My “Hate” Is Misplaced…

Authoritarianism is NOT selective, and neither is my resistance.

A friend recently told me something that still echoes in my head: “The problem with you is that your hate for Trump is bigger than your hate for Maduro.”

I’ve replayed that sentence many times—not because it’s clever, but because it reveals something deeply broken in how we are being asked to think, feel, and choose sides.

Let me be clear: I do not rank my rejection of authoritarianism by flag, language, or political party. I do not measure cruelty with a partisan scale. I do not excuse oppression abroad to justify it at home, nor do I silence my conscience here to appear “strategic” there.

Maduro and his criminal gang (still in power, by the way) destroyed my home country. Trump threatens the values of the one that gave me refuge. Both truths can coexist. In fact, they must.

I was also told that it was irresponsible to give hope to Venezuelan immigrants—because “there isn’t much we can do for them anyway.” As if hope were a luxury. As if dignity were conditional. As if people who fled torture, hunger, and persecution should now be managed emotionally, taught to expect less, to accept abandonment quietly.

I refuse that logic.

Hope is not deception. Hope is survival. Hope is what keeps a mother going when her asylum case drags on for years. Hope is what keeps a family together when work permits expire, TPS is politicized, and fear becomes routine. Hope is what keeps a mother alive when ICE separates her family. Hope is not a lie—it is a moral obligation.

Then came the part that hurt the most.

I was told we needed to support Trump because of “what he’s doing against and to Maduro.” That his posture, his threats, his so-called toughness somehow outweighed everything else. As if authoritarian behavior becomes acceptable when it wears the right enemy. As if cruelty toward immigrants here is forgivable if it is loud enough against a dictator there.

And finally, the justification I’ve heard too many times: negotiations with the dictatorship are necessary. Pragmatic. Inevitable. Even when the dictatorship is still in power. Even when nothing fundamentally changes. Even when the people pay the price while elites negotiate over their heads.

Let me say this plainly: negotiating with a dictatorship is not the same as negotiating for democracy.

I have lived the consequences of moral shortcuts. Venezuelans have lived them for decades. We know what happens when the world chooses convenience over principle, oil over people, optics over accountability. We know what happens when strongmen are normalized, when lies are tolerated, when institutions are weakened “just a little” for strategic reasons.

That’s why I cannot, and will not, support any leader who mirrors the very traits we claim to oppose.

You cannot fight authoritarianism abroad while flirting with it at home. You cannot defend democracy in Venezuela while undermining it in the United States. You cannot claim to stand with the oppressed while dehumanizing immigrants, mocking asylum seekers, or turning suffering into a campaign tool.

My criticism of Trump is not personal. It is principled. It comes from recognizing patterns—patterns I as a Venezuelan know all too well. The cult of personality. The attacks on the press. The erosion of institutions. The normalization of lies. The demand for loyalty over truth.

When you’ve seen a democracy collapse, you don’t romanticize anyone who plays with the same fire.

And no, my rejection of Trump does not diminish my rejection of Maduro, Delcy, Jorge, Diosdado, Padrino, or their criminal dictatorship. It strengthens it. Because when I say “never again,” I mean it everywhere. In my beloved Venezuela, and here, in my beloved United States, my country too. A country that has been my home for almost two decades, a country I love, cherish, respect, and defend.

I will continue to speak for Venezuelan immigrants—not because it’s easy, but because silence is what dictators count on. I will continue to give hope—not false hope, but human hope—the kind rooted in solidarity, advocacy, and truth. And I will continue to call out hypocrisy, even when it comes from people who think they’re being realistic.

If defending democracy means I’m accused of “hating” too much, so be it. I don’t hate. I remember. And remembering is what keeps me from choosing the wrong side of history—twice.