My Socialist Hell: 25 Years of ‘Revolution’ in Venezuela – and Nothing to Show for It

The “Bolivarian Revolution” of Venezuela is celebrating the 25th anniversary of its rise to power.

On February 2, 1999 — 25 years ago — I was a naive 11-year-old, devoid of any political thought. Today, just as the socialists celebrate a quarter of a century in power, I am barely starting anew, having been finally able to flee from socialism with my brother, who is under my care due to his mental condition.

As they celebrate, cheer, rejoice — I am here, having left everything behind: my home, remaining family, neighbors, and friends, carrying nothing but three pieces of luggage; a worn-out, factory defective laptop from 2011 that’s living on borrowed time; and some savings.

Chávez’s original presidential run was the cause for concern, as he was a controversial figure that led a failed coup attempt on February 4, 1992. On that day, which is now also celebrated as a national “holiday,” Chávez became publicly known when he gave a speech stating that the objectives he sought to achieve had not been fulfilled “for now.” He gave that speech in a military headquarters that, 21 years later, would become his mausoleum.

He built his presidential platform on “revolution;” he built it on a set of lies. Some of the lies were his claims that he would not nationalize a single thing, that he would not take over the media, and that he would only rule for “five years” as a centrist president. He even went as far as to call Cuba, which became his regime’s closest ally and erstwhile colonizer, a dictatorship. 

Once he consolidated his power and the gig was up, he revealed his true colors — and triggered an ongoing wave of “we told you sos” from those who understood him.

I remember when Chávez won the December 1998 election. I remember people cheering and celebrating, while others were upset at the outcome — and they were right to do so. I did not understand his whole “revolution” deal. All I cared about at the time was what was happening in the lengthy battle between Goku and Frieza that was unfolding on each brand-new episode of Dragonball Z at the time.

That moment of innocence surrounded by upheaval was perhaps the last time I’d live under “normalcy.” After that, everything went downhill.

Chávez’s ascent to power roughly coincided with my family’s move to Caracas as, at the time, we were in a rather dire situation unrelated to the country’s political developments. The move brought the prospect of a new life and a new job for my mother. Twenty-five years later, I am in pursuit of the same goal, now as an Italian citizen who barely speaks Italian.

I lived 25 of my 36 years under the same regime and the shadow of the eternal struggle between the Chavistas and the escuálidos (a pejorative term for the opposition) — a slow-burn play where, in every act, the regime clings more and more tightly to power, the “opposition” has no competent response, and the country keeps being pushed further and further into complete entropy.

One day you’re a teenager, minding your own business. Then — all of a sudden — you’re a young adult forced to scan your fingerprints every Friday to receive a ration of flour or rice, as my national ID card number ends in 8, and that was the day for “8s and 9s.” This was part of our “normal” socialist life in the mid-2010s.

There is not a single Venezuelan remaining who has not seen their lives affected by this socialist regime, for better (if you’re part of the regime) or for worse (everyone else).

I cannot begin to count how many days of education I lost due to protests and strikes, how many hours of my life spent dealing with water rations and electrical issues, how much time I wasted in bread lines or nightmarish bureaucracy — and how much of my sanity was lost trying to stay afloat amidst all of this with my brother, ensuring that I’d keep a low profile and avoid saying anything that could get me 20 years in prison for “hate speech.”

The Ley de la Vida (“Law of Life”), a term my family used to say, basically dictates that the elderly will eventually pass away, leaving the way for newer generations. As more and more elderly Venezuelans pass away due to time, sickness, or fate, there are more and more of us born who do not know anything beyond socialist rule.

There are members of my family, mostly cousins, who do not know a life without this regime. It is all they have known, as it was already there when they were born. Some of them have left the country, while others are still there. My godson, who left Venezuela around June 2022, was born in 2002, long after Chávez had successfully changed the Venezuelan constitution.

Zulia, my birthplace, is one of the states most significantly battered by socialism. What was once a beautiful land “beloved” by a sometimes-inclement sun, currently endures near-daily electrical blackouts. Our precious and unique Lake Maracaibo lies ruined by socialist negligence, abandoned by the apparently indifferent “environmentalists” who seem to turn a blind eye when the polluter is of the correct ideology.

You can name any other city in the country that is not Caracas — the regime’s seat of power — and find the same levels of extreme decay. Punto Fijo, my brother’s birthplace and where my father and his Italian family once planted their roots after arriving on a boat in search of a better life in the 1950s, is a town essentially lost to time. My father has time and time again told me that running water only arrives for a couple days every few months, a day without a power blackout is the exception, and the main hospital is so corrupt it made international news.

You could splice the story of this ongoing Venezuelan tragedy in many ways — there are 25 years of material to work with and some 30 million stories to tell. The past 25 years have caused irreparable damage to the country and to all of us.

The trauma runs deep: from the cacerolazos (pot-banging protests), to more than 20 sham elections, the endless shortages, the mass censorship, the fingerprint scanners and food ration saga, the endless corruption, hyperinflation, mandatory broadcasts, the Chinese-built Fatherland platform, rotten CLAP food boxes, currency control exchanges, enchufado elites, to one of my neighbors, a journalist, being kidnapped in broad daylight in 2014.

Nicolás Maduro has much to celebrate this month, much to our collective dismay. He is on his way to his 11th anniversary in power, having inherited the “revolution” from his predecessor. His grip on the country is stronger than it was a couple of years ago thanks to U.S. President Joe Biden, who has given him back his drug-trafficking nephews, his main revenue source, and even his top money launderer, Alex Saab, who we had once expected to see experience some form of justice after a fair trial in the United States for his role in stealing our wealth.

The influence of Maduro’s main international allies — China, Russia, and Iran — is noticeable even when leaving the country. In a rather childish move, the Maiquetia International Airport’s foreign language instructions appear in Russian, Chinese, and Farsi before they’re presented in English — in case you needed a reminder of who pulls the strings down here.

I’ll never know how different my life would have been had Hugo Chávez not risen to power. Would I still be in Caracas today? Would my mother be alive right now? The collapse of socialism deprived her of the cancer treatment she so desperately needed to live in 2017, leading to her death the next year. What about the other 7.7 million people who fled the country? Would they have fared better?

Venezuela lost a quarter of a century of its history to this colossal mistake — decades of time, millions of people, and billions of dollars that will never come back. It is a beautiful country, and I wish the circumstances were different so that you could visit because, for such a small country, we have so much to see, from pristine beaches to unique wonders of nature, and a warm and gentle people who give their all and are willing to share the good times with everyone.

I do not have much hope left that the political situation will improve to allow actual free and fair elections anytime soon, much less the rehabilitation of the country. Ousting Maduro from the presidency would be a start, yes, but Venezuela needs an entirely new court system, a new legislature, a military severed from the multinational drug cartel that has latched itself onto it, brand-new regional governments, and some form of civil society. Venezuela is also facing the threat of paramilitary groups and the influence of foreign rogue regimes, working tirelessly to prevent reform. Socialism has poisoned every aspect of our lives; it must be excised at a political, societal, and cultural level.

There may come a day when I get to see Venezuela free again — but right now, and at the risk of sounding like a defeatist, I would not bet money on it. All I aspire to right now is to make sure my brother lives a good life, something I promised my mother on her deathbed. All I can do is hope is to contribute, one word at a time, towards a grander testimony, with the hope that the world heeds our warning. That no one falls for the allure of socialism again so that this tragedy is never repeated.

I never voted for this mess. By the time I turned 18 and was able to vote, the fix was in. Like many others from my generation, I simply inherited a disaster summoned by others. I don’t want others in the future to inherit a similar tragedy like ours.

Christian K. Caruzo is a Venezuelan writer and documents life under socialism. You can follow him on Twitter here.