Caracas Chronicles

A researcher at the Institute of Criminal Sciences and Coordinator of the Criminal and Criminological Sciences specialization at the Central University of Venezuela (UCV), and director of the Monitor of the Use of Lethal Force in Venezuela (MUFLVEN), Keymer Ávila has spent years studying and documenting how state violence, as deployed in Venezuela by the OLP and FAES, is a war against the most vulnerable disguised as security policy. In this interview, starting from the premise that these are very different countries, he examines how that story resembles what’s now leading chained Venezuelan migrants from the U.S. to maximum-security prisons in El Salvador and Cuba.

Framing the foreigner as an internal enemy has often been used to rally public support and justify policies typical of a state of war or exception. In Venezuela, Maduro and figures like Néstor Reverol (Minister of Interior from 2016 to 2020) framed the Colombian paramilitary as a public enemy to justify the excesses of the OLP. Trump is now using the Venezuelan migrant—low-income and still not fully integrated—as a scapegoat to push a series of tough-on-crime laws like the Alien Enemies Act and the Laken Riley Act. His government doesn’t spend much time explaining how the Tren de Aragua operates but does give the migration issue an international dimension, hinting that he’s at war with Venezuelans. Considering the different contexts of each country, in what other ways do you think the hard-handed policies of Trump and Maduro resemble each other?

These comparisons don’t always contribute to an informed public debate, as we’re talking about two very different countries, with distinct contexts and historical paths. But despite those clear differences, there are shared features in this logic of “tough-on-crime” politics and the construction of enemies. The first and most fundamental is the exercise of unchecked power—a serious regression in citizens’ rights and a move toward consolidating increasingly authoritarian states, where people are more vulnerable to state arbitrariness. A permanent state of exception takes hold, a war logic in which rights are suspended to fight an absolute evil: insecurity, crime, drugs, communism, socialism, capitalism, imperialism, terrorism, alien invasions—whatever wild card the leader in charge wants to play.

The second is the framing of security as the center of the media and political agenda. In the name of state security—that is, the security of the ruling coalition—citizens’ rights are sacrificed, especially those of the most vulnerable. The third is that the poor, in all their variations, are not treated as rights-holders but as targets of security policies. They have the least power to demand justice—socially, politically, and in the media. The cost of violating their rights is minimal. That’s why they can be instrumentalized according to the needs of those in power. In this case, they’ve even become merchandise—bargaining chips, business opportunities.

The fourth common trait is that citizen security is not the real objective. It’s just the excuse, the propaganda campaign used to cover up deeper structural problems like economic crisis, poverty, or legitimacy issues.

In both countries, these policies are backed by various segments of society and across the political spectrum. Some 46 Democratic representatives supported the Laken Riley Act this year. In Venezuela, militarized operations to eliminate crime have enjoyed support from both the lower and upper classes, despite the evident costs and disregard for human life they entail. The Vagrants and Crooks Law, for instance, was in force for 58 years. Why does public sympathy for these types of policies persist in both Venezuela and the United States?

The modern state rests on the monopoly of the legitimate use of force and its proper administration—this has been the case since the early theorists, from Hobbes to Weber. In a state governed by the rule of law, force must only be used to protect people’s rights in situations where there’s a real threat that must be neutralized within the legal framework. The state should contain violence and reserve its use to protect citizens, especially the most vulnerable. It should never generate, promote, or amplify violence—let alone terror. If it does, it’s failing at its role and erasing its reason for being. Unless the goal is to return to the Absolute State, which followed a very different logic.

From a legal standpoint, fundamental rights—especially those concerning life, personal integrity, and freedom of movement—cannot be subjected to public referenda or reduced to appease majorities or online mobs. When a crime is committed, the perpetrator is the strongest actor in that specific moment, and the victim is the weakest. Criminal law intervenes to protect the victim. But it must also protect the perpetrator from the forces of solidarity with the victim—forces that are more powerful than the individual offender: the state, security forces, segments of society. The goal is to prevent both crime and arbitrary or disproportionate punishments. That’s why strong, autonomous, and independent courts are crucial to containing the Executive’s power.

From a political perspective, scapegoating aims to create social cohesion, to unite the population against a common enemy in times of crisis. It polarizes the “us”—the decent folks—from the “them”—the enemies, the people who supposedly don’t deserve rights. The worst part is the authoritarian consensus that forms around these measures: policies promoted by the elite end up being applauded by the very people who will suffer from them.

People cheer these actions out of negative impulses. In Venezuela, I’ve met very sweet old ladies who clench their fists at the crime news and say, “They should kill them all.” But when they watched a viral video of an extrajudicial execution, they changed their minds. You hear things like “lock them all up,” “they’re all from the Tren de Aragua, don’t show any mercy,” “deport them”—until it happens to their son, nephew, husband, neighbor, or someone they know. It’d be interesting to measure public opinion on this in low-income sectors, but judging by the government’s recent election results, I doubt there’s much support for these policies coming from there at the moment.

Maduro’s regime is welcoming deportees as heroes and portraying Venezuelans imprisoned in El Salvador as martyrs of U.S. aggression against Venezuela and its people. Can this victim narrative help the regime in any way?

We’re dealing with three authoritarian governments that don’t respect their own laws, have no institutional checks, and thrive on punitive populism. Each one is spinning propaganda for its own benefit—trading in pain, dignity, freedom, and human life. And there’s another dynamic at play: double standards. If it’s done by the political figure I like, it’s fine—I’ll justify it. If it’s done by the party I oppose, it’s terrible—I’ll condemn it. But this isn’t about partisan or ideological positions. It’s about basic principles and human rights, which are non-negotiable.

This is a mass deportation, in violation of international law, targeting people who fled their home country. Even the return to Venezuela is questionable under the principle of non-refoulement. Everyone has the right to seek and enjoy asylum. These are discriminatory and stigmatizing actions that violate the fundamental rights of Venezuelan migrants, most of whom are simply seeking protection, refuge, and stability.

Some believe that fear-based propaganda and police abuse make these policies more effective—encouraging people to self-deport or stay away from criminal activity. How do we counter these ideas and approaches?

These policies are only effective in building and consolidating authoritarian regimes, through a steady and aggressive erosion of civil liberties. We have to fight for our freedoms. Rights are not generous gifts from those in power—they are earned, won, and defended. Where there is oppression, there is also resistance.

What should we expect for the deported offenders returning to Venezuela, given the current security situation in the country’s prisons?

I can’t speak to the future, but the question itself reinforces the narrative of the U.S. and Salvadoran governments. The Chicago School proved nearly a century ago that crime doesn’t migrate with people—it stays in the places where there’s a lack of opportunity for legal livelihoods and integration. On the other hand, without official statistics in Venezuela, it’s very hard to say whether crime rates are rising or falling. What seems clear, in any case, is that the biggest threat to people’s safety today is the state itself.