A New, Terrifying Sound

This story by Gabriela Mesones Rojo originally appeared on Global Voices on January 5, 2026.

At 2:00 a.m. sharp on January 3, 2026, we were jolted awake by an explosion. There was no mistaking it: we were being bombed. Caracas, perhaps the loudest city in Venezuela, had fallen strangely silent that December. Families remained indoors, clinging to the hope of a calm and harmonious Christmas and New Year before what everyone knew was coming: the fall of President Nicolás Maduro, the dictator who had ruled the nation ruthlessly since 2013, after the death of his predecessor, Hugo Chávez.

The explosions continued for nearly two hours, with no official information released from Venezuela’s government. Meanwhile, hundreds of videos flooded social media: for the first time in its modern history, the capital city of Caracas was under attack by the U.S. military. In total, 12 military facilities were struck — eight in Caracas and the rest in the neighboring states of La Guaira and Aragua.

Three hours later, confirmation arrived through a post on Truth Social by U.S. President Donald Trump: Nicolás Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, had been detained and were being taken to the United States to stand trial on charges of narco-terrorism and drug trafficking. After that, the city fell into a deadly silence that lasted the entire day. There were no protests and no celebrations; only silence, damage assessment, and waiting.

See Also: Power Shift in Venezuela After Maduro’s Capture, Vice President Delcy Rodríguez Appointed Interim President of the South American Nation

Over the past 13 years, we have heard every kind of sound: thousands of “cacerolazos,” people banging empty pots in the night, secretly protesting from the safety of their homes; police and military forces brutalizing protesters; tear gas canisters crashing against windows; colectivos’ loud threats; voices screaming insults at Maduro — “Maduro, coño de tu madre” (“Maduro, son of a bitch”). We have heard gunshots, cries for help during moments of repression, and endured countless silent, sleepless nights after particularly shocking events. Still, nothing compares to waking up to the sound of bombs falling in the darkness near your home.

I never imagined I would come to dread a sound like that of a bomb. It felt as though time slowed: the disturbance in the air above, the launch of a weapon designed to destroy, its path through the sky, and finally the overwhelming explosion it left behind.

I thought Venezuelans had already heard every sound the country’s violence had to offer. But this was something new — terrifying in its unfamiliarity.

Later in the day, people went out only for necessities: groceries, medicine, water, and gas. Public transportation was suspended for the day, and only a handful of supermarkets and pharmacies dared to open, most under police protection to prevent what “caraqueños” fear most: waves of looting. In hours-long lines, people whispered the news and recited their many unanswered questions: What will happen now? Will Delcy assume power? How many people have died? Will this make life better or worse? What if civilians are bombed next? Should we celebrate? Will there be food in the supermarket today to feed our families?

If I had to describe it, it was the sound of uncertainty — of fear and contradiction.

Outside the country, especially in cities with large Venezuelan diasporas like New York, Madrid, and Santiago de Chile, Venezuelans are publicly celebrating Maduro’s arrest. For many, it feels like long-awaited justice. Inside Venezuela, it's different. People are managing uncertainty and survival. That doesn’t mean disapproval; it means people are trying to stay alive. 

See Also: Venezuela Crisis Deepens as US Claims Capture of President Nicolás Maduro Following Military Strikes, Sparks International Outrage and Debate Over Oil, Drugs and Sovereignty

It was also difficult to celebrate when we still did not know the human cost of what we had just lived through: our city had been bombed. We now have a clearer picture. According to local media figures, 18 military officers were confirmed to have been killed, along with one civilian — a woman in La Guaira — and at least 80 people were wounded. Even so, the full impact on infrastructure remains unknown, as does what this will mean for our daily lives.

The airstrikes were, of course, as all shocks are, violent. Since August 2024, rising military tensions have made us anticipate the possibility of Maduro’s overthrow. Numerous airstrikes against Venezuelan boats in the Caribbean have killed over 100 people, all without transparency, evidence of drug trafficking, or even an explanation why the suspected drug smugglers could not be detained and tried in court. 

We still do not even know the full names of many of those who died in the Caribbean. While many argue that dangerous criminals must be treated as such, and that this strategy is essential to suffocating Maduro’s regime, the truth is that this was yet another example of how Venezuelan suffering has been normalized, minimized, and tokenized for a cause about which we were never even given trustworthy information.

I have been forced to revisit the airstrike videos from the Caribbean that began flooding our weekly monitoring in August — soundless fragments of boats destroyed at sea. They were terrifying images, and now I find myself imagining the sounds that must have accompanied them: the waves, the helicopters overhead, the moment of launch, the final words and prayers. The sound of fear, I suppose.

There is something particular about realizing that war is moving closer to you. The images, the emotions, the sounds, even the smells. The way we slowly grow accustomed to new forms of violence, repression, and exploitation. 

The soundscape of war — another sound added to an already brutalized country, another terrifying entry in our glossary of violence.

(SY)

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