repression

Photo: Juan Barreto / AFP

In 1999, Hugo Chávez coined the ‘civic-military union’ as a founding concept for the Bolivarian Revolution. At its core, he sought to blur the line between soldier and militant: the armed forces would no longer be subordinate to the civilian authorities, but become active political actors, essential not only to build and sustain the Bolivarian project, but to merge with the rest of society in conducting the nation. The old fuerzas armadas, FFAA, formed by the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, and the National Guard, were transformed into a single Fuerza Armada Nacional Bolivariana, FANB. Soldiers were granted the right to vote. Officers flooded the bureaucracy and started to give orders to civilians. They were, in practice, sworn to a movement rather than a constitution.   

In its later years, chavismo stretched the phrase to unión cívico-militar-popular, supposedly integrating the whole of el pueblo into the martial body of the revolution. In 2008, Chávez created the Bolivarian Militia to provide military training to millions of civilians, and turned it into a branch of the armed forces in 2020, when it started to operate more as a propaganda and clientelism resource rather than a defensive corps. 

How, then, were Venezuela’s armed forces made “useful”?

A government and an armed forces that claim to be in union with its people were caught outside of the massive, spontaneous popular mobilization Venezuelans pulled off…

In the Maduro years, soldiers guarded the ration lines of CLAP boxes and the gasoline pumps of the country with the largest oil reserves in the world. Others were stationed in the southeast of the country to run the Orinoco Mining Arc, formally assigned to FANB, in tandem with non-state armed groups—some pocketing up to $800,000 a month in gold as bribes. The luckier or best-positioned of the bunch got handed high-ranking positions in public companies and ministries. The “popular” leg, then, was never el pueblo but its keepers, united to protect the Bolivarian Revolution and themselves over their fellow countrymen.

In the morning of June 24th, the Financial Times revealed that Caracas would acknowledge a debt of roughly 240 billion dollars and prepare for the largest restructuring on record. Hours later, two M7.2 and M7.5 earthquakes changed the landscape of the country. As the news broke, Venezuelan civilians quickly organized to save relatives, friends, and strangers. For the first forty-eight hours, a somewhat coordinated response from FANB was nowhere to be seen, even after Delcy Rodríguez said a joint staff led by a National Guard general was managing the emergency response. It was as if Venezuela didn’t have soldiers.

What the State guarded most jealously was not the living, but keeping the credit. A government and an armed forces that claim to be in union with its people were caught outside of the massive, spontaneous popular mobilization Venezuelans pulled off after the earthquake. When civilians pulled strangers from the rubble with their bare hands without waiting for an order, they proved that el pueblo is perfectly capable of being a body on its own, and most notably, that the State is not the vital organ that Chávez envisioned, but a dead weight.

So the aid had to be captured, rerouted, or rebranded. On June 27, Delcy Rodríguez ordered the militarization of roads and access points to devastated areas like La Guaira, slowing down the flow of ordinary citizens delivering supplies for survivors and machinery for those trying to find more of them. Just a day after the quake, opposition party Vente Venezuela reported that police had stopped a truck of supplies in Altamira and would let it move only if the cargo were transferred into the officials’ own vehicles, and the UCV student movement denounced that seven trucks of supplies en route from Bolívar to Caracas were seized by state agents before they could arrive.

“When you are [repressing] on the Francisco Fajardo highway, you are badasses. Show me you’re a badass here, then. Show me with a pickaxe and shovel.”

Organizers from a donation center at Escuela Francisco Pimentel were informed that CONAS, a joint unit of police commandos and National Guards, would be taking over the site and its supplies. Would they have done the same if a PSUV banner hung next to the supplies? A video shows the truck carrying the donations away belongs to SENIAT, the tax authority commanded by Diosdado Cabello’s brother for 18 years until yesterday. Even digital efforts were policed: a network matching volunteer interpreters to foreign rescue teams shut down and wiped its database after participants were allegedly harassed by DGCIM and SEBIN officers.

When the authorities did appear where they could help, soldiers and policemen scrolled on their phones, posed in front of the rubble and left before their uniforms got dirty. They were the last responders. Why so late, then so heavy? Incompetence covers part of it, but watch what the greens reached for in the most critical moments of this crisis and the reason why the ‘union’ has propped up chavismo for decades becomes clearer. 

DGCIM agents diverted an active rescue to recover an official’s rifles from a penthouse while people were still alive below. Neighbors stopped four CICPC policemen in Catia La Mar from trying to take cash found in the rubble, tearing the bills apart so they couldn’t. Chilean rescuer Francisco Lermanda says a soldier seized a colleague’s phone over suspicions of espionage after the crew videocalled their doctors to guide a rescue. At the Residencia Gradisca in La Guaira, where Mexican Topos had marked three points with signs of life, a Corpoelec crew sealed the site on a general’s order because a body, “por orden de arriba”, had to be recovered first. Our ‘protectors’ were filmed carrying off televisions and refrigerators, drinking the liquor they had found, lying on piles of donated clothes while giggling away.

When push came to shove, the union was not incompetent to protect the regime’s weapons, the regime’s secrets, the regime’s chain of command. The FANB did not forget how to save people during the earthquake. It never learned because saving people was not supposed to be part of the job. Faced with people to rescue instead of people to subdue, they stood guard over the dying. A man looking for his family among the collapsed buildings of Tanaguarena dared soldiers to be as brave as when they face dissidence: “When you are [repressing] on the Francisco Fajardo highway, you are badasses. Show me you’re a badass here, then. Show me with a pickaxe and shovel.”

For nearly six months, Delcy Rodríguez’s interim government has tried to project a different image: less ideological, more administrative; less revolutionary, more technocratic. The earthquakes became the first real test of whether that transformation ran deeper than economic policy. It didn’t. Faced with the country’s worst humanitarian disaster in decades, the Venezuelan state reverted almost instinctively to the habits it had spent 25 years learning.

The earthquake handed Delcy Rodríguez something politics rarely does: a chance, however limited, to soften public perceptions of her government. Nobody expected it to prevent the earthquake or even manage it flawlessly. The bar was much lower than that. Venezuelans expected a government that communicated at least somewhat honestly, remained visible, welcomed help wherever it came from, and, above all, stayed out of the way of those trying to help. Instead, many of its decisions seemed almost designed to produce the opposite effect, leaving an already angry public even angrier.

For the crucial first hours after the earthquake, Venezuelan civil society largely filled the vacuum left by the state. By the time the government moved to reclaim the space it had forfeited, the nature of its response had become clear. The emphasis was no longer on expanding the rescue effort, but on reasserting control over it. The government’s administrative response had been slow. Its political reflexes were anything but that.

Why?

The obvious explanation is incompetence. Of which there was certainly plenty. But incompetence alone cannot explain why a government whose political identity has been built on the appearance of public support repeatedly embraced decisions that seemed to generate even greater public anger. Something deeper appears to have been at work.

Responding to earthquakes requires a very particular kind of approach. Unlike ordinary governance, disaster response cannot be centralized for long. Every collapsed building becomes its own command center. Every neighborhood develops different priorities. Every rescue team faces different engineering challenges. Governments do not succeed because they directly coordinate thousands of decisions. They succeed because they remove obstacles that allow thousands of other people to make good decisions simultaneously.

As civil society increasingly assumed functions the state could not perform, it also threatened to accumulate visibility, legitimacy, and influence outside government control.

During normal times, governments can afford to centralize decisions and insist that major initiatives pass through official channels. Earthquakes punish those instincts. Rescue operations cannot wait for permission, and civil society and the private sector suddenly become indispensable partners in the state’s response. The democratic governments (like the one overseeing Venezuela’s “transition”) that perform best recognize this early, spending the first critical hours empowering society rather than attempting to direct every aspect of the response themselves. For twenty-five years, chavismo taught its institutions almost the opposite lessons.

The government could not lead the humanitarian response with the effectiveness the moment demanded. Society therefore began leading significant parts of it instead. Volunteers organized rescue brigades. Churches became shelters. Journalists became emergency information networks. Engineers inspected damaged buildings. Diaspora organizations coordinated donations. Foreign rescue teams rapidly became the public face of many rescue operations. None of this was unusual. This is how major disasters are managed around the world.

What was unusual was the kind of state confronting the disaster.

Every major political crisis reinforced the same institutional lesson: autonomous organization reduced the state’s control over society. Independent organization was rarely viewed as something to harness, but was something to supervise. NGOs are suspected of serving foreign interests, until proven innocent. Independent journalists and universities are seen as political adversaries. Neighborhood networks are just three doritos away from becoming opposition structures. Enemies abound in the schizophrenic chavista view of societal organization. Because for a chavista state that has banked its continuous survival on complete, centralized control, such a degree of civil organization represents an extinction level threat.

Those lessons make sense for a political system primarily concerned with its own survival. They become profoundly maladaptive during natural disasters. Thus, the humanitarian response itself gradually became part of the government’s problem. As civil society increasingly assumed functions the state could not perform, it also threatened to accumulate visibility, legitimacy, and influence outside government control. Administratively, this strengthened Venezuela’s response. Politically, it displaced the government from the center of its own national emergency. Most democratic governments would welcome that trade-off. 

What authoritarian systems find difficult to tolerate is not civilian participation itself, but civilian participation they neither direct nor control. The rescue volunteers were not political activists. The churches distributing food were not organizing protests. The programmers building databases of missing persons were not preparing electoral campaigns. Yet institutions do not respond only to intentions; they respond to patterns. For a security apparatus that had spent years dismantling decentralized civic networks, from the humanitarian aid operation of 2019 to the comanditos of 2024, the potential may have mattered more than the differences.

Search-and-rescue operations have become increasingly militarized, with rescue crews at the Tahití building reportedly prevented by the military from reaching survivors for hours.

Seen through that lens, what initially looked like a series of political blunders begins to look more like institutional habit. Faced with a humanitarian emergency it lacked the capacity to fully manage, the government fell back on the institutions it trusted most: those responsible for regulating information, supervising autonomous actors, and maintaining political control. Much of the administrative state had long ceased to be valued primarily for its capacity to govern, functioning instead as an instrument of patronage and political management, while the coercive apparatus remained the regime’s principal institutional investment.

Faced with the limitations of both its own incompetence and the state it had spent decades constructing, havismo has increasingly resorted to the tactics with which it is most familiar. Survivors who expressed their anger at the government’s lackluster response, such as Wilmer Cruz, have reportedly been arrested. Search-and-rescue operations have become increasingly militarized, with rescue crews at the Tahití building (Caraballeda, La Guaira) reportedly prevented by the military from reaching survivors for hours. Intelligence agencies such as the DGCIM have been deployed to intimidate the families of victims, while, as the Sky News Trump 100 podcast reported, authorities have obstructed reporting from Caracas.

For months, the debate surrounding Venezuela’s transition has centered on whether chavismo was truly changing or merely adapting. The earthquake suggests the answer is both. Markets can be liberalized. Diplomatic priorities can shift. Revolutionary rhetoric can soften. Institutional instincts are far more resistant to change because they are built over decades of incentives, routines, promotions, and crises.

The earthquake did not create those instincts. It merely forced the government into a situation where it could no longer avoid relying on them.

Every state becomes good at what it repeatedly practices. The chavista regime spent twenty-five years investing in political control rather than disaster response; in supervising society rather than empowering it; in preserving power rather than preparing for catastrophe. When the country’s greatest humanitarian emergency in decades arrived, society responded with the institutions it had built to save lives. The state responded with the institutions it had built to preserve power. The earthquake did not force the Venezuelan state to choose between control and effective governance. That choice had been made long before the ground began to shake.

Photograph by Maxwell Briceño for Reuters, 2024.

Human beings invented States to protect themselves from catastrophe. You understand this in Lewis Mumford’s books on the first cities or in Jared Diamond’s on civilizational collapse: we went from nomadic tribal groups to organized societies of thousands of people because we learned to organize governments that, besides making some richer and more powerful than others, reduced the chances of dying from hunger, cold, disease, or enemy attack.

Until the mid-20th century, Venezuela did not have a State that significantly reduced the primitive precarity of its population, that defended it from catastrophe. As in so many other places on Earth, it was then that Venezuelans began to benefit from technology and institutions that saved them from dying of starvation or influenza. There had been previous efforts, from Páez’s first economic reconstruction programs and Guzmán Blanco’s compulsory education to Gómez’s road construction.

But it was with the López Contreras administration in 1936 that we began to see institutions functioning on a truly national scale, vaccination and literacy campaigns, a systematic effort to transform a dispersed, sparsely populated society with a very low life expectancy, where the vast majority of people were sick and malnourished, into a functional and productive one. During those decades, the governments of López Contreras, Medina Angarita, the 1945-1948 junta, Gallegos, and Pérez Jiménez took advantage of oil revenues to implement measures that benefited the people. With democracy, in 1958, came more public works and institutional innovations, such as the expansion of political rights.

With Chávez, the decadent welfare state we had not only ceased to protect society from catastrophe, but became the cause of the catastrophe. It was like teaching a loyal guard dog to kill the children in the house.

Until that promise of development for all was broken, inequality began to grow, vulnerability began to regain ground, and a frustrated and confused society chose Hugo Chávez as its answer, precisely in the year, 1998, that marked five centuries since the first contact with Spain. It had taken us half a millennium to have a State that provided health, education, justice, and order. That year, that history of progress halted, and the long road traveled began to unravel.

Reversal and investment

As Paula Vásquez Lezama described it, since the Vargas tragedy in 1999, when chavismo appropriated the bodies of the survivors, everything the State gave demanded in return helping that State grow and maintain itself. As Mirtha Rivero recounts in La oscuridad no llegó sola, chavismo used every crisis to seize control of the entire State. Once it had it in its hands, it turned it upside down. The State that should have served society now only had to serve power, against society. 

With Chávez, the decadent welfare state we had not only ceased to protect society from catastrophe, but became the cause of the catastrophe. It was like teaching a loyal guard dog to kill the children in the house.

Chavismo deepened all the vices of those previous governments to reverse the complicated history of our development and invert the role of the State. The long-standing culture of police and military violence expanded to turn the entire country into a checkpoint, where the armed forces behave like an army of occupation that treats all natives as enemies, on a scale that covers the entire territory, not just the slums riddled with bullets during the Caracazo. The perennial culture of corruption among civil servants was perfected to privatize the public administration, which does nothing unless its staff is paid personally, and to transform the bureaucracy into an industry for extracting wealth from citizens and the land, far more voracious than under any dictatorial or democratic government prior to 1999.

As long as this perpetrator State exists, we will not have any transition to democracy in Venezuela.

The elephantine State erected by Chávez had lost much of its muscle mass by 2020, but it remained, and remains, capable of subjugating a nation diminished by the miniaturization of its economy and mass migration. Maduro redesigned repression to maximize the yield of his limited resources. And so he reached the point where he discovered, especially after the 2024 electoral fraud, the efficiency of kidnapping a minor, because that means imprisoning an entire family and the community network to which the family turns to.

The method of subjugating society by harming entire families is evident in the Víctor Quero case. It wasn’t administrative chaos that prevented his family from knowing whether he was alive or dead, nor was it that the clerks couldn’t find the file with his name on it. It was terror, a set of practices that a regime, illegitimate and rejected by the majority of the population, implemented to minimize the chances of losing power. That State, which for decades attempted to be a welfare state, providing public goods to millions of citizens, now focuses on managing harm to those millions in order to provide private goods to the few thousand who control it.

Beyond the anger we feel over the story of Carmen Navas asking about her son from the cruel giant who killed him, the Víctor Quero case is causing such a stir because of how it exposes the way the Venezuelan State has become the very opposite of what it should be. Instead of saving people from misfortune, it inflicts misfortune to govern through fear. Instead of being accountable, it lies and sows confusion for months as a form of torture. Instead of being the state of law and justice promised by the Constitution that frames it, it is a criminal State where justice does not exist.

The great work of chavismo

This is the State that killed Víctor Quero and that forced an elderly woman, for more than nine months, to undertake the economic and logistical challenge of visiting courts and prisons, even outside Caracas, driven by the hope of seeing her son again before he died.

And this State is the main achievement of chavismo.

Previous governments, whose main task was to govern for better or for worse, left behind a legacy of buildings and institutions, from banks and State-owned enterprises to schools, museums, and universities, which were a mix of successes and failures. Chavismo will leave some buildings and infrastructure projects, far too few considering the revenue it received during almost three decades in power. But the main creation of chavismo is this gigantic state that serves only to subjugate society.

And as long as this perpetrator State exists, we will not have any transition to democracy in Venezuela. We will not be able to return to the path of democracy and development from which chavismo diverted us.