Florida’s exile community is divided over military action in Venezuela: ‘Let whatever has to happen, happen, but let it be quick’

Mid-morning at El Arepazo—one of the most iconic cafes for the Venezuelan exile community in Doral, Florida—the usual murmur of the place seems more subdued than normal. The screens, once dominated by Caracas politics, now show baseball games or American news channels. Customers come in, order coffee, arepas or cachitos, and leave without lingering. There are no political discussions at the tables. These days, no one, or almost no one, utters the word “intervention” aloud.

Here, where conversations about Venezuela were once part of the daily landscape, silence has become the norm. “People prefer to keep quiet,” an employee remarks as he wipes down a recently vacated table. “Just in case.” Fear of reprisals from Nicolás Maduro’s government, concern for family members still in the country, or simply the prudence of those with pending immigration cases in the United States leads many to remain silent.

“We don’t officially know what’s happening. We only know what official sources have said: that there are problems with the airspace, flight cancellations, and a U.S. maritime presence to dismantle armed groups linked to drug trafficking,” says Osmán Aray, a Venezuelan who lives in Doral, the municipality with the highest concentration of Venezuelans in the United States, according to the Census. In this city, more than 30% of its residents were born in Venezuela, the highest proportion in the country. The area has been known for years as “Doralzuela.”

The U.S. military operation in the Caribbean—officially presented as a pressure tactic against the so-called Cartel of the Suns, recently designated a terrorist organization by Washington—has sparked a debate. But it’s happening quietly, in small circles, almost always behind closed doors: Is military intervention in Venezuela necessary?

Diplomacy or intervention?

In the streets of Doral, two positions coexist: those who still defend the diplomatic route and those who believe that, after more than 15 years of crisis, that path is exhausted.

Among those calling for drastic change is Gaby Perozo, a renowned journalist who has been in Venezuelan exile for over a decade. She speaks without hesitation, as if she no longer cares to soften her words. “I believe it is absolutely necessary,” she says regarding a potential international operation. “Those who understand the nature of that regime, which is criminal, know that this is the only way to restore democracy,” she adds.

Perozo, 49, dismisses the image of a prolonged occupation: she prefers the term “surgical intervention,” something quick, precise, and decisive. “Nobody wants a military intervention,” she says, “but Venezuelans have done absolutely everything within their power.”

According to her, it is not an act of foreign domination, but a hemispheric action: “The more governments like Venezuela’s consolidate, the more Mexico, Colombia and the United States, among others, are at risk.”

Her family in Venezuela, she says, feels the same way. “My mother, my sister, my nephews… they’re all there, worried. But they say, ‘If something happens to us, it doesn’t matter, we have to do it for the young people.’"

At the other end of the debate is Francisco Poleo, a 35-year-old businessman who still hopes for one last chance at dialogue, aware of the serious consequences that a war could bring. “The best option would be for Nicolás Maduro to recognize the results of the July 28, 2024 elections, which he lost overwhelmingly, and step down,” he says. “That would be the ideal scenario.”

But he himself admits that it’s a difficult idea to put into practice. “Maduro isn’t just Maduro. He’s the spokesperson for a mafia where each leader has their share of power. And there are also international interests at play.”

Poleo rules out an invasion like those in Iraq or Afghanistan. What he does see as possible—and likely—are targeted military operations, “with what is already in the Caribbean.” “Pressure can be exerted without the need for direct intervention,” he maintains.

Among the exiles there is also an undecided group, one that is apparently larger than it seems. They don’t want a war, but they don’t see a way out either. One of them, who asks for anonymity because he has family in Caracas, puts it this way: “If you ask me if I want a war or an invasion, I would say no. But after having exhausted all avenues—dialogue and elections—there are no other options left.”

He participated in protests, voted, marched, and was even in the streets whenever he was called upon. “And nothing ever happened. There is no institutional framework. Everything is controlled,” he says resignedly.

Johana Reyes, 49, who works at a fruit distributor in Doral, shares part of the diagnosis, but adds a nuance: “Trump isn’t a warmonger. He’s not like that; he doesn’t like guns or bombs,” she says. “But he’s not dealing with diplomats either. He’s dealing with criminals. And criminals don’t get out peacefully.”

However, although she acknowledges that the scenario is uncertain, she is confident that economic and military pressure “will eventually have an impact,” because “when they can no longer move drugs as they have for more than 20 years, that pressure will work.”

Trump, between hope and disappointment

Questions about military intervention inevitably coexist with the emotions that U.S. policy stirs in this community. For many exiles, the Venezuelan crisis isn’t discussed solely in terms of the Caribbean, but also in terms of Washington. And that’s where one key figure emerges: Donald Trump.

In recent times, the Venezuelan exile community in Florida has been a stronghold for the Republican Party. In 2020, Trump received widespread support among Venezuelans in South Florida, most of whom were drawn in by his harsh rhetoric against Maduro and the promise that “all options were on the table.”

In 2024, this support was manifested again: in cities like Doral and Weston — also with a large population of Venezuelan descent — the Venezuelan vote strongly tipped the balance towards the U.S. president.

But his decision to cancel Temporary Protected Status (TPS) for more than half a million Venezuelans has caused a palpable rift. In Doral, many describe the measure as a “disappointment” and even a “betrayal,” an inexplicable punishment for those who fled the country that Washington now labels a threat.

“Removing TPS from a country you just designated as a terrorist organization makes no sense,” admits Poleo, who has been in Florida since 2016.

Despite the widespread discontent in the city of Doral, even among those who criticize the immigration measures promoted by the White House, the idea persists that everything could change if Trump achieves a real political shift in the Miraflores Palace.

“If Trump brings about change in Venezuela, that will erase any wounds he has caused with his policies,” Poleo explains, while another of her compatriots is convinced that “even though these changes have hurt us, of course we will be grateful if they liberate the country.”

The Venezuelan exile community, so accustomed to protesting, marching, and demanding change, now lives in a tense pause, observing the movements in the Caribbean, carefully choosing their words and calculating the timing. They await an outcome that could change everything thanks to the actions of the government of a country they now call “home.”

Meanwhile, opinions continue to be whispered around tables, in calls, and in messages that many later delete. Nobody knows what will happen. But everyone agrees on one thing: “Let whatever has to happen, happen, but let it be quick.”

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