By: Ricardo Abud
There are silences that speak louder than a thousand speeches. And then there is the silence of those who spent years shouting “Yankees, go home!”, swearing that Venezuela would be the Vietnam of Latin America and assuring that, if imperialism dared to set foot on homeland, it would find a people ready to turn every street, every mountain, and every neighborhood into a trench.
Today, after the events of January 3, it is difficult to discern whether those speeches were a declaration of principles or the dress rehearsal of a play that, when the time came for the performance, was left without actors.
Ah, those were the days, comrades! It only took one official in Washington to raise their voice for the full repertoire to be activated in Caracas: national broadcasts, urgent communiqués, press conferences, marches, and speeches lasting several hours. Every declaration from the Pentagon was met with a new demonstration of revolutionary dignity. Deputies transformed into anti-imperialist orators; the PSUV leadership rediscovered its liberating vocation; the JPSUV prepared to write epic chapters of resistance; and the uniformed personnel appeared before the cameras with a determination capable of shaking the foundations of the White House.
The slogan was unequivocal: “Kneel on the ground!” The homeland would not be surrendered. Sovereignty was not for sale. Imperialism would not prevail. And yet, the events of January 3rd arrived, and it seemed that more than one person had misplaced their script, or their hopes, as I told you, had shrunk; so much revolutionary rhetoric only to end up saying that if we defended ourselves there would be many casualties and we would be left without Sukhoi fighter jets; so why did we buy them in the first place? Weren't they meant to defend us?
Suddenly, the empire's great critics discovered the virtues of discretion. Those who once didn't let a single day go by without warning about Washington's grip seem to have developed an extraordinary ability to talk about any subject, except the one that challenges their own slogans. The microphones are still there, social media is active, the platforms remain intact, and the press releases are still being drafted fluently. What's hard to find is that anti-imperialist fury that once flowed so freely.
Has imperialism changed its address? Has it lost its aggressive nature through some administrative procedure? Or do revolutionary slogans include fine print that only applies when the adversary is far away and the cost of denouncing them is perfectly manageable? The irony is hard to ignore: those who made denouncing the northern power a political profession seem to need an intensive course today to remember how to pronounce the word “imperialism.”
If there's one question that deserves to go down in the annals of Venezuelan political irony, it's this: Where are the five million militiamen? All that boasting for what? To scare the United States? Five million, comrades! Not five thousand, not fifty thousand, not some modest brigade lost somewhere in the country. Five million. A figure that for years was touted as the ultimate proof of an armed people capable of turning any foreign adventure into a strategic hell, and which led to the creation of the fifth component of the Bolivarian National Armed Forces.
What was it created for? Was the immense military expenditure really for the defense of the homeland, of sovereignty, or for parades on national holidays? Not a single Sukhoi took off. Then they said it would have been a massacre, that we would have been left without air power... Honestly, I don't know what they did: did they chicken out? With such numbers, national defense seemed solved by simple military mathematics. If every threat was met by millions of defenders, who would dare challenge such a human wall?
The nation was fortified, the people organized, and sovereignty safeguarded by a force that seemed to multiply every time a camera was turned on. But January arrived, and reality began to pose questions that the official narrative hadn't anticipated. Where is that force? What instructions did they receive? What role did they play in the events of January 3rd? Was there a defensive mobilization? What assessment do the authorities offer regarding the operational capacity of that structure to fulfill the mission attributed to it in state propaganda? Silence.
It's one thing to announce five million troops on a presentation board, and quite another to explain what real combat capability they represent, how they are deployed, and what happened when the defense of sovereignty ceased to be mere rhetoric. Perhaps they are already organized, awaiting orders. Perhaps there are institutional explanations that have yet to be communicated. Perhaps the figure was always a political target, an administrative record, or an abstraction that did not equate to combatants on the front lines. Precisely for this reason, verifiable data and accountability are necessary. What is unacceptable is brandishing a gigantic army for a decade as proof of strength and then, when push comes to shove, pretending that no one will question its effectiveness. To fill a plaza, it was enough to count militiamen; to explain what happened in January, answers are needed.
From “kneeling” to remaining silent in the front lines. The metamorphosis of those who repeated the slogan with statue-like solemnity is astonishing. Principles are not measured by the decibel level of their gestures, but by the firmness with which they are upheld in times of crisis. For years, anti-imperialism was a badge of mandatory loyalty. The more strident the diatribe against the United States, the more revolutionary the act. There was an open competition to see who could display the greatest vehemence. Some promised asymmetric resistance; others, protracted people's war; some seemed ready to turn every parish into a new Sierra Maestra. Others said: “If they go in, they won't come out.”
Today, however, the historical record contrasts sharply with a prudence worthy of study in diplomacy schools. Suddenly, forcefulness demands conditions, denunciation requires calculation, and the defense of sovereignty seems subject to a stylistic overhaul. What a convenient ideological evolution! Yesterday, imperialism was the historical enemy of humanity; today, mentioning it seems to require the approval of the damage control department. Certainly, caution does not always imply surrender or complicity. But those who have made confrontation with Washington the cornerstone of their political identity have the fundamental duty to take a stand when events occur that directly impact the nation. Otherwise, the chasm between the rhetoric of the past and the silence of the present will continue to erode what little credibility they have left among their own followers.
The Absent Parliamentarians: The government's deputies deserve special mention. For years, the chamber was the main stage for anti-imperialist indignation. Every sanction sparked a united front of rejection; every address from Washington, an urgent debate. Today, one wonders what happened to that eloquence. Did the sound system break down? Did their vocabulary run dry? Or did our representatives discover that legislating and defending sovereignty requires more than fiery speeches? Popular representation is not about raising hands on demand or repeating prefabricated slogans; it is about oversight, explanation, and accountability. A legislator who yesterday had answers for the global geopolitical order cannot today offer silence as an official stance.
The JPSUV and Deferred Rebellion: The party's youth wing also faces its own reflection. It was summoned as the heir to a project of historical resistance and non-negotiable sovereignty. Given the events of January, one must ask: what kind of generational shift is it that only defends its principles when they don't contradict the leadership's discipline? A youth that doesn't ask uncomfortable questions of its own leadership reduces rebellion to mere blind obedience.
The military establishment and the doctrine on paper: For years, spokespeople for the Armed Forces insisted on the civil-military union, tactical preparedness, and the comprehensive defense doctrine as an impregnable shield. This isn't about demanding public pronouncements from military professionals, but rather about demanding institutional explanations from the command. If military preparedness was sold for years as an absolute guarantee of sovereignty, it's necessary to detail what that guarantee actually meant and what its true scope was on January 3rd.
Anti-imperialism cannot be a doctrine that's on and off, a switch flipped for election campaigns and turned off when reality demands taking responsibility. Venezuela doesn't belong to the PSUV, the JPSUV, the Armed Forces, or any elite. Demanding explanations is not betraying the nation. Questioning the inconsistencies of the leaders is not tantamount to taking orders from a foreign power. Demanding the truth about the country's defense capabilities is a citizen's right, not an act of sabotage.
The false dichotomy that “demanding accountability makes you an enemy” has been the perfect shield for those who prefer the comfort of dogma to the rigor of accountability. If the five million militiamen represent a real force, let their effectiveness and chain of command be demonstrated. If the representatives in the Assembly have a position, let them state it clearly and unequivocally. And if the military authorities possess relevant information, let them share it with the transparency the nation deserves. That would be infinitely more useful than calling for another march to repeat the same old clichés.
The events of January 3rd exposed the gap between political myth and operational reality. The silence that prevails today not only fuels criticism from the opposition; it demobilizes and disorients the very base that believed in the narrative of invincible resistance. The great enigma upon which the propaganda of the last decade was built remains: the five million. Five million in official rhetoric. Five million in the parades. Five million as a paper deterrent. Today, the public demands data, assessments, and verifiable facts about what really happened. And the heirs of the Bolivarian Revolution and Chávez have an outstanding task: to explain where the slogan ends and where responsibility begins.
The ultimate irony is not that the most strident have fallen silent; it is that, after years of promising legendary resistance, it is their own past words that now place them in the dock. Kneel, comrades! But this time without photographers or platforms. It is enough to stand, look the citizens in the eye, and answer. The homeland is not the property of those who shout fiercely before the storm only to sell their principles to the highest bidder and hide when the first drop falls.
Today, Venezuela gazes at the empty stands, contemplates its former orators in their silent front-row seats, and understands that this silence is not tactical prudence, but the mask of betrayed loyalty. The entire nation poses a single question to them... the only one that propaganda will never be able to answer: when history demanded that they be lions, why did they choose to be Judases?
Take roll call if you wish, comrades. But do it in the dark. The show is over, the theater is empty, and the slogans no longer fool even your own ghosts. And if, when you call out to the five million, no one answers, don't blame the empire... blame the betrayal you committed in front of the mirror.
Go to hell, traitors!
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