With the way we celebrated, you’d think we won the World Cup. The surge of emotion that electrified the Astoria, New York City, sports bar after the final whistle was as much happiness as it was relief.
Though the first half was shaky, Venezuela’s historically unsuccessful La Vinotinto soccer team clinically closed out its group-stage efforts with a 3–0 victory over Jamaica Sunday in Copa América, South America’s premier men’s tournament.
Hugs, high-fives, chants. A very vocal, burly Venezuelan standing on top of a stool enthusiastically sprayed Polar beer on the crowd, most of whom wore La Vinotinto’s recognizable red-wine-colored jerseys. A conga line formed and cheerfully barreled its way through a sea of burgundy. Unapologetic, often elusive, Venezuelan joy was freed.
Just a week prior, however, the pressure in that same bar was unbearable.
Half-time during La Vinotinto’s first Copa América match against Ecuador was unsettling. The bar overflowing with Venezuelans felt like a waiting room where you’ll soon hear good or bad news.
The rollercoaster began 22 minutes into the tense game when Ecuador’s Enner Valencia was given a red card and ejected for a serious foul on Venezuela’s José Martínez. Despite a kick to the face and chest, Martínez carried on and with Ecuador down to 10 players — an early lucky break — the heart of every Venezuelan in that Queens bar, I assume like my own, was soaring.
“Mano, tengo fe.” — “Bro, I have faith.”
As a Venezuelan, I struggle to allow myself to be optimistic about my home country. In U.S. discourse, it’s quite simple: Venezuela is a failed socialist state. That’s all most Americans needed to know for over two decades, which is understandable considering the barrage of crises constantly inundating the global conscience. Everyone gets their 15 minutes. Venezuela’s peak of fame and notoriety occurred in the mid-to-late 2010s during an economic crisis worse than the Great Depression.
From the safety of the American Dream yearned by many, I saw videos of my Venezuelan brothers and sisters eating rotten food from the trash and making purgatory-like lines to access criminally priced basic goods. Nearly 75% of Venezuelans lost at least 19 pounds due to malnutrition in 2016, according to the ENCOVI survey commissioned by Venezuela’s top universities and non-governmental organizations. In 2017, about 65% of Venezuelans lost 25 pounds.
A nation’s people wearing away.
No food. No medicine. The country pushed through rock bottom and into an abyss. An economic earthquake created a tsunami of consequences, including an ongoing refugee crisis.
Since 2014, nearly 8 million Venezuelans have fled — about 20% of the country’s population, according to the United Nations’ refugee agency.
Years later and back in that crowded Queens bar filled with Venezuelan diaspora who fled disaster for a better life, you could take a bite out of the hope and excitement saturating the air.
That festive spirit was crushed soon after the red card: Goal by Ecuador, minute 40′. The palatable delight in the room was gone via a right-footed exorcism.
I shifted my gaze from the mounted televisions to eye-level in front of me — a man wearing a hat backward with printed words that were hard to believe: “Mano, tengo fe.”
The origins of the phrase are deliciously absurd. Born of a meme, the phrase went viral in 2021 after Venezuela, which has never had the honor of playing in the World Cup, tied soccer behemoth Brazil 1–1.
The meme: An image of Vin Diesel sporting a defyingly positive gaze with an outstretched, welcoming hand as he wears the burgundy-colored Venezuela jersey with the caption “Mano, tengo fe.”
The reference: In Fast & Furious 6, having faith is how Vin Diesel’s character Dominic Toretto justified the decision to catapult himself out of his speeding Dodge Charger Daytona, which has a top speed of 205 mph, while on a bridge to save his beloved Letty Ortiz, played by Michelle Rodriguez, from a mosquito-hits-windshield type death by using his brawn to intercept her mid-air before safely crash landing on a sedan — all suspiciously without dying.
Absurd. Irrational. Unbelievable. And just like Venezuela’s chances of wrestling the Copa América trophy out of the hands of World Cup-winning titans Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay, slightly unanticipated.
“Mano, tengo fe” has become a global icon with a constant presence on social media. You can buy “Mano, tengo fe” hats, shirts and memorabilia. The words have been incorporated into songs. The phrase has been mentioned by sports personalities and influencers with millions of followers. Even Copa América’s governing body and the Venezuelan national soccer team have leaned in on “fe.”
The phrase has outlived the meme.
I heard it being screamed in the bar after Venezuela scored two goals in the second half to defeat Ecuador and win the game. The celebration was cleansing. The crowd started a pulsating chant — “Vene-zue-la! … Vene-zue-la!” As people danced, I felt surrounded by family — all with different decisions, struggles and journeys that led them to that same bar that night.
For the first time since I moved to the United States shortly after Hugo Chávez seized power, I was in a room of Venezuelans who were unilaterally proud.
This optimism comes at a time when Venezuelans have joined the daily vocabulary of American anti-immigrant rhetoric — with images on news outlets and social media of Venezuelans crossing the border and a hyper-focus on Venezuelans who commit crimes.
Venezuelans face similar circumstances also in Colombia, Chile, Peru and Spain, which are some of the other countries that welcomed migrants and refugees.
But wherever their arepa power is located worldwide, many Venezuelans are watching Copa América with their passions on the line. They’ll be watching on Friday as Venezuela faces Canada.
They’ll also be watching July 28 during Venezuela’s presidential election, in which Nicolás Maduro faces a considerable challenge from the opposition.
“Sale maduro y Venezuela gana la copa américa. Mano tengo fe” — “Out with Maduro and Venezuela wins the copa américa. Bro I have faith,” read one social media comment after Venezuela confirmed it would advance in the tournament after a win over Mexico.
The last time Venezuelans felt this level of hope was during the height of the crisis when millions took to the streets to protest. The economic downfall led to the rise of a new opposition leader, Juan Guaidó.
Maduro, the established ruler, and Guaidó, the charismatic underdog, competed as they both claimed ownership of the presidency in 2019.
Dozens of governments worldwide recognized Guaidó as the interim, legitimate leader of Venezuela. Former U.S. President Donald Trump invited him to the White House and Guaidó received a bipartisan standing ovation from U.S. Congress during the 2020 State of the Union.
Despite all of the recognition and support showering Guaidó, Maduro remained in power. His regime imposed increasingly authoritarian policies to stifle opposition. One of the most consequential acts recently by Maduro’s institutional allies was to ban the presidential election candidacy of the opposition’s most powerful option, María Corina Machado.
With the Venezuelan opposition’s best candidate annulled, the main opposition coalition is supporting Edmundo González Urrutia, a former Venezuelan ambassador to Argentina.
While La Vinotinto’s soccer team is playing as if their lives depended on it, Venezuelan opposition candidates are risking their own lives by running against the most powerful man in Venezuela.
The Venezuelan reality is that speaking out against Maduro’s government leads to repercussions. Politically organizing against the will of the regime makes you a target. Human Rights Watch’s World Report 2024 states there are some 270 political prisoners behind bars in Venezuela.
Taking into consideration the well-documented corruption and danger they face, opposition candidates are mobilizing communities hoping to change Venezuela’s trajectory.
Winning Copa América — regrettably — won’t solve Venezuela’s crippling crises. But we’ve once again allowed ourselves to be vulnerable regardless of the unlikely odds and Goliath-esque competition. The only thing Venezuela has to lose is a history of loss.
As a Venezuelan, the parallels are inescapable.
Can La Vinotinto finally bring good news to the millions of heavy hearts in Venezuela and around the world from the soccer field? For fútbol and beyond, Venezuelans have always held our heads high in disappointment. Can we finally hold our heads high in victory?
Can Maduro’s regime loosen its grip around the neck of Venezuela’s democracy?
Can the country that helped liberate South America from kings and queens free itself from authoritarianism and corruption?