Mothers of Venezuela's Political Prisoners: The Fight for Justice Amid Repression and Torture

Illustration with OpenAI

On May 28, 2022, the quiet of Luz Marina Arias’s home in Táchira, Venezuela, was shattered when five armed, masked men stormed into her house. They came looking for her son, Daniel. Terrified, Arias tried to shield him, clutching him tightly as the men, with their weapons pointing at her, said: “Either you come with us, or we kill your mother.”

In a matter of seconds, Daniel was led away. The last words Arias heard from her son were meant to reassure her, but they did little to calm her fears: “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be back soon.” This was the second time in just a matter of weeks that her family had been torn apart. Just twenty days earlier, her youngest son, Juan Nair, who has autism spectrum disorder, had also been abducted. 

It wasn’t until the following month that Arias discovered her sons were being held in a prison in Caracas, over 500 miles away, accused of conspiring against Nicolas Maduro’s regime. Both had been tortured, subjected to electric shocks on their genitals, and burned by a hot iron on their legs. Since then, her sons haven’t had access to justice—and to this day, they remain incarcerated as she continues advocating for their release. 

“If I stay silent, if I don't speak, they are going to remain in prison,” she said, “so I have to speak, I have to make it visible because it’s a massive injustice. Too much injustice for me to remain silent.”

Despite the escalating repression under Maduro's regime, mothers like Arias are speaking out against the imprisonment of their children. In recent months, social media has been flooded with videos and images documenting their struggle, as they take the lead in advocacy efforts against the regime’s repression. 

After a massive crackdown following this year’s controversial presidential election, which led to the arrest of over 2,000 people, their call for justice has grown louder, giving voice to those whose loved ones have spent years incarcerated. Like Arias, many of these families have seen their loved ones imprisoned and tortured without any evidence of wrongdoing. 

Throughout the 20th century, Latin America became notorious for its dictatorships, from the Dominican Republic and Nicaragua to Chile and Argentina. In them, engineering the disappearance of perceived critics and dissidents was a common feature. 

“What is happening in Venezuela is the same to all dictatorships by definition,” said José Moya, a professor of Latin American history at Barnard College. “But this happened at a time when it was very difficult to have a dictatorship that did not try to present itself as a democratic regime.”

In these oppressive regimes, mothers like Arias became central figures in resistance movements, bearing the emotional, economic, and physical toll of their loved ones’ suffering while fighting for justice. Movements like the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, who protested the extralegal arrest, detention and sometimes murder of their children during Jorge Rafael Videla’s dictatorship in Argentina, became powerful symbols of defiance.

According to Scott Mainwaring, professor of political science at Notre Dame, “Mothers have a cultural sensitivity. For cultural reasons, it’s a little bit harder to attack grieving mothers.” He highlighted the courage these women and family members show in a regime as oppressive as Venezuela’s.

Over the past two years, Arias has visited her sons only a handful of times. Each visit has brought her face-to-face with their deteriorating health. Daniel now suffers from PTSD, while Juan Nair battles pneumonia. Arias believes the officials are trying “to kill them little by little, without human rights, being innocent.” She added, “They were not conspiring against any government. Everything was a montage.”

To date, Arias and their lawyer have been unable to access the case files that explain the accusations against them. “A military man accuses them or says they were selling information to Colombia,” she explained. “That’s all the officials say, but they don’t specify what type of information or to whom—just that they sold it to Colombia.” 

Daniel’s arrest is directly tied to his previous role in the National Guard, where he served as a secretary responsible for organizing the general’s bodyguards. His job paid poorly, and the meager salary wasn’t enough to support his wife and son. To make ends meet, Daniel resorted to selling clothes and driving a moto-taxi. Eventually, the financial strain and the unsustainable nature of his position led him to file his leave from the National Guard. 

His decision to leave was still in process when his brother, Juan Nair, was approached by Mayor Danilo Rivera Moretti and invited him to join. Despite Arias’s attempts to dissuade him, reminding him of his brother’s economic hardships, Juan Nair felt compelled to accept the offer. “They said to him, you are a man, you don’t need authorization from your mother.” After a few days he left, and the next time Arias would see him, it would be in jail. 

Since 2013, families in Venezuela have fought an uphill battle against a justice system that has become a tool of political repression. Luis Armando Betancourt, a coordinator for Foro Penal, a human rights organization, said what they have registered in their database “is that all the people there are innocent and were simply taken as numbers to intimidate, to repress, or to be used as bargaining chips.” 

Incarcerated individuals are routinely denied basic rights—access to lawyers, phone calls, and even a reading of their rights. These practices have turned the judicial system into a weapon used to punish dissent.  

Betancourt has witnessed firsthand the anguish of mothers whose children are imprisoned in Tocuyito, Carabobo State, some of whom are forced to sleep outside the prison, hoping that they might hear something about their loved ones. 

“My mom waited two days outside, hoping they'd free my brother, but only 32 were released from that prison,” said Susej Moreno, whose brother Johan was arrested on August 2 and, like many others, accused of terrorism. Moreno recalls urging her mother to leave the prison after the police repeatedly harassed and moved them.

“This has directly affected my mother, who suffers from fainting spells and has had to remain in bed for long periods,” Moreno added. From her home in the United States, where she now lives and works, she sends money to her mother to help cover the costs of visits, transportation, and necessities for Johan—food, water, and other supplies he may need. 

According to the National Institutes of Health (NIH), the emotional and economic toll of having an incarcerated family member is profound. The stress affects not only mental health but physical well-being, as well as financial stability. The latest round of arrests disproportionately targeted low-income families, many of whom were the most vocal in protesting Maduro’s reelection. For these families, the personal cost can be a matter of survival.

As her son's cases remain stagnant, Arias devotes her days to speaking out and connecting with other mothers whose children are enduring similar experiences. Communication within Venezuela is incredibly difficult due to the government’s tight control over communications, so they rely on Zoom calls to stay in touch. 

For Arias, these conversations are not just a source of comfort, but a reminder that she is not alone in her struggle—there are many, like her, still fighting for the return of their children and for the truth to be heard. As she heads into yet another holiday season apart from her sons, Arias holds onto the hope that this Christmas, they will be together again.