By choice and by necessity, Venezuelans living in Malta have learned to speak softly about their country. Not because they lack opinions, but because fear travels with you when you leave a dictatorship. In the days following dramatic developments involving Nicolás Maduro, social media filled with sharply divided reactions – celebration, disbelief, anxiety.

To understand what lies beneath those reactions, WhosWho.mt spoke to Venezuelans now based in Malta. All asked to remain anonymous. Their words are raw, often painful, and deeply analytical – shaped not by ideology alone, but by lived experience.

What emerges is not a single narrative, but a shared wound.

‘I knew a prosperous Venezuela’

One woman, now 46, has spent more than half her life under authoritarian rule. Her memory of Venezuela is not abstract – it is personal, comparative, and anchored in loss.

“I knew a prosperous Venezuela, where expressing your thoughts was not a crime or a reason to go to jail, where people could study, have a normal job, and with their savings have the opportunity to buy a house or a car.”

She contrasts that past with the present: a country where salaries fell to “three dollars a month,” infrastructure collapsed, and dissent became dangerous. In her words, the descent began under Hugo Chávez and accelerated under Maduro.

Her account of the 2024 election is chilling – not as a political event, but as a moment when fear became routine.

“After that day, many people were imprisoned simply for having a photo against the regime on their mobile phones. Many teenagers were detained and some are still in jail.”

For her, repression is total: journalists self-censor, priests are unsafe, opposition leaders live in exile, passports are invalidated. “No one escapes this repression,” she says.

Exile is not a choice – it is survival

Several respondents emphasised that migration was never a lifestyle decision. It was economic, psychological, and urgent.

One man who left in 2019 describes holding three jobs – two informal, one formal – just to survive.

“The truth is, it was very frustrating to live day to day just to survive. 2016 and 2017 were the worst hunger crisis Venezuela ever experienced.”

Another recounts sourcing food from Brazil, converting dollars into Brazilian reais, and living permanently on the edge of scarcity. 

Today, an estimated nine million Venezuelans live abroad. Malta is a small dot in that global diaspora, but the trauma is the same.

Relief – and anger – at the same time

Reaction to Maduro’s capture has not been universally celebratory, but neither has it been hesitant.

A 40-year-old Venezuelan man living in Malta describes his feelings as conflicted but clear:

“I’m happy and of course relieved and glad that he’s finally going to face justice – and I hope it’s long and harsh – but on the other hand, I’d like to see everyone involved in what for me was the kidnapping of an entire country.”

He uses the word kidnapping deliberately – not only of institutions, but of freedom, empathy, safety, and social cohesion. He remembers how insecurity exploded, how families fractured along political lines, how crime flourished amid impunity.

“I saw people eating from the trash… completely resigned to their fate.”

For him, repression was not theoretical. He witnessed the disappearance of young people for memes, chants, and images.

'Suddenly the whole world is worried… about oil?'

On Wednesday (today), US President Donald Trump announced a deal under which Venezuela’s interim authorities will provide 30 million to 50 million barrels of oil to the United States, to be sold at market price with Trump saying the proceeds will benefit both Venezuelans and Americans.

This strategy has played out alongside aggressive enforcement actions at sea. US forces have seized Venezuela-linked oil tankers in the North Atlantic and pursued others that attempted to evade a US blockade – operations that reflect the intensity of Washington’s pressure campaign and complicate any narrative that this is solely about freeing a people or restoring democracy.

The ongoing operations of Trump has brought relief to some people, while others are more cautious. 

One respondent is blunt: “This is not about oil. It is about freedom.”

They argue that Venezuela’s resources have long been exploited – not by its people, but through black-market deals and alliances with authoritarian regimes. From their perspective, outrage over sovereignty rings hollow when compared to decades of silence over hunger, censorship, and torture.

“For 27 years, no one wanted to do anything… and now that someone has finally decided to take a stand, suddenly the whole world is worried… about oil?”

This view does not romanticise foreign powers, but reflects exhaustion – and a belief that internal change alone is no longer possible.

Fear still governs those who remain

Not all Venezuelans are celebrating – especially those still inside the country.

One interviewee who left in 2024 recalls security forces removing teenagers from their homes “like they were deadly criminals.” Another notes that celebration itself has become dangerous.

“The only reason Venezuelans in Venezuela are not celebrating is because the vice president of Maduro is now the president and they are arresting journalists and anyone who celebrated the operation.”

Fear, they say, is once again tightening its grip.

Hope – but without illusions

Across all testimonies, hope exists – but it is cautious.

Many look to opposition leader María Corina Machado as a symbol of democratic possibility. Yet even those most optimistic stress that international supervision is essential if elections are to be credible and a transition real.

“We cannot do this on our own.”

One respondent, who identifies as leftist and trans, adds an important nuance – challenging parts of the global left that defend authoritarian regimes simply because they oppose US policy.

“Many times those activists are supporting dictators… even when this kind of dictators don't even respect women and LGBT rights.”

Giving voice without simplifying pain

What Venezuelans in Malta ask for is not blind support, nor ideological alignment. They ask to be heard – as people who lived through collapse, repression, hunger, and exile.

Their voices resist easy binaries. Relief can coexist with fear. Hope can live alongside scepticism. Gratitude for safety abroad does not erase grief for a country left behind.

And anonymity, for many, is still the price of speaking at all.