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The US assault on Venezuela to kidnap and fly President Nicolás Maduro and his wife to New York to face criminal charges not only shocked the world for representing a blatant violation of international law and of a country’s sovereignty, it also marked a turning point in the lives of more than 35 million Venezuelans at home and abroad.
Since the US strikes, the most vulnerable of the 28-29 million people estimated to remain in Venezuela have struggled to secure food for their families, faced intensified state repression, and lived in constant anxiety due to uncertainty about their future.
In addition to the almost eight million Venezuelans who have left the country since 2014, a large segment of this remaining population has been deeply affected by the overlapping economic and humanitarian crises that marked Maduro’s rule.
According to official figures, the strikes that took place in Caracas – and the states of Aragua, Miranda, and La Guaira – have caused at least 100 deaths and left a similar number of people wounded. Cuban personal guards of Maduro, members of the Venezuelan military, and at least two civilians are reportedly among the dead.
On 5 January, Vice-President Delcy Rodríguez was sworn in as president and called for Venezuelans to cooperate with the US. She has a reputation for being business-friendly and is often perceived as moderate within the Chavista regime, but there is reportedly already political infighting, while numerous other armed militias, criminal networks, and foreign armed groups – including Colombia’s largest rebel group, the ELN – operate inside and across the country’s borders.
Across the political spectrum, there is a high level of rejection of the US invasion, which, according to polling, was a much more popular idea outside Venezuela than inside.
Those loyal to Maduro are especially angered by US President Donald Trump’s brazen intervention.
“We demand that [Maduro] be returned to us along with first lady Cilia Flores, because he was constitutionally elected by the Venezuelan people and they were taken without their consent – vulgarly kidnapped by the US oligarchy,” Cecilia García told The New Humanitarian, as she took part in the rally organised in support of the inauguration of the new National Assembly on 5 January.
“He is neither a terrorist nor a drug trafficker. They took him because the empire wants all the wealth of our country, our minerals and our oil. We will not allow it because we are a free nation,” she added.
But even many of those who wanted Maduro gone – he is accused of having stolen the 2024 presidential election from an opposition candidate widely credited with winning in a landslide – didn’t want him simply abducted and his regime kept in place.
On the streets of Caracas, and other towns and cities around Venezuela, there is acute concern about what comes next.
The Rodríguez government immediately issued a “state of external emergency decree” that opens the way to stronger repression, authorising the arrest of those suspected of supporting the US military intervention.
Claudia Rodríguez, a women’s rights activist and member of the Socialism and Freedom Party (PSL) – a leftist party that doesn't support the government – told The New Humanitarian she worried the decree would lead to even more abuses than those committed during the wave of repression that followed the 2024 presidential elections and left 24 people dead.
Since Maduro’s abduction, paramilitary groups known as “colectivos” have been patrolling the streets of Caracas on motorbikes and operating checkpoints to interrogate people and search their mobile phones. The regime has also relied on the Bolivarian militia – a reserve force composed of civilian volunteers founded by late President Hugo Chávez in 2008 to assist the armed forces – to ensure security. Both, Rodríguez said, are now “backed by the decree” to act.
“We are in an abnormal state of vulnerability,” she said. “The social, cultural, and community environment has become tense. Distrust is not new; it already existed but it is now deepening.”
In the days after the US abduction of Maduro, The New Humanitarian talked to three Venezuelan women from the areas that were bombed to find out how the US assault has impacted their lives. Their testimony – of psychological trauma and vulnerability – reflect the lived reality in a country marked by constant uncertainty and fragility.
Manuela*, Ciudad Tiuna, southern Caracas: “I feel indignation at this action by the US”
In the early hours of 3 January, Manuela, a 35-year-old teacher, woke up to the sound of consecutive explosions in Ciudad Tiuna, a residential area within the military complex of Fort Tiuna, where Maduro was apprehended.
“Bombs are falling, I don’t know what to do,” she texted a friend on WhatsApp at 1:50am, as smoke rose outside her window and neighbours shouted that they were under attack.
She ran down the stairs with an emergency bag, clutching her asthma inhaler so she could catch her breath as she rushed. She feared she wouldn’t be allowed to pass the entrance’s military checkpoint, but there were no officials when she went through. The complex faces a highway where she and many others took shelter under a bridge. Nearby, she saw members of a family crying in each other’s arms.
“There was so much panic. That’s when I was told Caracas was under attack and that it was the gringos,” she recalled. A neighbour later told her she first heard a helicopter, then the power went out, and immediately afterwards the explosions began.
Manuela estimates it all lasted about 40 minutes. When she arrived at her parents’ house in another area of Caracas, she hugged her daughter, who had been staying with them. Then, she began checking social media, where citizens were posting videos of explosions in different cities.
Her first thought was she needed to look for food – a natural instinct for Venezuelans, who know what it is like to go hungry. She experienced this in 2016, when Venezuela’s economic crisis was at its worst, and she now fears the return of endless queues, food shortages, and a general deterioration in life conditions.
“In Venezuela, we’ve been taught to live in constant alertness,” she said. “Venezuelans have normalised what would be considered abnormal uncertainty elsewhere.”
After the US attacks, Manuela tried to resume her routine, and her work teaching remotely, but she said she is still in shock: “I never felt so much fear in my life. I could have died, and I feel indignation at this action by the US government. I wake up every day feeling deeply sad.”
“I do not support the US interference. Bombing a country like Venezuela is not acceptable. It is a violation of international law. Moreover, this state of emergency is used to continue repressing dissent.”
Manuela hadn’t been back home. The thought of returning to Ciudad Tiuna filled her with anguish. She was following the neighbourhood’s WhatsApp group to see when power came back, when shops started reopening, and when medicines were available. But she made sure not to comment on anything, in case of reprisals.
“I do not support the US interference. Bombing a country like Venezuela is not acceptable. It is a violation of international law. Moreover, this state of emergency is used to continue repressing dissent,” she said. “It allows [the regime] to keep the entire population under control through fear.”
On 7 January, Rodríguez, the acting president, announced that the government had guaranteed food reserves sufficient for 111 days and activated a production plan for 200,000 hectares of communal land.
This did not reassure Manuela, who said she has lost any hope for a better future.
“This government has attacked the rights of Venezuelans, such as the right to food and a decent wage. Whatever happens, I have decided to leave the country. Even if a transition eventually occurs, it will take many years for things to stabilise,” she said.
“I don’t want to waste more time: I want to pursue my professional development and offer my daughter other opportunities, not this survival. In Venezuela, you live in fear.”
María Celeste*, La Guaira, a port city north of Caracas: “I don’t sleep, I have crying spells”
María Celeste, a 43-year-old activist living near La Guaira, felt her entire house shake and the smell of burning fill the air when the strikes hit her neighbourhood. Along with the rest of her family and her neighbours, she ran towards the main avenue, thinking it was an earthquake. Their view was clouded by smoke. Then she got news from Caracas that there were also explosions at Fort Tiuna and she realised it wasn’t an isolated incident.
In the midst of the chaos, they met a security guard from the port who had suffered a knee injury during one of the first strikes. He reckoned the bomb had fallen about 200 metres from where he was. “I’m sure my colleague didn’t survive,” he told them.
Through his radio, they heard reports of the wounded being evacuated and orders to clear civilian facilities that only came at around 5am, several hours after the first explosions.
Since that day, María Celeste hasn’t dared leave her home. She still feels panicked and explains that being the daughter of an anti-government political leader in the region, and an activist herself, her family is permanently at risk of repression.
“Those of us critical of this government or engaged in social and political activism are at greater risk than ever. Chavismo is a structure: They only removed one member, but the structure remains.”
“They want to investigate anyone they believe promoted the attack,” she said. “Those of us critical of this government or engaged in social and political activism are at greater risk than ever. Chavismo is a structure: They only removed one member, but the structure remains.”
María Celeste said she is currently seeking professional help to address her symptoms of post-traumatic stress: She avoids looking out from the balcony, fears the attacks will be repeated, and tries to shield herself from what is happening.
“I don’t sleep, I have crying spells. I’ve decided not to watch so much news and prefer comforting entertainment,” she said. “I feel more fear than before the bombing.”
Compounding that fear is the uncertainty about food and health. María Celeste has a son with autism and is afraid she will not be able to afford the medicine he needs, or food, if prices stay so high.
“It’s hard for me to believe in a change and, if it comes, it will be a very slow process,” she said. “The damage done to this country is immense, and I’m worried about our immediate future. I only have food until tomorrow and no more than $50 to stock up.
Miyanllela Fernández, La Vega neighbourhood, Caracas: “I didn’t go out to buy, because I have no money”
Miyanllela, a 45-year-old informal vendor and mother of three, lives in a house made of zinc sheets in La Vega, a central neighbourhood of Caracas marked by poverty and state violence. On 3 January, her home shook with the explosions and smoke covered the nearby mountain where electricity and communications installations were hit.
“It was desperate. There was so much panic. We thought they were going to bomb the slums,” she told The New Humanitarian, speaking only hours after the attacks.
That same day, she said, food prices skyrocketed. A carton of eggs that used to cost $2.50 – already five times the minimum wage of approximately $0.50 – rose to $5, and the dollar exchange rate spiked from about 400 to 1,000 bolívares, she said.
“I didn’t go out to buy, because I have no money,” she said. The most affected are our children. How do you tell a child there is no food and they have to wait until tomorrow?”
Miyanllela said the US attacks and the state of emergency have only deepened the vulnerability of those already in critical situations – those who already had little to no access to food, no sense of security, no assistance.
“You feel everything will be the same or worse, that there will be no changes,” she said. “People go out because they have to work, but they go out with fear.”
In Miyanllela’s case, the continuation of the Chavista regime has another implication. One of her three children, Richard Briceño, was killed in January 2021, during the so-called La Vega Massacre – a police raid in which dozens of people were killed, some in summary executions. Her son was allegedly executed by officers of the Criminal Investigations Division of the Bolivarian National Police (DIP).
“If there is a change of government, I have faith there will be justice for my son, but if the same structure remains, I see that as far away,” she said. “Five years have passed and the judicial process is still stalled. As a mother, this is a pain that stays with you forever.”
*Two of the three women’s names have been changed for safety reasons.
Edited by Daniela Mohor.
