American Power Theater

They were brown men. Poor men. Fishermen, smugglers, fathers. Not cartel kings. Not warlords. Just convenient bodies in American Power theater.

San Juan de Unare was never meant to be a headline. It was a village of salt and sun, where boats bore names like Esperanza and La Fe, and the sea was both cradle and coffin. The men rose before dawn to fish. The women salted the catch and mended the nets. Children learned the tides before they learned their letters.

But poverty is a tide that doesn’t recede. And when the Venezuelan state abandoned the coast, others arrived—armed, organized, and hungry for routes. The village became a corridor. The boats once used for snapper and sardines now ferried cocaine and migrants. The fishermen didn’t become criminals overnight. They became desperate. And desperation, in the eyes of empire, is indistinguishable from guilt.

So when the Trump regime needed a distraction— a flex, a flourish, a headline—A real live version of Hollywood’s Wag the Dog, they reached across borders, bypassed international law, and turned a forgotten village into a theater of war.

Eleven lives extinguished in a flash, not for what they carried, but for what they represented— a convenient target, a distraction, a spectacle.

The strike wasn’t surgical. It was symbolic. A criminal president, facing scrutiny and scandal, chose brown bodies for his stage. Not in Manhattan. Not in Mar-a-Lago. But in a village no one had heard of, and few will remember.

San Juan de Unare is now a ghost with a pulse. The sea still laps the shore. The nets still hang. But the air is heavy—with grief, with fear, with the knowledge that the world only noticed them when it was time to kill.

This wasn’t justice. It was theater. And the poor brown men of San Juan de Unare were just props.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl