Ask anyone what freedom means, and you’ll likely get a textbook answer. Ask someone who’s had it stripped away, and you may hear something raw and oddly poetic. For me, I found my answer wedged between concrete walls, tracing the movements of a wounded hawk outside my barred window. Here’s what prison taught me—sometimes the smallest glimpse of the outside, or the resilience of a creature clinging to life, can reshape your whole sense of hope. Oh, and freedom isn’t what you think it is (at least, not always).
Not-So-Obvious Truths About Freedom From Inside a Venezuelan Cell
During my time in a Venezuelan prison, the meaning of freedom and democracy became more than just ideas—they became my daily obsession. Every day, I would sit in my two-by-two meter cell, stripped of almost every basic right, and ask myself what it truly meant to be free. The mental health impact imprisonment had on me was profound, but it also forced me to see freedom in a new light.
Freedom: More Than a Single Act
Before prison, I thought of freedom as something simple—maybe the right to vote or to speak my mind. But in solitary confinement, I realized how much more it is. Freedom is not about one thing. In fact, freedom is about the possibility of doing many things. It’s the ability to speak out, to express my thoughts, to move through my country, to assemble with those I choose, to pray as I wish, and to own property. In Venezuela, these rights are not guaranteed. In prison, they were all taken from me, just as they have been taken from millions of Venezuelans.
- Freedom of expression: I could not speak freely, even to the guards or other prisoners.
- Freedom of movement: My world was reduced to four walls. I could not walk outside or choose where to go.
- Freedom of assembly: I was alone, unable to gather with friends or family.
- Freedom of religion: Praying was something I did quietly, in my mind, hoping no one would notice.
- Freedom of property: Everything I owned was taken away at the prison door.
Losing these simple acts changed everything. Freedom feels very different when it’s not just a theory, but something you lose piece by piece.
The Deep Connection Between Freedom and Democracy
Inside that cell, the connection freedom democracy became obvious to me. I saw that freedom and democracy are not just buzzwords. They are as intertwined as air and breath. Without democracy, there is no real freedom. Without freedom, democracy cannot exist. In Venezuela, the lack of democracy means millions live without true freedom. This is not just my story—it is the story of my country.
Freedom is not about one thing. In fact, freedom is about the possibility of doing many things.
Solitary Confinement: Recalibrating My Sense of Possibility
Solitary confinement was not just about silence. It was about recalibrating my sense of what was possible. The mental health impact imprisonment had on me was real—days blurred together, and hope was hard to find. But even in the darkest moments, I found small sources of comfort.
There was a small window in my cell. Through it, I could see a tree. In that tree, I watched a hawk. It became my companion, a symbol of the outside world and of resilience. When I learned the hawk had been injured and caught in barbed wire, I asked the guards to bring it to me. They did, perhaps thinking it would not survive. For months, I cared for the hawk as best I could, sharing my small space with this wild creature. When the guards took it away, I felt a deep loss. But the next day, I saw the hawk again in the same tree. It had survived. It had returned.
That hawk taught me that no matter how dire the circumstances, there is always a chance to overcome. Its resilience became my own. This experience is now a constant reminder to confront challenges head-on, even when the odds seem impossible.
Millions Share This Loss
What happened to me is not unique. The stripping away of freedom—of expression, movement, assembly, religion, and property—is the daily reality for millions of Venezuelans. The Venezuela human rights crisis is not just about politics. It is about the daily, personal loss of possibility and dignity. My story is just one example of how the absence of freedom and democracy can shape—and sometimes break—a person’s life.
A Window, a Wounded Hawk, and the Unexpected Power of Small Hopes
In the harsh reality of a Venezuelan prison cell, the world shrinks to four walls, a locked door, and—if you are lucky—a small window. For me, that window was more than just a crack in the concrete. It was a lifeline. Through it, I could see a tree just outside the prison wall. In that tree, a hawk would perch, day after day. Watching that hawk became an anchor for my mind, a way to hold onto hope and remember that life continued beyond my cell. This is one of those personal stories of activism that shaped my understanding of resilience in adversity.
The Hawk: More Than a Distraction
At first, staring at the hawk was simply a way to pass the endless hours. But as days turned into weeks, it became much more. That bird was proof that there was still a world outside my prison—a world where the sun rose, the wind moved the leaves, and animals lived their lives. In a place designed to break spirits, this connection to nature became a quiet act of resistance. It was a reminder that I still existed, that I was still part of something bigger.
- Staring at the hawk was not just distraction; it was a lifeline to hope.
- The hawk was proof of existence outside those walls.
- Even in solitary, the smallest connections can counter the mental health impact of imprisonment.
The Wounded Hawk: A Mirror of My Own Struggle
One day, I mentioned the hawk to a guard. I often talked about the bird, perhaps too much, but it was all I had. The guard surprised me by saying, "You know, the hawk is injured. Went to a barbed wire, and he's injured." Suddenly, the hawk was not just a distant observer. It was a fellow survivor, wounded by the same harsh environment that hurt me. I asked the guard, "Bring it to me." I wanted to help, to do something, anything, for that creature. The guard just shrugged and walked away.
Less than a day later, I looked out and saw the hawk back in the same tree. Despite its injury, it had returned to its perch. That moment struck me deeply. The hawk, battered but unbroken, became a symbol of my own battered spirit. If the hawk could heal and return, maybe I could too. It was a simple, powerful metaphor for resilience in adversity.
That hawk was in the same tree.
Small Hopes, Big Impact
In prison, hope is a rare and fragile thing. The mental health impact of imprisonment is real and heavy. Days blur together, and the mind can easily spiral into despair. But even the smallest hope—a bird in a tree, a patch of sky, a kind word—can make a difference. The hawk’s recovery reminded me that circumstances can change, even when it seems impossible. Sometimes, life throws you the strangest metaphors, and you have to hold onto them.
- The hawk’s injury and recovery became a metaphor for my own journey.
- Small hopes can help counter the mental health impact of solitary confinement.
- Personal stories of resilience are crucial in activism, reminding us that change is possible.
Blurring Boundaries: The Guard and the Prisoner
The brief conversation with the guard about the hawk was unexpected. For a moment, the boundary between prisoner and jailer blurred. We both cared, in our own way, about that wounded animal. It was a reminder that even in the most divided places, there is a kind of interdependence. We are all connected by small hopes and shared experiences, even if we rarely admit it.
There is always possibility to do so.
The hawk, the window, and the tree became my daily meditation. In those moments, I learned that resilience is built from the smallest things. The power of small hopes is real, and it can carry you through even the darkest times.
What Venezuela’s Political Persecution Means for the Next Generation (and Why Standing Up Matters)
During my time in a Venezuelan prison cell, I learned that political persecution is not just a story in the news or a distant threat—it is a daily reality that shapes the lives and futures of millions. The repression I faced was not unique. Since the July 2024 presidential election, Venezuela has seen a surge in political persecution, with hundreds of political prisoners detained and countless others living in fear of arbitrary arrest. Enforced disappearances in Venezuela have become alarmingly common, and these crimes against humanity have left deep scars on our society. But what does all this mean for the next generation, and why does it matter that we stand up now?
For me, the answer became clear during the long hours of isolation, when I had nothing but my thoughts and a small window to the outside world. In that window, I watched a hawk—wounded, yet determined to survive. That hawk became a symbol of hope and resilience. It reminded me that, even when our freedom is taken, the desire to rise up and reclaim it remains. This lesson is not just for those of us who have suffered directly from political persecution in Venezuela. It is for our children, and for the future of democracy in Venezuela.
Repression and enforced disappearances are not abstract concepts. They have shaped the fate of millions, including myself. When people are taken from their homes without explanation, when voices are silenced, and when basic rights are denied, the entire fabric of society is torn. Children grow up in fear, families are separated, and hope can feel out of reach. These are not just statistics; they are real lives, real dreams, and real futures being stolen. The crimes against humanity in Venezuela are not only an attack on individuals—they are an attack on the possibility of a better tomorrow.
Our children deserve something better. They deserve a country where democracy is not just a word, but a lived reality. They deserve human rights, the chance to speak their minds, to gather with friends, to move freely, to pray as they wish, and to build a future with dignity. The future democracy of Venezuela depends on what we do today. If we allow repression to continue unchecked, we risk losing not just our own freedom, but the possibility of freedom for generations to come.
That is why standing up matters. Even when the odds seem impossible, even when the risks are great, activism and speaking out are crucial. Every action, no matter how small, is a seed planted for tomorrow’s freedom. The hawk I watched from my cell was injured, but it found the strength to fly again. In the same way, Venezuela can heal and rise, but only if we refuse to accept silence and fear as the norm.
Since the most recent election, the situation has become even more urgent. Reports of increased political persecution, arbitrary arrests, and attacks on opposition figures show that the fight for freedom is far from over. The authorities’ systematic repression—through enforced disappearances, political prisoners, and attacks on civil liberties—threatens the very core of our society. But history has shown that change is possible when people stand together and demand it.
As I reflect on my own experience, I am reminded of the responsibility we all share. We must think beyond today, beyond our own struggles, and consider what kind of world we want to leave for our children. As I said before, “Think of twenty five years, and let's give our children a free world with human rights, democracy, and respect for all.” This is our time. So I ask all of you to stand up, to speak out, and to do something about our freedom. The future of democracy in Venezuela depends on it. Action today, as fragile but necessary as a hawk’s first flight after injury, is the only way to secure hope for the next generation.