The New Yorker:

After the ouster of President Nicolás Maduro, some residents fear that one unelected despot has been swapped for another.

By Armando Ledezma

Months before Christmas, Caracas was adorned with a surreal amount of festive decorations. Millions of lights were strung around the trunks of palm trees; public squares were ornamented with L.E.D. stars and satin ribbons. Back in September, Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro had announced that Christmas would come early: an attempt to raise spirits amid threats from the world’s greatest military superpower, and to boost the economy in a country with the highest rate of annual inflation globally. Ironically, this meant that by the time the holidays actually came around, the Christmas trees and fixtures looked depressingly weathered, exposed to the elements for far too long.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, my maternal grandparents and I put up our own decorations, bedecking our apartment, in the north of the capital, with vintage baubles, tinsel, and seasonal cushions. The holiday aesthetics had long lost their allure. Still, we each grabbed a corner of a festive red tablecloth and draped it over the table where we eat breakfast together every morning, cutting fruit and drinking coffee as the sun begins to rise through the wrought-iron windows, birdsong emanating from the tropical forest that separates Caracas from the Caribbean Sea.

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