The Venezuelan dictatorship, in its delirium of absolute control, believes that nationality is a whim that can be removed with a decree. Maduro and his leadership of narco-tyrants think that with a stroke of the pen years of history, struggle and belonging can be erased. How wrong they are! The Venezuelan identity is not for sale, it is not auctioned off to the highest bidder nor is it diluted by the absurd measures of a regime that has lost all contact with reality.
Recently, the dictator presented to the Supreme Court of Justice (TSJ) a request to revoke the nationality of those who – according to his twisted logic – “betray the country” or collaborate with foreign armies. This action, which aims to nullify civil and mobility rights, is a desperate maneuver to intimidate and silence the diaspora which today exceeds nine million people and the dissidents who resist within our borders. It is a tropical variant of the darker tactics of regimes like Cuba and Nicaragua, which seek to create stateless people on political whim.
Our identity is imprinted in the soul of every Venezuelan, it resonates in every verse of our national anthem. Every time we sing the Glory to the Good Peopleour hearts tremble, they vibrate with the strength of a nation that does not give up, even if they deny us the renewal of our passport. The regime can play with symbols, remove or add stars to our tricolor flag, twist the horse’s neck on our shield, but none of this will make the figurehead Alex Saab more Venezuelan than the arepa that identifies us. The Constitution is clear: nationality at birth cannot be revoked, so these actions are, in addition to being immoral, unconstitutional.
Venezuelanness can be breathed in the salty air of the fried fish of La Guaira, it can be seen in the infinite blue that hypnotized Armando Reverón, in the kinetic path traced by Cruz Diez at Maiquetía airport, in the mural by Oswaldo Vigas in the square of the UCV rectorate or in Zapata’s ingenuity captured in the ceramics that give shape to the “Drivers of Venezuela”. Our identity survives in the Plaza Venezuela, in Alejandro Otero’s Abra Solar, in the sphere of Caracas armed with 1800 wands that Jesús Soto bequeathed to us, in the stained glass windows of Mateo Manaure and in the shadow of Pascual Navarro the bohemian by Sabana Grande. Who can obscure our true identity painted in the 30 portraits of our heroes by Martín Tovar y Tovar in the dome of the Elíptico Hall?
Our identity is in the flowers of Galipán and in the majestic Cerro Ávila that Caracas guards by irradiating its earthly prisms. Or does Maduro perhaps think that the leaders of the ELN, whom he protects on national territory, are more Creole than the palm trees that every Palm Sunday – prelude to Holy Week – descend with their branches to Chacao? Does the dictator intend to plant coca to replace the aromatic crops of eucalyptus, rosemary, roses and strawberries that our farmers plant with so much effort? The regime has transformed an oil state into a narco-state, a threat that extends beyond our borders, allying itself with drug trafficking and international terrorism, but our identity as a country with unlimited natural wealth and good, dignified and hard-working people remains latent.
The identity of Venezuela is in the Battle of Youth staged in La Victoria. It is in the epic struggle of Carabobo, where the famous Negro Primero gave his life fighting alongside our heroes. Will they take away his nationality? post-mortem to General Páez?
Our identity is in the twilights of Barquisimeto, in the ears of Acarigua, in the altars of La Coromoto, of the Divina Pastora, of the Chinita, of the Virgin of the Valley. That unshakable faith mixed with hope is what identifies us. When we sing: “Linda Barinas, flat earth, path of palm trees and sun”, Maduro will believe that by taking away the passport of an inhabitant of Pedraza, he will stop acting Florentino and the devil? What happens!
The identity of Venezuela is in that unique species that are the frailejones of the Andes mountain range, it is in the perennial snows of Mérida, in the peaks of Táchira and in the temple of Christ of La Grita. How does dictator Maduro intend to take our souls and tear our Venezuelanness from our skin? Our identity is written in Gallegos’ novels: Mrs. Barbara, Canaima AND Poor Black. Will Maduro dare to throw those immortal pages of our history, which portray the soul and struggle of our people, into the bonfire?
The identity of a country lies in its plains, jungles, mountains, rivers and lakes. To tarnish Venezuela’s identity, Maduro should turn the lakes of Valencia and Maracaibo into deserts, as well as the lagoons of Píritu, Tacarigua, Mucubají or Taiguaiguay. I should pulverize the mountains of Sorte and the Tetas de María Guevara, demolish the Pan de Azúcar peak, the Bolívar peak, the Humboldt peak and the Platillón. It will have to dry up the channels of the Orinoco, Caroní and Apure rivers. Stop the Salto dell’Angelo waterfalls, stop the Turimiquire stream so that its waters do not supply the Manzanares rivers in Cumaná, the Neverí in Barcelona and the Guarapiche river in Maturín. I should also change the sweetness of the San Carlos de Cojedes mangoes and finish eliminating the multi-tasting hallacas that taste of Venezuela from family tables. I should turn off the Catatumbo lightning.
The identity of Venezuela is in the estuaries of Camaguán, in its morichales, in the flight of its herons, falcons, carraos and curlews. The hour of our identity is marked by the “sun of the deer”. We are Venezuelans with our essence entangled in the mangroves of Tucupita. Our identity flies in the breezes that walk between the tepuis, it is heard in the whistle of the turpiales, in the noisy fluttering of parrots, parakeets and macaws and appears exuberant in the petals of our orchids. It appears as imposing as the caimans, pumas and anacondas that populate the Amazon. Our identity resonates in the traveling harp, resonates in every capacho scrambled in the maracas and cuatro with which they make musical magic. Cheo Hurtado, Jorge Glem or the chicken Brito sings river traveller at the foot of the Ciudad Bolívar seafront.
And what will he do with our vernacular music? Will you change the rhythm of the joropo so that it sounds like a Cuban trova? Will he change the arrangements of a quirpa so that he does not remind us of the freedom of the plain? How do you intend to turn down the volume of our tamunangue, Margariteño polo, Andean waltzes and bambucos? Will it silence the drums upwind? Our identity dances to the rhythm of the guarachas of Billo’s, the technomerengue of Los Melódicos and the Parampampan of the Latin dimension. How can you not feel the Venezuelan identity while singing the Gray Zuliana with the exceptional Maracucho bard Ricardo Aguirre?
Our identity is shaken by the electronic rebellion of Los Amigos Invisibles, it is reflected in the rebellious and protest lyrics of Caramelos de Cianuro, in the ska The Caribbean and the urban sound of Desorden Público, in the truncated wit of the Latin hip-hop of the only rapper and composer Cancerbero and in the description of our people of Rawayana.
Venezuelan identity lies in taking a dip in the Jungle Slide of Puerto Ayacucho or while swimming on the beaches of Cata, Puerto Cabello, Higuerote, Chichiriviche, Playa del Agua, Tucacas, Morrocoy, la Restinga, Los Roques or Mochima. Our identity is indelible! It’s in those 1,700 kilometers of sandy beaches. In its 311 islands, its coral-embellished reefs, its 44 national parks and its seven wild bird refuges. Our identity is the sand that sticks to our skin, it is the salt water that baptizes us again and again as children of this land.
Nationality is carried in our blood, in our ethnic groups, in our hearts, in the collective memory of a people who do not forget their roots. They can deprive us of our property, imprison our brothers, leave us without documents, but they can never take away our dignity and pride in being Venezuelan. Identity is ours and is not, nor will it ever be, in doubt or up for auction.
