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From Our Own Correspondent
Venezuela: Maduro’s Downfall
00:28:37
The leader's legacy gives a clue as to why so many Venezuelans celebrated his capture
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Hello. Today in Iran, anti government protests are spreading across the country. We hear from those calling for a return of the Shah in Tehran. We're at a street party in Miami among the city's Venezuelan community in the hours after the US seized President Maduro. We're in India's far northeast where we witness a centuries old stone pulling ceremony, albeit with a little help from a modern day digger. And finally, in a warehouse in a suburb of Berlin, factories have been repurposed into creative spaces, but ones being retooled for war. But first, America's nighttime military operation in Venezuela last weekend seemingly caught the whole world off guard as the U.S. army's elite Delta Force unit seized the country's president Nicolas Maduro and his wife, Celia Flores. Venezuelan Officials said around 100 were killed in the assault. The couple were swiftly transported from Caracas to New York, where Mr. Maduro faces allegations of narco terrorism. Appearing in court, the couple pleaded not guilty to all charges against them and Mr. Maduro declared he had been kidnapped. Our correspondent Will Grant reflects on his years reporting on Nicolas Maduro's leadership.
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There was a time when you could simply get Nicolas Maduro on the telephone almost 20 years ago, in late September 2006, I called a number, as arranged, in New York, of all places, and he picked up with a buenas tardes, good afternoon. In his unmistakable baritone. Timber. A day earlier, the Venezuelan president at the time, Hugo Chavez, had delivered one of the most memorable speeches the UN General assembly had ever seen. He called President George W. Bush the devil and said it still smelled of sulphur. At the podium where he was standing, the delegates delighted in it or shifted uncomfortably in their seats, depending on their political leanings. In my telephone interview with the then Venezuelan Foreign Minister, Nicolas Maduro, I asked him about the backlash. Critics had said Chavez had gone too far, had used language that wasn't becoming of a head of state. Nonsense, retorted Maduro. Comandante Chavez was right, he insisted. Bush is the devil. The devil incarnate, he added with a flourish. It struck me then, and only more so when I moved to Venezuela a year later, that Mr. Maduro was pretty happy being Chavez's foreign minister. A bus driver turned union leader turned socialist politician, Maduro travelled the world relaying his political mentor's message, displaying undying loyalty to the man and his movement in the process. It was that loyalty which saw him promoted to the top job a few years later, following Chavez's untimely death from cancer. As his anointed successor, Maduro initially found it tough to replace the eternal commander. So he tried to emulate him by copying his voice, his expressions and hand gestures. But he was a pale imitation. His critics, of whom there were many, saw him as a buffoon and christened him maburro burro, meaning donkey. Yet as the months and then years passed, Maduro grew into the role. He became his own version of a South American strongman, crushing opposition rivals by banning them as election candidates, rounding up his critics and cracking down hard on dissent. So hard, in fact, that scores were killed by the Venezuelan security forces in protests in 2014 and again in 2017. His repression was enforced by loyalist armed motorcycle gangs called colectivos, and the intelligence services identified protesters based on social media posts and took them from their homes. The oil price dropped and the economy began to spiral into hyperinflation. Venezuelans headed for the exit. Millions of young people fled the Maduro regime, saying they didn't earn enough to feed their families. Millions of children were going without sufficient calories each day, their parents fainting with hunger. The elderly were dependent on government subsidized food parcels, which had largely dried up. Meanwhile, Maduro made matters worse at every turn. He dined with his wife, Celia Flores, in the luxury restaurant of the Turkish celebrity chef Salt bae, famed for its expensive cuts of meat. Video of the Venezuelan head of state and the first combatant, as Flores insisted on being called, puffing on cigars, quaffing fine wine and eating prime steaks as their people starved, fermented nothing short of mockery. All of these things flashed into my head this week, following another phone call not with but about Nicolas Maduro. This time it was a video call from my friend Vanessa Silva, an indefatigable Venezuelan journalist in Caracas. She had just been woken by the most almighty explosion inside La Calotta, a military airstrip in the capital. My heart is pounding. The whole building shook, she told me, pointing her phone from her balcony so I could see the grey plume of smoke still rising. We will. It's started, she said. It must be the Americans. Vanessa turned out the lights, fearing being spotted from above, the darkness in her apartment only adding to her sense of vulnerability. It soon turned out she was right. It was indeed the Americans. Within hours, Donald Trump announced that Maduro and his wife had been captured and flown out of the country. And within the day I had arrived in Cucuta, on the Colombian border with Venezuela. The border town has often received influxes of Venezuelans trying to get out of the country over the past few years. This time it received an influx of international journalists trying to get in the Venezuelan authorities weren't opening the door, though they have strived to project an image of business as usual in some of the most unusual times the country has ever known. Instead, the journalists gathered on the Simon Bolivar Bridge, which links the two nations, and set up their cameras next to Colombian tanks and soldiers sent to maintain calm in a region where left wing rebel groups and drug gangs move back and forth with ease as a shackled Nicolas Maduro appeared in a New York courtroom on drug trafficking charges and declared, I'm a president and a prisoner of war, the reporters stood in the shadow of the Venezuelan mountains and tried their best to answer the one question no one has the answer to what happens.
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Next will grant Next to Miami, home to the largest Venezuelan community in the United States, Nicolas Maduro's capture was largely greeted with jubilation there, with hundreds of people taking to the streets to celebrate in a day long rally, though there is also some apprehension about what the future holds for Venezuela and its people. Ben de Busman was in Miami, capturing the mood among Venezuelans in the immediate hours after the US Raid on Caracas.
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In the Miami suburb of Doral, Ben the party began early, hours before the sun began to rise. Soon after news broke of Nicolas Maduro's capture last Saturday morning, people in this neighborhood, the heart of South Florida's Venezuelan expat population, began streaming into El Arepasso. The popular Venezuelan restaurant has for years been a hub for the community. Over 40% of Doral's residents are of Venezuelan origin, the largest concentration in the US A significant portion arrived this century fleeing the Maduro government or that of his predecessor, Hugo Chavez. Many openly loathe what they consider to be Venezuela's illegitimate government, and on the streets of Doral, it showed. By the time I arrived at the party around midday, the crowd had ballooned to several hundred, spilling out onto the streets and a nearby petrol station. Traffic on nearby streets ground to a halt amid a chaotic, snarling jam of flag waving and honking cars. People were dancing. Music was blaring, drowned out only by frequent chants of Libertad. Libertads. The crowd were mostly clad in the red, yellow and blue colors of Venezuela, dotted intermittently with the red of Donald Trump's signature Make America Great Again hats. This was the moment they had spent years waiting for. As I jostled my way through the excited crowd, I caught a glimpse of one man. He was wearing a baseball cap bearing the Venezuelan flag and a red baseball jersey. He was clearly emotional, hanging back on the edge of the party seemingly taking in the moment quietly. His name was Brian Marquez, a native of the Venezuelan state of Tachira on the Colombian border. I don't even know how to put it into words. We suffered under them, he told me breathlessly, rattling off a list of grievances against Maduro, including hyperinflation and rampant corruption. It was humiliating. That's why so many of us left. I asked him how he felt hearing the news. It's an indescribable feeling, he responded quickly. Like almost everyone I spoke to that day, Brian told me he believes one person above all was responsible for this gift to Venezuelan exiles abroad Donald Trump. It was a sentiment I heard over and over again. I don't even know what to say, he said of the US President, except thank you. But even as the thank yous and celebrations went on into the evening, people expressed confusion about the future. Many were left scratching their heads after Mr. Trump seemingly turned on opposition leader Maria Corinna Machado. The Nobel Peace Prize winners opposition movement claimed victory in Venezuela's heavily disputed 2024 elections, but President Trump has said she has neither the support nor the respect to govern Venezuela. For now, Trump appears to be willing to work with the country's new acting president, Delsey Rodriguez, even though she's a Maduro government insider wildly reviled by large swathes of the Venezuelan diaspora. In the longer term, that's an outcome that many find hard to swallow. I hope that's very clear, said a young woman named Rosana. We do not accept the government of Delcey Rodriguez or anyone who was part of the Maduro regime. But the overwhelming sentiment was that better days could be just over the horizon. Several people told me they'd consider going back to Venezuela if the situation there improves, especially if the Trump administration breathes new life into the embattled oil industry and new economic opportunities arise. And it wasn't just Venezuelans feeling optimistic. The celebrations were also peppered with the flags of Nicaragua and Cuba, countries with their own huge exile diasporas. The day after the rally, I spoke to Cuban born Irina Villarino, a local resident and restaurant owner who fled the island on a boat lift at the age of four. Like many Cubans in Florida, she hopes Cuba could be next. Without hesitation, Irina told me she hopes the US Uses any force necessary to finally remove Cuba's communist government, which she says tortured one of her uncles during his time in prison. It's been 67 years, she told me. That's been a long time coming. The Cuban government denounced the US attack as illegal and declared two days of national mourning for the 32 Cubans killed in the military operation. Even while grappling with uncertainty over their future, Venezuelans in Miami told me that other concerns could wait. It was still a time for celebration. Every day we imagined this moment, a woman told me. And that moment is right now. We are so hopeful our country can be completely free.
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Bent de Boussman A wave of protests has spread rapidly across Iran over the last fortnight. Anger initially broke out in the capital, Tehran, following a sharp devaluation of the country's currency and spiralling cost of living. Even with a rising death toll, mass arrests and a growing crackdown from other authorities, protests have now been reported in every province of Iran, including those perceived to be loyal to the state. BBC Persian's Masjid Hosseini has been following the story.
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When demonstrations broke out in Tehran a few weeks ago over the rising cost of living, few were surprised. Iranians had been contending with rising prices, the relentless devaluation of the national currency and almost daily water and electricity cuts had left people without basic necessities, not to mention rain, rising air pollution, a major drought, political tension and deep uncertainty about the future. A merchant in Tehran's Grand Bazaar told me over the phone he no longer believes those in power can change the situation. Things will only get worse, he said. Even when cells are high, I'm losing money. And it's a sentiment shared by many. The demonstrations initially began as a backlash against what protesters say is the government's mismanagement of Iran's struggling economy. But they quickly have taken on a growing anti state tone, with protesters in numerous locations including major cities like the capital Tehran, Shiraz, Isfahan, Qazvin and holy cities like Mashhad and Qom, chanting slogans against Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and the clerical establishment. In many protest videos, slogans can be heard expressing support for the son of the country's late shah, Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi. King Mohammad Reza Pahlavi and his family left the country in 1979 in the midst of the Iranian Revolution as crowds chanted Death to the king. Almost 47 years later, a very different chant is being heard Long live the king. With calls for the return of his son currently living in the United States. Nader, not his real name, is a former political prisoner arrested during the Women Life Freedom protests of 2022 following the death of a young woman, Mahsa Amini, in custody. He says this time around, the protesters are clearer than ever. They know what they don't want the Islamic Republic, he says, and they know what they do want to be part of the free world, have a free market economy, have relations with the west, and they see the prince as the person who can make that happen. Meanwhile, other political figures and activists are also advocating for alternative visions for Iran's future and a peaceful transition of power. Another notable shift came from abroad, from a long time enemy of Iran's leadership, the United States. For the first time, a US President directly warned Iranian authorities against cracking down on demonstrations. Donald Trump warned that should the Iranian government shoot and kill any peaceful protesters, then America would come to their rescue, saying the US Was locked and loaded and ready to go. He repeated the remarks while boarding Air Force One shortly after the capture of Venezuela's President Nicolas Maduro, a close ally of Iran. Inside Iran, reactions are mixed. Susan, who works at a factory where staff have joined the protests, says Trump's remarks have worried some, especially after events in Venezuela. We don't want a foreign force deciding our future, she said. Nader disagrees. He says President Trump's remarks have given protesters hope. We don't want Western governments making deals with the Islamic Republic, he tells me. What we want is support for the people. Some, he adds, are even waiting for Trump to take action against authorities in Tehran, Mehtat, a university student, takes a more skeptical view. He says students don't take Mr. Trump's remarks very seriously when, although they welcome the support, they don't believe anything will be done. After a week of unrest, Iran's supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, said officials should engage with legitimate protesters, but said those he regards as rioters should be put in their place. He later added that they were trying to please Trump. For many Iranians, this kind of language is all too familiar. In the past, when Khomeini has used the word rioters, it has often been taken as a green light for the security forces to move in and crack down hard. Dozens of protesters have reportedly been killed so far, as well as a small number from the security forces. On Tuesday, the small city of Abdanan became the latest flashpoint. Dozens took to the streets there, with many chanting Death to Khamenei alongside Long live the king, a trend that has continued and the protests have widened over the past nights, and there has been a nationwide Internet blackout. What will emerge from this round of unrest is still unclear, but one thing is certain. In cities across Iran, people are continuing to take to the streets and refusing to be silenced.
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Next we're in India's northeast In the state of Nagaland, scene of an annual stone pulling festival which brings together several of the region's distinct ethnic tribes. Ropes are used to pull the stones in a ceremony which is now centuries old, conveying a message of unity in a state which was once known for its fierce infighting. Simon Broughton watched the ceremony, keeping a safe distance from the moving monolith.
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There are four thick ropes and four lines of people pulling them. Hundreds of men, all dressed in traditional costume, tall feathered headdresses, loincloths, scarves coloured red and pink, but all wearing trainers. The men are limbering up for the coming challenge. This includes loud singing, alternating between two notes with a shriek each time they change from one note to the other. All visitors, please keep out of the space between the ropes, says the master of ceremonies over the megaphone in the village of Tuapema. Once the pulling starts, you may not be able to get out. This is the annual stone pulling ceremony in Nagaland. Nagaland has 17 officially recognized tribes, and it's the Angami tribe who do the stone pulling. Indeed, they have a culture of megaliths. Massive stones are found in most Angami villages for the village gates, with carvings harking back to headhunting times, once practiced by several tribes in the region or these days, stones marking the anniversary of the local church. Headhunting had ceased by the mid 20th century with the spread of Christianity and a colonial government ban. Today, around 90% of the state's population is Christian. Although the stone pulling ceremony is a speciality of the Angami, they've invited teams from three neighbouring tribes to help the Sumi, Rangma and Chakasang. Back in the old days, they would have been rivals. In his announcement, however, the MC underlines the four tribes coming together to achieve a common aim. Nagaland's state motto is Unity through diversity, and this stone pulling ceremony is surely a symbol of that. There's a parallel here to Britain's ancient history. In Orkney, the Ring of Brodgar, one of Britain's most magnificent megalithic monuments, has different stones quarried in different parts of the island. It's believed communities across the island collaborated in a similar way, each contributing stones from their own region. And it's long been known that the blue stones at Stonehenge were brought from Wales. But it's only recently been discovered that the altar stone is from Caithness, northeast Scotland. Archaeologists speculate that undertaking such a huge task was in itself a way to knit communities together in today's Nagaland. At the end of the ropes is a massive rectangular stone the size of one of the trilithon uprights at Stonehenge. It's lashed onto a wooden platform with ropes and the aim is to pull it down the road for about a kilometre. It's a method that's been used in various experiments to see how the stones for Stonehenge might have been moved 5,000 years ago. Although no one here I speak to knows about Stonehenge, and the settlement here is much more recent, Yangami migrated here, probably from South China, at most a thousand years ago. Reconstructions I've seen on video of attempting to move Stonehenged stones are all about the logistics the rollers, the ropes, the platform for the stone. But what this ceremony makes me realise is that it's a whole community enterprise. Women with baskets on their backs are lining up with food and drink and there's the chanting and the singing, creating a palpable sense of expectation. Before it starts, there's a religious reading from the Bible, a speech from the Minister of North Eastern Development and a blessing. And then we're off. The muscles of the rope pullers tense. A rhythmic grunting starts. And when the call of the master of ceremonies comes, they give it their all.
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Pull, pull, pull.
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The ropes stretch tauter and tauter. The grunting and the chanting gets louder and louder, but the stone isn't shifting. The MC calls a break and then they go for it again. The rhythmic cries are even louder, but still no movement. Then, in what seems like a humiliating defeat, a JCB digger is brought in to help nudge the stone along. My guide, Meadow, who has himself participated in two stone pulling ceremonies, shows me fabulous videos where they've needed no mechanical help. He says the feeling is indescribable. You are so tired, but the feeling of elation is so great that all the exhaustion disappears. It was disappointing that this attempt needed mechanical help, but seeing this makes me realize that moving giant stones is about much more than the logistics. The mechanics are one thing, but it's the ritual, music and ceremony that are needed to fire up a community to make something like this happen.
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Simon Broughton and finally, European leaders met in Paris this week to discuss security guarantees for Ukraine, with France and the UK committing to deploy forces in the event of a peace deal. Over recent months, countries including the Netherlands, Poland, Finland and Sweden have been bolstering their readiness for war, with Germany set to double its defence spending over the next five years. And now, for the first time in decades, arms production is to resume. In Berlin, Lucy Asch investigates the row Over. A factory in the north of the.
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German capital, Wedding is one of Berlin's less touristy neighbourhoods. Proudly radical and working class, it was a stronghold of communist resistance in the Weimar Republic. Today it's home to neon lit Turkish supermarkets, digital startups and a growing cultural scene. One of my favorite hangouts there is a concert hall in the chapel of an old crematorium called Silent Green. Experimental films now flicker in in the concrete tunnels under the former mortuary. Across the district, abandoned factories have been repurposed as creative spaces. One factory, which used to make car parts, stands out. The plant is being retooled not for art, but for war. Its production line, which once specialized in environmentally friendly throttle valves, will soon be churning out artillery shells. Instead, it's owned by the country's biggest defence company, Rheinmetall. Nearly four years after Russia's full scale invasion of Ukraine, Europe is rearming at its fastest rate since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Germany is spearheading the effort and plans to spend around 190 billion pounds a year to build up its army. The Metal Workers Union at the Wedding plant accepted the contract, which promises new machinery and job security for the 350 employees. It's not the transformation we expected, admits the chairman of the works council. But there's no alternative, he adds, pointing to Chinese competition in the car industry. Yet many of the factory's neighbours oppose the plan. Although Rheinmetall says no explosives will be used on site, some worry that weapons production in such a densely populated area could make the neighborhood a target. I meet Niklas and his friend Eden in a nearby cafe. Both are members of the left wing party Die Linke and tell me their government has its priorities wrong. Why does nobody care about child poverty or leaking school ceilings? Eden asks. Or that train fares are unaffordable? We finish our coffee and walk over to the factory with its saw toothed roof surrounded by spiked railings. As I take out my phone, a security guard in a glass booth tells me not to take pictures. The Berlin Alliance Against Arms Production, made up of some 30 grassroots groups, has already held protests outside the gates, with people holding signs saying War Starts here and Disarm Rheinmetall. Tensions are running high, with many Germans alarmed by what they see as the country's creeping militarisation. It's not just that civilian industries are being redirected towards arms production. The transformation involves people too. For 40 years, West Berlin welcomed draft dodgers. An island inside East Germany, the city came under the protective umbrella of the Western Allied Forces. A decade after reunification, military service was suspended, but now a form of conscription is making a comeback. Pupils in schools in 90 German cities recently went on strike when the Bundestag voted to introduce voluntary military service. Starting this month, all 18 year olds in Germany will be sent a questionnaire asking if they're interested and willing to join the armed forces. Niklas suggests that with Germany's dark past and the rise of the far right AfD party, having a powerful army is not a great idea. It's a familiar argument. After World War II, Germany embraced pacifism as a form of atonement. But that was when the American troops stationed in barracks across the country guaranteed security. More guns, less butter is always a hard sell. I tell Niklas and Eden that I used to share their revulsion of the military industrial complex. But the assurances we once relied on are gone. My three trips to Ukraine since the start of the full scale invasion have changed me there. I've seen for myself how men and women desperately trying to defend their land are dying needlessly because of diminishing supplies of ammunition. We want sovereignty for all people, but we're against weapons, says Niklas. I thank him for the meeting and walking back to the U Bahn station. Think of the endless rows of blue and yellow flags, photos and candles next to freshly dug graves across Ukraine.
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Lucy Ash and that's all for today. We'll be back again next Saturday morning. Do join us.
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Hello, Alex von Tunzelman here with a brand new series of history's heroes. People with purpose, brave ideas and the courage to stand alone.
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Including the little known story of a famous author caught up in a horrific accident which would require all his courage.
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Dickens remained in the river helping the rescue, assisting the wounded. He didn't search out to be heroic. He didn't play on his heroism.
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Subscribe to History's Heroes on BBC.
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Sounds.