By: Ricardo Abud
Today I write not from anger, but from disappointment. Perhaps that is one of the deepest and most painful forms of indignation: the precise moment when time, facts, and overwhelming reality finally destroy the reasons that sustained our confidence for so many years.
For over twenty years, we maintained a firm political commitment to a project that began by inspiring hope, mobilizing wills, and uniting millions of Venezuelans around an idea of social justice, sovereignty, and inclusion. We were not mere spectators; we accompanied the process, defended it, and were present in its most difficult moments, taking up battles as our own even when they demanded personal, familial, and economic sacrifices. That is why it is so hard to see how much of that dream ended up.
Today, there is a complete disconnect in the highest echelons of power from the hardships faced by ordinary people. There is no real will to listen to, understand, or resolve the daily struggles of millions of citizens who are barely managing to survive. Paradoxically, those who for years politically supported the government, defended its decisions, and trusted its promises, now seem to have become a nuisance to those who govern the state. What is most outrageous is that we are not talking about a nation lacking human, material, or economic resources, but rather a country where corruption, the plundering of public assets, administrative opacity, and the absence of oversight have undermined any semblance of social justice. The problem is not only widespread poverty, but also the obscene inequality between an elite that has enriched itself through its power and a majority impoverished for having placed its trust in it.
This contradiction is unbearable. While a segment of the leadership enjoys the material advantages that come with wielding power, millions of workers, pensioners, and retirees cannot even meet their most basic needs. The official response to such a gap has been an endless stream of justifications. They have confiscated our wages through a policy of systematic wage freezes, while inflation erodes any possibility of economic recovery. Instead, they have replaced a living wage with a bonus scheme that does not address the underlying problem, does not generate social benefits, does not strengthen pensions, and does not restore the dignity associated with work. They have subsidized our existence, turning us into a society dependent on extraordinary payments that arrive sporadically, like a kind of artificial respiration for a suffocating family economy.
The magnitude of this injustice is best understood through the numbers. The legal minimum wage remains fixed at 130 bolivars per month; at the official exchange rate, this figure is equivalent to a negligible fraction of a dollar. This is not a matter of adjustments or austerity: it is a figure that negates the very act of subsistence and reduces the act of working to a mere sentence of misery. How can a society accept such a degradation of labor? With what moral authority can one speak of social justice when those who work cannot eat from their labor? The situation of pensioners is even more cruel: after dedicating decades of their lives to production and national development, the State gives them back a pension that disregards their years of service.
This precarious situation is compounded by institutional uncertainty, reflected in the silence surrounding Christmas bonuses. At this point in the year, workers should have certainty about their payments. However, a labor right that was regularly fulfilled for decades has been transformed into a concession dependent on government discretion. It is worth remembering that both during the Fourth Republic and under the governments of Hugo Chávez, the timely payment of Christmas bonuses was an institutionalized practice and an acquired right, not a handout from the political parties in power. Today, it is alarming that there is not even certainty as to whether these amounts will be adjusted or reduced to the minimum wage (390 Bs, three months' minimum wage). Comparatively, those who present themselves as heirs to popular struggles have led workers to a scenario where social protection is receding and uncertainty dominates the end of the year.
In this context of economic fragility, the recent reform of the legal framework for electricity service and the announcement to index its rates to the highest exchange rate published by the Central Bank of Venezuela are extremely serious. While the regulation proposes a subsidy scheme for those who cannot afford the full rates, the eligibility criteria and the tariff methodology have not yet been defined. One must then ask: with what income will workers with meager wages and families dependent on fragmented government assistance pay for these services? The cost of public services cannot be indexed to a strong currency while citizens' incomes remain extremely precarious, mired in extreme poverty. Even if there are arguments about the financial sustainability of the electricity system, no tariff policy is socially responsible if it does not consider the population's actual ability to pay. The problem is not raising rates; the problem is charging everyone who benefits from the electricity system. Demanding high-cost rates from a population paid as if their labor were worthless reveals a dangerous inversion of priorities and a complete loss of social sensitivity. Here are two links to articles I wrote in 2019 and 2014 about the national electricity system. In the 2014 article, I demonstrate that it is not necessary to raise rates, but rather to charge for the service.
No to the increase in electricity rates. 2014 They turned off the power switch at the Guri Dam and turned on the light for the Venezuelan people. 2019
Faced with the crisis, the official discourse constantly invokes external aggression, sanctions, and the international blockade. While these factors explain some of the difficulties and should be seriously analyzed, they cannot become a license to conceal corruption, justify inefficiency, evade responsibility, or keep workers without decent wages. A leadership truly committed to its people should be the first to demand transparency, investigate the plundering of public resources, and recover what was stolen to translate it into collective well-being. On the contrary, rampant impunity has ultimately undermined the credibility of institutions, unleashing one of the greatest contemporary political tragedies: the destruction of trust and the consequent exodus of more than seven million Venezuelans. Behind that number are fractured families and a country that has lost the capacity to offer its citizens a future.
The most painful thing for those of us who accompanied this process for decades is understanding that our loyalty was not reciprocated. While the people defended a project with conviction, sectors of power were building their own privileges. But political loyalty cannot be confused with blind obedience, nor can activists be required to renounce their critical capacity. An unwavering commitment to the ideals of social justice, equality, and human dignity is one thing; subordination to those who use these banners to perpetuate their power is quite another. We must not renounce our convictions to acknowledge the failure of those who lead the state, nor should we remain silent in the face of corruption to demonstrate that we once believed in it. Precisely because we believed in, supported, and defended those ideals, we have the right and the moral duty to denounce their degradation.
Those who hold positions of power today must understand that the people can endure sacrifices when they perceive honesty and a willingness to solve problems, but they rarely forgive the mockery, arrogance, and indifference of those who demand austerity from a position of privilege. One cannot govern eternally based on the memory of past achievements while destroying the material conditions of the present. History will record the words, but also the consequences of the decisions, and justice should not distinguish between the powerful and ordinary citizens. Those who participated in the plundering of the country and contributed to the destruction of the population's standard of living will have to answer for their actions; no amount of wealth or privilege can buy moral legitimacy or erase collective suffering. The greatest defeat for a leadership is not losing an election, but losing moral authority in the eyes of the people who once believed in it.
Today I write from a place of disappointment, not because I have forgotten what I defended, but because I remember perfectly why I defended it, and for that very reason I refuse to confuse loyalty with complicity. Power is transient, positions end, and privileges fade, but the memory of a people remains. Those who govern today bear an undeniable historical responsibility to future generations. Because a people can forgive mistakes, but they are not obligated to forget betrayals. And those of us who believed in this project for more than twenty years have a moral obligation to say it without fear: it was not the people who abandoned their principles; it was many of those who came to power in their name who ended up abandoning the people.
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