I SIGNED A SILENCE CONTRACT FOR $3,000… BY THE TIME I DISCOVERED WHO THE PATIENT WAS, IT WAS ALREADY TOO LATE TO ESCAPE

Hello, my name is Carmen Méndez, and I am 68 years old. I live in a small apartment in Bogotá, Colombia, far from my beloved Venezuela, which I had to leave so long ago. Today, I’m going to tell you a story I’ve kept silent for over 15 years. A story about betrayed loyalty, about state secrets, and about what an ordinary woman can discover when life puts her in the wrong place at the wrong time.

If you’ve ever wondered what the price of truth is, or how far the powerful will go to protect their secrets, you might find some answers in my story. But be warned, it’s not a comfortable story. It’s a story that cost me everything I had.

I am a nurse by profession. I graduated in 1979 from the Central University of Venezuela, during the height of the oil boom, when we still believed our country would become a world power. I worked for years in public hospitals in Caracas. I saw everything: births, deaths, emergencies that left a mark on your soul. I experienced the Venezuelan healthcare system in its heyday and later in its slow decline.

I have a daughter named Daniela. Today she’s 45 years old, lives here with me in Bogotá, and has two beautiful daughters: Sofía, 18, and Valentina, 15. They were born in Venezuela, but grew up here in exile, without really knowing the country that was their homeland. And there’s a reason for that. A reason I’ve carried like a stone in my chest since 2010.

I know that many of you listening are Venezuelan or familiar with our recent history; you know about Chavismo, the Bolivarian Revolution, everything that happened in our country. But what you don’t know, what no one knows, is what I saw, what I was forced to keep silent about, and why I had to flee my own homeland, leaving everything behind.

Let me take you back to 2008. I was 51 years old and living in Los Teques, Miranda, in a modest house I had bought with a lifetime’s work. My husband, Rafael, had died three years earlier from a sudden heart attack. He left me alone with debts from his medical treatment and with Daniela, who was then 28 and had just given birth to Sofía, my first granddaughter.

I worked at the local clinic, but the salary was miserable. Inflation was already starting to eat away at everything. Prices went up every week, and my salary remained stagnant. I worked double shifts, triple shifts when I could, but it was never enough. Milk for the baby, diapers, medicine… everything cost more every day.

Daniela lived with me and the baby. Sofia’s father had abandoned them as soon as he found out about the pregnancy. So there were three of us women alone, trying to survive in a country that was beginning to fall apart, even though many still didn’t want to see it.

Everything changed in September 2008. A colleague from the clinic, Gladis Torrealba, approached me at the end of my shift. She told me she knew someone who was looking for an experienced nurse for private work—very well paid, very discreet.

I asked her where, and she replied that she couldn’t say much, but that it was for an important family, people in the government. My heart leapt. Private work meant dollars, or at least decent pay in bolivars. It meant being able to breathe financially. I told her yes, I was interested.

Gladis wrote down my phone number and warned me that they would call soon, but that when they did, I should be ready to go immediately for an interview. The call came two days later. A formal, cold woman’s voice. She gave me an address in Caracas and a time: 3 p.m. the following day. She told me to bring my degree, my ID, and work references—nothing else. She hung up before I could ask any questions.

I told Daniela I had an important interview. She helped me iron my best blouse and organize my documents in a folder. She wished me luck with that tired smile of a new mother who had barely slept.

The next day I took the subway to Caracas. The address I’d been given was in a residential area of ​​El Cafetal. When I arrived, I saw a large, modern house with high gates and discreet but visible security. Two men stood at the entrance with that unmistakable air of state security. I rang the doorbell.

A woman in her forties, elegant, with her hair pulled back and a serious expression, opened the door. She ushered me in without smiling. Inside, the house was luxurious yet understated: expensive furniture, marble floors, everything impeccably clean. She led me to an office where a man in his fifties was waiting, wearing a dark suit and red tie. He had the air of an important official, accustomed to giving orders.

He told me to sit down. The interview was strange from the start. The man reviewed my documents meticulously, read every reference, checked the dates on my degree, and made notes in a notebook. Then he began with the questions: my experience in intensive care, my knowledge of chronic illnesses, whether I had worked with high-profile patients, and whether I knew how to maintain medical confidentiality.

I answered honestly: 30 years of experience, specializing in postoperative care, working with all types of patients. And yes, I fully understood the concept of confidentiality; it was an essential part of the profession.

Then came the question I should have taken as a warning. She asked about my political affiliation: whether I was a Chavista, an opposition supporter, or simply apolitical. The question made me uncomfortable, but I needed the job. I told her the truth: I had voted for Chávez in 1998 with hope, like millions of Venezuelans. I believed in change. Later, I became disillusioned, but I wasn’t an active opposition supporter either. I just wanted to work and support my family.

He seemed satisfied with my answer. He leaned back in his chair and studied me silently for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he spoke. He told me the job was to care for a very high-profile patient. He couldn’t reveal who until I signed a confidentiality agreement. The job required full availability, rotating shifts, and possible stays at different residences.

The payment would be in dollars: 3,000 per month, plus room and board when on duty.

$3,000 in 2008. That was a fortune for me. It was more than I earned in six months at the clinic. I could pay off all my debts, give Daniela what she needed for Sofia, and live with dignity. I accepted without thinking twice.

The man pulled several documents from a drawer: confidentiality agreements, penalty clauses for disclosing information, legal warnings written in intimidating language. I signed everything. What other choice did I have?

When I finished signing, the man stood up and extended his hand. He told me his name: Carlos Betancurt, security coordinator for the residence. And then he revealed who I would be working for. I would be on the personal medical team of President Commander Hugo Chávez Frías.

The world stopped for a second. I was going to work for the president of Venezuela, the most powerful man in the country, the man whose face was on every television channel, whose voice echoed in every town square. I felt a mixture of pride, fear, and disbelief.

Betancurt explained to me that there was a rotating team of doctors and nurses who attended to the president at his various residences. I would start as part of the night shift three nights a week initially. My job would be to monitor vital signs, administer medications as prescribed, and be available for any emergencies.

The rules were strict. Never speak about what you saw or heard, never take photos, never tell family or friends where you actually worked. If anyone asked, you had to say you worked at a private clinic, nothing more. Cell phone off during shifts, zero contact with the outside world while on duty.

I nodded to everything. I was still processing the magnitude of what I had just agreed to. Betancurt gave me a start date of the following Monday and a different address where I was to report at 6 p.m. He handed me an envelope containing a $1,000 cash advance. He told me to consider it a welcome bonus.

I left that house walking on air. On the subway back to Los Teques, I opened the envelope and counted the bills. They were real. Everything was real. I was going to work for Hugo Chávez.

When I got home, Daniela was feeding Sofía. She asked me how the interview went. I told her it went very well, that I’d been hired to work at a private clinic in Caracas. Night shifts, very good pay. I showed her the money. Her eyes filled with tears of relief. It had been so long since we’d had any financial relief. I gave her 500 and told her to buy everything she needed for the baby, to pay the overdue bills.

We hugged, and for the first time in years, I felt that maybe things would get better. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I had already signed the agreements, I was already engaged, and honestly, at that moment, I felt proud. I was going to serve the president of my country. What could possibly go wrong?

Monday came too quickly. I got ready carefully: spotless white uniform, hair pulled back, comfortable but professional shoes. I put my ID and nursing license in my pocket. I kissed Daniela and Sofía goodbye before leaving. My daughter wished me luck without really knowing where I was going.

The address I’d been given was in La Casona, in San Bernardino. When the taxi dropped me off in front of the entrance, I felt my stomach clench. Armed guards everywhere, official vehicles parked, constant movement of security personnel.

I approached the main gate. A guard asked for my ID, checked a list on his tablet, made a call, and finally let me through. Another guard escorted me through the gardens to a side entrance of the residence. Inside, I was greeted by an older woman, around 60 years old, wearing a medical gown and with a stern expression.

She introduced herself as Dr. Villegas, the medical team coordinator. She led me through several hallways until we reached an area that was clearly the medical wing of the residency. There was a small office, a room with monitoring equipment, a well-stocked pharmacy, and staff break rooms.

He introduced me to the other team members who were there that day. Dr. Ramírez, a cardiologist around 45 years old with a perpetually tired face. Two more nurses, Patricia and Mariana, both older than me, with the demeanor of someone who’s been at the job for years and has seen too much. They were all cordial, but distant. No one asked personal questions, no one talked too much.

Dr. Villegas explained the routine to me. The president wasn’t always at this residence; he rotated between several for security reasons. When he was here, the medical team had to be available 24/7. The shifts were 12 hours long, generally calm, but we had to be vigilant. Chávez was a demanding patient, used to having everything immediately.

He showed me the monitoring room where I would spend most of my shifts. There were screens connected to his room, equipment to remotely measure vital signs, a medication log, and a basic medical history that surprised me: hypertension controlled with medication, episodes of reflux, chronic insomnia, and recurring back pain. Nothing extraordinary for a 54-year-old man under the stress of governing a country.

My first shift was quiet. The president wasn’t at the residence that night. I spent the hours reviewing protocols, familiarizing myself with the team, and chatting briefly with Patricia, who was on the same shift as me. She’d been with the team for two years. She warned me that the days could be unpredictable. Sometimes weeks would go by without seeing him. Other times he was there every day, and the nights dragged on.

It was on my third shift that I finally saw him. He arrived after midnight with his usual entourage: security detail, assistants, a couple of ministers. I was in the monitoring room when Patricia alerted me that he was approaching. I stood up, smoothed down my uniform, and tried to calm my nerves.

He walked past our room in the hallway: tall, imposing, with a presence that filled any space. He was wearing athletic clothes and looked tired. He glanced briefly at Patricia and me. She gave a small bow. I did too. He nodded and continued walking toward his room. There was no formal introduction, no special acknowledgment, just that brief exchange of glances, but it was enough for me to feel the weight of where I was and who I worked for.

The first few weeks were about adjusting. I learned the routine, the protocols, the patient’s quirks. Chávez was a night owl. He went to bed late, very late, sometimes at 3 or 4 in the morning. He had trouble sleeping, asking for tea, hot milk, cookies. Sometimes he would call the medical team just to talk because he couldn’t fall asleep.

He was charismatic, even in private. He told jokes, made political comments, asked staff personal questions, but he was also demanding and impatient. If something wasn’t exactly the way he wanted it, he made it known. Dr. Ramírez bore the brunt of it. Chávez would call him at all hours for consultations that often weren’t urgent.

I kept a low profile, did my job efficiently, didn’t talk too much, and smiled when appropriate. Patricia told me I was doing well, that he liked competent staff, and that I wasn’t overwhelming him.

The money arrived on time every month, $3,000 in cash that Betancurt handed to me personally. With that money, I transformed my family’s life. I paid off all of Rafael’s treatment debts. I bought new clothes for Daniela and everything Sofía needed. I repaired the house, fixed the leaky roof, and painted the walls.

For the first time in years, we could eat well, buy medicine without anxiety, and sleep without the pressure of unpaid bills. Daniela noticed the change, but she didn’t ask any awkward questions. I had told her the private clinic paid very well, and she accepted it. She was so relieved not to have to worry about money that she didn’t inquire further.

My granddaughter Sofia was growing up healthy and chubby. Seeing her laugh without any financial worries made me feel that everything was worth it.

The months passed, I settled into the job, and got to know my colleagues better. Dr. Ramírez was a brilliant but exhausted man. He had been treating Chávez for five years, and the strain was showing. He told me one of those long nights that he had sacrificed his private practice, his family life, everything for this job. His wife had left him, and he barely saw his children. But the salary was too good to quit, and besides, he told me with a wry smile, “No one quits working for the president. They just let you go when you’re no longer needed.”

Patricia was more reserved, 58 years old, divorced, with no children. This job was her whole life. She lived in an apartment the government provided near La Casona. She had no other existence outside these walls. She warned me several times not to get too attached to this routine, to enjoy the money, but not to lose my life outside as she had done.

Mariana, the other nurse, was the youngest on the team, 32 years old, and married to a military officer. She was a staunch Chavista. She spoke of the president with genuine admiration, almost devotion. For her, this job wasn’t just about the money; it was an honor to serve the Commander. Sometimes her comments made me uncomfortable. I had stopped believing in the Bolivarian project a long time ago, but I never said so out loud. I quickly learned that in that environment it was better to keep my opinions to myself.

It was in February 2009 that I started noticing strange things. Chávez began having more frequent episodes of abdominal pain. He complained of discomfort after eating, constant heartburn, and fatigue that didn’t go away with rest. Dr. Ramírez prescribed antacids, adjusted his diet, and recommended that he reduce stress, but the symptoms persisted.

One night in March, I saw him doubled over in his room, pale and sweating. Patricia and I rushed to his side. He had a sharp pain in his upper abdomen. Dr. Ramírez arrived within minutes, examined him carefully, and asked about the intensity of the pain, its exact location, and whether he had bled. Chávez responded with grimaces of pain, downplaying it, saying it was probably something he ate, that it would pass.

Ramírez didn’t seem convinced. He suggested further testing, an endoscopy, and complete blood work. Chávez refused. He said he didn’t have time for that, that he had an international tour scheduled, and that he couldn’t show weakness. The doctor insisted, but Chávez was firm. He just wanted something for the pain, and that was it.

That night was the first time I saw real fear in Dr. Ramirez’s eyes. When we left the room, he grabbed my arm and said in a very low voice that if the patient didn’t get the tests done soon, we could be wasting valuable time. I asked him what he suspected; he looked at me for a long time and then shook his head. “Too soon to speculate,” he said, but his tone said otherwise.

The episodes repeated themselves over the following months. Some were mild, others more severe. Chávez took painkillers like candy, self-medicating, which made us all nervous. Ramírez tried to control him, but our patient was also our boss. We couldn’t force him to do anything.

In June 2009, things escalated. Chávez had such a severe episode that he couldn’t hide it from his closest associates. He vomited blood—not a lot, but enough to send us all into a panic. This time there was no negotiation. Ramírez and Dr. Villegas were firm. They needed to run tests immediately. It was no longer optional.

Everything was organized in absolute secrecy. A specialized team was brought to the residence with portable equipment: endoscopy, biopsies, complete analyses. Everything was done right there, without going to any hospital where the information could be leaked.

The results took three days. They were the three most stressful days I had ever experienced. The atmosphere in the medical wing was one of barely contained anxiety. Ramírez barely slept. I saw him pacing the hallways in the early hours of the morning, reviewing files over and over, making whispered calls to specialists he consulted anonymously.

Patricia and I exchanged worried glances, but we didn’t speak openly. We knew something serious was happening. We felt it in the air, in the increased security guard presence, in the closed meetings Ramírez held with Villegas and other doctors who arrived stealthily at night.

It was a Wednesday when the final results arrived. I was on my night shift around 11 p.m. I saw Dr. Ramírez arrive with a manila folder under his arm and an expression that chilled me to the bone. He was accompanied by two specialists I hadn’t seen before, an oncologist and a gastroenterologist, I later learned.

They locked themselves in the medical office for hours. I heard raised voices, arguments, heavy silences. Around 2 a.m., they came out. Ramírez found me and said they needed to speak with the president immediately. He asked me to check if he was awake. Chávez was in his room reading. I informed him that the medical team requested an urgent audience. He looked at me with those penetrating eyes that seemed to read beyond words. He nodded and gave them permission to enter.

I stayed outside in the hallway with Patricia. Neither of us spoke; we just waited. Half an hour later, the doctors came out. Ramírez’s eyes were red. The specialists had serious, professional expressions. They walked past us without saying a word.

Minutes later they called us. Chávez was sitting in an armchair in his room, smaller than I had ever seen him. He seemed to have aged ten years in 30 minutes. He looked at Patricia and me and spoke in a calm but weighty voice.

She told us she would have to leave for health reasons, that she would be traveling abroad for specialized treatment, that she needed absolute discretion from the medical team, that our lives and those of our families depended on our silence. It wasn’t a shouted threat; it was delivered with absolute calm, which made it a thousand times more terrifying.

We nodded. He waved goodbye, and we left in silence. In the hallway, Patricia took my hand. She was trembling. So was I. We didn’t need words. We both knew we had just become the custodians of a state secret.

During the following weeks, there was a flurry of activity. Chávez traveled to Cuba. Officially, it was a routine working visit, but we knew the truth: he had gone to have surgery. The news reports spoke of meetings with Fidel Castro, of bilateral agreements. No one mentioned hospitals or surgeries.

While he was away, the medical wing of the residence was practically emptied. We were told there would be a restructuring of the team. Dr. Villegas was transferred to another position. Mariana simply stopped coming. Later I learned that she had been reassigned to the Ministry of Health with a convenient promotion that bought her silence.

Ramírez, Patricia, and I stayed. We were the ones who had been closest, the ones who knew the most. Our salaries were significantly increased. My pay was doubled: $6,000 a month. It was an obscene fortune. It was also the price of our complicity.

Chávez returned from Cuba at the end of July 2009. He looked gaunt. He had lost weight, but he smiled for the cameras. He gave a speech about his successful visit, about the agreements reached. I watched it on television from my house in Los Teques, knowing the truth that the cameras didn’t show.

When I returned to my shift, I saw him privately. The scars were there, hidden under his clothes. He moved carefully, still recovering, but in public he was the same old Chávez: energetic, talkative, a commander.

The following months were strange. He seemed to be improving, regaining energy. The treatments continued in secret. Cuban doctors came and went constantly. More sophisticated medical equipment was installed at the residence. All under absolute discretion.

Ramírez confided in me one night, after several glasses of whiskey he’d had—breaking his own rule of never drinking on duty—that he’d been diagnosed with a tumor, cancer. He didn’t tell me exactly what kind, but based on its location and the symptoms we’d discussed, I could deduce it was something in his digestive system, probably his colon or rectum.

He told me he’d had surgery in Cuba, that they’d removed as much as they could, and that he was undergoing treatment. But the prognosis wasn’t good. The Cuban doctors gave him maybe two, perhaps three years, if he responded well to chemotherapy.

Ramírez looked at me with glassy eyes and asked if I understood the magnitude of what we knew. The president of Venezuela had terminal cancer, and the entire country was living in ignorance. I asked him why he wasn’t making it public. He replied that the decision wasn’t medical, it was political. Chávez feared that showing weakness would make him vulnerable to his enemies, both internal and external. He feared that the opposition would use his illness to oust him. He feared losing the power he had built up over a decade.

That conversation haunted me for months. I, Carmen Méndez, an ordinary nurse, mother, and grandmother, was keeping a secret that affected millions of people. Every time I saw the news, every time Chávez appeared giving five-hour speeches, inaugurating projects, promising 21st-century socialism, I knew he was a sick man living on borrowed time.

At home, I tried to act normal. Daniela noticed I was quieter, more distracted. She asked me if everything was alright at work. I told her yes, just tired. Sofia, my granddaughter, was already two and a half. She was a beautiful little girl, full of energy. Playing with her was my only escape, my only connection to something pure and simple amidst the complexity of my life.

The money kept coming in generously. With $6,000 a month, we were living better than ever. I opened a dollar savings account. I bought a used car, but a decent one. I gave Daniela money for her studies, for her to take courses. I wanted her to have a future, to be independent. But the money had the bitter taste of guilt. Every bill I saved reminded me why I was being paid so much. It wasn’t just for my nursing services; it was for my silence. It was the price of betraying my country.

2009 passed and 2010 began. Chávez continued with his frenetic public schedule: endless radio and television broadcasts, trips, public events, but we saw the cost. He would arrive at the presidential residence exhausted, pale, in pain he tried to hide. He took increasingly stronger painkillers. There were days when he could barely get out of bed, but the next day he would be in front of the cameras, putting on a show.

The treatments continued in secret, cycles of chemotherapy that left him devastated. Patricia and I cared for him during those dark days. We saw him vomit, tremble, lose his hair, which he then hid with caps. We saw a powerful man reduced to a vulnerable patient, and we remained silent.

It was in April 2010 when she arrived: Mariela Contreras, 38 years old, a nurse specializing in oncology. She came transferred directly from the Military Hospital of Caracas with impeccable credentials and a personal recommendation from a general close to Chávez. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it: long black hair, green eyes, a slim but athletic build.

But what truly set her apart was her efficiency. She had a thorough understanding of cancer patient management, chemotherapy protocols, and postoperative care. She was exactly what we needed. Patricia and I greeted her with the typical caution one feels toward any new person. In that environment, everyone was potentially dangerous until proven otherwise.

Mariela seemed to understand the dynamics. She didn’t ask unnecessary questions, she didn’t talk too much, and she did her job with impeccable professionalism. Chávez quickly accepted her onto the team. She had a way of dealing with him that worked: firm, but respectful. She wasn’t intimidated by his demands, but neither did she contradict him unnecessarily. She found the perfect balance between nurse and subordinate.

Over time, Mariela and I developed a friendly relationship. We shared shifts and talked during the long nights. She told me she was divorced, childless, and had dedicated her life to oncology nursing because her mother had died of breast cancer. She said that this work, despite the pressure, gave her purpose. I told her the basics of my life: my deceased husband, my daughter, my granddaughter. Nothing compromising. In that place, you learned to talk without really saying anything.

It was Mariela who first noticed the change in the patient. In mid-May, during a night shift we were working together, she called me into the monitoring room. She showed me the vital signs readings. Something was wrong. His blood pressure was lower than normal, his heart rate irregular, and his temperature slowly rising. We reviewed the records from the past few weeks and saw a worrying pattern. The patient was deteriorating faster than expected.

We called Dr. Ramírez. He arrived in 20 minutes, disheveled, with wrinkled clothes. He reviewed the readings. He examined the patient, who was sleeping restlessly. He ran some additional tests. When he left the room, his expression was grim. He told us that the cancer was progressing, that the treatments weren’t working as well as they had hoped, and that they needed to consult with the Cuban specialists urgently.

The following days were filled with increasing tension. More Cuban doctors arrived. Studies, analyses, and endless consultations were conducted. Chávez was irritable, in pain, and frightened, though he tried not to show it. He shouted at his assistants, demanded impossible things, refused medications, and then desperately begged for them.

One particularly difficult night, after an episode of severe pain, I saw him crying. He was sitting on his bed with his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. Mariela and I were there preparing his nighttime medication. We froze, unsure what to do. We had never seen him so vulnerable. He noticed us watching, roughly wiped away his tears, regained his composure, and told us to leave.

We left him alone. In the hallway, Mariela looked at me with tears in her eyes. She told me that no matter how much power he had, in the end he was just a scared man facing his mortality.

It was after that episode that Chávez seemed to make a decision. He announced he would travel to Cuba again for treatment. This time the official excuse was more elaborate: he spoke of routine checkups and strengthening bilateral relations. The official media repeated the message. The opposition speculated, but without confirmation.

He left in June 2010. We stayed at the residence with little to do. The medical team was reduced. Ramírez traveled with him to Cuba. Patricia took her accumulated vacation time. Mariela and I stayed on call in case he returned suddenly.

Those were strange weeks. The residence was empty and silent, with only security guards patrolling. Mariela and I spent our shifts talking more openly than we ever had before. She told me more about her life, about her failed marriage to a man who had systematically cheated on her, about her decision not to have children because she didn’t want to bring them into such a complicated world. I asked her if she didn’t regret it. She said that sometimes she did, that she would see families and feel an emptiness, but that she had made peace with her choices.

Then she asked me about Daniela, about what it was like to be a mother and grandmother. I told her the truth: that it was the most beautiful and the most terrifying thing in the world, that you never stop worrying, that every decision you make affects your children.

One night, after several cups of coffee, Mariela asked me something that took me by surprise. She asked if I had ever regretted accepting this job. She asked if the money was worth the burden of the secrets we had to keep. The question hit me hard because it was exactly what I asked myself every night.

I answered him honestly. I told him that the money had saved my family from poverty, that thanks to this job Daniela and Sofía were living with dignity. But yes, the weight of what we knew kept me up at night, that sometimes I wondered if we were complicit in a massive deception.

Mariela nodded slowly. She told me she felt the same way, that as a healthcare professional she had sworn to tell the truth, but that here the truth was a luxury we couldn’t afford. Then she added something that unsettled me. She said that sometimes she thought about leaking the information, about letting the people know, but that she knew perfectly well what happened to those who betrayed that trust.

I asked her if she knew of any cases. She looked at me for a long time before answering. She told me about a lab technician who had worked on the medical team in 2009. He had tried to sell information about the president’s tests to an opposition journalist. They caught him before he could. He disappeared. His family received financial compensation, and the official explanation was that he had suddenly emigrated to Spain. But Mariela knew the truth. Everyone on the team knew it.

That story left me frozen. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard rumors about people disappearing, but hearing it from someone who had witnessed it firsthand gave it a chilling reality. Mariela squeezed my hand and told me that’s why we had to be careful, very careful; that our silence protected not only us, but our families as well.

Chávez returned from Cuba at the end of June. He looked worse than when he had left, thinner, paler, with deep dark circles under his eyes, but for the cameras he was still the eternal commander. He arrived at the airport singing, waving, smiling. We received him at the residence hours later and saw the truth.

He arrived in a wheelchair, exhausted, barely conscious. The treatments in Cuba had been aggressive. Ramírez explained to us that he had undergone another surgery, plus chemotherapy and radiation therapy. They were using every available medical resource, but the cancer was resistant, aggressive; it was winning the battle.

During July and August of 2010, our shifts became more intense. Chávez needed constant care, pain medication administered every few hours, continuous monitoring of vital signs, and management of the side effects of the treatments. He vomited frequently, had diarrhea, and fevers that came and went.

Patricia, Mariela, and I took turns in 12-hour shifts. We were physically and emotionally exhausted. Watching someone deteriorate like that day after day was heartbreaking, no matter who that person was. And despite everything he represented politically, at that moment he was just a sick man suffering.

Daniela began to notice my exhaustion. She asked me why I came home so tired, why my eyes were sometimes red from crying. I told her that working at the clinic was very demanding, that we dealt with difficult cases. It wasn’t entirely untrue. Sofia, my granddaughter, was already three years old. She was an intelligent, talkative child. She always greeted me with drawings she had made, with stories about her day. Playing with her was my only escape. With her, I could forget for a few minutes the terrible things I saw at work.

It was at the end of August when something happened that changed everything. Mariela and I were on the night shift. It was around 1 a.m. The patient was sleeping restlessly but was stable. We were in the monitoring room reviewing the records when we heard voices in the hallway. They were several male voices, speaking in low but urgent tones.

Mariela peeked out cautiously. She saw a group of men approaching the medical wing. High-ranking military officers, two she recognized as cabinet ministers, and others she didn’t know. They had come to see the president. It was unusual for visitors to arrive at that hour.

Mariela told me to go to the staff break room and let them go in. It was protocol. When there were high-level meetings, the medical staff made themselves invisible. We went to the small room at the back of the medical wing. It had a door, but the walls were thin. We could hear snippets of conversation if they spoke loudly enough.

At first, there were only incomprehensible murmurs. Then, gradually, the voices rose. We heard Chávez speaking, his voice weak but firm. He was giving instructions about something. He mentioned names I recognized: ministers, generals, people in key positions. He was talking about plans, about what should be done when he was gone.

Mariela and I looked at each other. We were listening to something we clearly shouldn’t have been. We should have moved further away, put on some music, anything, but we just stood there, frozen, listening. One of the ministers asked about the time. How much time did they have?

Ramírez answered. His voice came through the wall clearly. He said that in the best-case scenario, maybe a year, maybe a year and a half; that the cancer was metastasizing, that the treatments were only delaying the inevitable. There was a heavy silence.

Then another man, whose voice I didn’t recognize, asked about the succession. What if the president became incapacitated prematurely? What if he could no longer govern? Chávez answered in a tired but authoritative voice. There were plans, he said. There were contingencies. There were trusted people who would know what to do. But everything had to be kept absolutely secret until he decided the right moment to reveal it to the people.

Chávez continued talking about succession plans, about who should occupy which position, about how to manage the transition when the time came. He mentioned specific names. He said he trusted certain people to continue the Bolivarian project. He spoke about maintaining control of the armed forces, about ensuring that the opposition did not take advantage of his absence.

The meeting lasted almost two hours. Mariela and I remained in that small room, not daring to move, listening to fragments of a conversation that made us witnesses to state secrets of the highest magnitude.

When we finally heard the group leaving, we waited another 15 minutes before going out. We returned to the monitoring room, our legs trembling. Neither of us spoke. We silently checked the patient’s vital signs. Everything was stable. He had fallen asleep again after the meeting. We sat and waited for the remaining hours of our shift to pass, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

When it was time for the shift change and Patricia arrived to relieve us, Mariela and I left together in the parking lot. Before we went our separate ways to our cars, she stopped me, looked me in the eyes, and said a single sentence:

—What we heard tonight never happened.

I nodded. I understood perfectly. We hugged briefly, and then we went our separate ways. All the way back to Los Teques, my hands trembled on the steering wheel. What we had heard was pure dynamite, absolute confirmation that the president was dying, succession plans being discussed in secret, a massive deception of the Venezuelan people.

I got home just as the sun was rising. Daniela was already awake, making breakfast for Sofía. She asked me how my night had been. I told her it was quiet, routine. The lie came out automatically. It wasn’t even hard to lie to her anymore.

The following days were filled with absolute paranoia. Every time the phone rang, I thought they were coming for me. Every time I saw an unfamiliar car on my street, I felt like I was being watched. I had crossed an invisible line by overhearing that conversation. I was no longer just a nurse who knew about the president’s illness; now I knew about succession plans, about high-level conspiracies.

On the next shift, when I saw Mariela, she looked just as tense as I did. We exchanged a look that said it all. We were both scared. Ramírez seemed different too, more distant, colder. I wondered if she knew we’d overheard, if the security guards had reported our presence in the medical wing that night.

But the days passed and nothing happened. No one called us, no one questioned us. Slowly, I began to breathe a little easier. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe we had been lucky.

September arrived with its rains. Chávez had better days, days when he seemed to regain some energy. He gave interviews from the residence, made a few controlled public appearances. The official media spoke of his successful recovery. I saw him at night when the cameras were off and knew it was all just a show.

It was mid-September when I met Gustavo. He was one of the new bodyguards assigned to the residence, 35 years old, an army captain, with that characteristic military bearing, but also with a warmth in his eyes that contrasted with the sternness of the other guards. He started greeting me whenever we passed each other. Brief comments about the weather, about the length of the shifts. Nothing inappropriate, just courtesy. I responded briefly, maintaining the professional distance that the place required.

One night during a torrential downpour, my car wouldn’t start at the end of my shift. The battery was dead. It was 3 a.m., and I was stranded in the residence’s parking lot. Gustavo walked by toward his own vehicle and saw me there, frustrated, trying to start the engine. He offered to help. He had jumper cables. Between the two of us, we managed to get the car started.

I thanked him profusely. He smiled and told me it was nothing, that’s what colleagues are for. Then he added something that surprised me. He said I looked tired, that these jobs are exhausting, and that if I ever needed to talk, he knew how to listen.

The offer caught me off guard. No one there offered genuine friendship. Everyone kept a calculated distance. I thanked him, but I didn’t accept. I went home thinking about that simple gesture of kindness in such a hostile environment.

In the following days, Gustavo continued to greet me. Never intrusive, never pushy, just cordial. A week later, during my break in the early morning, I ran into him in the small staff cafeteria. He was alone, drinking coffee. He invited me to sit down.

We talked. He told me he was from Barquisimeto, that he’d been in the army for 15 years, that this assignment was considered elite, but also exhausting. I asked him if he had a family. He said he was divorced, that his ex-wife had grown tired of his prolonged absences, of the secrets she couldn’t share, of living with a man who was always on high alert.

He understood perfectly. I told him about Rafael, my deceased husband, about how this job had given me financial stability but had emotionally distanced me from my daughter. Gustavo nodded with genuine understanding. He told me that these jobs exacted invisible tolls.

That conversation was the beginning of an unusual friendship. We’d see each other during our shifts, drink coffee together during the long early mornings, and talk about safe things. Never about work directly, never about what we saw or knew. It was an oasis of normalcy amidst the chaos.

Patricia noticed how close we were and warned me. She told me to be careful, that there were no innocent friendships there, that everyone reported on someone, that everyone watched everyone else. I thanked her for her concern, but I continued seeing Gustavo. I needed that human connection, even if it was risky.

October brought changes. Chávez’s condition worsened significantly. The pain intensified. He spent entire days in bed. Cuban doctors came and went with increasingly somber expressions. Ramírez confided in me that the treatments were no longer working, that they were basically in palliative mode, just controlling the pain.

One night, Chávez called me to his room. He was alone, which was unusual. There was always someone with him: assistants, guards, doctors. But that night he was alone. He gestured for me to sit down. I nervously obeyed. He looked at me for a long time before speaking. He asked me how long I had been working for him. I replied that it had been a little over a year. He asked if I had children. I told him about Daniela and Sofía. He asked if I loved them more than my own life. I said yes, without hesitation.

He nodded slowly. Then he told me something I’ll never forget. He said that he, too, loved his country more than his own life. That everything he had done, every decision he had made, had been for Venezuela. That when he was gone, he wanted people to remember him as someone who fought to the very end.

I didn’t know what to say. I remained silent. He continued. He told me he knew his medical team was carrying an enormous burden, that he was asking them to lie to the country every day by omission, that he understood it was difficult, but necessary; that showing weakness at that moment could destabilize everything.

I asked him if he would ever tell the truth. He looked at me with tired eyes and replied that when the time was right, yes, when he decided it was the right time, but until then he needed us all to remain silent for the good of the country.

I left that room feeling a mixture of compassion and anger. Compassion for a sick man facing his mortality. Anger because he was using his illness as a political tool, keeping an entire country in the dark while he secretly plotted his succession.

That night I spoke with Gustavo at the coffee shop. I told him, without going into specifics, that I was tired of lying, that this job was morally draining me. He listened without interrupting. When I finished, he took my hand and said something that surprised me. He said that if I ever decided to leave, if I ever needed to disappear, he could help me, that he had contacts, that he knew ways to leave the country discreetly.

Gustavo’s offer left me speechless. An elite soldier assigned to protect the president was offering me help to escape. Was it a trap, a test of loyalty? I asked him directly why he was doing this. He leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply.

He told me he was tired too, that he’d spent years seeing things he didn’t like, participating in a system that made his stomach churn, that he’d joined the army believing he would serve his country, but now he was serving the personal interests of powerful people. He told me he’d helped others get out discreetly: people who knew too much, people who were in danger. He didn’t give me names, but the fact that he told me this was either an enormous act of trust or a very elaborate trap.

I told him I’d think about it, that I needed the money right now, that my family depended on me. He nodded and said the offer was still open. Then he added something else. He told me to be careful with Mariela, not to trust her completely, that there were things about her I didn’t know. I asked him what things. He said he couldn’t say more, but to be on my guard.

That warning deeply unsettled me. Mariela had become something of a friend in that hostile place. The thought that she might be dangerous filled me with renewed paranoia. In the following days, I observed Mariela more carefully. I noticed nothing unusual. She was still the same efficient professional, the same cordial colleague, but Gustavo’s words had planted a seed of doubt.

November brought drastic changes in the patient’s condition. Chávez suffered a severe crisis: internal bleeding, a very high fever, and unbearable pain. It was the first time I thought he would die right there in front of us. Ramírez worked frantically to stabilize him. Emergency specialists were called in, and they managed to bring him under control, but it was a clear sign that the end was near.

After that crisis, security around the residence increased dramatically. More guards, more restrictions, more surveillance. They checked us when we came in and out. They searched our phones, our belongings. The atmosphere became suffocating.

It was during those days of peak tension that I discovered something about Mariela that chilled me to the bone. I was looking for medical supplies in the warehouse when I heard her voice in the next hallway. She was on the phone, something strictly forbidden during shifts. I stayed still, hidden among the shelves. I overheard snippets of her conversation. She was talking to someone about the patient’s condition. She said it was worse than the media was reporting. She mentioned specific dates, she mentioned medication names, she mentioned prognoses. She was leaking medical information to someone outside.

My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid she could hear me. When the call ended and she left, I left the warehouse trembling. Gustavo was right. Mariela was dangerous, but not in the way I had thought. She wasn’t working for state security spying on us. She was working for someone else, leaking information.

I didn’t know what to do with that information. If I reported it, Mariela would disappear. If I didn’t report it and she was found out, I would be an accomplice. I was trapped again in an impossible moral dilemma. I decided to talk to Gustavo. In our next conversation that night, I told him what I had heard. He didn’t seem surprised.

He confirmed to me that Mariela worked for military intelligence, but not to protect the president. Instead, she monitored the medical team and leaked select information to certain generals who wanted to know Chávez’s true state of health for their own political purposes. He explained that there were factions within Chavismo preparing for the succession. Some wanted Chávez to publicly announce his illness and designate a successor. Others wanted to keep it a secret until the very end. Mariela worked for the first group.

I asked him how he knew all that. He told me that he, too, had his own loyalties, his own contacts; that the world we lived in was one of multiple betrayals, of conflicting agendas, where no one was entirely who they seemed. That revelation devastated me. I couldn’t trust anyone anymore. Mariela was an infiltrator. Gustavo admitted to having his own hidden agendas. Ramírez followed orders from above without question. Patricia was simply trying to survive. And I was trapped in the middle of them all, not knowing who was an ally and who was an enemy.

December 2010 was the darkest month. Chávez deteriorated dramatically. He spent most of his time sedated from the pain. The treatments had left his body ravaged. He had lost so much weight that he looked like a skeleton covered in skin. His hair had almost completely fallen out, and he only appeared in public for very brief and controlled appearances, wearing makeup and a wig, acting with what little energy he had left.

One night in mid-December, I was alone on my shift. Mariela had requested the night off. Patricia was sick. Ramírez was in his break room. The guards were patrolling outside. I was in the monitoring room when I heard a strange noise coming from the patient’s room. I ran there. I found him on the floor, slumped next to his bed. He had tried to get up on his own and had no strength. He was conscious but weak.

I helped him up with difficulty. He was so light it frightened me. I sat him on the bed and checked that he hadn’t hurt himself. While I was examining him, he took my hand. He looked at me with eyes that no longer held their characteristic fire. He asked me to stay a moment, to just sit there with him, not as a nurse, just as a human being.

I sat in the chair next to his bed. He closed his eyes and began to speak. He spoke of his childhood in Barinas, of his grandmother who raised him, of when he decided to become a soldier. He spoke of his first marriage, of his children, of the mistakes he had made as a father because he was always focused on politics. He spoke of Venezuela, of how much he loved it, of how he wanted to transform it. He spoke of the poor people he had known, of the injustice he had witnessed, of why he had done what he did.

He wasn’t making excuses. It was more like he needed to say it out loud before it was too late. Then he spoke of death. He told me he wasn’t afraid of dying, but that he was terrified he hadn’t had enough time to finish what he had started, that Venezuela would be left vulnerable, divided, that he feared what would come after him.

I asked him if he wasn’t considering telling the people the truth, letting them prepare. He shook his head. He told me the time wasn’t right, that it would cause chaos, that his enemies would take advantage, that when it was inevitable, then he would speak. But not yet.

That conversation lasted almost an hour. When it ended, he seemed calmer. He thanked me for listening. He told me I was a good woman, that my daughter and granddaughter were lucky to have me. Then he asked me to let him sleep. I left that room with tears in my eyes. For the first time, I had seen him not as the president, not as the commander, but as a frightened man, dying alone, surrounded by people who were watching over him but didn’t really know him.

That night I made a decision. I couldn’t go on like this. The money wasn’t worth the moral cost. I needed to get out before it was too late, before it completely consumed me.

The next day I looked for Gustavo. I told him I accepted his offer, that I wanted to leave, that I needed to get my family out of Venezuela. He didn’t ask me what had happened to make me change my mind, he just nodded and told me he would start making arrangements.

He explained the plan to me. I couldn’t resign outright; that would raise suspicions. I had to create a legitimate reason to leave—a family emergency, something that would require my extended absence. Then, once I was gone, I simply wouldn’t return. I asked him how long it would take. He said a couple of weeks to arrange paperwork, make contacts at the border, and get money for the trip. I told him I needed to bring Daniela and Sofía with me. He nodded. It would be more complicated, but possible.

For the next two weeks, I lived in a constant state of anxiety. I continued working normally, attending to the patient, chatting with Mariela as if nothing was wrong, but inside I was planning every detail of my escape.

At home, I started preparing Daniela without telling her the whole truth. I told her I was thinking of moving, that Venezuela was getting difficult, that perhaps Colombia would be better for Sofía’s future. She resisted. She was worried about leaving everything, starting from scratch in another country. I showed her the savings I had accumulated during the year working.

He had almost $60,000 in cash hidden in different places around the house.

It was enough to settle in another country, to live modestly while I found work. Daniela was surprised by the amount. She asked me how I had saved so much on a private clinic salary. I lied to her. I told her the clinic paid very well, that I had worked extra shifts, that I had been careful. She wanted to believe me. She needed to believe that her mother had earned that money honestly. She didn’t press the issue.

Gustavo kept me informed of the progress. He had made contacts in Cúcuta, on the Colombian-Venezuelan border: people who, for the right price, would help us cross without official registration. Fake documents to get us started in Colombia until we could regularize our status.

He told me the ideal time would be during the end-of-year holidays. There would be more activity, more distractions. Security would be more relaxed. We could leave on December 28th, and by the time they noticed my prolonged absence, we’d already be out of the country.

The plan was simple. I would ask for permission to spend Christmas with my family, a reasonable excuse. Then, on the 26th, I would call and say that Daniela had a medical emergency and that I needed to be with her for a few days. On the 28th, we would take a bus to San Cristóbal, near the border. Gustavo’s contacts would get us across that same night. The next day, we would be in Cúcuta, Colombia, out of reach.

But then, on December 20, everything took a turn for the worse. That night, Chávez suffered another severe crisis, worse than all the previous ones: cardiovascular collapse, acute kidney failure. Ramírez thought it was the end. They called in the entire emergency medical team. We worked for hours to stabilize him. We managed to bring him back from the crisis, but he remained in critical condition, unconscious, connected to machines, on the verge of death.

Ramírez informed us that he probably wouldn’t make it through Christmas, that this time it really was the end. The residence went into high alert mode. All staff leave was canceled. No one could leave until further notice. High-ranking generals were constantly arriving, emergency meetings were held at all hours, and secret preparations were underway for what would come next.

My escape plan fell apart. I couldn’t leave. I was trapped there while the president lay dying. I messaged Gustavo using our agreed-upon method: a note left in a certain spot in the parking lot. I explained the situation. He replied, telling me to wait, to be patient, that we would find another time.

But I was terrified. If Chávez died while I was there, the ensuing chaos would be unpredictable. They might decide to silence the entire medical team that knew the truth. They might make us all disappear so we could never tell what we knew.

Christmas 2010 was the darkest of my life. I was stuck at the nursing home while my daughter and granddaughter waited for me there. I called them to say there was an emergency at work, that I couldn’t come. Sofia cried. She was three years old and didn’t understand why her grandmother wasn’t coming for Christmas. Hearing her cry on the phone broke my heart. Daniela was upset, but she was trying to understand. I promised her I would be with them soon, that everything would be alright. Lies that came out automatically.

On December 25, Chávez was still unconscious, but stable. The machines were keeping him alive. Ramírez said it was a matter of days, maybe hours. We were all waiting for the end.

December 25th was spent in a tense vigil. The medical team rotated every few hours to monitor him. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I had barely slept in days. Patricia looked the same. Mariela remained strangely calm, as if she knew something we didn’t.

It was in the early morning of December 26th that something unexpected happened. Chávez regained consciousness, not fully, but enough to open his eyes and recognize where he was. Ramírez rushed to examine him. His vital signs were miraculously stabilizing. The patient was fighting, clinging to life with a strength that defied medicine.

Over the next few days, he gradually improved. Not much. He was still critically ill, but no longer on the brink of death. Ramírez was baffled. According to all predictions, he should have died, but there he was: breathing, conscious at times, fighting.

By December 30th, the situation had stabilized enough for them to begin lifting some restrictions. We were given permission to go out, but with the warning to be available in case of sudden changes. I took advantage of it immediately. I told Ramírez that I urgently needed to see my family, that I had been away during the holidays.

I arrived home on the morning of December 31st. Daniela greeted me with a mixture of relief and anger. She scolded me for missing Christmas, for always being absent. Sofia ran to hug me and didn’t let go for minutes. I picked her up, feeling the weight of what I was about to ask them.

That night, after Sofia fell asleep, I told Daniela the truth. Not the whole truth, but enough. I told her that my job was dangerous, that there were things I couldn’t explain to her, but that we needed to leave Venezuela immediately. That I had everything ready, that we would leave in the next few days.

Daniela looked at me as if I’d gone mad. She asked me what I’d done, what I was involved in. I swore I hadn’t done anything criminal, but that I knew things powerful people didn’t want me to know, that our safety depended on us leaving. She cried. She asked me how I could ask her to do that, to leave her life, her friends, her country. I told her it was that or risk everything, including Sofia.

Those words broke her. As a mother, she understood that when it comes to protecting your daughter, there’s no decision you wouldn’t make. She accepted. She told me she would start packing, that she would do it discreetly so as not to arouse suspicion among the neighbors.

I contacted Gustavo. I told him I was ready, that I needed to get my family out as soon as possible. He gave me a new date: January 5th. He said everything was arranged, the contacts were in place, we just had to get to San Cristóbal. He gave me fake documents for the three of us, Colombian passports with different names. He told me that once we were in Colombia we should destroy them and apply for political asylum as Venezuelans.

The days from January 1st to 4th were filled with feverish preparations. We discreetly sold a few things. We packed the essentials into small suitcases. I told the neighbors we would be visiting family in another city. Everything had to seem temporary, normal.

At work, I continued my routine. Chávez had stabilized at a point between life and death. He was no longer in immediate crisis, but he wasn’t really improving either. Ramírez said they would probably send him back to Cuba for more aggressive treatments. Mariela kept an eye on me. Sometimes I felt she suspected something. She had developed an instinct for detecting when someone was acting differently. I tried to maintain an appearance of normalcy, but it was difficult.

It was the night of January 4th when something happened that almost ruined everything. I was finishing my shift when Betancurt, the security coordinator, approached me. He said he needed to speak with me privately. My heart stopped. Did they know? Had they discovered the plan?

He led me to an office. He gestured for me to sit down. He remained standing, looking at me with that neutral expression that revealed nothing. Betancurt studied me silently for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he spoke. He told me there were reports that I had been conversing regularly with one of the bodyguards, Captain Gustavo Medina. He asked me about the nature of that relationship.

I tried to stay calm. I told him half the truth: that Gustavo had been kind to me, that we sometimes chatted during night breaks, nothing more. That everything was professional and cordial.

Betancurt continued to observe me with those eyes that had questioned hundreds of people. He asked if Gustavo had asked me questions about the patient, about his medical condition. I told him no, that he never asked about that, that he respected confidentiality.

Betancurt nodded slowly. Then he informed me that Captain Medina had been transferred to another assignment, that he would no longer be at the residence. I felt like the ground was opening up beneath my feet. They had found him out, they had arrested him, they knew about the escape plan.

Betancurt must have noticed my expression because he added that it was a routine transfer, a normal rotation of security personnel. Nothing to worry about. He let me go with a warning. He told me it was important to maintain professional distance from everyone at the residence, that friendships could be misinterpreted and cause problems; that I should focus on my work.

I left that office trembling. I looked everywhere for Gustavo, but he was already gone. I had no way to contact him. Our method of communication, through hidden notes, wouldn’t work anymore if he wasn’t there. I was alone.

I arrived home that night in a panic. I told Daniela we had a problem, that my contact had disappeared, that maybe the plan was compromised. She panicked too. She asked me what we would do. I had no answer. We had sold things. We had prepared everything to leave. Backing down now would be suspicious, but continuing without Gustavo meant having no help at the border, no contacts who had arranged everything. I spent the night without sleeping.

At 6 a.m., someone knocked on my door. It was a messenger on a motorcycle. He handed me an envelope with no identification and left immediately. I opened the envelope with trembling hands. Inside was a handwritten note. It was from Gustavo.

He said he’d been transferred, but the plan was still on. That the contacts at the border had been notified. That we should go as scheduled on January 5th. That someone would be waiting for us in San Cristóbal, at the bus terminal, at 6 p.m. A man in a red cap who would say the phrase, “He’s from Los Teques.”

The note ended with a warning: once we crossed over, never try to contact him again. Burn everything that connected us. Start from scratch as if we’d never met. It was the only way we could both be safe. I burned the note immediately.

January 5th came too quickly. That morning I showed up for work as usual. It was my last shift, though no one knew it. I attended to the patient with my usual professionalism. Chávez was semi-conscious, connected to his machines. I looked at him one last time, knowing I would probably never know how his story ended.

Ramírez asked me if I was okay. I looked tense. I told him I was just tired, that it had been a tough month. He nodded understandingly. He told me to take a few days off after this shift, that I needed them. Patricia said goodbye with a hug. I didn’t know it was a permanent goodbye. Mariela watched me leave with that calculating look she always had. She asked if we’d see each other on the next shift. I said yes, of course. Another lie on the mountain of lies I’d accumulated.

I arrived home at 2 p.m. Daniela had everything ready. Three small suitcases with the essentials. She had left a note for the neighbors saying we would be visiting family in Mérida for a few days. Sofía was excited. She thought it was an adventure, a trip. She didn’t know we were running away.

We took a taxi to the Caracas bus terminal. We bought three tickets to San Cristóbal. The trip would take approximately 12 hours with stops. We boarded the bus at 3 p.m. Daniela was carrying Sofía, who was asleep in her arms. I was carrying a backpack with the money hidden in secret compartments I had sewn myself.

The journey was endless. Every police checkpoint made me tremble, but the fake documents Gustavo had given us worked. We passed through two checkpoints without any problems. We were just three women visiting family. Nothing suspicious.

We arrived in San Cristóbal at 5:45 in the afternoon. The terminal was packed with people traveling after the holidays. We got off the bus with our suitcases. I looked around for the man in the red cap. I didn’t see him right away. Panic started to build. Daniela asked me what we should do. I told her to wait.

We sat on a bench near the entrance. Sofia asked to go to the bathroom. Daniela took her. I stayed behind watching the suitcases, desperately searching for the red cap. At 6:15, when I thought everything had failed, I saw him. A man around 40 years old, medium build, wearing ordinary clothes, with a worn red cap. He was walking slowly, looking around.

I got up and approached him. He saw me and stopped. I asked him the time. He replied with the exact phrase: “He’s from Los Teques.” I nodded. He gestured for me to follow him. I signaled to Daniela, who was returning from the bathroom with Sofía. The three of us followed the man at a safe distance.

He led us out of the terminal to a side parking lot. There was an old white SUV with tinted windows. He told us to get in the back. Daniela hesitated. I squeezed her hand and told her to trust me. The three of us got in.

The man started the car without saying a word. He drove for almost an hour on back roads. I was looking out the window, watching the city turn into countryside, then into mountains. Sofia had fallen asleep again. Daniela was squeezing my hand so hard it hurt.

We finally arrived at an isolated house on the outskirts of town. The man let us out. Inside the house was an older woman who offered us coffee and arepas. She told us to rest, that we would cross the border that night when it was completely dark.

I asked him about the route. He explained that there were several blind spots along the border that the military knew about but ignored for the right price. They would take us across through one of those points, a hike of about two hours along mountain trails. On the Colombian side, another contact would be waiting to take us to Cúcuta.

Daniela finally snapped. She asked me in a low but intense voice, “What on earth are we involved in? Why do we have to cross illegally like criminals? What have I done to make us have to flee like this?” I answered her with as much truth as I could. I told her I had worked for very powerful people, that I knew things they wanted to keep secret, that our safety depended on disappearing, and that I would explain more when we were safe.

She wept silently. It pained her to leave Venezuela like that. I wept too. I was leaving my country, my entire life, for secrets that had brought me money, but had stolen everything else from me.

At 9 p.m., the man told us it was time to leave. We left our large suitcases. We could only take small backpacks for the hike. I packed the essentials: documents, money, some clothes, and photos of Rafael that I didn’t want to lose.

We left the house and stepped into the darkness. The man carried a small flashlight. He led us along barely visible paths. Sofia was on Daniela’s back, awake now, but frightened, clinging to her mother without making a sound, as if she understood that we should be quiet.

The hike was exhausting. We went up, down, and across small streams. I was 53 years old, and every step was harder. My legs trembled, my lungs burned. Daniela, younger, carried Sofía without complaint, though she could see her effort. The man in the red cap walked ahead without turning around, expecting us to keep up.

After an hour and a half of walking, he stopped, turned off his flashlight, and gestured for us to crouch down. In the distance, we could see lights. It was a military checkpoint. We waited in absolute silence for 20 minutes while the lights moved. Sofia was terrified, but she didn’t cry. Daniela gently covered her mouth, whispering that it was a game, that we had to be very quiet.

Finally, the lights disappeared. The man signaled for us to continue. We crossed an open area quickly, almost running. I tripped twice, but I got up and kept going. I couldn’t fall behind.

We arrived at a wire fence. The man took out a large pair of scissors and cut a section. He signaled for us to go through. One by one, we crossed through the hole in the fence. When the three of us were on the other side, the man pointed to a light in the distance. He told us to walk toward that light. Our Colombian contact would be waiting for us there.

Then, without another word, she turned and disappeared into the darkness from where we had come. The three of us were left alone in the middle of nowhere, somewhere between Venezuela and Colombia, with no guide but a distant light. Daniela looked at me, terrified. I told her we had to keep walking. We had no other choice.

The walk toward the light took another 40 minutes. When we finally arrived, we saw that it was a small, isolated house. Outside, a man was smoking. When he saw us approaching, he put out his cigarette and gestured for us to come inside quickly. Inside, a young woman greeted us. She offered us water and told us that we were in Colombia, that we had crossed successfully.

Daniela collapsed into a chair, crying with relief and exhaustion. Sofia finally broke down and started crying too. I hugged them both, feeling like we had just survived something that could easily have gone wrong in a thousand ways.

The man explained that we would rest there for a few hours and that at dawn he would take us to Cúcuta. He gave us a small room with two beds. The three of us lay down together: Sofía in the middle, Daniela and I on either side. We didn’t really sleep, we just rested with our eyes closed, processing what we had done.

At dawn on January 6, 2011, we got into another van. The man drove us to Cúcuta. He dropped us off at a modest hotel downtown. He told us to burn the fake documents, to destroy them completely, and to wait two days before going to apply for asylum as Venezuelan refugees. We followed his instructions. I burned the fake passports in the hotel bathroom sink. I destroyed any evidence of how we had crossed.

For two days we remained locked in that hotel room without leaving, eating whatever we ordered from room service. Daniela demanded a full explanation. I told her everything. I said I had worked for Hugo Chávez, that I had been part of his personal medical team, that I knew secrets about his health that the government kept hidden, that I had been paid very well for my silence, but that eventually the weight of the lie had become unbearable.

I told her about Benjamin, about Mariela, about the night I overheard the succession plans. I explained that people who knew less than I did had disappeared, that I feared for our lives, and that’s why we were leaving. Daniela looked at me with a mixture of disbelief, anger, and sadness. She asked me how I could have gotten involved in something like that. I replied that I had done it for her and for Sofia, that the money had given us stability, that at the time it had seemed like the right decision.

It took Daniela days to speak to me beyond what was absolutely necessary. She was processing that her mother had worked for the president, that we had fled the country as fugitives, that our entire lives had changed irreversibly. Sofía kept asking when we would be going home. We had no answer for her.

On January 8th, we went to the Colombian immigration offices. We applied for refugee status. We told a simplified version of the truth: I had worked in the health sector in Venezuela, I had witnessed corruption and embezzlement, I had been threatened for speaking out, and we needed protection.

The process was long and humiliating. Endless interviews, forms, verifications. We were assigned a temporary refugee shelter. It was a depressing place, rooms shared with other Venezuelan families who had also fled, but it was safe.

We spent three months in that shelter. They were the three hardest months. Sofia got sick twice. Daniela fell into a deep depression. I tried to stay strong for both of them, but inside I was falling apart. The money I had saved kept us going. We could eat, buy medicine, pay small expenses, but I knew it would eventually run out. I needed to find a job.

In April 2011, we were finally granted refugee status. We were given temporary documents that allowed us to work legally in Colombia. We left the shelter and rented a small apartment in a modest neighborhood in Cúcuta.

I looked for work as a nurse. My Venezuelan credentials required validation in Colombia, a process that would take months. In the meantime, I got a job at a pharmacy. The pay was a fraction of what I used to earn, but it was honest, legal, and simple. Daniela found a job at a call center. Sofía started preschool at a public school.

Slowly, we began to build a new life. It wasn’t the life we ​​had known. It was harder, more precarious, but it was ours. Meanwhile, from Colombia, I followed the news from Venezuela obsessively. In February 2011, Chávez finally announced that he had cancer. He said so on national television, admitting that he had undergone surgery in Cuba and was receiving treatment.

The news shook Venezuela. I saw that announcement from our small apartment in Cúcuta. I saw him talk about his illness, omitting so many details, minimizing its severity. I saw the whole country reel from news I’d known about since 2009. I felt a mixture of anger and sadness.

The following months were a time of adjustment. Daniela slowly began to forgive me. She understood that I had done what I considered necessary. Sofía adapted quickly, as children do. For her, Colombia became home. I, on the other hand, never fully adapted. I lived in constant fear that someone would find me. Every Venezuelan I saw on the street made me tremble. What if it was someone from the government? What if they had tracked me down?

Patricia called me once in March 2011. I don’t know how she got my number. She asked why I had left without saying anything. I told her I’d had a family emergency. She didn’t believe me. She said Betancurt had asked about me, that he seemed suspicious of my sudden disappearance. I begged her not to say she’d spoken to me. She promised to keep quiet. She told me to be careful, that they were probably looking for me. Then she hung up, and I never heard from her again.

That call terrified me. I reinforced all our security measures. We didn’t use social media, we didn’t contact anyone in Venezuela, we lived like ghosts.

In June 2011, we made another decision. Cúcuta was too close to the border. We needed to get farther away. We moved to Bogotá. It was a bigger city where we could lose ourselves among millions, where no one knew us. The process of starting over was exhausting, but Bogotá gave us something Cúcuta couldn’t: anonymity. In that enormous city, we were just three more Venezuelan refugees among tens of thousands.

In Bogotá, I finally managed to validate my nursing credentials. It was a long process that took almost a year, but in 2012 I got a job at a public hospital. The salary was modest, but stable. Daniela studied to be an administrative assistant and got a job at a logistics company. Sofía started elementary school at a school near our apartment. We built a new life, careful and discreet. We had casual friends, but we never let anyone get too close. We never told our real story. We were simply refugees who had fled the Venezuelan crisis. A common story that no one questioned.

From Colombia, I obsessively followed the news about Chávez. I saw him appear and disappear from public view. He would announce treatments, speak of recovery. Then he would vanish to Cuba for months at a time. The cycle repeated itself, and I knew the truth he continued to hide. I knew he was dying slowly.

In October 2012, Chávez won his last presidential election. I saw him give his victory speech, gaunt, wearing a wig, and made up to hide his decline. It pained me to see him, not because of him specifically, but because of the massive deception he represented: millions of Venezuelans voting without knowing that their candidate would probably not complete his term.

Two months later, in December 2012, Chávez announced he needed another surgery in Cuba. It was then that he publicly named Nicolás Maduro as his preferred successor. I saw that announcement and remembered that night in August 2010 when I overheard the secret meeting where they discussed exactly that. The plans I had heard about three years earlier were finally being put into action publicly.

Chávez traveled to Cuba and never returned alive. For two months, Venezuela lived in total uncertainty. The government provided minimal and contradictory information. I knew what was really happening. I knew he was dying and that they were keeping him alive artificially while they arranged the transition of power.

On March 5, 2013, they announced his death. I was at the hospital working when I saw the news on the waiting room television. I felt something strange. Not joy, not exactly sadness. It was more like closure. The man for whom I had sacrificed so much, the man whose secret had forced me into exile, had finally died.

That night I cried. I cried for everything I had lost, for my life in Venezuela, for the years I spent keeping secrets that were consuming me, for the impossible decisions I had to make, for the person I had become. Daniela found me crying in the living room, sat down next to me, and hugged me. There was no more anger between us, only understanding. She understood now that I had done what I believed was right with the information I had at the time.

The months after Chávez’s death were strange. I felt like I could finally breathe. The man who posed the greatest threat was dead. But Venezuela was sinking deeper into crisis. Maduro assumed power, and everything worsened exponentially.

More Venezuelans began arriving in Colombia, entire families fleeing. By 2015, the migration crisis was massive. We, who had arrived in 2011, were almost pioneers. We had had time to settle in before the avalanche hit.

Sofia was growing up. In 2015, she was eight years old, completely Colombian in her way of speaking and her cultural references. Venezuela was just stories her mother and grandmother told her. She had no real memories of the country.

Daniela met a Colombian man in 2016. Carlos, an engineer, a good man. They married in 2017. I watched them get married, feeling a mixture of joy and melancholy. Joy because my daughter had found stability and love. Melancholy because her father, Rafael, wasn’t there to see her.

In 2018, my second granddaughter, Valentina, was born—beautiful and healthy. When I held her for the first time, I felt that everything had been worth it. All the difficult decisions, all the sacrifices had led to this moment. This little girl existed because I had protected her mother.

The following years were calmer. I worked at the hospital, watched my granddaughters grow up, and helped Daniela with the girls when she and Carlos needed me. It was a simple life, far removed from the drama I had lived through. But the past never truly lets you go.

In 2019, while working at the hospital, I treated a Venezuelan patient. He was an older man, around 70 years old, with a Caracas accent. We spoke briefly. He asked me what part of Venezuela I was from. I told him Los Teques. He mentioned that he had worked in government for years, that he had been an advisor to several ministers. My heart raced. I asked him in what area. He said public health.

I tried to keep my composure. While I was tending to him, he kept talking. He mentioned that he had known people from the presidential medical team, some of whom had mysteriously disappeared in 2011—a nurse specifically who had simply vanished. I froze. He was talking about me without even knowing who I was.

I asked him what had happened to that nurse. He told me that no one knew for sure. Some said she had been silenced, others that she had run away, that Betancurt had searched for her for months, but they never found her. I finished tending to him quickly and left the room with trembling hands. I hardly slept that night.

The man returned two days later for a checkup. This time I avoided seeing him. I asked a colleague to take his appointment. I couldn’t risk him recognizing me from an old photo, from some record. That experience reminded me that I would never be completely safe, that there would always be someone who could recognize me, who could make connections.

It was after that incident that I made a decision. I needed to tell my story completely, not to publish it, not for revenge, but to have a record, so that if something happened to me someone would know the truth.

I started writing in 2020. During the pandemic, locked down at home, I wrote in a notebook. I wrote down everything I remembered: the details, the conversations, the dates, everything I had kept for a decade. Daniela found me writing one night. I asked her what she was doing, and I showed her the notebook. I told her I was writing my testimony, the whole truth about what I had lived through.

She read it and cried. She asked me if I planned to publish it. I told her not while I was alive, but that after my death she could decide that perhaps one day the story should be known, not because of me, but because of historical truth.

The years 2020 and 2021 were filled with constant writing. I relived every moment, every decision, every conversation I had stored in my memory. It was painful, but also liberating. I was finally getting everything off my chest.

By 2022, I had written over 300 pages. The complete story, from that Sunday in 2008 when Gladis offered me the job, to our escape in 2011. All documented in as much detail as my memory allowed. I gave a copy to Daniela. I made her promise to keep it in a safe place, and that if anything happened to me, she would decide what to do with the story. She promised.

In 2023, I retired from the hospital. I was 66 years old, and my body was begging for rest. I had worked hard for 15 years in Colombia after everything I had experienced in Venezuela. It was time to stop. Retirement gave me time to reflect, to process everything I had lived through, to make peace with my decisions. I didn’t regret protecting my family. I did regret being complicit in a massive deception.

Sofia finished high school that year. A beautiful, intelligent 17-year-old. She wanted to study medicine like me. I asked her why she had chosen that career. She told me that all her life she had seen me helping people, and that she wanted to do the same. Her words filled me with pride, but also with sadness. She didn’t know the dark side of my career, when I had used my skills to keep alive a secret that harmed millions.

Valentina, my youngest granddaughter, was five years old. She was a cheerful girl, full of energy. Seeing them both grow up in peace, without fear, without having to run away, made me feel that everything had been worth it.

In 2024, something unexpected happened. I received a message through Facebook. It was from someone who said he had worked with me in Venezuela. He didn’t give his full name, only his initials: GM. My heart stopped. Gustavo Medina. I hadn’t heard from him in 13 years. The message was brief: “I’m fine. I hope you are too. Don’t reply to this message. I just wanted you to know that the silence worked. Destroy this after reading it.”

I cried when I read those words. Gustavo had survived after helping me escape, after risking everything; he had managed to survive in that dangerous world. I followed his instructions: I deleted the message, blocked the account, but I kept in my heart the confirmation that the man who had saved me was alive.

Also in 2024, I learned from the news that Betancurt, the security coordinator, had died in a car accident in Caracas. When I read the news, I felt a strange relief. Another person who knew me, who had questioned me, who was possibly looking for me, was gone. The threads that connected me to that past were being severed one by one.

Patricia, I learned through indirect contacts, had moved to Spain in 2015. Mariela had completely disappeared; there was no trace of her anywhere. Ramírez had died in 2018 of a heart attack, according to Venezuelan media reports. The medical team I had known was either dispersing or dying. Soon I would be the only one left with direct knowledge of everything that had happened during those years.

It was that thought that led me to make the final decision. In December 2024, I met with Daniela and told her I wanted to make my story public. Not immediately, but soon. She asked me why now, after so much time. I explained that most of the people involved were dead or disappeared, that Venezuela had changed so much that my testimony no longer posed the same danger, that the regime that had forced me into exile was slowly crumbling, and that I was 68 years old.

I didn’t know how much time I had left. I wanted the truth to come out while I was still alive. I wanted to be able to answer questions, clarify details, and face the consequences of having been a silent accomplice for so long. Daniela supported me. She told me it was my decision, that she would be by my side no matter what. Carlos also gave me his support. He told me I was brave for wanting to tell the truth.

Sofia, who was now 18, read my entire manuscript. When she finished, she hugged me, crying. She told me she understood now why we had had to flee, why we lived so cautiously. She asked if I wasn’t afraid of the repercussions. I told her the truth: yes, I was afraid, but the fear of dying without having told the truth was greater. The fear that the story would be lost, that no one would know what really happened, was worse than any threat.

January 2025. I contacted a human rights organization that works with Venezuelan refugees. I told them my story in general terms. I showed them my manuscript. They were immediately interested. They connected me with journalists specializing in investigative reporting on Venezuela. I told them my full story.

They verified what they could: dates, public events that matched what I remembered. They found records of my work in Venezuela up until 2010 and then nothing, as if I had vanished. They conducted extensive interviews, recorded hours of testimony, reviewed my manuscript line by line, and asked me why I had waited so long. I explained the fear, the constant threat, the need to protect my family.

They asked me if I had physical proof. I had almost nothing. I had left everything in Venezuela. I had burned the forged documents. I had destroyed any evidence as I had been instructed. I only had my memory and my word. The journalists said that was enough, that my testimony, combined with what was publicly known, formed a coherent picture; that there were details in my story that only someone who had been there could know.

I was warned about the consequences. Once the story was published, my identity would be known. The Venezuelan regime could attack me publicly, call me a liar, a traitor; there could be threats. I told them I understood the risks, that I had lived in fear for 14 years, that I was ready to live with the truth, even if it came with danger.

In February 2025, we agreed to publish my testimony. It would be released in March in an international publication with robust legal protection. They would use my real name and include current photos of me. There would be no way for me to hide afterward. Daniela arranged additional security measures, changed the locks on our apartment, and installed cameras. Carlos contacted a lawyer who advised us on legal protection in Colombia. Sofía decided to postpone starting university for a semester. She wanted to be close by during what was to come. Valentina, only six years old, didn’t fully understand what was happening, but she felt the family’s attention.

The days before the publication were filled with extreme anxiety. I slept little, ate even less. I constantly wondered if I was doing the right thing, if I was being selfish by exposing my family to renewed risks, just for speaking my truth. Daniela found me crying one night. She told me I wasn’t being selfish, that the truth mattered, that Venezuela deserved to know how they had been deceived for years, that I deserved to be free of the burden I had carried for so long.

The article was published on March 15, 2025. It appeared in several media outlets simultaneously. My photo was in it. My full name: Carmen Rosa Méndez Gutiérrez, 68 years old, Venezuelan refugee in Bogotá, former nurse on Hugo Chávez’s personal medical team.

The testimony detailed everything: how I had been recruited, what I had seen, the secret of my cancer kept for years, the succession talks I had overheard, my forced escape. The reaction was immediate and massive. In Venezuela, the official media attacked me. They called me a traitor, a liar, a fabricator. They said it was right-wing propaganda, that I was being paid by enemies of Chavismo.

But many Venezuelans, especially those in exile, believed me. They said my story explained so many inconsistencies they had noticed during those years: the president’s disappearances, the contradictions in the medical reports, the secrecy maintained until the very end. Historians and journalists who had covered that era said my testimony filled important gaps, providing an insider’s perspective that had never existed before.

I received hundreds of messages, some supportive, others threatening. I had to temporarily close my social media accounts. The human rights organization assigned me protection. For weeks I didn’t leave the house without an escort. Daniela also received threats. Someone found her social media profile and sent her intimidating messages. Carlos reported it to the Colombian police. We were assigned special protection.

Sofia was harassed on social media by Chavistas who called her a “traitor’s daughter.” She had to close all her accounts. Seeing my granddaughter suffer the consequences of my decision devastated me. Seeing Sofia harassed made me question whether I had done the right thing.

One night I sat down with her and apologized. I told her I hadn’t fully considered how my decision would affect them all. Her response surprised me. She told me not to regret it, that while bullying was awful, she was proud that her grandmother had had the courage to speak the truth. That Venezuela needed to know her story, and that threats from cowards online wouldn’t change that.

Her words gave me renewed strength. If my 18-year-old granddaughter could be brave, then so could I.

The following weeks were a whirlwind. Interview requests poured in from international media outlets: CNN en Español, BBC, Univision. Everyone wanted to talk to me. At first, I rejected them all. Then, with my family’s support, I accepted a few. I gave three extensive interviews. In each one, I repeated my story with as many details as I could remember. I showed them pages from my original handwritten manuscript. I explained why I had waited so long. I responded to the accusations that I was lying.

In an interview, the journalist asked me if I didn’t feel guilty for having remained silent for years while the Venezuelan people were being deceived. The question hit me hard. I answered honestly. I told him yes, that I carried an enormous burden of guilt, that every day of those years had been an internal struggle, that I had chosen my family’s safety over the truth for the country. That I didn’t expect forgiveness, only that they would understand the impossible circumstances I was in.

That confession of guilt resonated with many people. I received messages from other former officials, other former government employees, others who had kept secrets. They told me they understood, that they had experienced similar dilemmas, that the system created unwilling accomplices.

In April 2025, something unexpected happened. I received a message from a woman claiming to be Mariela Contreras’s daughter. My former colleague told me that her mother had died of COVID in Caracas in 2020, and that before she died, she had spoken to her about me and our time working together. The daughter sent me a letter that Mariela had written years before but never sent.

In the letter, Mariela confessed that she had indeed worked for military intelligence, as Gustavo had told me, and that her role was to monitor the medical team and report select information. But she also wrote that she admired me, that I had had the courage to leave when she couldn’t, that she had been trapped in that world and never found a way out, and that she died regretting the things she had done.

Reading that letter made me cry. Mariela had been a victim of the same system that had trapped me. The difference was that I had managed to escape, and she hadn’t.

In May, a former Venezuelan general, now in exile in Miami, contacted me. He told me my testimony was courageous and that he could confirm parts of my story, that he had been at some of the secret meetings I mentioned, and that everything I said about the succession plans was true. His confirmation lent more credibility to my testimony. More government exiles began to speak out, adding pieces to the puzzle. Slowly, a more complete picture of those hidden years was taking shape.

In June, the Human Rights Organization organized a panel with me participating. I would be speaking alongside other witnesses of abuses by the Chavista regime. It would be my first major public appearance. Daniela asked me if I was sure I wanted to do it. I told her yes, that I had come so far, that backing down now made no sense, that I needed to show my face, to defend my truth publicly.

The panel was in Bogotá in an auditorium with almost 500 people. When I went up on stage and saw all those people looking at me, I panicked. But then I saw Daniela in the front row with Sofía and Valentina, and I remembered why I was doing this. I spoke for 30 minutes. I told my story in front of all those people. I saw moved faces, tears, gestures of support.

When I finished, I received a standing ovation. People who didn’t know me stood up to applaud. It wasn’t for me; it was for the truth that was finally coming to light. After the panel, dozens of people approached me: Venezuelans in exile who thanked me for speaking out, who told me that my testimony validated suspicions they had held for years, that my courage gave them hope.

A woman approached me in tears. She told me her husband had worked on La Casona’s security team during those years, that he had died in 2016 without ever being able to reveal what he knew, and that she was certain that if he were alive, he would be proud that someone was finally speaking out. These encounters confirmed for me that I had done the right thing. Yes, there were consequences. Yes, there were risks. But the truth mattered more than my own comfort.

In July 2025, a documentary filmmaker contacted me. He wanted to make a documentary based on my testimony. It would be produced by an international platform with strong legal protection, and I would be directly involved in telling the story. I consulted with my family. Daniela said it was my decision. Carlos reminded me of the risks but said he would support me. Sofía encouraged me not to do it, saying that future generations needed to know this story. I agreed to participate in the documentary.

Filming began in August. They interviewed me for days. They asked me to visit places in Bogotá that reminded me of that time. They filmed my family and recorded testimonies from other exiles that corroborated parts of my story. It was an emotionally exhausting process. Reliving everything on camera with lights and microphones made it more real, more permanent, but it was also liberating. Every word I spoke was a weight lifted from my chest.

In September, during one of the filming sessions, I had a breaking point. The director asked me to talk about the night I overheard the conversation about the succession. When I started recalling the details, I collapsed. I cried in front of the cameras. I cried for all the times I couldn’t cry during those years. For the fear I lived with, for the lies I had to tell, for the guilt I carried, for everything I lost.

The director stopped filming and gave me time. Daniela, who was there, hugged me. She told me it was okay to cry, that it was part of the healing process. When I recovered, we continued. That moment of vulnerability was included in the documentary. It was important to show it.

In October 2025, I received word that Patricia, my former partner, wanted to speak with me. She was living in Madrid and had seen my testimony. Through intermediaries, she sent me a message. She wanted to publicly confirm my story. We arranged a video call. Seeing her after 14 years was surreal. She had aged; she was 70 years old now.

She told me she had followed my testimony closely, that everything I said was true, that she had lived it with me. I asked her why she hadn’t spoken out before. She said she had been afraid, that she still was, but that my courage had inspired her. That if I could speak out after so long, she could too.

Patricia gave her own testimony to the same media outlet that had published mine. She confirmed the medical details, the crises Chávez had suffered, and the secrecy that had been maintained. Her confirmation was crucial. Now we were two independent witnesses saying the same thing.

November brought more changes. The Venezuelan government issued an international arrest warrant against me. I was accused of treason, defamation, and espionage. Colombia immediately rejected the request, reaffirming my protected refugee status. But the arrest warrant meant I could never return to Venezuela, not while that regime remained in power. My exile, which had been a forced choice, was now permanent and official.

Daniela asked me how I felt about it. I answered honestly. It hurt to know that I would never again set foot on the land where I was born, where I grew up, where I met Rafael, where my daughter was born. But that country no longer existed. The Venezuela I loved had died long before I left.

In December 2025, the documentary premiered on an international platform. It was titled “Carmen’s Silence: Secrets in La Casona.” It garnered millions of views in its first week. Social media exploded with debates, with people both defending and attacking me.

I organized a family gathering to watch it together. Daniela, Carlos, Sofía, and Valentina sat with me in the living room of our apartment. We watched the entire documentary. When it ended, there were tears in everyone’s eyes. Valentina, who was seven years old, asked me if I was a hero. The question broke me. I told her no, that I wasn’t a hero, that I was just a woman who had made mistakes, who had kept secrets out of fear, who had finally found the courage to speak out.

Sofia hugged me and told me that for her, I was a hero. Not for being perfect, but for being human, for admitting her flaws, for seeking redemption.

Today, as I write these last lines in December 2025, I am 68 years old. I live in Bogotá, in a modest apartment. I am the grandmother of two beautiful granddaughters. I have told my story to the world and have survived to see the consequences.

Do I regret it? That’s the question everyone asks me. The answer is complicated. I regret being complicit in the deception, choosing money over the truth at that time. I regret the wasted time, the fear that dominated so many years of my life. But I don’t regret protecting my family. I don’t regret escaping when I did. I don’t regret waiting until it was safe to speak out.

And I definitely don’t regret telling my truth. The secrets I carried for 14 years almost destroyed me, but letting them go saved me; it gave me a peace I hadn’t known in over a decade. It allowed me to look my granddaughters in the eye without feeling like I was hiding something terrible.

Venezuela continues to suffer. The legacy of those years, of those lies, of that system I helped maintain with my silence continues to destroy lives. I hope my testimony will serve to prevent history from repeating itself, so that future governments understand that the truth, however painful, must always prevail over secrecy.

To those reading or listening to this, I say: if you ever find yourselves in a position where you must choose between truth and survival, between conscience and security, I don’t judge you. I’ve been there. I know how impossible those decisions are. But I also say this: silence has a cost; it accrues interest every day, and eventually, one way or another, the truth comes out. It’s better that it comes out through your own voice than through circumstances.

I survived because I knew when to be silent and when to speak. I survived because I protected my family first, and my conscience later, when it was possible to do so. I am not a hero. I am a survivor with all the moral scars that entails.

My name is Carmen Rosa Méndez. I worked for Hugo Chávez. I saw his secrets and finally, after years of silence, I told the truth. That truth cost me my country, but it gave me back my soul.

If this story touched your heart, tell me in the comments what you would have done in the protagonist’s place.