Venezuela’s Jews and millions of others could face a war they did not choose - opinion

Seeing those headlines brought me back to March of last year, when my cousin Rabbi Moshe Klein and I embarked on a journey to visit Venezuela, and its large Jewish community, a daring trip few Americans and even fewer Jews would attempt.

Rabbi Klein, who is known for dedicating his life to preserving, documenting, and visiting Jewish communities around the world, invited me to join him. I was curious. I wanted to see this puzzling country with my own eyes and come to my own conclusions.

It was a Wednesday when we boarded Avior Flight 1203 to Caracas. As we made our way into Venezuelan airspace, the same airspace President Trump now deems closed, a Venezuelan national on the plane leaned over and whispered to us, “When you arrive, hide your money in your shoes so they don't take it from you.”

We landed. Greeted by airport walls plastered with posters offering bounties for tips on capturing Maduro's political opponent, Edmundo González. Yet for the most part, everything else felt strangely normal. The guards smiled, asked a few questions, and stamped my passport.  "Bienvenido a Venezuela,” they said.

Driving into Caracas felt like driving down memory lane. Everything felt like the 90s. The city was distinct from many other South American countries I visited, including its neighboring Colombia, Ecuador, and Peru. It is a capital that was once clearly very wealthy, even sophisticated, but has long since entered deep decline. The nicest cars were from the early 2000s, barely any construction, building styles looked like those from the 1990s, and wherever we turned an eye, Maduro's face was staring back at us.

Our first stop was a local synagogue. We prayed with the community and were immediately invited to see Venezuelan Jewish life up close. What we found stunned us.

Schools, daycare centers, supermarkets, bakeries, businesses, including some of the largest in the country. An independent Hatzalah organization, youth programs, and numerous other synagogues catering to diverse Jewish communities. Venezuelan Jewish life was vibrant, organized, and alive. In many ways, it took me back to my Brooklyn childhood of the early 2000s, including the older-style ambulances. Very familiar.

We checked into a five-star hotel in the center of Caracas. It was beautiful, and empty. We saw maybe two other guests during our entire stay. Like the rest of the city, the hotel also felt stuck in the 90s. Bulky Italian furniture, a cassette tape recorder by the bed, a gold-plated shower head, the time has frozen.

The next day, we walked the streets of Caracas. We saw murals of Maduro's face everywhere. And then we bumped into a massive portrait of Qasem Soleimani, the Iranian general, assassinated by the United States, alongside flags of Venezuela and Iran, further highlighting the deep alliances that are shaping the region's politics.

Later that afternoon, I insisted that we visit Petare, one of the world's most notorious slums. Making our way there, our driver, a native of Caracas, protested: “I’ve lived here 50 years,” he said. “I’ve never gone there. You should not go.”

“That,” I told him, “is exactly why I want to visit and experience it with my own eyes.”

As the worn-out car climbed the narrow roads of the favela, I saw little children playing soccer. But instead of a soccer ball, they used the cap of a plastic water bottle. Humanity is adapting to its circumstances. I asked the driver to stop. After some negotiation, he let me out.  I joined the children in what I feel was the best soccer game of my life.

After a few minutes, I stepped over to the corner stand selling Venezuelan sweets, bought a large stack for a few bolívares, and handed them out to the children. Their smiles lit up the entire street. Adults came over to thank me and introduce themselves. For a place the world calls “deadliest,” I saw only children longing to live, play, laugh, and taste some sugar every once in a while.

Isn't that what most humans want? Some peace, safety, dignity.

On our final day, we joined the local Yeshiva for morning prayers. Hundreds of young students wrapped in tallitot and in tefillin filled the place with song. We prayed, we read from the torah, it was one of the purest prayers I have ever experienced.

Afterward, we spoke with the students. Who were very intrigued to meet visitors from New York, rare guests in their isolated country. They asked questions, laughed, and shared some stories.

Then a more serious young fellow of about fifteen approached us. “Why did you come to Venezuela?” He asked. “To meet Jewish children like you,” Rabbi Klein told him. “To learn about your community.”

The boy paused, looked at us deeply for a moment, and said: “Please tell the Jewish community in New York about us, so they know who we are, and that we’re still here.” We assured him that we would.  We then joined the group in song and dance, celebrating our shared culture and heritage, encouraging them to continue being proud of who they are.

Which brings me back to today.

We tend to forget the nearly thirty million people fighting to survive in the worst of conditions, people who are living through one of the worst humanitarian collapses in modern history. We forget the thousands of Jews who remain living in those circumstances without the luxury of simply leaving.

Closed skies and closed borders carry trauma to every human being, especially for the Jewish people who have, time and time again, during trying times, become the scapegoats.

The Jewish people, from our own experience, know best what it means when escape routes disappear and when headlines overshadow the humanity of the story.

So when I saw President Trump’s announcement, I didn't think of Maduro. I didn't think of geopolitics. I thought of the children in Petare playing soccer with a bottle cap. The yeshiva students are singing with all their strength. My taxi driver, who is working so hard trying to feed his family. The small business owners are selling ice cream and candy. The elderly Jews who prayed beside me. These are the people whose skies above them are now closed.

So I urge: As war in Venezuela looms, as military action seems imminent, as the President of the United States orders the sky shut.

Remember the innocent people of Venezuela. Remember our Jewish brothers and sisters who live there.

And President Trump: whatever decision you will choose in the coming days, I ask only that you carry the innocent people of Venezuela on your conscience. This is a war they did not choose, a country they do not have control over. They deserve what every human deserves: peace, safety, and dignity.