For 26 years, the Venezuelan experience has been one of anxious dawns: a relentless cycle of rumors that spread like a low rumble, only to be silenced by official falsehoods. This reality is a constant knot in the heart, fueled by worry for the safety of loved ones. I recall the nights when rumors of Hugo Chávez’s death circulated around Christmas in 2012, the shocking sound of political police pounding on my apartment door at dawn. And, most recently, the terrifying jolt of waking at 2 a.m. to see images on my phone of the US bombardment of Caracas on January 3.
