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At 2:10 a.m., as much of Caracas slept off New Year’s celebrations, a message lit up a WhatsApp group connecting Venezuelans at home and abroad.
“Friends. Urgent. They are attacking. Planes are flying over.”
A minute later, someone replied: “Explosions.”
The live broadcast had started.
Parts of the city went suddenly dark. Then the darkness flickered. Bombs, or something like them, illuminated the skyline in brief, violent bursts. From apartment windows and balconies, residents strained to see what was happening as the low roar of aircraft cut through the night — a sound unfamiliar in a country that had never experienced such military bombardment.
Phones vibrated nonstop. Messages multiplied and splintered, racing along the same digital routes that had carried bad news out of Venezuela for years: stories of corruption, hyperinflation, shortages, arrests, and migrations. This time the information moved even faster, leaping from Caracas neighborhoods to Miami, Madrid, Bogotá, and Buenos Aires — anywhere the 7.7 million Venezuelans who fled since 2014 had settled. That is roughly 20 percent of the population.
“They’ve been attacking for about 40 minutes,” one message read. “But not in a row. They pause. The first one was super forceful. Now they’re smaller. I’m shaking with fear.”
No one knew exactly where the strikes were landing. Early reports — half rumor, half eyewitness account — mentioned military installations in different parts of the city. The uncertainty was as unnerving as the noise itself.
Then, around 5:30 a.m., the U.S. president dropped the real bombshell.
“They captured Maduro and took him out of the country. Trump says.”
“Where does it say it?” someone asked.
“Truth Social.”
Trump posted that Nicolás Maduro, Venezuela’s long-ruling leader, had been arrested along with his wife, Cilia Flores, after what he described as a “large-scale” military operation. Pam Bondi, the U.S. attorney general, followed with a declaration that the couple would soon face “the full wrath of American justice on American soil in American courts.”
Maduro had been indicted in New York in 2020 on charges of “narco-terrorism conspiracy,” accused of collaborating with Colombian guerrillas to traffic cocaine into the United States. He had long dismissed the case as political theater. But two senior Venezuelan generals later pleaded guilty to related charges, and a superseding indictment unsealed after Maduro’s arrest expanded the alleged conspiracy to include his wife, his son, and the leader of the Tren de Aragua criminal organization.
Prosecutors say the suspects played distinct but coordinated roles in a narco-terrorism network spanning more than 25 years. Maduro allegedly used state institutions to facilitate drug trafficking, sold diplomatic passports to traffickers, and shielded planes carrying shipments, while his wife acted as the network’s financial broker and enforcer, relying on pro-government armed groups, or colectivos, to protect operations and silence threats. The Venezuelan government calls the charges politically motivated.
The capture marked the climax of months of escalating pressure. Since September, the U.S. had widened sanctions and built up its military presence in the Caribbean, conducting operations that included bombing speedboats suspected of drug trafficking and detaining ships carrying Venezuelan oil. In the country, speculation about an imminent intervention had become a constant low-grade hum.
As dawn broke, new waves of messages swept through WhatsApp groups. Some tried to make sense of what they had just lived through: explosions that briefly lit apartments, shattered windows in nearby buildings, streets left eerily empty, columns of fire and smoke rising into the sky. Others described long lines forming at grocery stores, a reflex honed by years of crisis.
“Caracas is absolutely silent,” one message read. “In the distance you can hear gunshots.”
In some chats, the mood turned celebratory.
“I’ve been waiting for this news for 27 years,” someone wrote, counting the combined rule of Maduro and his predecessor Hugo Chávez. Later that day, Venezuelans in Colombia, Peru, Argentina, the United States, and Spain would take to the streets to celebrate. In one of the first videos posted that night showing a bomb exploding, a male voice can be heard screaming, “¡Llegaron los gringos!” — “The gringos have arrived.”
But there were also denunciations of violated sovereignty and warnings of chaos. Still, shock — and, for many, grim satisfaction — dominated the exchanges. For a leader accused of ruling through force, corruption, and fear, the manner of his removal felt like poetic justice.
The Maduro government’s response arrived quickly on social media. Officials condemned the attack as foreign aggression and called on citizens and the armed forces to mobilize. Regional reactions followed: Brazil, Mexico, Colombia, and Chile questioned the operation’s legality, while Argentina voiced support.
Soon after, images appeared — photographs released by the U.S. government that seemed almost surreal. Maduro, escorted by DEA agents. Maduro, alone and masked, standing on a military vessel bound for the United States.
At a press conference later that morning, President Trump said the U.S. would “run” Venezuela until a “proper transition can take place.”
In one WhatsApp group, amid the flood of messages and unanswered questions, someone posted an uneasy emoji as if to ask: Hmmm. What does that mean?
No one replied.
