Last
Tuesday, as Juan Guaidó was trying to liberate Venezuela via a
military coup, my dog Cocoa went into labor. The kids from our
farming group noticed that she was restless, shuffling in and out of
the shed, pawing at the dirt. The liberation of her pups was
imminent.
As
Guaidó called on generals and citizens to join him in the streets,
Jose Manuel helped me make a cozy den for Cocoa. We laid cardboard on
the dirt floor of the shed, covered it with an old blanket, and set
out fresh water. But as the afternoon wore on with a flurry of
tree-planting, we kind of forgot about Cocoa.
Night
fell and the stars lit up the night (gone is the time when light
bulbs lit up the night). I noted that Cocoa was still very
pregnant, still very restless. She refused her evening meal. The
following day was the same. Her pups seemed reluctant to heed the
call of liberation.
And
so it seemed with Venezuelans. Few responded to call of Guaidó to
“liberation”. The generals – those to whom is call was
primarily directed – remained snug in their barracks (although they
did send out some soldiers in tanks to plow down the few souls who
headed the call).
The
few young people remaining in the country mostly opted out. In their
short lives they had seen too many end up behind bars or in a coffin
for taking to the streets.
Older
folks knew too well. They were spooked by the serpentine smiles of of
Elliott Abrams and Donald Trump peeking right behind the shoulder of
Guaidó.
Everyone
else was too busy standing in gas lines, chopping firewood or hauling
water to even notice. Within a few hours the coup leaders had slipped
into embassies and the streets were calm. Maduro was dancing in front
of his presidential palace. Two liberation efforts seemed stalled:
that of Cocoa and of Guaidó.
The
following morning I awoke to soft squeals. I raced outside to find
Cocoa atop my rocking chair, a rather unusual birthing center. Two
pups next to her were dead, and a third barely alive. Within an hour
two more arrived lifeless.
Cocoa
and I valiantly struggled to revive the lone survivor. As Cocoa
licked the pup’s face I coaxed her on. Wakú - Cocoa’s mother -
checked on us from time to time, offering silent support. She was
busy with her own set of five puppies, three weeks old, fat, happy
and always hungry.
Finally,
an exhausted Cocoa gave me the saddest look possible on the face of a
dog. It was also a look of permission. Her eyes told me: Take her
too and bury her with the rest.
As
I laid the pups into the ground I felt the weight of an immense
sadness. Two failed liberation efforts in two days.
Wait
a minute! Obviously, I wanted the puppies to live. But, I couldn’t
possibly have wanted a
US-backed military coup to succeed. Could I? My entire life has been
built around standing up to violence. A pillar of my 40 years in
Latin America has been that of calling out the horrific legacy of US
intervention.
But
on some crazy irrational momentary emotional level I just wanted an
immediate out to the situation for my beloved Venezuela. I wanted new
life for a dying nation. A quick and magical end to this hunger,
violence, mass migration, disease and despair. I wanted my adopted
nation back again, not this ugly, desperate shadow of a country, a
frightening no-man’s-land where contraband and corruption are king.
I gave my cheek a slap, and slowly, my rational mind struggled to
regain control.
I
didn’t see Cocoa for the rest of the evening or the next morning.
To distract my worry, I decided to go check on Wakú and her pups in
the gazebo. To my surprise, there was Cocoa! She was regally wrapped
around three of Wakú´s plump pups, happily nursing and vigorously
cleaning them, as though she had done this her entire life. She
radiated purpose and passion. Next to her was Wakú, nursing the
other two, looking delighted with this new arrangement.
And
so the following days passed. Both birth-mom and adopted-mom took the
pups to romp in the grass. Sometimes one gave the other a break, to
sneak out to eat a fallen mango. The grossly fat pups fell into a
heap under the acacia tree, nursing randomly from either mom, often
double dipping before falling into a drunken slumber.
As
I watched an idea hit me. Here we are in a country with two (male)
presidents. Each spends enormous effort and grotesque sums of money
to blame the other for the suffering of the Venezuelan people. Each
seems willing to do anything. Not for the good of the
Venezuelan people, but for power.
So,
maybe what Venezuela needs is not two presidents, but two moms. After
all, the total focus of moms - the ilk of Cocoa and Wakú – is the
well being of their pups - or people, as you may have it. What a
dream that would be…...
But
in all seriousness, as I watched Cocoa and Wakú work long hours
together, day after day, to raise five gloriously healthy and happy
pups, I thought, maybe they have a solution of how to save
Venezuela.
The
very survival of Venezuelans, of this nation itself, requires -
demands - working together. This prolonged battle of
winner-take-all is strangling us. There are no winners this way,
only losers. Even if power flips, the winners will soon become the
losers, because the losers will not let the winners in peace.
The
only real solution for this Venezuelan disaster is for all major
actors to come to the table and nurse this country back to life
instead of collectively smothering our final breaths.
So….come
to the table. Come Maduro. Come Guaidó. Come others who represent a
much broader swath than either of you. Dissident chavistas. Moderate
opposition. Churches. Civic groups. Farmers. Workers. Business. Come
together to facilitate a way in which all Venezuelans can choose,
in peace and transparency, their path forward, to life.
This
new transitory authority can call itself whatever: Transition
Government. National Pact. Interim Authority. Provisional Power.
Constitutional Committee. Shared Space. Viva Venezuela. Go by
whatever name you want.
But
just do it! Because THIS is what Venezuelans want.
