raise doubts about whether she only defends democracy and human rights when the threat comes from the left.

Even as the Trump administration has defined Venezuelans as an internal enemy, systematically disparages them, and seems to be preparing a massive deportation operation, Machado has largely avoided the issue. Instead, she is trying to convince Trump that Maduro is the head of Tren de Aragua and that an international coalition is needed to address the problem at its root.

In this dystopia, the dictatorship would operate in an international environment that is neither too favorable nor too hostile—one where it offers raw materials, facilitates trafficking and transit through its territory, and provides “solutions” to the migration crisis it has created.

The melancholic Reaganism of that narrative not only ignores that Trump is no Reagan and that MAGA is not made up of neocons—and the movement is not keen on interventions a la Panama 1989 or Grenada 1983—but also how convenient it is for the U.S. to maintain ties with Maduro’s regime. They can deport as many Venezuelans as they want, benefit key lobbyists and donors, and, in doing so, maintain some leverage against China’s presence in the region.

In other words, they have nothing to gain from “breaking” Maduro.

Facing the dystopia

Given this outlook, the only option left is to seriously assume the dystopian hypothesis: the dictatorship will remain in power for years—perhaps even decades. So far, this hypothesis has rarely been taken seriously and has mostly been used to justify absurd ideas like the “acceptable candidate” or the “savior invasion”: “The dictatorship is invincible… but it will yield to the power of the vote or hand over power to Rosales.” “There’s nothing Venezuelans can do against the narco-dictatorship… but Trump will crush it in 24 hours.”

At this point, the most popular version of the dystopian hypothesis is the latter. But what happens if, instead of sweetening it with ridiculous illusions, we take the “dystopian hypothesis” seriously by making sense of current trends?

Three main tendencies define this scenario:

First we have the consolidation of the dictatorship as a state of extreme and constant repression across Venezuela, preventing large-scale political mobilization and allowing only clandestine dissent and resistance.

Then we see an international environment shaped by migration policies focused on closing borders to Venezuelans and sending them back to their country.

And third: growing impoverishment, precariousness, vulnerability, and powerlessness among Venezuelans both at home and abroad. As it’s been happening for decades with Haitians in the Americas, Palestinians in the Mediterranean, or the Congolese in Africa, Venezuelans are gradually becoming a disposable population—a “cursed race.”

In this dystopia, the dictatorship would operate in an international environment that is neither too favorable nor too hostile—one where it offers raw materials, facilitates trafficking and transit through its territory, and provides “solutions” to the migration crisis it has created. Perhaps it could even establish a revolving door of migration and deportation, or “charge” for slowing down emigration, much like Gaddafi once did for Europe. And since governments do not address the root causes of migration—just as they do not address those of poverty or climate change—no one will bother curing the disease when they can simply treat the symptoms.

Controlling a vast, resource-rich territory always opens the door to new deals and arrangements—whether with familiar partners (gold or cocaine traffickers, oil and asphalt businesses from the southern U.S.) or with anyone willing and able to exploit Venezuela’s geographic position and underground wealth. And in an increasingly oligarchic and mafioso world, those private interests are gaining more and more influence.

A Venezuelan archipelago

Whether we live in that dystopian world or not, the easy formulas and slogans that have defined Venezuela’s various opposition movements—such as “vote,” “abstain,” “request an intervention/sanctions,” or even “protest” or “take to the streets”—no longer say anything about what is truly necessary to remove Maduro’s regime from power. That is, organizing and combining different forms of action rather than obsessing over the fetish of the season—be it voting, calling for abstention, blocking streets, or praying for an invasion or a coup.

Under such conditions of total uncertainty, things will be even harder if Venezuelans do not overcome their tendency toward fragmentation, sectarianism, political naïveté, and personalist leadership, and instead learn to support and defend each other. Against the extremely limited adecopeyano political imagination—which reduces organization to political parties and politics to electoral commerce—we should not only set the memory of the great democratic movements of recent decades but also the experiences of resistance and mutual support from other diasporas: Chinese, Jewish, Indian, Palestinian, African, Mexican, Cuban, Irish, and so on.

The TPS crisis has demonstrated that the concerns of the Venezuelan diaspora affect all Venezuelans equally. In a transnational society, domestic and foreign policy constantly intertwine, and defending the diaspora as a social institution—beyond the melancholic promise of return, so convenient for xenophobes—means defending the sustainability of Venezuelans in Venezuela, which is now merely the largest island in the archipelago of Venezuelan identity.

The struggle against autocracy in Venezuela and the fight against xenophobia abroad are equivalent: fighting for the freedom of political prisoners is just as important as fighting against deportations, and the United States, Peru, and Colombia are just as crucial battlegrounds as Venezuela itself.

Would “evacuating” Venezuela like a sinking ship, radicalizing the exodus, be the long-term strategy? Or is it still possible to build the strength and networks necessary to battle the dictatorship in the future? What is certain is that through the years or decades of this Dark Age we are entering, we will be weaker if we fail to organize ourselves for the defense and attainment of rights, cultural creation, education, or wealth production.

This has already been happening for years, but not with the scope and intensity required by a catastrophic and continuously deteriorating situation—and, more importantly, not with the right mindset. Now, with a drastic reduction in international aid and the collapse of traditional leadership, the situation seems more desperate than ever, and it will not be reversed in the short term.

The struggle against autocracy in Venezuela and the fight against xenophobia abroad are equivalent: fighting for the freedom of political prisoners is just as important as fighting against deportations, and the United States, Peru, and Colombia are just as crucial battlegrounds as Venezuela itself. A prosperous and influential diaspora is the lifeline for Venezuelans in Venezuela, especially in dystopian scenarios like the ones taking shape.

If we do not learn to connect beyond the corruption of political parties, the sectarianism of messianic leaders, and clientelist vices, most Venezuelans will face increasingly miserable lives and will become one of the many disposable populations on the planet. But if, in the coming years, we manage to empower each other even a little, we might just learn how to turn impotence into power and weakness into strength.

If this is possible, it will certainly not be thanks to the parties or politicians we know today, whose cycle of usefulness has ended. Nor will it happen tomorrow or the day after. For now, winter has arrived, and there are no dreams of spring.