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So many times thirteen, by Carola Chávez

The Venezuelan people had seen a light with Chávez. He was just beginning to see her but she was so bright, so promising… more than a light of hope, it was a light of certainty. With Chávez we opened a door, until then sealed, and nobody was going to close it for us again.

They took Chavez away. The feeling of orphanhood was overcome by an urgency that seemed to arise from the land itself, a call, a common impulse: the collective conscience.

Go out looking for it. Go there. And no one asked where because our feet knew the way. To the street, to the barracks, to Fort Tiuna, to Miraflores, because palante is palla.

In less than 48 hours, the Venezuelan people defeated the Mayan sifrinage and took away the pleasure of handing over the country to the gringo master who already at that time, angrily shaking off the remains of paper and streamers from a premature and very brief celebration, monitored stunned at the unthinkable failure of his bloodthirsty master plan.

The Venezuelan people needed less than 48 hours to discover themselves immense and invincible. Chavez sentenced and his people, risking their lives, snatched him from death. That day was not going to happen.

But that doesn’t end there. The power of April thirteenth led us to resist the Oil Sabotage. That “Don’t give up, damn it!” of the woman who used the wood from her bed to cook for her family, which was the don’t give up on everyone until the sabotage was defeated. And “the people united will never be defeated” ceased to be a slogan to be action.

And so many provocations. And the military from Altamira cooking in their own sauce. And the flat signatures and the referendum that erased them. And Frrrraude! Every election we win Frrrraude!… Give me patience!…

And guarimbas, over and over and over again, and “We are with you forever” and then the country, for anti-Chavismo, was a television channel, and street, street and more street, and Yongo Millongo, distributing punches and arson threats, he broke his nose and it hurt. And the terrifying little music and crocodile tears and who could feel sympathy for a guy with petulant waxed mustache like Marcel Granier?… Today they don’t even remember RCTV.

And I don’t even remember what order it was in but “It’s not No!” and Cecilia Arocha’s and hers UU-UCV’s “we will not comply”… and I protest here, I chain myself there, and furious Maria Corina wanting someone to be killed, and if it was zambo better…

And the hardest and most painful, and “Long live cancer!” and “Chávez died and no one is going to give them back” and we bit our tongues that night, and hugged each other so that none of us, in pain and rage, would break the peace, which Chávez defended and taught us with his life to defend

And Maburro el cucuteño, and “unload that steak” and we planted putting the dead and dodging combs because stepping on them is always losing. “Ok, better go out dancing salsa”, another battle won, another defeat in the opposition album of flops.

And the repentant dog returns with more guarimbas with goofy little names, increasingly specialized in death, yes. The Exit is called now and it comes with guayas and cut throats and Ukraine and Venezuela at the Oscars in the voice of a shaggy nominee who suffers for us without even knowing who we are. Blood-colored revolutions with the seal of the yuesei. I have them all for you and we fade them.

And since we didn’t end up dead or surrendered, Obama decreed that we are an unusual and extraordinary threat to the interests of the United States. It’s that Obama believes that we should submit to the interests of his country and not ours… Oh, Barack!

And the doors were opened to sanctions (undeclared, but applied just the same) and Lorenzo, so brave and patriotic, declared war and Ricardo Haussman, back in Boston, applauded him. And he took the food and Fedecamaras asking for dollars and taking merchandise across the border, and Concecomercio all “I didn’t go”, and the bachaqueros who, seen in the distance of time, perhaps saved us while EL CLAP arrived, but that happened later…

Because “the last queue” came before and we lost the AN, and Ramos Allúp, looking for fart, kicked Bolívar and Chávez out of the Legislative Palace with insults. And, according to him, in six months he would also take out the “cucuteño bus driver”… Insults, threats, provocations and a dress code that Ronald Carreño created so that everything was chic.

And how he saw that he resisted, they went to look for another elephant and another horrendous guarimba in 2017 with the modality of burning alive anyone who seemed to be a Chavista, that is black, that is, niche, that is, die! Lynchings that cost dozens of lives, which later, the very murderers, endorsed on the government. And the people put up with it, because sometimes it caused them to step on the comb to see the shitty faces of those cowards, but the price was peace.

They took us to the brink of a civil war and we, with Nicolás at the head, stood up. “Nerves of steel, cold head”, the President told us and the people, clenching their teeth, chilled. And it cost so much… in Lara, they killed a child who lived in the Housing Mission. Cool head -shit!-, Tears of rage, nerves of steel, against all odds because our revenge will be that his children have schools.

And Oh, eh, oh, eh, oh, the Constituent Assembly goes! A strategic genius of Maduro that many of us did not understand but that we knew would serve. One Sunday in August was another 13th in April and millions of Venezuelans voted and, as if by Chavista magic, on Monday we woke up in peace.

And take your sanctions, take your Guaidó, take your interim government of psychotic thieves, led by the biggest psychopaths in Washington. And the “diaspora” and the demonization of Venezuela and Angelina Jolie… And Cúcuta, and I invade you yes or yes. And why not, piece of gafo with seeds! And again the town of thirteen on the bridges, in the streets standing up to the pretended invader.

And the theft, the looting, the persecution of Venezuelan accounts. The shortage of medicines, the deterioration of services and the national blackout defeated with community sancochos, dominated the sidewalks, our boys and girls playing hide and seek in the dark. No looting, no deaths, nothing. Only a wise people who knew how to wait because the light is inside and the outside always returns.

And COVID, and the millions of deaths that salivating predicted for us. And that account didn’t work out either because keeping quarantine was another of the ways we found to make an April thirteenth.

And in the midst of the Gideon pandemic, an operation with a biblical name with Holliwood mercenaries, Rambitos trained in Colombia, armed to the teeth, ready to kill… And in the blink of an eye, fishermen and soldiers, the civic-military union in perfect harmony and wow! the pissed-off, deflated brave men, lying on their bellies in the hot town square, looking at nothing with what the fuck faces.

And so, two decades of plans, little plans and plans to erase Chavismo, to put an end to the Bolivarian Revolution that have not stopped. And we, like that thirteen, who is the same every day in this long, difficult, painful, but always beautiful battle for the dignity, not only of Venezuela, but of all humanity.

And forgive the immodesty, but after everything I’ve been through, I don’t know, nor do I want, to hide the pride of who we are. We are the Chavista people: brave, noble, loyal, conscientious, so many times indecipherable, dashing, joking, irreverent… invincible. In short, we are Chávez… and he is us!

CAROLA CHÁVEZ / @tongorocho / Posted by El Mazo

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