Cautious hope in Venezuela

On January 6, I had two long and separate Zoom calls with close Venezuelan friends. They offered differing perspectives on the state of the nation, though both were deeply disturbed by the United States of America’s military incursion on January 3, which resulted in the capture – or, as they both called it, kidnapping – of President Nicolás Maduro.

Wilfredo Peña is a retired teacher and Presbyterian pastor living in Barquisimeto. He attends three congregations in his region. Despite the convulsive events of January 3, Peña described life as “uncertain, but almost normal. Saturday, everything was quiet, but people were out shopping for basics the last two days. We cancelled Sunday worship at Divino Salvador Church, because transportation hadn’t returned to normal. Many other churches worshipped regardless. But the national baseball league playoffs are starting again tomorrow!”

Rose and I were honourable godparents to Bany Castellanos and his wife, Ninoska Arce at their wedding. They have lived in Edmonton since 1988, always remaining in close contact with family in Venezuela. I’ve stayed in touch with Peña and Castellanos since I left Venezuela in 1986, where I worked for Christian Reformed World Missions (now Resonate Global Mission). Castellanos vividly recalled hearing the news: “We started receiving calls at 2:30 AM; already we knew Maduro was gone. I couldn’t stop crying. There was euphoria, a sense of hope, dreams of freedom to breathe again. Friends in Venezuela kept us on the phone until 5:30 AM.”

‘We’re not afraid’

Peña has always lived in Barquisimeto. Though a quiet supporter of the socialist project – La Revolucion Bolivariana – initiated by President Hugo Chávez in 1999, his views are careful and nuanced. “Long-standing tensions with the U.S. escalated after Chávez totally took over the oil industry,” he explained. “Times were difficult when it was hard to get life’s basics.”

“But now there are no lines in grocery stores like there were as recently as five years ago; we can get everything we need, but not much extra.”

Barquisimeto has seen neither protests against Maduro’s capture nor support of the current Venezuelan government, although he has heard reports of military repression elsewhere. Why is Barquisimeto so quiet? “That’s the uncertainty of what’s next politically,” Peña said. “Whenever the U.S. wields power, we’re edgy. Now we see that power in surprise military action. No one knows what’s next. Yes – uncertain but not afraid.”

Peña was almost sanguine about the situation, though not indifferent. As a recognized leader in Venezuela’s Presbyterian Church, he said, “We are slow to act in such situations, partly because our Presbyterian pastors are polarized – some government supporters, others not. We’ll meet soon by video to try to reach a consensus.”

Peña remains in close contact with evangelical leaders throughout the nation. He highlighted statements by Venezuela’s Evangelical Council, Latin American Evangelical Methodist Council of Churches of Latin America, and The Alliance of Presbyterian and Reformed Churches in Latin America. All issued measured pastoral letters condemning military aggression, never directly mentioning the U.S.A., and encouraging calmness and asking for prayers. He was planning to watch a conversation between many evangelical leaders in and outside Venezuela the week we spoke.

When I asked Peña what Canadian Christians could do in solidarity with the people of Venezuela, he simply said, “Pray for and with us. We don’t know what’s coming, but all Venezuelans agree, whether or not [they’re] government supporters: we’re not afraid; we’re able to solve our own problems. We don’t need or want foreign interference.”

‘I felt like I’d been punched hard’

Castellanos contacted Guillermo (a pseudonym) and shared Guillermo’s response to the news with me on our call. Guillermo is an engineer in Caracas, Venezuela’s capital and the city where Maduro was captured.

“I felt like I’d been punched hard,” Guillermo said. “Yet the invasion wasn’t a surprise. Hey, we’ve been invaded for many, many years. It was no secret that Russian officers were in Caracas. Cuban soldiers and other outsiders moved about the city openly. Once I saw Iranian flags over the two towers of Centro Simon Bolivar.”

“This was different. I felt at last, ‘This will change.’ I was pissed off, but hopeful. I don’t want anybody else to determine our future. If what we see now brings freedom and safety for our families – I hope this works, but that’s yet to be seen.”

Guillermo gave context for this cautious hope: “Most Venezuelans have opposed the government for 26 years. Many haven’t seen relatives in exile for 15 years. People were hungry, afraid to communicate by phone, only whispering in private, always under threat. University students launched Molotov cocktails against government bands, shooting rubber bullets, and spraying tear gas. Over two years, those goons killed some 500 students. Some of those gangs are now disarmed.”

Guillermo said that in just the two days after Maduro’s capture, detained prisoners were released. “Many are relieved, somewhat happy. Finally, something seemingly impossible has started, but that doesn’t answer their hopes.”

Guillermo also considered the role of churches: “We hear more of what churches are doing outside Venezuela – from Colombia, Brazil, even Argentina. But most Venezuelan churches haven’t ever developed public stances. They’re long vaccinated against politics. Everyone understands we need prayer, humanitarian aid and, especially, emotional support.”

“Odd, though, the long hostile division between Roman Catholics and Evangelicals has shrunk. They all think whoever has a heart for the good future of Venezuelans and Venezuela can work together.”

‘We are celebrating privately, carefully’

Castellanos took a long view: “The difference between this most recent intervention from those earlier ones is that they weren’t military, but societal and commercial. When I was young, we were living the ‘golden years.’ My dad came from a poor family, studied, became an engineer and worked in the oil patch. Until the 2000s, French, Dutch and American corporations helped us develop the infrastructure and industry. Chávez and the oil corporations helped Argentina develop oil refineries. That brought growth to Venezuela, but oil was then $108 a barrel.” Today, a barrel of Venezuelan oil is worth about half of that.

“All that was before censorship and repression. Opposition to the government is now 80 percent, but the regime has kept opposition leaders from power. Now, though, we are celebrating privately, carefully, that maybe this opens a window of hope for the future, even after the capture of Maduro.”

When asked how Christians in Canada can show solidarity, Castellanos responded candidly. “There are many political prisoners in overcrowded jails. Suicides amount to dozens a day. We need support from organizations to help families recover and rebuild their lives. I know we’re capable of taking the bull by the horns to pray, to start a new culture.”

When asked about hope, Castellanos quoted Guillermo. “He says, ‘hope is different from faith. It’s not certain, not guaranteed, but hope for us is real.’ Like Guillermo, I hear from fellow Venezuelans that for the first time in years, we can speak louder, not having to whisper our truths. It really depends on what we do with this transition to develop justice. We need a lot of transparency.”

“We hope that [Nobel Peace Prize winner] María Corina Machado and the real opposition can gain respect from the military and other politicians. So far, President Trump has kept her sidelined. Much reconciliation has to happen. But things change daily. Though some prisoners have been released, the biggest real problem is [Interior Minister] Diosdado Cabello; he’s brutal. He has built up a huge apparatus of repression and is still in charge of the military.”

Venezuela continues to walk through what some might call the valley of the shadow of death, especially those who have lost friends and family members to repression and violence. Panic, though, does not have to paralyze.

Venezuelan Christians – and there are many – may be on edge, but they remain resolute and cautiously hopeful. They’re “not put[ting] trust in princes, in human beings, who cannot save” (Ps. 146:3) but in the Prince of Peace.