The two Venezuelas that coexist these days walk without touching each other, while the bustling Caracas lowers its voice and witnesses movements that were unimaginable just a week ago.

One Venezuela, the Chavista one, is putting up with U.S. tutelage and accepting as normal that Washington now decides the fate of its oil, while announcing a mass release of political prisoners. The other Venezuela remains silent in the face of an agreement among the elites that have decided, without their consent, the course of the transition. To the usual repression, millions of Venezuelans now add the silence imposed from above. In the new Venezuela, not even the families of the recently released prisoners were able to celebrate their release because the law of national “commotion,” passed by Delcy Rodríguez after being sworn in as acting president, seeks to maintain control of the narrative and prevents expression in the streets except to support Nicolás Maduro, now detained in a New York jail.

“There’s a strange joy, but also a lot of frustration. We’re caught between something that won’t die and something that won’t be born,” says a PDVSA oil company worker who prefers to remain anonymous. “I have a feeling this could last for years, and how does that benefit me?” he asks. “All I know is that now I could get into trouble for expressing my opinion and talking to you,” he says from Caracas.

Despite Trump’s humiliating impositions, and despite the fact that Maduro’s regime is at its lowest point without him, Chavismo, like Castroism in Cuba, thrives on confrontation. It is accustomed to survival and knows how to wield language, the media, street tactics, and weapons. Thus, it responds with external displays of submission while applying an iron fist at home, as a rebuke to those who perceive signs of weakness.

In many Venezuelan cities, following Maduro’s capture, the streets are now controlled by paramilitary groups, the infamous “motorcyclists,” who have assumed a central role in maintaining order. Armed and masked, they have deployed primarily in working-class neighborhoods of the capital, such as Petare and Catia, to suppress any spontaneous movement.

When a coup ousted Hugo Chávez from power on April 11, 2002, it was the first time the Bolivarian Revolution had been left without a leader by force. The reaction, however, was that thousands of people descended from the hills, surrounded the presidential palace, and the social mobilization in the streets and military barracks ultimately crushed the uprising led by Pedro Carmona just two days later. That popular victory of April 13 left a phrase etched in the Chavista subconscious, one that the most hardline sector of Chavismo repeats these days: “Every 11th has its 13th.”

“The city is quieter than usual,” says a Caracas-based journalist who, like the 10 people interviewed for this story, prefers to remain anonymous for fear of reprisals. “There’s a strange feeling that things have changed only to stay the same.” “The government wants to project normalcy, but there are few people in the streets and no one wants to talk about politics,” he explains. “There’s fear,” says a law professor at the Central University. “There are armed civilians in the streets, military checkpoints every few blocks, and cell phones are being checked. People, in general, are quieter,” he says as he leaves his classroom.

“The feeling is that the changes are being felt more intensely outside the country than inside,” adds a primary school teacher from the state of Yaracuy, who is “perplexed” by the air of defeat of the Rodríguez siblings, Delcy and Jorge, at the head of the executive and legislative branches, respectively.

While the streets remain silent, the official media outlets are hammering away with programming that insists on the normalcy prevailing in the country. Radio and television stations, programs and analysts speak of the “imperialist aggression,” “civic-military unity,” and daily work as a “great contribution to the nation.” Not a word is uttered about the capitulation on the oil front or the release of prisoners, presented as “a gesture of goodwill in support of national dialogue.”

However, daily life is far less idyllic. Hundreds of men dressed in black, armed with pistols, shotguns, and rifles, stationed on street corners, instill fear as they patrol the streets on motorcycles, establishing informal controls over residents and businesses, enforcing closing times, and restricting nighttime movement. “The soldiers get on the bus and ask for your phone: they are looking for words like Trump, Maduro, United States, or invasion,” explained a pharmacist who works in the Altamira area.

Many Venezuelans who voted overwhelmingly against Maduro in 2024 have been unable to celebrate the news they had been waiting years for. To prevent it, the government has a provision that orders “the search and capture throughout the national territory of any person involved in promoting or supporting the armed attack by the United States,” which has sent shivers down the spines of human rights organizations.

The goal is to maintain control of both the institutions and the streets. Following the shock of January 3, when U.S. planes bombed the capital, Diosdado Cabello, Venezuela’s vice president and representative of the most militaristic wing of Chavismo, led walks through the city for two nights, accompanied by dozens of armed men. However, the once all-powerful Cabello appeared dejected and haggard on Wednesday night during his television program appearance, in which he had to acknowledge that “the last 27 weeks have been a constant siege… I am dismayed, emotionally devastated… and very afraid.”

“At first there were lines to buy food and gasoline… now things have returned to normal. You can see that there are efforts to convey that nothing has happened and that life goes on,” says an engineering student from the capital.

The schizophrenic silence imposed on the country has led to several arrests, such as those of two brothers, farmers from the state of Mérida, who celebrated Maduro’s capture by firing shots into the air, according to the NGO Foro Penal. On the day of the acting president’s inauguration, at least 15 journalists, 11 of them from international media outlets, were detained in a clear message that everything changes at the top, but nothing changes on the ground.

But the crackdown isn’t limited to the streets. Three other people were arrested for celebrating on social media. One young woman was forced to issue a public apology, and the police released a video in which she, handcuffed and accompanied by two officers, said: “Mr. President Nicolás, I’m here to leave this video to apologize for a video I posted a few hours ago.”

The appointments within the Chavista leadership also show no changes to the established line. Having overcome the initial shock, Rodríguez chose General Gustavo González López as the new commander of the Presidential Honor Guard. The first appointment made by the acting president served as minister of the interior and director of the Bolivarian Intelligence Service (SEBIN) until the end of 2024. SEBIN is the regime’s political police, responsible, among other things, for the notorious Helicoide prison, a symbol of torture and repression against the opposition. “He is one of the hardliners. His appointment sends no signal of change,” says opposition deputy Stalin González.

While daily life is managed between Washington and Caracas, on the street the most immediate concern is “whether we’ll get our war bonus on the 15th,” says a nurse from Caracas, referring to the extra $30 that public employees receive, supplementing their $70 monthly salary. “Political changes will come; right now I’m worried about food,” she explains on her way to work.

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