In the early morning hours of Saturday, January 3, the roar of bombs dropping from the sky announced the US military attack on Venezuela, waking the sleeping residents of La Carlota, in Caracas, a neighborhood adjacent to the air base that was a target of Operation Absolute Resolve.
Marina G.’s first thought, as the floors, walls, and windows of her second-story apartment shook, was that it was an earthquake. Her cat scrambled and hid for hours, while the neighbors’ dogs began to bark incessantly. But the persistence of the strange hum of engines (military aircraft flying low over the city, she would later learn), as well as seeing a group of cadets in T-shirts and shorts fleeing the Army headquarters, were signs that this was not an earthquake.
Marina couldn’t rely on the typical media outlets that are easily accessible in most other countries to learn more. She didn’t bother to turn on the television or radio in search of information about the attacks that began simultaneously at 11 military installations in Caracas and three other states. The government-run television station Venezolana de Televisión (VTV) was broadcasting a report on the minister of culture’s visit to Russia as the attack was taking place. Her cell phone, however, still had a signal and she began to receive dozens of messages on WhatsApp: “They’re bombing Caracas!”
During the darkest moments of that confusing morning, there was no team of independent reporters able to go out and record what was happening on the streets. After years of harassment, censorship, and imprisonment of journalists by the government, there were instead only empty newsrooms, decimated resources, and a complete lack of security, which made it impossible to keep the public informed as the crisis was unfolding.
The fears felt by journalists were shared by many Venezuelans: the fears of arbitrary detention, of being imprisoned without cause, tortured, and extorted. These are fears that have led citizens in Venezuela to adopt some digital safeguards in order to survive. They have learned to restrict chats, move sensitive material to hidden folders, and automatically delete any “compromising” messages. Whenever possible, they leave their cell phones at home. If they have to take their phones with them, then before going out, they delete all photos, stickers, and memes that could possibly be interpreted as subversive. This state of collective paranoia has also, however, allowed Venezuelans to stay informed and not succumb to the dictatorship.
It is, largely, ordinary citizens who have created this information network. Soon after the bombs fell on January 3, the first videos began to circulate, recorded by people who had witnessed the explosions from their windows and balconies, or from the beach, where some were still celebrating the New Year. Even hikers camping at the summit of Cerro Ávila, in Waraira Repano National Park, managed to capture panoramic shots of the bombs exploding over the Caracas Valley. Shortly afterwards, international networks confirmed the news.
In the interior of the country, connectivity is even more complicated. In San Rafael de Mucuchíes, a peaceful village in the Andes in the state of Mérida, a group of hikers tried to keep up with the frantic pace of events with intermittent internet access at 10,300 feet above sea level. They learned the news from telephone calls via operators such as Movistar (Telefónica) and Digitel, not from the instant messaging app WhatsApp. They also overcame the challenges of the information desert they were in by using a portable Starlink satellite internet antenna that one of the travelers had in their luggage. During the crisis, the service developed by SpaceX was provided free to Venezuelans.
