I hope they don't find her in the rubble. But I need to find her.
On a Wednesday in late June, twin earthquakes tore through Venezuela's coastal regions, and by the weekend the confirmed dead had surpassed 1,400 with more than 55,000 souls still unaccounted for. The disaster, centred on La Guaira and parts of Caracas, has drawn over 1,600 international rescuers into a race against time and aftershock — a reminder that catastrophe does not wait for the machinery of aid to find its rhythm. What unfolds now is the oldest of human dramas: the search for the missing, the grief of the found, and the question of whether the world's response will arrive before hope runs out.
- With more than 55,000 people still missing four days after the quake, every passing hour narrows the window in which survivors can be pulled alive from the rubble.
- Aftershocks continue to rattle already fractured buildings, forcing thousands of residents to abandon their homes and sleep in the streets, deepening the humanitarian crisis beyond the initial destruction.
- Over 1,600 foreign rescue workers — including US helicopter crews, Argentine and Salvadoran teams — have deployed across devastated neighbourhoods, but their reach is uneven, leaving some families to dig through wreckage with their bare hands.
- International funding is mobilising, with the United States committing hundreds of millions of dollars on top of an existing $150 million pledge, yet the gap between institutional response and ground-level need remains painfully visible.
- For individuals like Alejandro Serrano, searching for a sister whose building no longer stands, the scale of the catastrophe has collapsed into a single, urgent, deeply personal vigil.
When twin earthquakes struck Venezuela on Wednesday, the coastal regions of La Guaira and parts of Caracas absorbed the worst of it — buildings flattened, neighbourhoods erased. By Saturday morning the official death toll had passed 1,400, and more than 55,000 people remained unaccounted for.
The international response was substantial but uneven. More than 1,600 foreign rescue workers had arrived by the weekend, with US helicopters ferrying crews into the hard-hit neighbourhood of Caraballeda and Argentine and Salvadoran teams working the rubble on the ground. In some areas heavy machinery was clearing debris; in others, local volunteers and desperate families were digging with their hands, frustrated by the scarcity of equipment and the thin official presence.
Alejandro Serrano, 33, had driven from San Cristobal to find his 24-year-old sister Ana, who had lived in the Bahía Mar building in Caraballeda — a building that no longer stood. He had spent a night at a Caracas hospital checking lists of the injured and dead without finding her name. He had passed her details to rescue teams and was waiting. "I hope they don't find her in the rubble," he said — meaning he hoped she was still alive.
In the neighbourhood of Valle del Pino, Beisy Rivas, 60, described streets where most residents had been sleeping outdoors since the night of the quake, too afraid of aftershocks to return inside cracked and broken homes. Nearby, Yendri Santana — whose sister had lost her home but survived — collected food donations from a truck. "It hurts to see people struggle so much only to lose everything," she said.
Authorities closed off La Guaira to ease the flow of emergency vehicles. The Pope offered prayers from Rome. The United States announced a further funding package worth hundreds of millions of dollars, adding to the $150 million already committed. The machinery of international aid was in motion — but for the families still searching, still waiting, the scale of what had already been lost needed no announcement.
The earthquakes struck Venezuela on Wednesday, and by Saturday morning, the official count of the dead had climbed past 1,400. More than 55,000 people remained unaccounted for. The twin tremors had flattened buildings across the coastal regions—La Guaira and parts of Caracas bore the worst of it—and now the race was on to pull anyone still alive from the wreckage before time ran out.
By the weekend, more than 1,600 foreign rescue workers had landed in the country, with additional teams still en route. US helicopters were ferrying crews into Caraballeda, one of the hardest-hit neighborhoods, dropping them into dusty landing zones before lifting off again. Argentine and Salvadoran rescue teams were on the ground. The international machinery of disaster response was moving, but unevenly. In some areas, heavy equipment was working through the rubble. In others, families and local volunteers were doing the digging themselves, often with their bare hands, frustrated by the scarcity of machinery and the thin official presence.
Alejandro Serrano, 33, had driven west from San Cristobal searching for his sister Ana, 24, who lived in the Bahía Mar building in Caraballeda. The building no longer existed. He had spent Thursday night at Caracas' Perez Carreno Hospital, checking the lists of the injured and dead. He had not found her name. He had given her details to rescue teams from Argentina and El Salvador and was waiting. "I hope they don't find her in the rubble," he said, meaning he hoped she was still alive somewhere. "But I need to find her."
In the small neighborhood of Valle del Pino, within Los Corales, Beisy Rivas, 60, stood among the damage. Five or six homes on her street were still standing, but they were cracked and broken. Since the night of the earthquakes, almost all her neighbors had been sleeping in the street, afraid of the aftershocks that kept coming. "My nerves are on edge," she said, "thinking about the dead and about the people who lost relatives." Nearby, Yendri Santana sat on a curb with Rivas, both of them collecting food donations from a truck. Santana's sister had lost her home but survived. "It hurts to see people struggle so much only to lose everything," Santana said.
Authorities had closed off La Guaira and set up checkpoints on the main road from Caracas, saying the traffic was slowing emergency vehicles. The Pope, speaking from Rome on Saturday, offered prayers for the victims and those working the rescue, and expressed hope that global support for Venezuela would hold. The United States announced it would release a funding package worth hundreds of millions of dollars within days, on top of the $150 million the Trump administration had already committed. The machinery of international aid was moving too, but for the families still searching the rubble, waiting for word, the scale of what had been lost was already clear.
Citações Notáveis
My nerves are on edge, thinking about the dead and about the people who lost relatives.— Beisy Rivas, 60, resident of Valle del Pino
It hurts to see people struggle so much only to lose everything.— Yendri Santana, resident of Los Corales
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does the international response matter so much in a moment like this? Isn't the real work happening at the local level?
Both are true. Local volunteers and families are doing the immediate, desperate work—pulling people from rubble with whatever they have. But international teams bring heavy equipment, trained search-and-rescue expertise, and the capacity to work at scale. The problem here is that the response has been uneven. Some areas have machinery and crews. Others don't. That gap between neighborhoods can mean the difference between finding someone alive and finding them too late.
What strikes you most about the people you're reading about in this story?
The specificity of their loss. Alejandro Serrano isn't a statistic—he's a man who drove hours from another city to search hospitals for his sister. Beisy Rivas isn't sleeping in her own bed because of aftershocks. These aren't abstract hardships. They're immediate, physical, ongoing.
The story mentions 55,000 people missing. That's a staggering number. How do you even begin to process that?
You don't, really. You focus on the individual searches, the specific buildings, the neighborhoods where the work is happening. The 55,000 is the weight of the disaster. The individual stories are how you understand what that weight means.
Why would Alejandro say he hopes they don't find his sister in the rubble?
Because finding her alive is the only outcome he can bear. Finding her dead means she's gone. Not finding her at all means there's still a thread of hope—that she's in a hospital somewhere, that she survived and is waiting to be found. It's a terrible calculus, but it's the one families in disasters have to make.
The story ends with aid being announced. Does that feel like resolution?
No. It's the beginning of a much longer process. The money, the teams, the machinery—they're necessary, but they don't undo what's happened. For people like Alejandro and Beisy Rivas, the real work—the waiting, the searching, the grieving—is just beginning.