They came to eat arepas and take pictures to make it look like they were working
In the wake of two powerful earthquakes that struck Venezuela's La Guaira state in rapid succession, at least 1,430 lives have been confirmed lost and nearly 69,000 remain unaccounted for — a toll that continues to rise as the critical window for finding survivors alive draws to a close. International rescue teams have converged on the rubble, yet their presence has only illuminated the deeper wound: a government whose visible response has amounted to little more than performance, leaving ordinary citizens to dig through the ruins of their homes with bare hands. This disaster arrives not as an isolated catastrophe but as a final pressure applied to a nation already hollowed out by years of economic collapse and political fracture, revealing how profoundly a society's resilience depends on the institutions it can trust when the earth gives way.
- The back-to-back 7.2 and 7.5 magnitude earthquakes struck with such shallow, successive force that entire neighborhoods in La Guaira were reduced to layered concrete, trapping tens of thousands beneath the rubble.
- With nearly 69,000 people still missing and the 72-hour survival window closing, every hour of delayed or absent government response translates directly into lives that cannot be recovered.
- Rage erupted on the ground as residents physically blocked excavators from leaving collapse sites and pulled operators from their cabins — a visceral rejection of a government that sent soldiers to photograph ruins rather than clear them.
- International teams from Mexico, the United States, Brazil, France, and El Salvador are racing through the debris, calling into darkness and pulling out an 18-day-old infant, a 69-year-old woman, small proof that survival is still possible.
- With over 6 million people potentially affected, a damaged international airport, decomposing bodies accumulating in the heat, and aftershocks continuing to rattle the region, the humanitarian crisis is compounding faster than the response can absorb it.
Three days after two massive earthquakes tore through Venezuela's La Guaira state, the death toll had reached 1,430 with nearly 69,000 people still missing. The back-to-back 7.2 and 7.5 magnitude quakes — shallow, powerful, and closely spaced — had collapsed buildings across the region, and families were digging through the rubble with shovels, ropes, and bare hands, calling names into the dust. International rescue teams from Mexico, the United States, Brazil, France, and El Salvador had begun arriving, pressing their heads into holes in pancaked concrete and listening for any sound of life.
But the presence of foreign rescuers sharpened a fury that had been building since the first tremors. Acting President Delcy Rodríguez announced more than 14,000 military and police personnel deployed to disaster zones, yet people on the ground reported seeing soldiers take photographs in front of flattened buildings and leave without lifting a hand. Civilian rescuer Yeison Marcano captured the sentiment plainly: the government workers came, ate, posed for pictures, and left with clean uniforms. The anger turned physical when residents blocked an excavator from leaving a collapse site and pulled its operator from the cabin, unwilling to watch machinery disappear while bodies still lay beneath the surface.
In the seaside town of Caraballeada, Mileidy Romero described watching the hours drain away — people alive underground at 8 p.m. the previous evening, still unrescued by morning, a pile of bodies nearby that included newborn babies. Rescuers worked in motorcycle helmets instead of hard hats, moving through debris scattered with the intimate wreckage of ordinary lives. At a dirt hospital parking lot, bodies were loaded onto white trucks, some bagged, some not, waiting to be identified.
The International Organization for Migration estimated more than 6 million people could be affected, including roughly 2 million in Caracas. Simón Bolívar International Airport sustained severe damage, though one runway remained operational with U.S. teams working on repairs. A U.S. Navy transport ship waited offshore to receive airlifted survivors needing medical care. Aftershocks continued, including one measuring 4.8 on Saturday.
Amid the devastation, small rescues offered something to hold onto. An 18-day-old baby boy was carefully handed down from a building after 12 hours of searching. A 69-year-old woman pulled from the rubble by Salvadoran teams asked for a Coca-Cola. One video showed a Venezuelan rescuer telling a terrified elderly woman trapped beneath debris: "If it falls, I'll be here with you." Yonahí Regalado, hoarse from hours of calling her sister's and nephew's names, watched the helicopters circle overhead and said simply: "If there is anyone alive, let's get them out." The disaster had exposed, with brutal clarity, the cost of a nation reaching a moment of maximum need with institutions already broken long before the earth moved.
Three days after two massive earthquakes tore through Venezuela, the death toll had climbed to 1,430, and nearly 69,000 people remained missing. In La Guaira, the state hit hardest by the back-to-back 7.2 and 7.5 magnitude quakes, the critical window for finding survivors alive was closing fast. Families clawed through rubble with shovels, ropes, and bare hands, their voices calling out names into the dust. International rescue teams from Mexico, the United States, Brazil, France, and El Salvador had begun arriving, climbing through collapsed concrete and listening for any sound of life beneath the weight of fallen buildings.
But the arrival of foreign rescuers only sharpened the anger many Venezuelans felt toward their own government. Acting President Delcy Rodríguez announced on state television that more than 14,000 military and police personnel were patrolling the disaster zones, yet people on the ground reported seeing little evidence of organized help. Instead, they watched soldiers and officials take photographs in front of flattened buildings before leaving without assisting in the search. Yeison Marcano, one of the civilians digging through debris, said the government workers "came to eat arepas and take pictures to make it look like they were working. They didn't even get their uniforms dirty like we have. We've been here for three days." The frustration boiled over when residents blocked an excavator from leaving a collapse site and pulled its operator from the cabin, furious that machinery was being removed while bodies still lay nearby.
Mileidy Romero, searching in the seaside town of Caraballeada, described the horror of watching time slip away. "There's a pile of bodies over there from last night. Newborn babies," she said. "At 8 p.m. yesterday there were people alive down there, and they haven't bothered to rescue them." The first 48 to 72 hours after an earthquake are considered the critical window for pulling survivors from rubble alive, though that window can extend if people have access to food and water. By Saturday, that window was nearly closed. In the heat and dust, rescuers wore motorcycle helmets instead of hard hats as they searched through debris that had once been homes—Eddie Murphy DVDs, kitchen sinks, mattresses, shoes scattered across the ground. At a dirt hospital parking lot, bodies were being loaded onto white trucks, some in white bags, others uncovered, waiting to be identified.
The International Organization for Migration estimated that over 6 million people could be affected by the disaster, including some 2 million in the capital, Caracas. The destruction had been amplified by the rapid succession of the two shallow earthquakes, followed by smaller aftershocks that continued to rattle the region, including one measuring 4.8 on Saturday. Simón Bolívar International Airport, which serves Caracas, sustained severe damage, though one runway remained operational as U.S. teams worked to repair it. A U.S. Navy transport ship was positioned offshore, ready to receive airlifted survivors needing medical care.
Amid the devastation, small moments of rescue offered glimpses of hope. Mexican military teams pushed their heads into holes in pancaked concrete, calling out into the darkness: "We're rescuers from the Mexican military, if there's anyone down there still alive, make noise or scream." An 18-day-old baby boy, swaddled in pink blankets, was carefully handed down from a building after 12 hours of searching. A 69-year-old woman pulled from the rubble by Salvadoran teams asked for a Coca-Cola. One video captured a Venezuelan rescuer comforting an elderly woman trapped beneath debris, terrified the structure would collapse if she moved. "The roof won't cave in," he told her. "If it falls, I'll be here with you."
Yonahí Regalado had been calling out the names of her sister and her 1-year-old nephew since 1 a.m. the morning after the earthquakes struck, her voice hoarse from hours of searching. When international aid workers began to arrive, she shifted her focus. "It doesn't matter who it is, whoever, whether it's family or somebody else," she said, helicopters circling overhead. "If there is anyone alive, let's get them out." The race against time continued as rescue teams worked through the rubble, knowing that with each passing hour, the chances of finding people alive grew slimmer. The disaster had exposed the fragility of Venezuela's institutions at a moment when the country could least afford it—a nation already fractured by economic collapse and political upheaval, now facing a humanitarian emergency that demanded resources and coordination it did not have.
Notable Quotes
At 8 p.m. yesterday there were people alive down there, and they haven't bothered to rescue them.— Mileidy Romero, searching in Caraballeada
They came to eat arepas and take pictures to make it look like they were working. They didn't even get their uniforms dirty like we have. We've been here for three days.— Yeison Marcano, civilian rescuer
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does the government response matter so much here? Isn't the focus supposed to be on rescue?
Because rescue depends on coordination, equipment, and speed. When people see officials taking selfies instead of directing resources, it signals that the machinery of the state isn't functioning. It breaks trust at the exact moment people need to believe someone is in charge.
The article mentions 14,000 military and police. That sounds like a lot.
On paper, yes. But people on the ground didn't see them. That gap between what's announced and what's actually happening—that's where the anger lives. It's not just about numbers. It's about presence, about visible action.
What's the significance of the 72-hour window closing?
After three days, the odds of pulling someone out alive drop dramatically. Bodies start to decompose. The stench Romero describes—that's not just a detail. It means the window is closing. Every hour matters, and people felt the government was wasting those hours.
Why did people block the excavator?
Because they saw a machine leaving a site where bodies were still buried. To them, it looked like the government was giving up. So they stopped it. That's desperation turning into action.
The international teams seem to be doing better work?
They're arriving fresh, with training and equipment. But more than that, their presence signals that help is coming from somewhere. It gives people something to hold onto when their own government feels absent.