The months go by and Mauricio* is still dreaming of the day he will be able to return to Venezuela. “This was not a free decision, I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t see myself outside my country,” he says. His role as an LGBTQ+ rights activist led him to be one of the community leaders who were arbitrarily detained and tortured by Nicolás Maduro’s government. From exile, Mauricio recounts that after his arrest he spent two months in complete clandestinity, and that’s when he asked for help to leave the country.
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Volcánicas spoke with five activists from Venezuelan organizations and collectives that protect the rights of women and LGBTQ+ people. They discussed how the persecution of the regime of Nicolás Maduro affects their social work.
On Aug. 15, 2024, the Venezuelan National Assembly, made up of a majority of pro-Chávez members, unanimously approved the Law for the Control, Regularization, Performance and Financing of NGOs and Non-Profit Social Organizations, known as the “Anti-NGO Law”, a bill introduced by Minister of the Interior and Justice, Diosdado Cabello, which seeks to silence organizations that critically denounce human rights violations in the country.
Administrative persecution
The law established February 15 as a deadline for all NGOs to re-register and provide the Venezuelan government with detailed documentation about their accounting and financial structures. “In a democratic society where freedoms are respected, we’d gladly publish this information,” says Cris*, a non-binary activist working with an organization that defends the rights of LGBTQ+ individuals, women affected by gender-based violence, and people living with HIV in Mérida and other cities across Venezuela. “But here, doing so only exposes us — our safety, and the safety of the people we serve.”
Three months after the deadline, “most human rights organizations still have no information about the status of their organization,” explains Mauricio*. “They don’t know if the documents have been accepted, they don’t know if they are going to be asked for more requirements than what they have already been asked for.”
When you read this law, it includes administrative requirements that are simply out of reach for grassroots groups and collectives.
Carolina* is part of a feminist and LGBTQ+ collective in Caracas that focuses on sexual and reproductive health. She also supports women who have survived gender-based violence, as well as LGBTQ+ individuals who have faced discrimination. “Two LGBTQ+ organizations have already shut down,” she says. “When you read this law, it includes administrative requirements that are simply out of reach for grassroots groups and collectives. There’s even a clause that says the government can send someone to become part of your organization and gain access from the inside,” she explains.
On January 10 of this year, Nicolás Maduro was sworn in as president of Venezuela amidst accusations by both citizens and the international community questioning the legitimacy of his victory in the July 28, 2024 elections. On that date, the National Electoral Council (CNE) declared Maduro the winner with 51.2% of the vote.
“Today freedom of expression is almost non-existent. It is very difficult because now there are mechanisms that threaten free speech and the right to free association. Everything is a threat to them and everything is labeled as terrorism,” says the activist, speaking in the wake of the increased protests and repression after the presidential elections.
As the crackdown intensifies, Carolina* says that there is less and less coordination between feminist and LBGTQ+ organizations, many preferring to stop or reduce their advocacy for fear of being persecuted. And it’s not just activists who are being persecuted, she explains — it’s anyone who openly expresses their identity in public. “Anyone who’s out on the street at night — police or paramilitary groups will come, beat them, and take them to El Helicoide,” she says, referring to the notorious detention center. Administered by the Bolivarian National Intelligence Service (SEBIN), El Helicoide is where political prisoners are being held and where human rights violations have been reported.
“The truth is, the ones supporting victims of gender-based violence, of discrimination, of transphobia and homophobia, are us, the organizations,” Carolina* says. “Handing over our work to the State, which has already shown itself to be deeply repressive, also puts the victims at risk.”
Weakening even more the vulnerable
In conversation with Volcánicas, Nina Chaparro González — a lawyer specialized in constitutional law and coordinator of Dejusticia, a legal and social research center based in Colombia — explains the implications of this measure for organizations working to defend human rights under repression.
“This law in Venezuela poses a serious threat to organizations that defend the rights of women and LGBTQ+ communities,” the lawyer explains. “It restricts their access to funding, makes it easier to criminalize them, and increases their vulnerability to state persecution. The situation is even more alarming in a country where LGBTQ+ people are still denied fundamental rights like marriage equality, legal gender recognition, and anti-discrimination protections.”
Under these new restrictions, the ability to guarantee people’s rights becomes “almost impossible.”
On Aug. 16, 2024, one day after Venezuela passed its anti-NGO law, Ana Piquer, Amnesty International’s Americas Director, warned that “the approval of this law puts at risk the very existence and operation of community-based, humanitarian and human rights organizations, with ambiguous language that would serve as a basis to sanction them disproportionately and even arbitrarily outlaw them on a massive scale”.
Piquer stated that under these new restrictions, the ability to guarantee people’s rights becomes “almost impossible,” amounting to the structural exclusion of entire populations. “In a context of non-guaranteed gender rights, this law further weakens the civil society that advocates for these rights and thereby reduces the possibility of advancing in their recognition,” added Piquer.
On the risk of helping others
Gabriela* belongs to a feminist initiative in Caracas where she runs educational spaces that give women the opportunity to talk about their feminism, their struggles and rights. In Venezuela, abortion is still considered a crime that can be punished with sentences between six months to two years.
Those women who accompany others in their voluntary abortions also run the risk of being persecuted. “About three or four years ago we had a very complex situation in Venezuela, when a colleague who accompanied a 13-year-old girl who had been raped was imprisoned precisely for having assisted her. That was a big issue in Venezuela and that scared many people, who stopped supporting and providing services. There are very few organizations at the moment that provide assistance,” explains Gabriela*.
After the 2024 presidential elections, “self-censorship has risen and it hurts me to say it,” says Gabriela*. “I think everyone around me has had to stay quiet — we can’t report things the way we used to, or we’ve had to find different ways to do it. We’ve had to lower our voices, stay less visible on social media, tone everything down — because we know our safety is at risk. People very close to me have been kidnapped, imprisoned, persecuted, or forced to leave the country in recent months.” Since then, Gabriela* has had to step back from her activism to protect herself.
“An irony”
A nine and a half hour drive from Caracas takes you to Mérida, a city located in the central part of the Andes mountain range. Since Nicolás Maduro’s most recent reelection, discrimination and repression have also increased there.
“From 2020 to the present, many Venezuelan state officials, including Nicolás Maduro himself, have made criminalizing comments and used hate speech against LGBTQ+ people. The Attorney General of the Republic once called trans and non-binary people ‘aberrations’,” Cris* recalls. She says this problem became more acute during Maduro’s presidential campaign in 2023 “with fundamentalist evangelist churches that played a bigger role and had the green light to spread their messages of hatred based on religious ideologies.”
We don’t know how many people in the country live with HIV, we don’t know the prevalence of malaria, or breast cancer.
In the midst of this panorama, Cris* mentions that the anti-NGO Law “is an irony,” considering that the Venezuelan State does not share information on the percentage of people suffering from certain diseases. “We don’t know how many people in the country live with HIV, we don’t know the prevalence of malaria, or breast cancer. There are not even figures on gender-based violence reported to the Public Prosecutor’s Office. Despite it all, NGOs have to be transparent with the state and give them all our information,” Cris* says.
Operation “tun tun” and the fear of persecution
While the Anti-NGO Law moves forward and the organizations continue to wait for a response, activists have two further concerns: their digital security and the fear of being detained by the Venezuelan police with the so-called “Operation tun tun,” which is how the government referred to the mass arrests of demonstrators and opponents after the 2024 elections.
The operation is usually carried out through WhatsApp groups. If one of the members shares a publication that questions Nicolás Maduro’s government and there is someone sympathetic to the government, they can accuse the person before the State and say that they are inciting hatred and terrorism. “They call it ‘tun tun’ (knock knock) because they knock on the door of your house and ask you to leave,” Carolina* explains.
We even had chats that lasted no more than 30 minutes that we then deleted, we changed the names of our co-workers on our phone.
Angélica* is part of an observatory that documents, classifies and denounces cases of violence or discrimination against the LGBTQ+ population in Caracas in the absence of official figures. She describes the digital precautions that her organization must apply in order to avoid drawing unwanted attention from the Maduro government.
“We even had chats that lasted no more than 30 minutes that we then deleted, we changed the names of our co-workers on our phone, thinking that if someone is detained at some point, we must protect as much as possible the integrity of those who are part of the team,” explains Angélica*, who says that two members of the observatory have been detained and one of them had his passport revoked.
In the meantime, Cris* often leaves their house without a cell phone for fear of being stopped in the street and having their human rights-related information reviewed. They also decided to close their social networks to avoid any digital footprint. “We had to start deleting chats constantly, scheduling chats to be deleted every three hours and not participating in human rights groups. When we travel, you have to purge your entire phone and any connection, even photos, because if they sent you even memes with anything political and you’re checked by an official, that could literally get you handcuffed,” says Cris*, who also doesn’t post anything on their WhatsApp stories.
“What’s clear is that our work, our voice and our initiatives are becoming more important every day. We must understand this as something circumstantial. This is not our destiny. If anything, this context allows us to build resilience, to rethink our structures and above all to build communities where we can exist, where we can survive and where we can shelter in solidarity and dignity until the sun comes out again,” concludes Cris* via the screen from Mérida.
Living in exile: the story of Mauricio*
“Today, even living abroad, I maintain some security measures out of fear. I have not been able to let go of fear, fear has not let go of me,” says Mauricio*, one of the many human rights activists who left his homeland without a return date, as a result of persecution.
At the end of 2024, Mauricio* was arbitrarily detained and abducted by the General Directorate of Military Counterintelligence (DGCIM). For approximately eight hours, no one knew what was happening to him: “I was hooded and handcuffed the whole time. In addition, I suffered threats of sexual violence and torture, cruel treatment and psychological violence.”
That day I felt that they stole my peace.
Mauricio* says that while he was transferred in a vehicle after his arrest, the DGCIM played twice a song that was used during a terror campaign, and that upon arrival at the military headquarters, they interrogated and threatened him and his family. “That day I felt that they stole my peace,” he adds, his voice cracking.
Shortly after his arrest, human rights organizations in Venezuela and Latin America demanded Mauricio’s release on social networks. He says that thanks to this media outreach, his release was made possible that same night: “It was very nice to see the number of people who showed solidarity.”
The only options are to flee or to hide and keep silent.
After his release, Mauricio* lived in complete hiding in Venezuela for two months. “I felt that my life was on hold. Cases of persecution continued, there was a lot of violence and I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t even tweet, I couldn’t seek support, I couldn’t even console my friends who were going through what I was going through,” he says.
“I can’t get used to it. It is very difficult to deal with the obligation of having to flee in order to survive. In Venezuela we live under a system that leaves us no choice. The only options are to flee or to hide and keep silent,” says Mauricio* from exile.
While the arrests of opponents and activists intensified after the regional and legislative elections of May 25, Mauricio* calls for the human rights crisis in his country not to go unnoticed: “Unfortunately, if things continue like this, the human rights movement will disappear and this will erase the evidence of what women, LGBTQ+ people and people with disabilities are going through. More than continuing to bear witness to something, we need to urge the world not to let the crisis in Venezuela become a forgotten crisis.”
*The testimonies presented in this report are the result of direct interviews. These documents are protected by professional secrecy and have been edited with journalistic criteria to ensure their legibility. The names of the persons who gave their accounts have been changed to respect their privacy and to avoid reprisals against them*.
