Carla Blumenkrantz
Greenhouse Reps
What the Fire Can’t Burn
Inside a crematorium in Táchira, Venezuela, my father’s body is being pushed into the incinerator. I left Venezuela during the early days of Chávez’s presidency and returned several times to visit my parents. Even then, those visits had to be discreet. Criticizing Chávez was dangerous; it was never clear who supported the regime. Over time, those trips became increasingly difficult as the country’s situation worsened.
After my last visit, more than sixteen years passed without seeing my father again. Following his sudden and unexpected death, I made a quiet return to say goodbye. Because of the fraught political relationship between Venezuela and the United States, where I now reside as a U.S. citizen, this journey had to be made with much discretion. Like so many Venezuelans, I didn’t see my parent again until their death. It is a story shared by countless families fractured by the regime.
This image is a quiet witness to that return, and one of many invisible stories shaped by collapse, loss, and separation. My father was always an outspoken critic of Chávez. Before Chávez was even elected, he knew what was coming. He had seen him attempt a coup and sensed the danger long before others did. For more than two decades, he watched both Venezuela and the successful company he built through hard work slowly deteriorate under the regime’s grip.
He died six months ago, before seeing what is now unfolding in Venezuela as I write this. He was one of the millions who voted in 2024 for Edmundo González and María Corina Machado, holding on to the hope that this might be Venezuela’s last chance for change.
The fire burned the body of my father, but not his legacy. His last fight for democracy and a better future for our country lives on, even though he didn’t live to see it. Even so, he played a part in what’s happening now.
