The whole world was sleeping when the explosions began.
It was 2am. I thought a thief had entered the house but the windows were shaking. Five minutes later I heard another explosion. We’re used to Christmas fireworks but these were stronger and deeper. Everything shook. Then I heard gunfire. I messaged friends on WhatsApp. They said they heard it too. Then I smelled smoke – like after a fire, but like nothing I’ve known.
My house is 5km from La Carlota, a military base. For about 45 minutes I heard explosions and then normality. Complete calm. I didn’t know if it was an invasion, a coup d’etat, a collaboration between the government and the US. There’s so much uncertainty here.
Outside on the street it’s like New Year’s Day. The country should be militarised but there’s nothing apart from the smell of smoke. No troops. No tanks. No police. A few soldiers just passed by on motorbikes. A few cars. That’s it. Shops are closed. Everyone is inside. The media say nothing. There is no news. The news was kidnapped long ago.
I tell you this with all my heart: this is a relief that we’ve been waiting 25 years for. I can talk for 80% of the population. The sound of the explosions? It made me glad. I wasn’t afraid – all the opposite.
Related articles:
Here there is a passive euphoria. People are excited. We’d be on the square celebrating but here we have los colectivos – a civil military force – which prevents that. They could pass by with machine guns.
I was born in Caracas in 1965 and I’ve always lived here. My childhood was beautiful. I did sports, I grew, I went to university. We heard of hunger, of lack, of drugs, but I didn’t know them. In Caracas it was a party from Monday to Monday. I’m a musician and I performed from Monday to Monday. That all ended.
Over these years people have been kidnapped, disappeared, lost their livelihoods, their homes. Children aged 15 are in prison for protesting. Some are tortured. The economy is on the floor. We don’t earn enough to live. I’ve slept in my car, queuing for fuel. You can wait two days to fill your tank. I had to sell my car.
This is an economy of hunger, and we want to confirm that what has happened is what the majority of us want: that the dictator is gone.
If anyone were listening to this call, they could put me in prison. But you write my name. Eric Martinez. I don’t care now.
Eric Martínez, a musician in Caracas, spoke to Gary Cansell
Photograph by Jabreu89/X/AFP via Getty Images