Most Venezuelans in this city, where arepa stands spill into shopping malls, can’t take part in the election: The Venezuelan consulate in the United States is closed. The only way to vote is to return to Venezuela, but Petrache and many others say they can’t do that.
They are not alone: There are now nearly 8 million Venezuelans scattered around the world, and election experts estimate only 69,000 will be able to vote. For Petrache and others, it is frustrating to be unable to take part in what could be one of the most crucial elections in Venezuela’s recent history.
“For us, Venezuela is like an open wound,” she said. “The pain will always be there, and we desperately want to heal ourselves.”
Voting from the U.S. hasn’t been easy for years: The consulate in Miami was closed in 2012 after the State Department fired the consul general following reports that he had participated in discussions about possible cyber attacks against the U.S. But Venezuelans living in South Florida found a way to air their discontent at the polls, traveling by bus to New Orleans in 2016 to vote for Maduro’s opponent.
Since then, it has become increasingly difficult to vote from abroad: Maduro ordered the closure of U.S. consulates in 2019 after then-President Donald Trump recognized Juan Guaido as the country’s legitimate leader. Meanwhile, the number of Venezuelans living in the United States has exploded. According to the U.S. Census, more than 800,000 Venezuelans currently live somewhere in the United States, with the largest number concentrated in South Florida — an increase of about 50 percent compared to 2019.
“Everyone here should have participated in the vote,” said Eduardo Gamarra, a political science professor at Florida International University. “They participated fully, but in the end their votes don’t count because the administration is making it impossible for them to vote.”
Even in countries like Colombia, where Venezuela still has consulates, registering to vote proved to be a daunting journey: Diplomats in many cities were unprepared for the long lines of expats. And then there was the paperwork: Venezuelans had to show proof of residency in their current country (a difficult task for many new immigrants) and present a valid passport. A passport is something that many people don’t have anymore.
Guillermo Zubillaga, senior director of public policy programs at the Americas Association/Council of the Americas, said this is the first time in years that people have been so eager to vote, which is fueling frustration among many Venezuelans.
“We left the country because of this government, but we still can’t express or channel our frustrations,” said Zubillaga, a Venezuelan.
Still, Venezuelans in Miami aren’t sitting idly by: Many are sending money to relatives and friends to get transportation to polling stations. They’re also acting as de facto WhatsApp chat group monitors, reporting fake news and sharing independent news reports with their peers back home.
The opposition camp also has a strong presence in South Florida. Leaders organized a primary election at a local university last fall, and on Sunday many Venezuelans will gather at a “comandito” in Miami. Opposition “small commandos” groups are spread across Venezuela, helping to spread information and mobilize voters. There are also many “comanditos” abroad.
Petrache will visit his “commander in chief” in Miami on Sunday to monitor the election from afar and report any signs of fraud.
“We believe that if the public is actively participating at a large scale, it will be harder for the government to actually commit fraud,” the political science professor said. “But at the same time, we’re realistic.”
It’s that muted optimism that Venezuelans are wrestling with. Opposition candidate Edmundo Gonzalez is projected to win in the polls. He is backed by Maria Corina Machado, who was barred from running but is behind his candidacy. Part of their campaign pledges is to reunite Venezuelan families torn apart by the mass exodus from the country.
Among those watching the results closely is Mr. Guaido, the opposition leader who once rallied thousands of supporters to the streets before traveling secretly to Colombia last year and arriving in the United States. Mr. Guaido, who now lives in South Florida, said he considered returning home to vote but ultimately decided against it, fearing not only possible arrest but also unnecessary chaos.
“Watching the opposition from afar is bittersweet,” he said. “Life in exile is full of contradictions every day.”
On the one hand, Guaido said he feels free. At the same time, he is nostalgic not for the past, but for the present in which he cannot live. He wants to be at the center of efforts to mobilize voters and certify independent observers. But instead, he will be in Washington helping mobilize the international community.
Still, the growing support for the opposition gives him hope. “It’s a happy thought,” he says, laughing, switching from Spanish to English as he considers what would happen if the opposition won. He dreams of returning to Venezuela with his daughters and visiting his seaside hometown of La Guaira.
“My greatest desire is to become a Venezuelan citizen. In Venezuela,” he said.
That’s the kind of dream playing out around Miami. While waiting for lunch in El Arepazo, friends Amaryllis Zozaya and Regina Semprún began imagining what they’d do if Venezuela’s opposition won. Some places they hadn’t seen in years. But they also had grander ideas, just kidding.
“I want to be minister of tourism!” shouted Zozaya, 68.
They have been anxiously following all the developments in Venezuela, with Zozaya receiving daily updates from Machado’s team to keep readers updated on all of her activities. The two run a PR firm together and are also sending money to friends and relatives so they can get to polling stations by bus or car.
“My husband says I’m glued to Venezuela,” Zozaya said. “It’s my way of helping. If I’m not there and I can’t vote, what else can I do?”
Stories of repatriation abound, but the reality may be more complicated. The earliest waves of Venezuelan migrants have been in the United States for more than 20 years. Their children speak fluent English and have an American identity. As with earlier waves of Cuban migrants, the idea of repatriation is too foreign for some to even consider.
“From the ’60s through the early ’80s, Cubans basically lived with an open suitcase,” said Gamarra, the political science professor. “In other words, they were just waiting for Fidel to fall. A lot of people just closed the door and thought, ‘We’ll be back in three weeks.'”
But by the mid-1980s, Cubans had abandoned that idea and decided to join the U.S. political system to affect change on the island, he said.
“We’re seeing a similar trend among Venezuelans,” he said. “They’re closing their suitcases now, and many of them are doing so because their children grew up here.”
But elections in Venezuela “have always kept that suitcase open,” he added.
An opposition victory and a real transfer of power could force more of the recent wave of Venezuelan migrants, many of whom have advanced degrees and were forced to take jobs far beyond their capabilities, to return home. But they too may have second thoughts about returning.
Yoseline Barrios, 28, came to the United States three years ago. Like many, she applied for political asylum. A return to Venezuela would jeopardize her case. The former architecture student works “Monday to Monday” at an arepa restaurant and delivers Amazon orders, and says she sees her future here.
Barrios is hopeful that the opposition candidates may win on Sunday, but she is also scared. She fled Venezuela after state police harassed her for helping provide food and water to protesters during recent unrest. At one point, she said, police chased her home, surrounded her and beat her. Her father begged her to leave.
She worries that if the opposition doesn’t win, people will take to the streets and blood will be shed again in Venezuela. She has urged her mother to leave the country before the election, but she has refused. She is determined to vote.
Instead, Barrios sent her mother money so she could stock up on supplies so she wouldn’t have to leave the house if the country fell into chaos.
On Sunday, as she works behind the counter waiting for the results — the restaurant in the heart of Doral, affectionately known in Miami as Doralzuela, will broadcast the news on a giant TV outside — she said she takes some comfort in the knowledge that she is surrounded by others whose hopes and pains are similar to hers.
“All we can do is be together,” she said, “and those who believe in God, pray.”
