Why Venezuelans are feeling everything at once
By Genesis Lindstrom
President of the Venezuelan Association of Australia, Genesis Lindstrom, shares the deep and conflicting emotions felt within the Venezuelan diaspora after the capture of Nicolás Maduro. Her experiences are shared alongside those of two other VAA members.
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It has been a tense week to be Venezuelan; it’s hard to capture the weight of it. In a matter of hours, we watched foreign helicopters and drones strike our capital, saw the capture of a dictator who authored nearly three decades of political oppression, and witnessed a controversial foreign president publicly claim credit for it all.
For those of us living in the Venezuelan diaspora, these events have unfolded alongside the resurfacing of deep collective trauma. Throughout it all, we have tried to explain to people in Australia why our reactions are so conflicted, not as political analysts or foreign policy experts, but as people living through it.
Public narratives have moved quickly toward absolutes. Some frame this moment as a long-overdue liberation, a cause for celebration after years of suffering. Others warn of dangerous precedent, foreign intervention and the erosion of international norms. Both responses exist for a reason, and neither fully captures what this moment feels like for the millions of Venezuelans who have been yearning for democracy.
Our central truth is less tidy. Venezuelans can feel relief, hope, grief, fear and deep caution all at once. Living abroad, we’ve been shaped by forced migration, family separation and the quiet ache of watching our country unravel from afar.
As a Venezuelan-Australian, I have lived in Melbourne for more than half my life. My grief is no longer about returning to what I once had, because that Venezuela no longer exists. I often wonder who I might have become if I had not been forced to migrate as a teenager. Would I still have wrestled with anxiety and depression in my early twenties if I had not watched my country’s collapse unfold through a phone screen? Would I have become such a fierce advocate for my community had I not been torn from my world at fifteen?
As I’ve grown older, my Venezuelan identity has only deepened. I often think of Isabel Allende’s My Invented Country: a place shaped by memory, longing, and reconstruction. My childhood memories, the history and sociology I’ve learned, our traditions, and the stories shared with friends have merged into a country I long to return to, even as I know it now exists largely within me.
As Luis Silva sings, “Entre tus playas quedó mi niñez… y esa nostalgia que sube a mi voz, sin querer se hizo canción.” My childhood was left on the beaches of Margarita Island. Rather than turning into a song, that nostalgia hardened into a quiet, enduring fighting spirit.
I dream about deepening ties to my heritage, of being surrounded by people who share the desire to rebuild our nation: to restore democracy, public services, and dignity to a country emptied of its young people. When news broke that Nicolás Maduro had been captured, I felt relief and fear in equal measure. After twenty-six years of false dawns, I hope, now that Venezuela is again in the global spotlight, this moment is different, and that global attention finally reckons with the human cost of a nation forced into exile.
I know my story is one of millions of Venezuelans who have had to rebuild their lives abroad. What follows are the lived experiences of two Venezuelan women living in Australia. They’ve chosen to share their stories anonymously to protect loved ones in Venezuela, where repression and limits on free speech persist.
In a dictatorship, there’s no peace. Not in life. Not in death.
Written anonymously
Hope, joy, and the promise of freedom can still hurt.
January 3rd reopened wounds I have learned to live with, but have not yet healed.
I’m a political refugee in Australia. I came here wanting to grow as a professional, to learn, to contribute. I stayed because survival demanded it. Returning home wasn’t an option, and it would have put my life and my family’s lives in danger. I grew up in a regime where speaking freely was a threat. I was opinionated, emotional, and principled, valuing humanity, education, and cooperation. The more I was myself, the more I stood out. As I grew older, the threats got worse. Venezuela only tolerates obedience. Leaving wasn’t freedom. It was a choice between life and exile. To survive, I had no choice but to stay away from my family and my country. And even here, fear never entirely leaves you.
Dictatorship doesn’t stop at life. I learned that the hard way in 2016, when my father died suddenly of a heart attack. Years of stress, fear, and a collapsed health system made his death inevitable. When I woke to dozens of missed calls, I realised the nightmare had just begun: from thousands of kilometres away, I had to scramble to secure a room in the hospital, one that, although available, was only for those who could pay. Without it, my father’s body would have been left in a space without proper ventilation or dignity. Thousands go unclaimed. Thousands die alone, forgotten. In Venezuela, dignity is reserved for those with power or money, even in death. Dictatorship kills peace in the living and dignity in the dead. It spares no one; Life or death, in Venezuela or in exile, there is no actual peace, and safety is just an illusion.
Even moments that feel like freedom arrive carrying the weight of years of pain I have learned to survive, but not forget.
“La tendencia es irreversible”: The Trend is Irreversible
Written by Cata*
The election results were final, and once again, the corrupt regime had won. Something inside me died that day. Holding my seven-month-old, I knew we had to leave—for that baby and for ourselves. A year later, we boarded a plane to Australia: unknown, far away.
This week, I realised what collapsed that day was hope. I knew because I felt it return when a friend messaged: “He has been captured.” A breath of possibility entered my chest again.
But hope had been dying long before: when the president returned after a coup attempt in 2002, during the referendum, when lives were lost fighting for freedom.
Recently, my child said he doesn’t remember Venezuela. I felt an unexpected relief. I’m grateful he doesn’t recall sickness without medicine or my mum crying as her grandchild left for safety.
At times, I grieve the version of us that was stolen—the ordinary joys of belonging that we might have had if we had stayed. And yet, when asked, “Are you happy to be here?” I say yes. Because yes is easier than explaining the grief, the longing, and the layered truth.
There is no single way to feel about this moment, and that, too, is part of the truth. For Venezuelans in the diaspora, relief does not cancel grief, and hope does not erase fear. These stories are fragments of lives shaped by repression, exile and resilience. If there is an invitation here, it is not to choose a side, but to sit with the discomfort of complexity, and to remember that behind every headline about Venezuela are people still carrying its weight, wherever in the world they now live.
This article has been written and revised by Genesis Lindstrom, along with members of the Venezuelan Association of Australia.
About the authors
Genesis Lindstrom
Genesis is a 32-year-old Venezuelan-Australian public health researcher, living in Wurundjeri Country. She migrated to Australia as a teenager and has dedicated her work to youth mental health and community development, with a strong focus on lived experience. She is currently the President of the Venezuelan Association of Australia, where she works to strengthen and support the Venezuelan community, foster a sense of home in Australia, and share Venezuelan culture with the wider public through stories, arepas and tequeños.
Cata* (*pseudonym)
Cata* is a 38-year-old Venezuelan woman of colour (cis woman), now living on Burunong Country, and has worked in the Mental Health field in Australia for more than 8 years. Her reflections are shaped by her personal and professional journey through political upheaval in her home country, as well as by her experiences of forced migration, caretaking, and professional development. She acknowledges the privilege of access to certain resources, such as education, and remains committed to critically examining her own biases and how they influence her understanding. Through these lines, she seeks to honour the complexity of identity, resilience, and the intersections of race, culture, and displacement.
This is a gorgeous reflective piece
Melbourne, where all the best writers are from 😉 thank you for this piece, give us some more human context behind the headlines.