By Maile Monds
Recent events in Venezuela have once again thrust the country into the global spotlight. On 3 January 2026, U.S. forces conducted a military operation that resulted in the capture of Nicolás Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, removing him from Caracas and flying him to New York to face federal charges, including narcoterrorism and drug trafficking. President Donald Trump declared it would oversee Venezuela’s governance during a transitional period, a move that marks one of the most direct American interventions in Latin America in decades. International coverage has focused largely on legality, geopolitics, and power: Was the intervention lawful? Was it imperial overreach? What precedent does it set?
For many Venezuelans, however, this framing feels inadequate. Their lived experiences have been overshadowed by abstract, dehumanising debates led by outsiders. What’s often missing from these external perspectives is the harsh reality of surviving a corrupt system shaped by fear, loss, and desperation over more than two decades of Chávez-Maduro rule.
This article deliberately shifts focus away from official narratives and expert commentary to centre Venezuelan voices themselves. It is grounded in an extended conversation with Carmen (59) and her daughter Ana (23), who left Venezuela in 2012 and settled in Spain in search of safety. To protect their privacy, their names have been changed. Their testimonies resist easy conclusions about intervention, expose the limits of external moral frameworks, and remind us that human agency, with all its complexity and contradiction, is often missing from Western analyses that prioritise principle over people. By grounding this reflection in personal experience, we confront an uncomfortable truth: some realities cannot be fully grasped unless they have been lived.
“We were begging,” Carmen said. “Begging countries to help us. We tried everything the democratic way. Elections, protests, international organisations: the OAS, the UN, NATO. Nothing worked. Nobody listened.”
When the conversation turned to the controversy surrounding Donald Trump, her stance was unequivocal. “I don’t like Trump. I’m not pro-Trump,” she insisted, listing her grievances: “His ego, his views, his crimes… as an individual, he is controversial enough.” She argued that his self-centred approach obscures the humanitarian crisis, making it difficult for the world to truly empathise with Venezuela. “It’s hard for people to see what’s really happening when Trump makes it all about him. In his press conferences, there is no context; he only spoke about his own power and image.”
And yet, disgust can coexist with gratitude. “Still,” she admitted, “I feel thankful because at least he did something.”
This paradox runs through many reactions. Media narratives often frame the intervention as a binary choice: imperial aggression versus international justice. But for those who lived Venezuela’s reality, the moral calculus looks different. For many, foreign intervention was not imposed; it was pleaded for. “There was no way out on our own,” Carmen said.
This does not mean Venezuelans are naïve about Trump’s interests. Both Carmen and Ana spoke openly about exploitation and geopolitical opportunism. “You want our oil? Take it. You want the gold, the silver? Take it,” Carmen said, echoing a sentiment she has seen widely expressed online. “You want our resources, do whatever. Cuba, China, Russia, Iran, they already took everything. We never had it anyway. As a Venezuelan, if the USA wants to conquer our country, I don’t care. Conquer it. It’s impossible that it’s worse.”
What outsiders often fail to recognise is that the priority is not sovereignty in the abstract, but survival. “The first step,” she said, “no matter what, is to remove this regime.”
According to Human Rights Watch, more than 20 million Venezuelans live in multidimensional poverty, many forced into extreme survival strategies, including crime and fleeing the country. Since 2014, 8 million Venezuelans have left. Hundreds of civilians have been killed during protests, and there have been an estimated 18,000 politically motivated arrests, many involving torture, disappearance, or death.
Those who left did not do so lightly. Carmen recalled the final reasons she decided to leave. “Friends of mine were kidnapped, held at gunpoint for days by criminals, forced to knock on neighbours’ doors to rob entire apartment buildings,” she said. “There was no law. No protection. I had to get my children out.”
What Venezuelans are asking for now is not rhetoric, but follow-through. “Trump can’t just jump in and then drop it,” she said. “He has to deal with the root of the problem.” She addressed the appointment of interim leaders who have long-standing ties to the regime. “We don’t trust Delcy Rodríguez. She’s been a criminal since Chávez, 26 years ago, and now under Maduro.”
Removing a single figurehead does not dismantle a system. “Trump took out the head of the Cartel de los Soles,” Ana explained. “Only the head. The corruption is still everywhere: executive, legislative, and judicial.”
Armed colectivos, originally formed under Chávez and empowered under Maduro, continue to operate with impunity. “They took people out of prison, armed them, and gave them power,” she said. “They intimidate voters. They get priority access to food, fuel, everything.” Some, she added, were trained abroad. “Very dangerous people. And they’re still there.”
While many abroad speak of celebration, fear still dominates inside the country. “Everyone says Venezuelans are celebrating, and yes, many are, and they have every right to,” Carmen explains. “But I didn’t celebrate, and it’s not about Trump; it’s about the system that remains. People are still afraid to leave their homes.”
Ana described the precautions her family in Caracas still take. “Every time my aunt or dad leaves the house, they delete all their messages, WhatsApp, Instagram, everything. Or they carry a second phone with nothing on it.” Even a single word, such as Trump or regime can be enough to land someone in prison. “They see the word in a search bar, and that’s it.”
“Nobody talks,” she said. “People queue for two and a half hours at the supermarket, and no one says a word. It’s like nothing is happening.” This enforced silence creates a misleading image for outsiders. “Venezuelans are desensitised to violence. They’ve learned how to survive without speaking. And that makes it harder for the outside world to acknowledge how bad it really is.”
Inside Venezuela today, hope is fragile and conditional. The continuity of the regime is what makes the current moment so dangerous. “We’re in an awkward intermission,” Ana said. “A transition with no clear direction.” The fear is that the world will move on again, leaving the structure of repression intact.
For many families, the most urgent demand is the release of political prisoners. “There are thousands,” Ana said. “Some were tortured. Some are dead. They release five or ten people and call it progress. What about the rest?”
As the world shouts opinions, those inside Venezuela remain in a state of watchful silence. Maduro’s fall isn’t a neat conclusion. It is a heavy pause where relief exists with fear, and celebration with caution.
“There is no way to truly understand,” Ana states, “unless you have lived it.”