Darkness and Light in Venezuela

Coco is indifferent to the electrical blackouts we suffer daily in our village of Palo Verde. Blind since birth, he navigates the world guided by his inner light. A musician since I took his small hands in mine some 15 year ago to strum the cuatro, he has no need for electricity to power a radio. The chords of his piano or cuatro grace our village each evening, carried by the sweeping winds of the Fumarola mountain.

Our little mountain village seems built especially for this plague of darkness and silence. When phone lines go down with the electricity, we only need to shout a message over the hills and it will arrive. Ely is going to spend the night here, tell her mom! I holler into the darkness, sure someone will pass it on to Elida, a half kilometer away. Five minutes later the return message is relayed: Elida says ok.

The full moon, though, is my finest ally. It lights my path as I spend hours each night watering our fields and orchards and gardens. As we enter a year of darkness, dominoes has evolved as the prime evening recreation and sitting around the fire has replaced telenovelas as a way of closing the day together as a family.

All this is the poetic part. But there is no lovely verse for my goddaughter Enderly who arrives at the hospital in her mother’s arms to find  its nebulizer – the lifeline for her chronic asthmatic attacks - shut down with the electricity. Or the panic Dinoskar knows that at any minute the respirator that keeps the lungs of her 8-month old nephew pumping may shut down.

Gradually, though, we have all become a bit like Coco. Adapting to the darkness that that shrouds much of Venezuela daily. At the beginning of the year, with each power outage, people banged pots and pans. Or took the streets. That rarely happens now,  even as the rest of Latin America seems to be rising up collectively. Morocho of the Calle La Paz is testimony to that.

An engineering student, Moro lies in jail tonight trying to keep his convulsions at bay. As a student protest came to a close last week, a riot policeman grabbed his cell phone, telling him: it’s mine now. Moro tried to grab the phone back, was beaten, forced to  swallow deodorant, causing convulsions. Accused now of terrorism, he is slated to be sent to overcrowded Uribana prison. Protest is not an option here in Venezuela.

The government provided numerous explanations for our power outages when they began. It was Donald Trump’s personal henchmen sitting in towers in St. Louis and Chicago, strategically plunging large portions of Venezuela into darkness. Then it was a random guy – now in jail - whose bullet was supposedly retrieved from the river and was said to cause a five day, nation-wide power outage.

But, after some 100,000 power outages in the country, it’s rather hard to keep spinning new stories. The truth that all Venezuelans know is that the outages come from neglecting repairs to the public electrical system caused, yes - in part - by brutal US economic sanctions that keep repair parts from reaching Venezuelan shores. And - in part - by the massive mismanagement of the government coupled with endemic corruption.

But adaptation and resilience is what we do daily here in Venezuela. And we do it well.

Because in truth, we are not only surviving. Poco a poco, we are thriving. That, perhaps, is the greatest measure of our resistance. Increasing, there are twinkles and rays and flashes that are lighting up our dark night. 

I am grateful for the moon that guides my steps and for the human lights that illuminate my soul on this journey. For the light of Bebe as he stomps mud late into the night, even after an exhausting day in the fields, to build a sturdy wattle and daub home for this small daughter.

For the light of Crisberlys as she waltzed her quinceanos last Saturday in borrowed clothes and bartered food, and a glow that we all need.

For the daily flow of food over the fence from my neighbor Jenny. For the wisdom of Cristian who corrals my chickens on evenings when I am away, and patiently teaches me in the ways of my brood. We help each other daily to survive, to celebrate, to thrive.

Little by little, a subtle dawn is breaking in Venezuela. In  comes from the resilience of those who stayed and the hard work of those who left (over 5 million) and who send money home.And from the generosity of Latin American countries who have  taken in Venezuelan migrants, by the millions, just as Venezuela took them in for decades. They have thrown open their doors just as the US has closed theirs. 

It is a dawn that spites the dark machinations of many within and without Venezuela whose eyes are only on the prize of oil and gold, at any price, including the destruction of a nation. 

But, theirs is not be the final word. As I water my kale and corn by the moon, Coco is singing a gaita now, to the beat of Ledy's drums, and the wind carries it and wraps me in its rhythm and verse.  Venezuela estrella vas galopante por grandes caminos. Vamos adelante, siempre pa’lante…. (Venezuela star you are galloping on great paths. We go forward, always forward.