[In Venezuela’s Amazonas state, fishing has long been not just a trade but a whole way of life rooted in collaboration, knowledge sharing, and mutual aid. Now, under the US blockade, fishing has become an even more important source of food. At the same time, traditional fisher people’s cooperative way of working has proven useful in solving blockade-induced obstacles.

The following study looks at the Ayacucho Commune, which is based on fishing, located in Amazonas capital city, Puerto Ayacucho. The Ayacucho Commune is an expression of the impressive synergy between a longstanding cooperative way of life, on the one hand, and a nation-wide communal movement aimed at socialism, on the other.

The Ayacucho Commune comprises both Indigenous and criollo (non-Indigenous) fisherpeople. Their stories in this three-part series shed light on how fisherpeople are working together to build self-government and break their dependency on the capitalist market, while promoting food sovereignty in the region.]

Part I

The commune

With some 6,000 residents, the Ayacucho Commune brings together six communal councils located on the eastern shore of the Orinoco River.

José Flores (José Flores is the state coordinator of fisher people for the Ayacucho Commune): The Ayacucho Commune began coming together around the fishing communities of Puerto Ayacucho back in 2009, when Chávez began to talk about communal organization. As fisherpeople with a long tradition of cooperation, the Comandante’s call inspired us immediately.

Our commune’s full name is “Multiethnic Pluricultural Agro-Productive Ayacucho Commune” because not only are we fisherpeople, but we are also a multiethnic community that brings together criollos [non-Indigenous] and Indigenous peoples who keep their languages and many of their traditions alive. The Indigenous communities in the commune are Huo̧ttö̧ja̧, Kurripako, and Jivi.

Eric Taylhardt (Eric Taylhardt is a housing spokesperson at the Ayacucho Commune and a CONPPA member): The commune is the foundation of daily life here. It’s where we address pressing issues and organize to find solutions. As in any commune, our communal councils have several committees, including education, healthcare, and finances, but we also have fishing committees. That is one of the virtues of the Law of Communes [2010]: it allows each commune to define its committees according to its particular characteristics. Chávez was a visionary.

The fishing committees of our communal councils interlink with the CONPPAs [fishers’ councils], of which there are six in our commune, and with the larger Communal Fishing Circuit, which brings together five communes engaged in fishing in and around Puerto Ayacucho.

The Fishing Circuit is still in the making, but it will be a game changer, because it will help us increase our production, which will in turn contribute to regional food security. In these times of blockade, in Amazonas, as in the rest of the country, food insecurity remains the primary social issue.

The Circuit’s main goal is to break the dependency with the capitalist intermediaries. Every day we wake up very early to go fishing, sometimes risking our lives, but the intermediaries are the ones who profit from our work because they have the infrastructure to take the catch to the market. This must stop, and we know we can do it hand in hand with the government. The solution? Building a communal refrigeration storage facility.

José Flores: Fishing is more than just work for us; it’s a way of life that binds the community together. Families gather along the Orinoco River daily, sharing stories while tending to their nets and boats. It’s through these moments that we build connections, not only to the river that sustains our lives but also to one another. Fishing isn’t just about providing food; it’s also about preserving our way of life in Amazonas.

Eric Taylhardt: The Ayacucho Commune has become a reference in Puerto Ayacucho, inspiring communal organization in other communities. Each commune is different, but we all share the same goal: improving everyone’s quality of life. As it turns out, communes are key to this.

While the US economic blockade has hurt every Venezuelan and some people have focused on individual solutions, it is more clear every day that coming together is the only way for the working class – campesinos, fisherpeople, factory workers, etc. – to live with dignity, in a sovereign country, and in peace.

José Flores: In our commune, we have areas known as “Indigenous territories,” which are home to Huo̧ttö̧ja̧, Kurripako, and Jivi communities. These territories are deeply tied to our roots. In my case I am criollo, but my ancestry is Indigenous.

Indigenous communities live by their own rules and rely on fishing, farming, and hunting to survive, while criollos often mix fishing with commercial activities. In our commune, many indigenous people also work as nurses, teachers, or doctors, adapting to urban life while preserving many of their traditions. When it comes to fishing, their techniques aren’t so different from ours – they use atarrayas [cast nets], just like we do.

Fishing along the Orinoco River

The anecdotes told by Ayacucho communards treat various aspects of their craft and of a mode of life deeply intertwined with the river.

The Lives of Two Fisher People

Delfín Rivas (Delfín Rivas is a 73-year-old fisherman and a promotor of the CONPPAs (fishers’ councils): I’m 73 years old and started fishing with a canalete [paddle canoe] when I was a kid.

Life as a fisher on the Orinoco River is not for the faint-hearted. The currents are strong, and one has to be careful to avoid the rocks. We lose people every year. Yet, amidst the challenges, there is undeniable beauty. As the sun goes down in the evening, the river turns red and the bushes on the riverside hum.

On our long nights fishing, the camaraderie among us fishers keeps the spirit alive; we share stories, advice, and a sense of solidarity that only those who face the river’s risks can understand. This is not an easy life, but it’s a free one. There’s no clock to punch, no boss looking over our shoulders – just our friends and the hope of a good catch.

Yesterday, I left home at 11 am, and here I am, nearly 24 hours later, still at it. I work with a simple laminated boat and a small 15-horsepower outboard motor that’s fuel-efficient – a real blessing when fuel is hard to get. I also have a 40-horsepower motor, but it’s been out of commission for ages. Finding the parts to fix the motor has been difficult and the cost keeps climbing. It’s not just me; many fishers are in the same situation, struggling with old tools and scarce resources. But we make do because the river provides.

Maritza Payena (Maritza Payena is a fisherwoman and a spokesperson for the Bagre Communal Council): There aren’t many women fishers, but I’ve been at it for 20 years – enduring rain, sun, and long nights. It’s a tough life, but it’s also beautiful.

Uncertainty defines our lives. The river can be bravo [wild], taking a friend one day, stingy the next, sending you home practically empty-handed, but it can also be generous, offering a good catch for ten days in a row. The ribazones [peak fishing seasons] organize our year: bocachico in July and August, blancopobre in February, palometa in September, and bagre [catfish] in December.

Still, being a fishing family isn’t just about going to the river. We weave our atarrayas [casting nets] with nylon because buying them is too expensive, and we’re always mending them. That’s why, when you walk through the streets of our communal council, you will see people sitting on the front porch talking to family and friends while working on their nets.

It’s hard work, but a quiet night on the boat and a good catch make it all worth it.

The Trade

José Flores: Our commune is predominantly a fishing community, although many families also tend to small conucos [subsistence farming plots], mostly for self-consumption. We learned the trade of fishing from our parents and grandparents, and we also learned to care for the land with them.

The majority of the fishing is done with atarrayas. This is the most common practice because the currents make other methods less practical.

Some mid-scale fishers use “bongos” [bigger boats with motors] while smaller fishers use “curiaras” [dugout canoes]. In the Orinoco we catch bocón, payara, bocachico, dorado, and bagre.

The bounty provided by the river defines the life in our community.

José David Rivas (José David Rivas is a young fisherman who began learning the trade when he was 9 years old): Fisherpeople and their families weave their atarrayas, which is the method we use most often, but we also use “espileo,” which is a line with multiple hooks thrown into the river to catch several fish at once. There’s also fishing with buoys, which are used to catch larger fish.

José Flores: The main port in the commune is located in the area of the Bagre Communal Council, and most of the fish harvested is taken to land there. That port is also a hub for other activities, including vendors who sell fish and other goods, women selling fried fish, and people looking for work. Bagre Port is the center of our community’s economic activity.

Delfín Rivas: We make our own atarrayas and boats. As poor fisherpeople, we try to gain autonomy from capitalists to acquire our inputs. This is perhaps why our community is highly collaborative.

The intermediaries are an obstacle for us, the daily heartbreak for every poor fisher. Without cold storage, we depend on them to get our catch to the market, but their practices are exploitative and extremely harmful to our community. They pay us almost nothing for our catch.

But we don’t give up, just like our parents didn’t give up, and we have the tools – the river, our trade, and the commune – to go forward.

Part II

Fishing along the Orinoco River

The anecdotes told by Ayacucho communards treat various aspects of their craft and of a mode of life deeply intertwined with the river.

Collective practices and nature

Xiomara Díaz (Xiomara Díaz is a spokesperson for the Ayacucho Commune and UBCH (local PSUV structure) leader): In the past, before the blockade, each person had a boat and even a motor. However, as the crisis deepened, much of the equipment deteriorated. And so we returned to more collective forms of organization. We joined forces to maintain boats and motors and we shared – and continue to share – some of our fishing instruments.

For example, in my CONPPA [Fishers’ Council], there are 30 members but only 15 boats. To address this, we established a rotation system. The motor operators, however, remain permanently linked to the boats since navigating the river – especially one as challenging as the Orinoco – requires skill and experience.

Eric Taylhardt: The curiaras, which are traditional boats carved from a single tree trunk, were used by our parents and grandparents. Many still rely on them today, particularly now that the crisis has rendered some of our bongos [self-built metal boats] unusable.

The process of making a curiara was always a collective one. Fisherfolk would come together to share tools and knowledge. Later, with the introduction of sheet metal, many transitioned to building bongos. These boats are also crafted by fisherfolk themselves and are also typically built through collaborative efforts.

José Flores: Just as we look out for one another in our community – ensuring that a neighbor returns home safely after a long night fishing – so we also care for nature.

Nature is generous, and we must be generous in return. What we take from the river isn’t for our benefit alone; it’s meant to be shared. On a good fishing day, we keep some fish for our household, sell some, and often give some away to those in need. In our community, and in most fishing communities, if you approach fisherpeople, they will always be willing to share part of their catch.

The river brings us together. In the best way, the Orinoco casts a net over our community, bringing us together.

We learned to respect the river from our parents, but Comandante Chávez also did his part: the 2001 Fishing Law banned indiscriminate fishing, which was key to ensuring sustainability. The law also bans trawling, which is a devastating method practiced by large-scale capitalist operations. In short, the law ensures sustainability and paved the way for the creation of fisherfolk councils, which we now know as CONPPAs.

Fisherfolk Councils (Conppas)

José Flores: The organization of the working class is at the core of any revolution, and ours brought councils to the barrios, to the campo [countryside], to the factories, and also to fishing communities.

In 2008, Chávez began to promote CONPPAs [Fisherfolk and Fish Farmer Popular Power Councils] as counterparts to the communal councils in fishing communities.

If the communal council is the place where we tackle problems such as infrastructure or services, the CONPPA is there to address the matters that specifically concern fisherpeople and their economic activity. Just as with the communal council, the decision-making body in a CONPPA is the assembly. At the same time, the law establishes channels for receiving financial and technical support from the government.

That said, the blockade has severely limited resources, so we haven’t received funding or loans for our activities in years. However, there are signs this may soon change.

At the state level, a program operates in coordination with the CONPPAs, delivering essential goods to fishers – a CLAP of sorts for the fishing sector. However, challenges persist, such as maintaining our bongos and motors, or lacking cold storage facilities, which forces us to rely on exploitative intermediaries.

Despite these obstacles, we know that solutions lie in collective work. In most CONPPAs, boats, and motors are maintained and rotated among members. We know that the CONPPAs and the five-commune Communal Circuit will help us all. ¡Solo el pueblo salva al pueblo! [Only the pueblo can save the pueblo!]

Eric Taylhardt: In the Ayacucho Commune, there are six CONPPAs. Each is formed through free association within the communal councils, which in turn make up the commune. However, the relationship isn’t always one-to-one. For example, one communal council may host three CONPPAs, while others might have none.

I returned to fishing in 2016, because the blockade left me with no other choice. Returning to my family’s trade helped me survive. I later joined the CONPPA, because it’s always better to struggle collectively. Together, we identified critical bottlenecks in our production, such as the lack of a refrigeration chain, and we’ve been steadily working to address them.

Intermediaries

Maritza Payena: The capitalist middlemen are a scourge on our community. They take advantage of our precarious situation, especially during the ribazón [peak fishing season]. Recently, when the bocachico ribazón came, intermediaries from out of town paid us 1,500 Colombian pesos per kilo – equivalent to 15 bolivars [about 40 US dollar cents at the time]. Then they resell it for 8 dollars per kilo to another intermediary, who sells it for 10 dollars or more per kilo in other states.

This endless chain of speculation keeps driving up the price. It must be broken.

Delfín Rivas: Intermediaries are a real problem. They’re the ones with the capital to buy, store, and transport the fish, while we only have our boats, nets, and hands.

They pay us next to nothing for our hard work. But since we don’t have storage facilities or refrigeration, we’re forced to sell to them – especially during the ribazón. Without a refrigeration chain, we remain dependent on them.

Jorge Vera (Jorge Vera is a fisherman and participates in the Bagre Communal Council): Just buying the fishing line to make or repair a net costs at least 90 dollars. During the worst of the crisis, a liter of gasoline for the motor was four or even five dollars. These are steep costs for us.

Sometimes we’re forced to turn to intermediaries for loans to cover these expenses, or even to get the fuel we need to fish. While it’s true that these loans allow us to keep going, they come at a high price. The middlemen pay us very little for our catch and then resell it at exorbitant markups.

Eric Taylhardt: The solution to the problem of intermediaries lies in the Communal Fishing Circuit establishing a fisherfolk-owned refrigeration chain infrastructure. This includes a cold storage facility and a refrigeration truck.

But the refrigeration chain isn’t the end goal; it’s just a critical first step. With this infrastructure in place, we can break our dependence on capitalist intermediaries while promoting local fish consumption. Our vision is to create a network of community fish markets across the communes of Puerto Ayacucho, where we can sell our catch directly at prices lower than the current market rate.

That’s our plan – an integral solution that addresses both production and distribution while making the catch available to working people. We’ve approached several institutions to request funding, whether through a loan, grant, or construction materials. We’re hopeful we’ll receive support soon because this is urgent.

Sovereignty

José Flores: Fishing is more than a livelihood for us – it’s a way to defend our country’s sovereignty, especially in the face of the US blockade. The blockade has made it harder to access essential supplies like nets and fuel, but it has also pushed us to organize and develop solutions together.

Delfín Rivas: The blockade affects everything, from the rising cost of implements to the scarcity of basic goods, but it also underscores the critical importance of food sovereignty.

When we go out on the river, it’s not just to feed our families, it’s to ensure that our community – and our country – has access to healthy food. Fishing under these conditions is not easy, but it’s essential work that ties us to the broader struggle for dignity and food sovereignty.

Part III

The US blockade

The impact of the unilateral coercive measures promoted by the US government is devastating: tens of thousands have died and production fell dramatically. However, at the Ayacucho Commune, people did not give up; they continue to organize and look for creative solutions. In this last part, communards living by the Orinoco River talk about the impact of US sanctions on their work and lives.

José Flores: Venezuela is rich in natural resources – water, minerals, and oil – and has an authentic project of its own, which has much to do with sovereignty. The US, on the other hand, seeks to take what belongs to us and tries to make sure that no country disrupts its political and ideological control over much of the world. That’s exactly why the blockade against Venezuela – against every one of us really – was put in place.

When the blockade descended upon us, we found ourselves without supplies and without financial support from institutions, so we fisherfolk had to adapt and become even more self-reliant. Between 2015 and 2020, production dropped by about 60%; now the economic situation is looking a bit brighter, but we still face many obstacles.

Someone might ask why production dropped so dramatically, since the river is right here and the fish are not sanctioned. By 2016, fishing implements were becoming scarce and very expensive. It became harder and harder to maintain our bongos [metal boats] and outboard motors, and gasoline was very costly and scarce at one point.

Of course, it’s not just the blockade that affects us; climate change, overfishing, and illegal mining — which pollutes the rivers — have all impacted fish populations, but the blockade’s impact has been enormous.

This year, however, we had a good ribazón [peak fishing season], but even that has its challenges. With more people returning to the trade in recent years, there are now twice as many fisherpeople in our commune. During the ribazón this reduces the value of the catch and makes it harder to earn a living.

Eric Taylhardt: Since the beginning of the blockade, the fishing fleet has declined by approximately 70%, largely due to the high cost of repairs. Before the blockade, our fleet had around 80 motorboats, but today only about 25 are operational in the Ayacucho Commune.

For this reason, some people fish with curiaras [small boats made out of wood], using paddles instead of motors. While curiaras also deteriorate and need to be replaced every so often, they can be handcrafted with trees that grow along the margins of the Orinoco. Maintaining them is much easier as well.

Xiomara Díaz: The blockade has made life on the river much harder. Basic implements such as fishing lines, hooks, and weights have become expensive and difficult to find. Maintaining the motors is really hard, so many fisherfolk have gone back to traditional methods – fishing closer to the riverbanks with curiaras and line fishing are back.

Delfín Rivas: The blockade strikes at our sovereignty in border regions. Around the time of the hyperinflationary spiral, when the bolívar [currency] was nowhere to be found, we began to use the Colombian peso, but we also turned to barter: when we had no money, we would exchange fish for goods such as oil or sugar.

Gender-Based Violence as a Consequence of the Blockade

Xiomara Díaz: The economic impact of the blockade has been severe. The children of many fisherfolk dropped out of school and some families left the country. In our community, women have been hit particularly hard, and many have had to migrate to seek work abroad, often having to leave their children with relatives. Tragically, some of these women have been killed, and others never came back. The life of migrant women is really very harsh – the stories are heart-wrenching.

In our community, we’ve seen a lot of suffering: children are growing up in very difficult conditions and we have witnessed an increase in gender-based violence. This should come as no surprise: poverty, in this case the poverty induced by the blockade, always comes with a stepping up in violence in general, and specifically gender-based violence.

In fact, I’m sure that the people in the US government who design the policies against Venezuela are fully aware of the devastating impact that sanctions have. They may say that their intention is to undermine President Maduro’s government, which is bad enough, but they are actually attempting to do it by bringing violence, death, and desperation to every last Venezuelan.

However, in the commune, we’ve organized to report cases of abuse against our compañeras. Several men guilty of gender-based violence are behind bars. We are organized and will not allow for proprietary “love” to turn into death.

We hold workshops, have created street patrols, and work with local leaders to tackle this problem. The Attorney General’s Office also sends psychologists to handle confidential complaints. In the face of gender-based violence, it’s not enough to file reports – the solution is to be found in an organized community that works together with authorities.

While patriarchy is structural in a capitalist society, at the end of the day we also know that the spike in gender-based violence is linked to the US blockade. The blockade must cease immediately. Blood, a lot of blood, is on their hands.

Gas Shortages and Collective Solutions

José Gregorio Lares (José Gregorio Lares is a young fisherman): The blockade has deeply affected us, but fishing has been our lifeline during the crisis. One of the biggest challenges has been getting fuel for our boat engines. In this situation, many fisherfolk have had no choice but to return to the traditional curiara and paddles to go on working. To state the obvious, the catch is greatly reduced because mobility in a curiara is limited.

Delfín Rivas: The fuel shortages have impacted our fishing practices a great deal. We need significant amounts of gasoline to locate fish schools along the Orinoco. In the past, I used three drums of fuel monthly [600 liters]. Then, when the fuel shortages were most dramatic, I would count every drop of gasoline and I had to restrict my radius radically.

Fortunately, now we have a weekly allocation of 50 liters via the Amazonas state government which adds up to 200 liters [monthly]. However, sometimes I cannot afford to pay for the gas, and even when I can, that does not take you very far.

In short, while the overall situation has improved, our catch remains relatively small when compared to the years before the blockade. Frankly, sometimes it’s barely enough for family consumption.

José Flores: Fuel shortages have plagued frontier regions like ours for decades, but the blockade made the situation critical. When the gas stations in Puerto Ayacucho went dry, those who could afford it crossed the river to Colombia, where gasoline was available but at much higher prices, or had to turn to black-market suppliers. The price at the peak of the fuel shortages was exorbitant, reaching four USD per liter. This led to mounting debts for many, while others retreated to the shore or to their curiaras.

But as we always do, we organized; we look for a collective solution to collective problems. Through the efforts of the CONPPA [Fisherfolk Councils] and in coordination with the PSUV and the state government, a dedicated fuel station named “Fluvial Orinoco” reopened a year ago. Now every fisherfolk who has a motor can purchase 50 liters of gasoline weekly at international prices [50 US cents a liter]. This has been a huge victory, but we are still in the struggle. While we recognize the government’s goodwill, we demand that the gasoline be sold to fisherfolk at [subsidized] national and not international prices.

It’s been a little over a year since this happened, but it didn’t happen overnight. Our process of organization was done over the long haul: it began with assemblies, took us to public official’s offices, and concluded with a census of all the existing outboard motors to allocate the quotas. Fisherfolk had to provide extensive documentation – boat registration, outboard motor papers, navigation licenses, and other certifications – to qualify for fuel allocations. More recently [state oil company] PDVSA carried out inspections to ensure compliance. While we’re still waiting for subsidized rates, the current system has provided some relief, allowing us to continue working, albeit on a limited scale.

Mining

José Flores: The consequences of the blockade are so many, so diverse, and so brutal that sometimes it’s hard to get one’s head around it. When things got dire, many people, especially young men, went to the gold mines. They left families behind, sometimes selling everything they had, and off they went. Of course, the conditions there were really exploitative and dangerous.

This began about four or five years ago. Most of them went to Yapacana Park and other nearby mining sites, and some went to Bolívar state.

About one year ago, the government intervened in Yapacana Park and put an end to illegal mining in that place that is not only an ecosystem of enormous importance, but also a place that has spiritual importance for many Indigenous communities.

The government evacuated miners and many have been coming back to our communities. Sadly some will never return.

We celebrate the government’s intervention because mining is not only a dangerous and exploitative practice, but also because our rivers, especially upstream, were becoming polluted with mercury and fuel. In fact, many Indigenous communities upstream have been unable to rely on fishing for sustenance because of the environmental impact of mining.

Little by little the river will recover, but I want to highlight here that the footprint of the blockade is not only economic and political. It’s also environmental.

Eric Taylhardt: In the mines, gold is extracted using mercury, which pollutes the rivers and poisons the water. There are areas of the Upper Orinoco where fish are no longer reproducing because of this.

Another issue impacting us is aquarium fishing – catching fish that don’t grow too big to have as pets. Recently, however, people have started catching juvenile sapoara, which is not an aquarium fish. On the Colombian side, they buy large quantities of these juvenile fish as if they were pets, reducing the river’s biodiversity further.

Migration, the Return Home to Fishing

Patricia Piñate (Patricia Piñate is a spokesperson for the July 5 Communal Council): Between 2017 and 2020, we experienced significant migration to Colombia, to other countries, and to the mines. People knew things away from home would not be easy, but the situation here was dire. Many people could only afford to buy one kilogram of meat a month while medicines were hard to get and very expensive.

Those of us who stayed behind managed to survive by selling a few things – coffee, sugar, chucherías [candies] – out of our homes. Professionals stepped out of their offices and reinvented themselves [with side businesses] to make ends meet, sometimes returning to the river and picking up on their family’s old fishing trade.

Previously we had an estimate of around 700 fishermen in Amazonas, but according to the latest report from the Ministry of Fishing, there are approximately 2,000 fisherfolk across the state now.

A fisherperson grows up in a fishing family and dedicates their life to the trade, falling in love with the river from a young age. But at the same time, fisherfolk also strive to improve their children’s quality of life – while we love the river, we also know its dangers and hardships. That’s why fisherfolk work hard so that their kids can go to school and even university, and perhaps become accountants or lawyers.

While all this pains us deeply, we are happy that some people are returning to the community and reconnecting with their roots. Now, many say: “I’m a doctor,” or “I’m a lawyer,” and they add, “but I also fish, and I fish with pride!”

Eric Taylhardt: I’m an electrician by trade and an operator of electrical power plants and substations. However, I was raised in a fishing family and learned the ways of the Orinoco from them. In 2016, I returned to fishing because the economic crisis was hitting us too hard and I had to support my family. The blockade had put us in a tough place.

When I returned to fishing, my economic situation began to improve. The state of Amazonas is defined by the Orinoco River, which shapes the daily lives of its people. While the return to fishing wasn’t easy, I’m now happy to be part of the river’s economy.

My return to fishing also meant that I reconnected with my community and, eventually, I became an associate of the El Campito CONPPA, which is in the territory of the Ayacucho Commune.

Over these years I have learned that we will only collectively be able to solve our problems.

Solidarity

José Flores: We fisherfolk are humble people with big hearts, and we understand the needs of others. This was especially evident during the worst of the blockade, when we reinforced our collaborative practices. We had many bad years, but even then, fishermen maintained the practice of giving away some of their catch to those in need.

In other words, fisherfolk fish for themselves and for the market, but they also do it with the community in mind. We share everything – the bongo, the fishing net, and even the shelters we build to protect ourselves from the sun and from the rain when we go out fishing. This solidarity is a defining trait of fisherfolk and that, together with our culture of cooperation, became a lifeline during the ugliest years.

Patricia Piñate: The blockade has forced us to organize and support one another as brothers and sisters regardless of political affiliation or ideological beliefs. In all this, the commune, which is Chávez’s proposal but brings us all together for the greater good, has also played an important role.

José Flores: Chávez was right when he said “Commune or nothing!” and President Maduro is also making the right choice when he turns to the commune.

(Cira Pascual Marquina is Political Science professor at the Universidad Bolivariana de Venezuela in Caracas. Chris Gilbert teaches Marxist political economy at the Universidad Bolivariana de Venezuela. Courtesy: Venezuela Analysis, an independent website produced by individuals who are dedicated to disseminating news and analysis about the current political situation in Venezuela.)