Are we Venezuelans racist or are we not racist? That’s the question. It is a difficult question to answer because Venezuela has lived in recent decades clinging to the myth of being a mestizo and polyclass society. My generation grew up with that myth, fueled largely by historical currents that come from Independence and by the fantasy of infinite social mobility driven by oil. Like all myths, it is neither completely false nor completely true.
The incident last Saturday in Puerta del Sol, when, at a rally, the singer of a crowd that chanted “Out with the monkey!”, in reference to the acting president Delcy Rodríguez, puts it back on the table.
Judicious leadership could address the issue and open a national debate. Thus, perhaps, this controversy could become an opportunity to address historical complexes in Venezuela. An opportunity that should not be wasted.
Consciously or involuntarily, Baute expressed a feeling – or, rather, a resentment – rooted in the Venezuelan racial and ethnic imaginary: dark skin as a marker of social, educational and economic inferiority.
Venezuela is a deeply mixed country. European blood crossed with the original indigenous and black blood of African slaves – too often by force – and produced the mestizo and brown society that is the country. As far as I know, there are no watertight compartments in the Venezuelan ethnic-racial spectrum, except in Afro-descendant enclaves and minority and relatively isolated indigenous groups. In fact, Afro-descendants or Amerindians represent 8% and 4% of society, respectively.
However, the mix did not end the hierarchy. Creole whites continue to be seen as the top of the social pyramid, they dominate the economic elites and are overrepresented in standards of beauty and success. While the mestizos, morenos, zambos and mulattos, who make up the popular pardaje and are the social base of the so-called town, carry, to a greater or lesser extent, the stigma of skin color. The rest is seen as folklore or exoticism, and is despised or subjected to plunder, as occurs with the indigenous communities in the mining areas of the south.
In Venezuela the law establishes racial equality and there is no open discrimination or the major racial conflicts of other Latin American countries. However, in performances like Baute’s. Not only there, but in a myriad of common places that express an enormous load of prejudices. In a joking way, we celebrate that we must “improve the race” by mixing blacks with whites, but we also repeat the infamy of “black is black and his last name is shit.”
It is difficult for most Venezuelans to see this veiled and latent racism. We do not consider ourselves racist because, in comparative terms, perhaps we are not as racist as some neighboring countries, where race equals destiny. But that racism is there. We live with him with relative indolence, without complicating our lives too much. But when it erupts, it does so with fury.
That substrate becomes more dangerous in the middle of a political war. The current confrontation for power between the opposition led by María Corina Machado and the Chavista leadership did not begin in Madrid. Hugo Chávez read very well the resentment simmering in Venezuelan society, which he divided until the day he died. He was a hater by trade. He ruthlessly exploited anti-racist rhetoric to paint the white elite as the enemy and labeled them “the scrawny ones” to underscore their lack of strength.
Despite the leader’s campaigning speech, the situation did not improve for the morenos. In reality, it got worse: the violence of the State, through extermination raids in the so-called People’s Liberation Operations during Maduro’s mandate, of the neighborhoods of Caracas.
But the point is that this elite has not done itself any favors by repeating racist insults for years and despising the “others” as poor, ignorant, crooks and dark. For monkeys.
That ground is not neutral. Episodes like the one in Puerta del Sol have an immediate political cost: they erode opposition leadership in the popular sectors and, at the same time, feed with symbolic ammunition the Chavista narrative that has made this antagonism one of its main sources of legitimacy.
María Corina intervened too late to correct Baute’s mistake and did so incompletely, without disapproving the singer’s performance. Even if she has nothing to do with that vision, she is tainted by association. Baute’s half-hearted apology, as if to say “it was unintentionally intended,” is also not enough.
In Caracas, Delcy Rodríguez’s spokespersons took note of an opportunity served on a plate to launch one that presents the president as a victim of racial resentment and classism of the lifelong white elite. Of course, they seasoned it with the Venezuelan Embassy in Madrid for the hate speech in Puerta del Sol.
The incident may die without major consequences. But the topic will not go away. On the contrary, it will become increasingly critical if Machado returns to the country and even more so if he comes to power. Giving it now just an opportunistic political spin or limiting itself to damage control is a waste of time. Addressing the prejudices that reside in Venezuelan society responsibly and without demagoguery can help in the arduous work of reconciling the country.
María Corina Machado, who has also suffered resentment at being labeled as “mantuana” to disqualify her in the eyes of the majority, should not sweep the issue under the rug, but rather raise the controversy to help overcome those stigmas.
From Chile to the United States, thousands of Venezuelans have experienced racism outside their country, as if it were a foreign and imported experience. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to recognize it indoors. Carlos Baute’s slip is not an anomaly. It’s an uncomfortable mirror. Looking at it, without alibis or reassuring myths, is necessary to include and integrate more marginalized or despised social and racial sectors. That is an indispensable condition to promote a new democracy in Venezuela and true reconciliation among Venezuelans.
