In 1989, excluded Venezuelans took to the streets to condemn a political class that was leaving them behind. It was a bloody encounter between the people and the repressive state that marked a deep fracture with representative democracy in Venezuela. This moment highlighted the consequences of social exclusion and marginalization, revealing a political class deaf to the people's clamor.

A few years later, Hugo Chávez Frías orchestrated a coup against the same political class that had stained the streets with Venezuelan blood during the Caracazo. From then on, Chávez represented hope for marginalized Venezuela. A man of humble origins, a soldier, and a golpista, he was seen by many in the international left as a fair leader who came to distribute wealth and fight injustice both in the country and beyond. The bond between Chávez and his people seemed unbreakable, and he remained highly popular until the end of his days. Every Sunday, we saw him reciting poetry, singing, and joking while piece by piece he devoured the cake of liberal democracy in Venezuela. Goodbye power balance, goodbye press freedom, goodbye freedom of association—little by little, all restrictions on the executive were lifted by the Venezuelans who decided to sign a blank check to the comandante.

Meanwhile, those who thought differently were imprisoned, as in the terrible case of Judge María Lourdes Afiuni. People were leaving the country, self-censorship became rampant, and despite various warnings, people—especially from marginalized groups vindicated by chavismo—stood firmly with their commander. Even after his death, people remained loyal to the comandante eterno. While the middle class protested against Chávez, the rural and low-income sectors remained loyal to the so-called revolution.

A few nights ago, we saw what the Comandante’s handpicked successor was doing to those popular classes in Caracas and across the country. The resemblance to the brutality seen in the Caracazo was unavoidable: El Valle, Petare, and Catia, firm in their desire for change and hungry for new leadership, were met with violence. Over a thousand people have been detained, including young individuals from low-income areas whose parents probably voted for Chávez a decade ago, now risking their lives for change, for freedom, and for democracy. Kids who have never lived in a real democracy are eager to taste it, bathing the streets in sweat and blood. The so-called Chávez legacy is being exterminated by the brutality of a regime that, lacking charisma, is resorting to its only remaining resource: brute violence. 

The hope of millions of Venezuelans who voted for a popular change in 1998, and who allowed the comandante to dismantle liberal democratic institutions piece by piece, was fatally shot this week in my country. The only hope that remains is embraced by the people in the streets who, hungry for justice, have broken the veil of fear, as they did in 1989. Chávez was very fond of Alí Primera, a leftist popular singer who chanted, “Los que mueren por la vida no pueden llamarse muertos / Those who die for life cannot be called dead.” That song resonates today more than ever, as the Chavista hope has turned into darkness, revealing the true nature of the Chavista left as a violent and despotic force. The last elections, purposely coinciding with the comandante’s birthday, resulted in hundreds of political prisoners and dozens of poor young people dead. The comandante eterno continues to consume his people beyond his grave, while a very corrupt political class isolated from the people moves forward with their bloodbath.

Happy Birthday, Comandante.