Exiles on hunger strike at the UN: ‘We came to give our lives for Venezuela, we did not come to let ourselves die’

On the seventh day, Franklin Gomez and Daniel Prado still think they should continue their hunger strike. Another man with them thinks the same; he is 65 years old and they had not met until three days ago. Oswaldo de los Santos arrived on Saturday, sat down next to them, and knew he could not return home. He also stopped eating. The injustices of their country, the piece of the world that belongs to them by nature, unites them in a way that nothing else can. Those who come to say hello and ask questions look and act as if they also know them, because most of them know each other through a specific pain.

The three men are sitting in front of the United Nations headquarters in New York, under a roof, with three chairs and a mattress. They are all asked the same question: ‘why?’ As if the answer were not obvious. They are doing this because they want a democratic Venezuela. “We want our country back. The country is not theirs, it belongs to the people,” says Oswaldo.

The reason they are in front of the UN is very specific: they are asking the Security Council to hold a special session under the Arria formula in order to present their case. “We simply want to bring the truth to the world, of what happened and what is happening in Venezuela,” says Daniel.

In Arria formula meetings non-governmental actors participate in the discussion of the issue that affects them as witnesses and advocates of their cause. It is an opportunity to debate with representatives and external agents in a context of confidentiality. The purpose of these meetings is to promote direct dialogue with the various actors involved in a conflict, in order to help the members of the Security Council to make informed decisions.

Franklin and Daniel managed to speak by phone with a UN official who warned them that this was not the way to proceed and that any request or action should be made through diplomatic channels. He told them to go to the Venezuelan mission to the UN. They complied, but only found what they consider a metaphor for their homeland: closed doors, a torn flag, and no people.

“Despite that, we slipped the document under the door and stuck another one to it. We also sent one by mail to prove that Venezuela has no representation in these individuals that the dictator Nicolás Maduro is sending,” says Franklin, while displaying an Instagram message from a woman asking for medicine for a relative. “I have as many messages like that as you want.” And those calls for help are what feeds the three of them.

Neither Daniel, 28, nor Franklin, 34, live in New York. Daniel is an actor and dancer. Franklin works in a restaurant but he is also the same person he was in Venezuela: a communications student, a councilor for the state of Táchira, a political opponent, and an exile. Both are exiles.

Daniel witnessed the shooting death of 14-year-old Kluivert Roa by an officer of the Bolivarian National Police. He is the man who appears in a photograph of the tragedy, his chest stained with Kluivert’s blood, in front of the guns and uniformed officers of the state.

Franklin was persecuted, imprisoned, and tortured for two days. He was accused of being a terrorist and of having incited attacks on the police. He was released and then tried by military courts. He fled the country. “Leave, I don’t want to see you dead,” his mother told him.

Having survived their own country, life for both of them is nothing like what they had or could have had in Venezuela. “I couldn’t graduate, I lost my marriage because I couldn’t let my decisions hurt my family; I never saw my family again,” Franklin says.

On August 12, part of the Venezuelan diaspora gathered together with him, Daniel and Oswaldo in an evening of songs and poetry. “It was something that comforted our souls, our spirit filled our stomachs in an incredible way because we had not felt so Venezuelan for so long.” They have been visited by doctors, people from Bangladesh, a Buddhist monk who prayed a mantra, and representatives of the Catholic and Evangelical Christian Churches. A Venezuelan woman, with her baby and her French husband, pass by and come to thank them. “It’s now or never,” she says. “Now or never.”

It has been almost three weeks since presidential elections took place in Venezuela. The Venezuelan people took to the streets to denounce electoral fraud at the National Electoral Council (CNE), which awarded the victory to Maduro without publishing the paper tallies of the ballot records. Since then, over 1,350 people have been detained without any due process, according to the NGO Foro Penal. Activists, journalists or whistleblowers who have tried to leave the country have had their passports canceled. Maduro blocked social networks and messaging services such as Signal and X, but Venezuelans have not bowed.

“We have not lost hope and we have not lost faith. We came to give our lives for Venezuela, we did not come to let ourselves die. I know it will be difficult, but I would like to make art and be part of the construction of a country. I want to see how Venezuela rises from the ashes and returns to Christ because without him we are nothing,” says Franklin.

Daniel stands up. His t-shirt reads: “Now or never.” A few minutes ago, Diego Vicentini, director of the feature film Simón, approached them. Franklin’s t-shirt alludes to the film, which tells the story of a young man who stood up to the Venezuelan regime and tried to obtain political asylum before being forcibly sent back home. Vicentini and Daniel walk toward 42nd Street. They are carrying the same document they tried to deliver to the Venezuelan mission. They will now try to do so at the Ecuadorian mission.

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