The Fall of El Helicoide
Last night, the Bolivarian dictatorship finally hit rock bottom, dragging with it what it once called “twenty-first century socialism.”
With the hypocrisy of someone fully aware that an entire population has been subjugated for twenty-seven years, Delcy Rodríguez publicly acknowledged before a parody parliament that Venezuela holds political prisoners.
The so-called “executive president,” an usurper of popular sovereignty, exposed herself before the world by proposing the release of tortured detainees, innocent prisoners, and Venezuelans imprisoned for opposing the dictatorship.
Delcy Rodríguez is the sister of Jorge Rodríguez Gómez, a psychiatrist and “president” of the parliamentary dictatorship imposed on the Asamblea Nacional de Venezuela since 2021.
Their father, Jorge Antonio Rodríguez, was a founder of the Marxist Venezuelan party Liga Socialista.
A woman who has occupied nearly every senior position within the dictatorship, from foreign minister to vice president, finance minister, and head of the Central Bank, openly confessed that thousands of political prisoners were held in El Helicoide and needed to be released.
Adopting a performative tone of reconciliation, this orthodox socialist, repeating the mantras she once enforced, was applauded by fellow parliamentary usurpers while admitting that prisoners had been jailed for resisting the very dictatorship she served.
The Triumph of Incoherence: The Final Act
The true tragedy of tyranny is not its cruelty in a given moment, but its inevitable descent into savage absurdity when it finally admits to decades of imprisonment, torture, and exile. By proposing “pacification,” the regime was effectively calling for its own indictment.
For a government that had turned horror into a refined art, the final act could not be a battle, but a grotesque farce.
The parliament, a sanctuary of purchased unanimity, appeared dimly lit, like a candle aware that history’s breeze was about to extinguish it.
There gathered the salaried custodians of disaster, faces marked by failed cosmetic surgeries and consciences long liquidated.
Delcy took the stage wearing yet another mask, practicing the art of denial.
Wrapped in garments that aspired to elegance but achieved only arrogance, she ascended the podium like a performer who had forgotten her script but remembered her contempt for the audience.
Holding a folder of papers as delicately as one holds a freshly baked lie, she announced a legislative project rooted in political alchemy.
“We come,” she declared with a smile that never reached her eyes, “to free those who were never imprisoned. Because in our Republic, freedom is so absolute that prisoners exist only as an optical illusion created by reactionaries.”
It was the sublime moment of decaying authority, proposing to open cells that, according to yesterday’s rhetoric, had never held anyone at all.
Liberating the “nonexistent” became her final contribution to the theater of the absurd.
Reality, this time, could no longer be avoided.
From Chains to Shopping Malls
The regime’s capacity for self-indulgent reinvention knows no limits.
The centerpiece of this moral makeover was the announced transformation of El Helicoide.
That concrete serpent, a monument to pain, was to be purified by decree.
The proposal bordered on grotesque kitsch.
From Torture to Tennis. Interrogation rooms would become paddle courts, a sport adored by the bourgeoisie the regime claimed to despise but faithfully imitated.
From Isolation to Luxury Shopping. Dark cells would be converted into boutiques selling expensive perfumes to mask the stench of a dead ideology.
Transforming pain into consumption became the regime’s final illusion.
The Epilogue of Degradation
Regimes do not fall by the sword, but by the weight of their own ridicule.
El Helicoide will never become a shopping center. History possesses a deeper sense of responsibility than dictators.
It will remain a monument to memory, a reminder that prisoners can be denied, but truth cannot be silenced forever.
As this confession unfolded, only kilometers away, Nicolás Maduro dined in the depths of his new bunker-palace, a structure that resembles not a refuge, but the rehearsal of a tomb.
Other totalitarian accomplices now tremble, stained by Venezuelan blood.