Caracas Chronicles

On the Saturday morning of September 20th, at a beauty salon near the Sabana Grande Boulevard, the manicurists turned off the usual bichota music by Karol G to watch, with particular curiosity, a YouTube documentary about Manuel Noriega. Getting your nails done while a documentary on the 1989 U.S. invasion of Panama blares through a speaker isn’t the typical salon experience in Venezuela. But that morning, a parade of more than twenty armored vehicles had rolled through Caracas, and little by little, panic began to grow within the four walls of the salon.

The manicurists weren’t chatting about the usual gossip with their clients but about a military deployment in the city. There was no real evidence of that, but a simple rumor about a FANB tank seen on Francisco de Miranda Avenue was enough to alarm the workers, cancel appointments, and close the shop early.

“Go home right away, don’t go out anymore today,” the manicurist doing my nails told me, working with quick concentration as the documentary’s narrator shouted from the speaker in the background. My skepticism tried to reason with the nervousness around me, but that tension spread everywhere. I was the last customer to leave. I said goodbye to everyone with an urgency that felt almost imposed.

Outside, people were walking as if nothing were happening, stores remained open. My phone showed no messages from friends or family warning of any danger on the streets. On my way home, I asked the taxi driver if he had seen any unusual military movement that morning, but his response completely contradicted the panic I had just witnessed in the salon. He knew nothing. He saw nothing.

The rest of my day went by without incidents. My activities carried on as usual, and no one I met seemed aware of that supposed military parade in Caracas. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the stylists, who had probably gotten home with an impulsive grocery bag and a lingering fright in their bodies.

For many, self-censorship became the only option to protect themselves and their loved ones. On the streets, what isn’t said echoes louder than what is.

During the U.S. military buildup in the Caribbean, Caracas has been wrapped in a strange quietness, as if its people, faced with uncertainty, had no desire to give in to collective panic. Still, scenes like the one that morning in the salon show the specific exceptions

On the whole, the average caraqueño continues their weekly routine around work, subsistence, and whatever leisure activities they can afford. Yet between sarcasm and humor, there’s always a comment about the Marines’ arrival, as a promise of salvation or just the joke of the day.

A year after the historic elections of July 28th and the consolidation of a dictatorship that has resulted in thousands of political prisoners, forced disappearances, citizen persecution, and the strengthening of social control mechanisms, self-censorship has become, for many, the only option to protect themselves and their loved ones. On the streets, what isn’t said echoes louder than what is.

Political conversation has migrated to tiny groups and private spaces—from whispered comments in the dining area while loud music is playing, to temporary WhatsApp messages to avoid being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not everyone has two thousand dollars to pay off a cop and avoid being sent to El Helicoide.

In a context of extreme censorship and the absence of traditional media providing reliable information to know and understand what is really happening—both in the Caribbean and on the city’s streets—the danger of disinformation looms large. The tendency toward panic fueled by rumors and hallway whispers also hangs in the air.

I went back to the salon three weeks later, but the conversation was no longer about the city’s militarization. They were chatting about the Nobel Prize awarded to María Corina Machado.

The expectations of Venezuelans are hard to satisfy. While recent U.S. military actions under the Trump administration have indeed stirred some anxiety, the situation is not paralyzing. In fact, it could be said that people’s real fear lies in the disruption of their daily rhythm—their work—which could lead to the collapse of their livelihoods and personal finances. Everything revolves around survival.

The fear isn’t exactly about the ten F-35 stealth fighters, eight warships, and one attack submarine in Puerto Rico. It’s about how the Venezuelan regime might respond to its own citizens, through increased military control on the streets or by decreeing a State of Emergency or External Commotion.

I went back to the salon three weeks later, but the conversation was no longer about the city’s militarization. They were chatting about the Nobel Prize awarded to María Corina Machado.

“That award should’ve gone to Trump. He ended a lot of wars,” one stylist said. Between an awkward silence and a knowing glance, the manicurist doing my nails and I were startled by the confidence and lightness with which her colleague made that statement. Venezuelan veneration of Trump is hardly surprising, of course.

As my appointment went on, the conversation shifted toward the possible scenarios of a future military intervention in Venezuela. Yet the underlying concern remained the same as it has been for years: in the future, with the Maduro regime in place or not, will it still be possible to live here?