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    SOS Venezuela: Disillusioned in the Age of Chavez
    SOS Venezuela: Disillusioned in the Age of Chavez
    SOS Venezuela: Disillusioned in the Age of Chavez
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    SOS Venezuela: Disillusioned in the Age of Chavez

    By Gabriel Mata Guzmán

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    About this ebook

    A group of Venezuelans interested in politics experience a transformation as their views and lives start to restructure. This shifting of ideologies, a result of fourteen years of Bolivarian Revolution, is only the beginning. One of these Venezuelans, Gerardo, a journalist who covered the protests in February of 2014, is from the opposition. He is the face of the resistance and lives in a constant fear. The others supported the government of Hugo Chávez for a long time. Two of these original supporters, who started as Chavistas, are brothers. One brother is now a militant of the United Socialist Party of Venezuela, and the other resigned his allegiance to Chávez after seen his quality of life degrade. Two other comrades, one member of the Socialist Party and other of the Communist Party, defend the Socialism of the twenty-first Century with their heart. The last, after being a communist much of his life, ended opposing the dictatorship in Venezuela. The disenchantment over the deception is so extreme that three of them are willing to abandon their country to immigrate to another land escaping the tarnishing of their land, the Land of Grace.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMango Media
    Release dateJul 7, 2014
    ISBN9781633530089
    SOS Venezuela: Disillusioned in the Age of Chavez

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      Book preview

      SOS Venezuela - Gabriel Mata Guzmán

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHÀVEZ WINS

      It was late at night in what felt like a brand new Venezuela. After nearly four decades of bipartisanism fused with corruption, the future of the country was about to be decided. Gerardo grabbed the phone after hearing the election results. Calmly, he dialed the numbers one by one and waited for the reply. Hello, he heard on the other side. Yet, in the night it seemed as though the voice was but a few feet away.

      Good evening, may I speak with Miguel? Gerardo began. Let me put him on the phone, replied a young female voice. A few seconds later, between shouts of victory and flashes of fireworks all across the sky, he came to the phone.

      Hello Miguel answered.

      Brother, I'm calling to congratulate you on your candidate’s victory, Gerardo said empathetically.

      Gero, brother, thank you. Now get ready, because changes are on their way! Especially, for the lower class, finished Miguel, downright excited.

      It was December 6, 1998. Just teenagers from a central city a few hours from the capital, they were already immersed in politics. Weeks earlier, they had a heated discussion about the elections in a naive way, taking into account the possible scenarios that the future could hold for Venezuela. It was the historical moment for a country that was tired of a small elite holding power.

      Hugo Chávez himself mentioned that they would fry the heads of adecos and copeyanos in a pot filled with boiling oil. It was an all-out war against the classic social democratic parties that had been ruling for decades. Venezuela was destined to implode. Across the nation the lower class saw these landowners, who had hijacked the country since the days of colonization, as both economic and safety handicaps. Chávez seemed like a savior amid so much injustice.

      The red beret of the Movimiento Quinta República was in every corner, galloping straight to redemption. Or maybe right into the slaughterhouse. At that point, no one knew.

      Gerardo hung up the phone after talking about their expectations and the profound change that was coming. All this was discussed with a bittersweet feeling of paranoia. He worried about the fate of the Land of Grace, but felt empathy for his friends who supported the birth of the Fifth Republic.

      The electoral campaign and propaganda were on every corner. Henrique Salas Römer, a former governor of Carabobo state, was the contender. But polls and media already assumed that the thin and homely retired Lieutenant Colonel (who used to hit his left fist into his right palm as a sign of struggle), would be victorious. He toured popular sectors and rural areas throughout Venezuela seeking to convert people to his idea of a fifth republic based on a new constitution and a new institutional order.

      Miguel, like many youth seeking change beyond another candidate from the elite, was instantly hooked by the charm and charisma of another military man who, on February 4, 1992, dropped his weapon in order to commit to justice. Shortly after his acquittal at the hands of President (and Doctor) Rafael Caldera, Hugo Rafael Chávez launched a titanic campaign that led him to the presidency of the country with one of the largest oil reserves in the world, in a landslide victory.

      Miguel's brother, Pablo, was against the arrival of El Comandante, Hugo Rafael Chávez. This left the Arnáez family divided. Of 8 members, 4 supported Chavez and the rest were repulsed by him because of his past as a coup leader.

      Back then no president had spoken on the television – like Maduro does today – but then again, they changed all the rules. In 1999, the first steps for the re-founding of the country came with the creation of a new constitution.

      A Constituent Assembly drafted the new Constitution of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela. They turned it into a referendum— a unique move— a constitution consulted with its people. Of course, the approval was overwhelming. Gerardo, Pablo and Miguel, neighbors for more than a decade, wished they could have voted in the presidential elections and for the constituent assembly. But, at the time, they lacked aspirations and a common interest.

      Flaco, another friend who was a little older than them, would go to college in a few years. His dad had been leftist during his whole life. At home they had a copy of Karl Marx's Das Capital that Flaco devoured because he had nothing better to do. He spent hours reading it. He clearly remembers how his father, before the election of Chávez, said to his uncle: Look, this guy has what it takes to be the president. I'll vote for that Dickhead.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE CAPITALISTS PIGS

      And just like that, simply and unforced, millions of poorly informed citizens voted for El Comandante. The very man who years later would leave raw chaos for Nicolás Maduro to govern.

      Many years and events happened after Gerardo’s call to congratulate Miguel on the election of the president before the two of them sat down to discuss politics. Occasionally, they gathered to smoke and rant about social justice in a dark square surrounded by the company of Trinidadians. Gerardo complained of the government and it economic setbacks, and the other guys complained of his groans. They sat on concrete benches in the afternoon questioning the prices of things. Pablo, Flaco and Vicente were there, accompanying Miguel and Gerardo.

      Capitalist Pigs! exclaimed Gerardo many times throughout the night as he mocked his chavista friends.

      Capitalist Pigs! Miguel mimicked back, laughing in a dry scream, showing his crooked teeth and his trademark smile.

      You think it's a lie? They exploit minors, pay them poorly, and then force us to consume their products, Gerardo said strongly as his playful chant turned serious. He spoke slowly as he was punching his fist to the hard concrete bench, revealing the crisis that ravages hundreds of countries worldwide.

      CAPITALIST PIGS! Miguel shouted sarcastically with a powerful laugh. It was a contagious laugh that soon had them all joining in. Their worries were minimal at the time. They had neither families to support, nor bills or taxes to pay.

      In 2004, two years after the oil strike and the coup in Venezuela, the tone of their late night discussions had changed. They were now a bit more serious and logical but, being young, they remained playful. The common areas of their neighborhood were green, with some gardens and parks where they sat for hours wasting time, cultivating their idle time with words and rhetoric.

      They poked fun at

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