Nathalie Rayes is a Venezuelan-born American and former US ambassador to Croatia.
In Venezuela, everyday life is defined by survival. It was not always this way. Years of economic mismanagement, corruption, and authoritarian rule, accelerated under Nicolás Maduro, have pushed a once-wealthy country into widespread poverty.
Economic desperation defines millions of Venezuelans. For many, survival has become an exercise in improvisation. The official minimum wage is about 130 bolívares a month, which at current exchange rates amounts to roughly 50 cents in US currency. In practice, while many Venezuelans earn more than the official minimum wage, roughly 70 percent are estimated to live on less than $230 US currency a month, and only a small minority earn anything approaching a livable income. Even with bonuses or informal work, such as delivery and ride services, most families survive through remittances, barter, and constant adjustment, including skipping meals or eliminating non-essential items.
That reality becomes impossible to ignore when you look at the cost of basic food. A 7-ounce package of butter costs the equivalent of about $9 US. A liter of milk is more than $3. Even a modest cut of meat runs $9 to $11. These are not luxury items. They are staples. When even a few groceries can consume a large share of a monthly income, the math simply does not work. People quietly ask the same question again and again: How is anyone supposed to live like this?
That economic reality shapes everything else.
Americans are rightfully debating the US response to Venezuela’s crisis: whether the military operation that captured Nicolás Maduro was constitutional, what it means for US foreign policy, and how far Washington should go in shaping Venezuela’s future. Inside Venezuela, the conversation sounds very different.
Across ongoing exchanges with friends who live in my home town of Anaco and Caracas through phone calls, text messages, and other digital communication, what emerges is not celebration or outrage but cautious hope mixed with exhaustion. These are not public statements. They are fragments shared carefully.
There is genuine optimism tied to the potential return of US oil companies, particularly in cities shaped by the energy sector. That optimism reflects the reality that years of mismanagement have left Venezuela’s oil infrastructure badly degraded, and that only large international companies have the capital and technical expertise to restore production at scale. Jobs, activity, and the possibility of stability matter deeply when daily survival is already so fragile.
That economic hope also helps explain a complicated openness toward external power. Some people see American engagement, from oil export negotiations to broader economic and political involvement, as a potential source of relief from hardship. People mention welcoming President Trump and his family, as well as Secretary of State Marco Rubio. Such comments reflect fatigue rather than political preference, shaped by the desire for any alternative that might ease daily hardship. Some Venezuelans, however, worry that too much US involvement could come at a cost, turning Venezuela into “Puerto Rico 2”, shorthand for economic recovery paired with a loss of real sovereignty, where decisions are made elsewhere even as daily life appears to improve.
But hope never travels alone; it is paired with fear that the same governing structures responsible for repression remain in place, even as the country enters a moment of apparent transition.
In WhatsApp groups and messages, expressions of relief at Maduro’s departure or hope that the opposition might prevail are often quickly deleted. Silence is not neutrality. It is self-protection.
People describe deleting communication apps from their phones before leaving their homes so that if they are stopped and asked by the National Guard to hand over their devices, there is no record of their communications. This is routine.
Venezuelans’ fear is not abstract. Arbitrary detentions and politically motivated arrests of critics, journalists, and perceived opponents are a recurring reality. The message is unmistakable: Speak out and there will be consequences.
It is in this context that people talk about who now holds power. References to Delcy Rodríguez, who is serving as acting president, come up frequently but cautiously. She is widely understood as a longtime central figure within the governing apparatus, closely associated with the state’s security and intelligence structure and sanctioned by the United States for her role in that system.
When people describe her as educated, intelligent, or formidable, the words can sound like praise. But they are often used as quiet signals of weariness and caution, a recognition that power in Venezuela has been exercised with calculation and effectiveness, and a corresponding awareness that words, even now, can carry consequences.
That caution is rooted in reality: Independent human-rights organizations estimate that roughly 800 to 1,200 political prisoners remain detained in Venezuela today. That same caution shapes how people speak about the opposition. Many worry about being identified as sympathetic to figures like María Corina Machado, the country’s leading opposition figure, or Edmundo González Urrutia, the opposition’s consensus candidate in the 2024 elections. Words are weighed. Messages are deleted. Even private speech is restrained.
One theme cuts across all of these conditions: a desire for dignity. Venezuelans do not want to be reduced to caricatures connected to past, current or future efforts connected to oil or corruption. They want their suffering understood and their agency respected.
Venezuela is not living through a clean or settled transition. It is navigating a fragile moment in which economic hardship, political uncertainty, and fear of reprisal coexist.
Understanding this moment requires attention not only to official statements or headlines but also to the conditions people are navigating every day.
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