I am a gay Venezuelan American — not a political pawn

Editor's note: The following personal essay was submitted by a Venezuelan American gay man who anonymously shared his perspective on the political unrest and dangers of the Nicolás Maduro regime — arguing that, in 2025, the stakes are higher than ever before.

As a Venezuelan living in the United States, I never imagined that my nationality — something I carry with both pride and pain — would become a political lightning rod.

It wasn't long ago that Venezuelans proudly shared stories about how our country was once one of the richest in the world, with the largest proven oil reserves and a strong, stable currency that made us a top economy in Latin America. From the 1950s to the 1980s, people from Europe, North America, and South America moved to Venezuela to build a better life — just like many of us have done in the U.S. We were a vibrant cultural melting pot of diverse backgrounds, cultures, races, and religions.

We would show off pictures of some of the most stunning natural landscapes on Earth: Angel Falls, Roraima, the Gran Sabana, Los Roques, Morrocoy, the Andes, Colonia Tovar, and more — all while cooking and sharing some of our beloved homemade arepas with our new friends and neighbors in America.

We were so proud.

Sadly, as things began to deteriorate politically, we tried to raise awareness of the crisis and of what we left behind: food shortages, political repression and division, human rights abuses, our families…and the collapse of a country once seen as a land of opportunity. But now, it feels like our cries for help have backfired. Instead of support, we're being scapegoated. Instead of compassion, we're being vilified.

The recent rise in coverage around the Tren de Aragua gang — an organized crime group that originated in Venezuela — is deeply disturbing. Not just because of the horrific and despicable violence they represent, but because of how some media outlets, politicians, and influencers — on both the left and right — are using them to paint all Venezuelans with the same brush.

Some conservatives are pointing to these stories as "proof" that all Venezuelan migrants are dangerous or criminal. These narratives are being used to justify harmful immigration policies and rhetoric that lump innocent families in with violent offenders. Now, many Venezuelan families — regardless of their legal status, whether they're permanent residents, asylum seekers, or even U.S. citizens — are living in fear. Fear of being profiled during a traffic stop, of calling the police in an emergency, of having tattoos, scars, or even wearing certain clothing that might wrongly associate them with TDA gang members. Some are even afraid to travel abroad, worrying they might not be allowed back in — or worse, be deported straight into El Salvador's maximum security prison.

At the same time, some Democrats, including progressive Latinos, are turning their backs on Venezuelans who lean politically right. What they often fail to understand is that for many Venezuelans, conservatism isn't about party loyalty, it's about trauma. We've witnessed our country fall apart under an authoritarian regime that called itself a "leftist socialism."

Since 1999, that regime has clung to power despite numerous proven fraudulent elections. The poor saw how promises of free health care and housing turned into oppression, hunger, high crime rates, and mass exile. People in the middle and upper class who owned businesses lost everything to the government through forced expropriation, leaving them with nothing and no jobs to offer. So when some Venezuelans hear leftist rhetoric in the U.S., it doesn't feel like hope — it feels like history trying to repeat itself.

We're caught in the middle.

The right uses our worst headlines to instill fear. The left often dismisses our voices when they don't fit the preferred narrative. Even among other Latino communities, there's growing resentment. Some progressive Latinos are not only asking Venezuelans how they voted, but using the answer to cut ties, disinvite our children from playdates, or retaliate at work. It's a subtle, quiet isolation, but it hurts deeply and has major long-lasting consequences.

And the media? They amplify the extremes. They love a shocking story — the gang member crossing the border, the violence, the chaos, or how right-wing Venezuelans turned their backs on Latinos. And don't get me wrong: Those stories matter, and deserve justice too. But, that's just a percentage of all the Venezuelans and Venezuelan-Americans living in America. People often ignore the mom working two jobs, the student earning straight As, the Venezuelan entrepreneur building a business, the athlete, the pastor, the nurse, the teacher, the firefighter. These stories matter too. Though, I understand they're not as rating-inducing or scandalous.

What I'm trying to say is: We are so much more than the curated newscasts, the character-limited headlines, the SEO-viral posts, or the nightly news clips. It hurts to see how our identity is being used against us from so many different angles. We fought for years to get the world to pay attention to Venezuela's tragedy. Now that they finally are — it feels like we're getting blamed one way or another. Instead of solidarity, we face backlash. Instead of understanding, we get judgment.

All I want is for people to look past the labels. Behind every word — migrant, conservative, liberal, asylum-seeker — is a human being. A family. A story. Just like yours.

Venezuelans are not a monolith. We are left and right, rich and poor, religious and non-religious, straight and queer, dreamers and doers. We are families, professionals, refugees, survivors. And like every other group in America, we deserve to be seen as individuals — not pawns in political games.