The Unquiet Death of Peter Fechter

Most of us are not given to much self-analysis, but if I were to be asked what marked or set the long-lasting or permanent influences or directions for my life, I’d likely join millions in crediting my detestation of godless totalitarian regimes and philosophies. Of course, each of those millions came to his or her position via different paths.

In my case, my father’s unwavering condemnation of Communism — whether of the European, Asian, Latin American, or the American intellectual varieties made no difference to him — undoubtedly set my gut-level course far earlier than that of my heart and mind, which explained to me the religious basis for such a system and the importance of the historic Faith in defending and strengthening the liberties we have enjoyed.

For instance, as an elementary school pupil in El Pao, I instinctively questioned why the Weekly Reader, so popular in schools across the country, would seemingly tip toe around America’s role in the Cold War, such as its purporting to explain that MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) actually made sense. It didn’t to us, but what did we know? We just wanted to win the Cold War over the Communists. We had to wait several more decades for that victory to be accomplished, albeit not in American faculties.

And then there was the Berlin Wall erected in 1961. After President John F. Kennedy’s inaction and failure to provide the agreed-upon backup in the Bay of Pigs operation, surely he’d act to stop this inhumane attempt to physically divide peoples in Europe, no?

Not even a peep from his administration.

Then, on August 17, 1962, close to the first anniversary of the wall, the utter cruelty, pitilessness, and godlessness of Communist philosophy and politics were laid bare yet again for the world to see and ponder.

In the early afternoon, two teenagers attempting to flee Communist oppression in East Berlin, ran towards the wall not far from Checkpoint Charlie. One clambered to the top as gun fire rained on them, yet stopped to look back for his friend who seemed stuck, unable to move. “Run! Come here!” he screamed, but his companion fell back to the “death strip” on the East Berlin side. Seeing this, the first boy jumped to the West, landing safely.

The border troop files later revealed that the two fugitives were shot at without warning. Four border guards fired at least 35 shots. Peter Fechter was hit as he jumped up onto the wall and fell backwards, leaning against the wall for support. Instead of arresting the defenseless young man, the guards took up new positions and continued firing until he collapsed to the ground.

Gravely wounded, he calmly, but loudly, pled for help, as East Berlin soldiers kept their rifles aimed at him, but did nothing to assist him. On the West Berlin side, American GI’s also remained impassive, doing nothing, one actually saying, “It’s not our problem.”

The wall cut right through the heart of what had once been a vibrant Berlin neighborhood, separating friends and family, in some cases for decades to come. One thing atheistic philosophies are known for is their contempt for anything outside the state. That would include church and volunteer associations; but most importantly, the family. Anything that weakens or divides the home is pursued with gusto, including incentives for family members to report on one another to the state.

So physically dividing a neighborhood is small potatoes for such regimes.

As Peter Fechter twisted in agony and called for help, men, women, and children on either side of the wall watched in horror from their apartments. There is one photograph of an elderly lady, covering her mouth with her hand as she beheld in dismay, unable to help.

His screams eventually ceased after 50 long minutes. Finally East German border troops carried him away and later pronounced him dead.

Pictures had been taken by western photographers and shown around the world, turning his death into a symbol of Communist inhumanity, thereby presenting a ticklish situation to all right thinkers and spineless or bought politicians.

The regime’s chief propagandist’s words should send chills down the spines of anyone alive the past three years of mandated lockdowns and faux medical mandates: “[This event] was good for and in the interest of the state…. The life of each one of our brave young men in uniform is more important to us than the life of a lawbreaker. By staying away from our state border — blood, tears, and screams can be avoided.”

Yes, to avoid unpleasantries, simply bow down and submit.

For decades thereafter, the young man’s family was subjected to state-sponsored harassment, which ended only after the defeat of East European Communism. His sister, Ruth, expressed herself through her attorneys to no longer “be damned by passivity and inactivity.” She told how the family had felt powerless to act against the public denunciations instigated by the state.

One of the more dastardly characters of the “Cold War”, Willy Brandt, was then mayor of Berlin. He called for “calm and prudence”. Even as a child, I felt negatively toward that man. And that sense only intensified as I matured and saw that he always took the Soviet line, no matter what the provocation. 

Brandt resigned in 1974 when it was discovered that his close aide was an agent of the Stasi. When the wall fell, no one in authority called for the prosecution of the brutal and pitiless Erick Honecker, dictator of East Germany. Could it be they took seriously his threat to reveal “interesting interlocks” with the former West Germany’s political class, including Brandt, should he be prosecuted (cf Judgment In Moscow, Vladimir Bukovsky)?

But we did not act honorably either. American City Commandant, Albert Watson, ordered all our men to “stay on our side!” He then called John F. Kennedy’s White House to ask for direction. Kennedy was in California at the moment and was called, “Mr. President, an escapee is bleeding to death at the Berlin Wall.” But no answer was forthcoming. Hours later, Watson called again to say, “The matter has resolved itself.”

For the first time since the war, the call “Ami, go home!” was heard. A sign with the words, “Protecting forces? Murder condoners = accessories to murder” was seen at demonstrations. Cars drove back and forth outside the US Mission gates, honking in protest. When a US patrol was harassed by a passerby, the military dispersed the crowd using M14 rifles with mounted bayonets.

US politicians and media were also unsympathetic, calling the protesting Berliners a “mob”. The US State Department refused to rule out military force against the protests in West Berlin, without a peep of dissent by her mayor, Willie Brandt.

Western European newspapers tended to be more realistic, with one article declaring, “In Communist systems, it’s a good thing to shoot citizens who harbor the wish of escaping from the system.”

As with the Bay of Pigs matter in April, 1961, then the initiation of the Berlin Wall construction in August, 1961, Kennedy, also did nothing in the face of the cold blooded murder of Peter Fechter in August of 1962. Such timidity led to the “Cuban Missile Crisis a mere two months later, in October, 1962.

Peter Fechter was not an “activist”. He was a bricklayer who was close to his family and was used to visiting his sister and her loved ones in West Berlin. When the wall went up and the totalitarian character of Communist East Berlin no longer had the escape valve to the West, he and his friend decided to escape. They simply said in their hearts, “Give me liberty or give me death.”

This post concludes with the words of Peter Fechter’s sister: 

“My parents were broken by [his murder]. My father died young, in 1968, at the age of just 63. He couldn’t get over the death of his son. My mother went to the cemetery every day after the funeral. That was her home. At first, she was always observed by Stasi people during her visits. By the next day, freshly planted flowers had been ripped out or were gone. My mother couldn’t get her head around the fall of the wall. She always said, ‘We just drive to the West and no one shoots, but they killed Peter for it.’ My mother died at the age of 76 in 1991.”

Peter Fechter (1944-1962)

Peter Fechter pleaded for help for 50 minutes. In great pain he finally bled to death in agony before the Communists “rescued” his cadaver.

August 18, 1962. This photo of President John F. Kennedy at a California beach was published in newspapers around the world as West Berliners protested US inaction as Peter Flechter, in great pain, pleaded for help.

Apprehensive East German soldier helps a young boy who had been separated from his family pass through, in 1961. The soldier was seen by his superior and dismissed. Germans affirm that he was shot, although nothing was officially heard from or about him since that day. The wall (obstructions) went up overnight with strict orders to not let anyone pass.

Scolopendra Gigantea (Giant Centipede)

My last visit to Venezuela was in 2005 during which my cousins took me to visit the massive Las Macaguas Dam in Ciudad Guayana. As we walked the site, we eventually entered, in the “innards” of the structure, a small museum dedicated to the creatures encountered during the years of study and construction of Las Macaguas and also the even greater Guri Dam, the second or third largest in the world — sadly saddled with colossal incompetence resulting in far reaching failures for the entire country.

Corporate media reports, including Wikipedia, blame droughts for these life-threatening failures. However, to put it as diplomatically as possible, droughts did not suddenly show up with Chavez and Maduro. For further reading on the deterioration of Venezuelas electrical grid, refer to my posts on the Cuba-Venezuela nexus, such as here.

As we walked the museum we were awed by the variety and gigantic sizes of the insects on display. Childhood memories flooded back as I recalled seeing many of those or similar specimens live-and-in-color as we tramped about El Pao or fished in the Caroní or Orinoco rivers.

A recent email exchange with George and Richard Scheipe, the sons of a gentleman who taught school in El Pao in the 1950s, brought those memories back. George tells of John Tuohy, one of the “older kids” in El Pao, who had come to visit his brother, Ted Heron, Jr., in Pennsylvania, and had brought a dead giant centipede in his suitcase. The mischievous ones hid the critter in aluminum foil in the backyard and “would torment the local kids, including me, with it.” 

These centipedes are the Scolopendra gigantea and are found almost exclusively in South America (but also southern Mexico) with many in Venezuela. They are venomous and their bite can be fatal to small children. In 2014 a 4-year-old in Venezuela died from a bite he incurred when he picked up an empty soda can into which a Scolopendra had hid. In 2015 a 19-year-old man was hospitalized in San Tomé and when he worsened he was taken to a major city for better care. He recovered.

These centipedes can grow as large as 12 inches and are very quick. They are carnivores who feed on any other animal it can overpower and kill, including other arthropods, insects, small birds, lizards, frogs, and snakes. Students have investigated their feeding on bats, something which was not known until relatively recently.

They “climb cave dwellings and hold or manipulate their heavier prey with only a few legs attached to the ceiling.” A study done in southern Mexico discovered that, contrary to earlier belief, bats were killed by these giants pursuant to clever hunting tactics.

It had been believed that the centipedes killed the bats in reaction to being disturbed by the latter when flying in or out of their caves. Careful observation disclosed that the hunters attach themselves to the high walls or ceilings waiting for their prey to fly close, upon which the Scolopendra pounce. “We have observed that, during the trajectory taken by the bats, some perch momentarily. It is during such brief stops that the giant centipede attacks and kills [he who hesitates is lost!].” Also, it is probable that as a bat flies very close to the walls it is also attacked and killed.

I appreciate the recollections of folks who lived in or who have some connection with mid-20th-Century El Pao. Truly we were blessed and had memorable — sometimes frightening — encounters with a unique flora and fauna which so fascinated great explorers such as Alexander Humboldt and others.

Don’t try this at home

Nor this

Represa Las Macagua in Ciudad Guayana, Venezuela

Papito

With deep sadness we saw the rapidly deteriorating physical condition of Cousin Louis (Papito) Max Rodriguez. He had been stricken with a type of bone cancer which was unforgiving, but which was also all in the the hand of our Sovereign Lord Who called Louis home early this morning, Tuesday, December 20, 2022, exactly 7 years to the day after the passing of his mother, Aunt Sarah, and one year plus one day after the passing of Cousin Max (Papaito). 

Louis, the eldest of the Barnes/Rodriguez cousins, was born in Miami, Florida, July 13, 1949.

His mother, Aunt Sarah, was and continues to be an ever-present influence on us all: dearly loved and honored. I’ve written about her before, such as her insistence on having us faithfully attend church, including Easter sunrise services, as well as participate in outings. These events had lasting emotional as well as educational — not to mention spiritual –impacts on me and I’ll be forever grateful.

Louis was her first child and she loved him as a devoted mother can love her firstborn. He would be the first to tell you he went through some rough patches in life; however, his mother never ceased to pray and to care for him and, over time, Louis remembered the old paths she had pointed to him in times past.

In times like these, memories flood the mind.

His visit with us in El Pao in the early 1960s. One evening, in the early 1970s, he talked garrulously about that visit and the friendships he made with Herman Gerbracht and John Thuoy, both of them among the “big boys” that I looked up to whenever they returned to the mining camp for summer or Christmas. 

He also got many years worth of mileage having seen me run to catch a fly ball, going over a steep incline at the end of the field, and promptly slapping a nest teeming with angry picaojos (“stingeyes”). In Louis’ version, I first disappeared over the edge, and then bounced right back and ran like the wind towards the house, slapping my face, yelling at full volume. I know he was concerned, like the rest, but after I went to the hospital and was put on some medication and therapy, knowing all would be well, he began his years’ long, hilarious narrative of the event.

His recollections helped me remember some incidents and relationships centered around El Pao — here again, that mining camp is present with us a lifetime later. I most certainly would have forgotten some of these forever had he not mentioned them on that early 70s evening.

His invitation to visit Fisher Island with him in the late 1980s. Having breakfast in the cafe, we ran into Bryant Gumbel, whom we only knew from sports news broadcasts, but who was right at home doing whatever he was doing on the island. Neither we nor Louis were anywhere near the per capita income levels of the inhabitants, yet Louis was right at home, unpretentious, loquacious, and helpful as always.

His invitation to go sailing with him when we had a one-day layover in Miami in 2001. There were 12 of us then plus a Great Pyrenees puppy. “Bring him on board! Plenty of room!” And so we did, along with Aunt Sarah who had prepared a paella that I can still taste, some 21 years later. We had a ball and the event was stamped on my children’s minds. And mine.

His telling us about Shake-A-Leg charity for children with disabilities, a work he thoroughly enjoyed and for which he was well suited as it combined sailing with working with children.

The last time we saw him was in late 2015, shortly before Aunt Sarah’s death. A small group of us had lunch together at a Cracker Barrel north of Miami. He had been as jovial as always but then suddenly turned to me, and to my astonishment, “Hey, Rick, I wasn’t too hard on you as we grew up, was I? I mean, do I owe you an apology?”

Stunned, I first looked at his face to see if this was a joke, but he was serious. Then I searched my mind and heart to try to remember if I had ever held anything against him. And nothing coming to mind I replied, “No, Louis. You’ve been a good friend and I am enjoying spending time with you today.”

He was content. And that incident said more to me about Cousin Louis than a well written and researched encomium could ever do, not least his childlike inquiry seeking to ensure all is well.

My second to last conversation with him took place about four weeks ago, shortly before Thanksgiving: “I look forward to coming to see you soon when I get out of here…how is Lillie? How are the children?” Over the phone, his voice was strong and energetic. But we both knew the condition was serious.

Then, about a week later, I called him to see if he was OK to have some of my children drop by to say hello as they were in the state. His voice was not as strong and he politely demurred, saying to visit in the clinic was a hassle and it was quite a bit out of their way. Of course, I fully understood and so did my sons and daughters. I wished him well and we agreed to speak again.

The last time I spoke with him, last night, he was unresponsive, but I agree with his sister, Cousin Vivian, who believes that one should assume a patient in such a condition can somehow hear. I spoke to him, assuring him of our prayers and love. And then I prayed with him. Later, Lillie and the children gathered around the phone to sing Silent Night as Vivian had the phone on speaker for him to listen.

My sadness cannot be compared with that of his surviving sisters, Janis and Vivian, and their husbands, Pete and Rick, and their children — Louis’ nieces and nephews — to all of whom I extend my deepest sympathies and love.

This is not an adiós but an hasta luego, for we sorrow not as others which have no hope (I Thess. 4:13).

All is well with you now, dear cousin. Rest in peace.

From left: Sarita Barnes, Janis Rodriguez, Eileen Barnes, Louis (Papito) Rodriguez, Max (Papaito) Barnes, Vivian Rodriguez

Louis (Papito) at left and Aunt Sarah, seated in front of him, along with Janis and Pete, Vivian and Rick and their children

Louis with Charles Barnes (2) and Lillian Barnes, Fisher Island, Florida, circa 1987

Cousin Louis (Papito): 1949 – 2022

Permanent Things

My career boot camp was Arthur Andersen, of which it was often said, “You can take the man out of Arthur Andersen but you cannot take Arthur Andersen out of the man.” 

My wife and I lived the first 4-plus years of our marriage in Kalamazoo, Michigan. To borrow from the Andersen lore, You can take the family out of Kalamazoo, but you cannot take Kalamazoo out of the family. At least it is true for us, as I’ve noted in his blog over the years (I RememberLullabyEvocation).

In 1984 I read in the local paper that Russell Kirk was going to deliver a lecture in town at Western Michigan University. Lillie and I arranged to attend, after which we chatted a while with the great man. 

Dr. Kirk was a man of place. He was born in Michigan and died there in 1994 at age 75. He wrote about seeing aged men working mightily to uproot large stumps in their ground, knowing they were doing so for future generations. According to Kirk, this was a truly American motif for most of her history until the early 20th Century when the focus became more self-centered and less future oriented.

One of his definitions of what makes a good society came to my mind today as I contemplated my mother’s 92nd birthday:

“A society in which men and women are governed by belief in an enduring moral order, by a strong sense of right and wrong, by personal convictions about justice and honor, will be a good society — whatever political machinery it may utilize; while a society in which men and women are morally adrift, ignorant of norms, and intent chiefly upon gratification of appetites, will be a bad society — no matter how many people vote and no matter how liberal its formal constitution may be.”

Elsewhere he wrote of the “Permanent Things” of which the above quote gives an idea.

My mother was born in the interior of Venezuela, in a small village called Upata. She tells of her horror of hearing the men killing a pig for roasting. No matter how far she ran, the squeals and shrieks could not be escaped. She was acquainted with poverty but always had something to eat and was humble enough to learn American as well as Latin rules of society from wonderful people in El Pao who took an instant liking to her.

Other than my father’s conversations with friends and family about the rapidly deteriorating situation in Cuba and the obvious connections between Communists there and the military in Venezuela (see for example, Nexus), our home was not characterized by political discourses and debates. It was more defined by the “Permanent Things” of which Dr. Kirk wrote so eloquently: faith, home, hearth, immediate and extended family, friends, and more.

And my mother was a most critical key to that scene.

In 1978, I was working in Puerto Rico with Arthur Andersen. I had not visited Venezuela since 1975 and was determined to do so before the year was out. I told my parents about my plans to travel to the country of my birth in December.

A few weeks later I stopped by home on my way to a conference in Chicago. My mother promptly handed me a small, black address book and asked me to sit with her, which I did. She then asked me to open the book and as I — incredulously — slowly flipped each page, crammed with names, phones, and addresses, she insisted that it was my duty to visit each person or family in the book. And if that were absolutely not possible, then to at the very least call each number.

I mildly protested, “But, Mami, I’ll only be there three weeks. These names are spread from Caracas to Upata and numberless places in between. There’s no way….”

¡Querer es poder!” she exclaimed with finality (roughly translated, “To want is to do!”)

I was a bit dejected, thinking my plans of visiting exotic places I’d not had the chance to do while living in the country had gone up in smoke by all these visits that my mother had demanded I execute.

I made every single visit, except one who could not see me due to severe illness. But I did speak with them by phone (“I’m not surprised Mrs. M did not receive you; she was always a bit cold, but you did the right thing in asking to see them.”)

And it was among the most memorable trips ever, for it honored the Permanent Things.

Thank you, Mami. Thank you very much.

God’s grace to you always.

The tree stump in the western, Shane
Visiting with the Berán family, December, 1978
Dr. Russel Kirk, circa 1990
My brother, Ronny, and I visit with our mother, circa 2012

Fourth And Fifth of July: Declarations of Independence

Those who grew up in El Pao will remember celebrating both the Fourth and the Fifth of July, reflecting yet another similarity between the two countries. The American and Venezuelan holidays afforded an opportunity for executives to declare and affirm ongoing genuine friendship and a collaborative spirit between both peoples while we children looked forward to having our fathers home for a more extended time than usual, and also learning a bit more to understand and appreciate our liberties. I was fortunate to have had a father and mother who, as best they knew how, taught us appreciation and gratitude for America and also for Venezuela.

Venezuela history was a required subject in school. And a most frustrating one it was for me. For the life of me, I could not understand what the early 19th century fighting was about. My teachers seemed to tell stories assuming we students possessed presupposed knowledge as to why the revolutionaries rose against Madrid. But I had no such knowledge. My father had told me about the North American colonies and how they had a history of self-government and liberties and how England had begun taking those liberties away, even to the point of stationing mercenary troops in private homes where they abused and, in some cases, even defiled the mothers and daughters. 

Furthermore, the English parliament had decreed the assignment of Church of England bishops to the colonies: a last straw. I could see why folks would resist and seek to stop that, even if it meant overthrowing the rule of the English king. 

Although my mother and father taught me to respect and honor Venezuela, my teachers told no stories about Spain’s abuses against Venezuela. We heard much about concepts of liberty and fraternity and equality. However, all stratospheric disquisitions about intangible concepts did not satisfy me as to why the criollos rose against Madrid initially, let alone explain the eventual extermination of over one-third of their number. The entire country churned with violence and at the end had been practically depopulated. It was clear to me that the savagery and atrocities occurred not prior to, but during the Revolution. I do remember hearing a teacher quote the words uttered by Simón Bolivar as he approached death in the late 1820’s, “I have plowed in the sea….” And, “…those countries will infallibly fall into chaos and dictatorships….”

But why cast off Spanish rule for intangible concepts only to install tangibly cruel “chaos and dictatorships”? 

To read the July 4, 1776, and the July 5, 1811, declarations of independence back to back is an instructive exercise which might help explain why.

The Venezuelan is over 800 words longer and reflects allusions to French revolutionary thinking that is absent from the American. Consistent with the American, it also alludes to the Christian religion which sounds discordant if one has a basic understanding of Rousseau and the Declaration of the Rights of Man.

The Venezuelan opens by alluding to a former declaration (April 19, 1810) which was adopted as a result of Spain’s occupation by France. It goes on to complain about three centuries of suppressed rights and that recent political events in Europe had served to offer an opportunity to restore those rights. They then, following the 1776 Declaration, proceed to justify their actions.

The United States [American] declaration does not complain about 150 years of colonial rule. Rather it expresses concern that, when abuses make it necessary to dissolve long-standing political bands, that such action must be taken carefully and with strong justification. It expresses the need and the willingness to “suffer, while evils are sufferable” before abolishing government and relations to “which they are accustomed.”

I know this is simplistic, and historians will disagree, but to the layman, the 1811 comes across as willful, the 1776, as reluctant.

The longest body in each is the justification. The Venezuelan uses 1,156 words, beginning with another allusion to 300 years of Spanish rule and affirming that a people has a right to govern themselves. Then the author expresses a willingness to overlook those 300 years by “placing a veil” over them (“corriendo un velo sobre los trescientos años“) and proceeds to recent European events which had dissolved the Spanish nation. It goes at length criticizing the Spanish monarchy for its abandonment of her throne in favor of the French and how this state of affairs had left Venezuela without legal recourse (“dejándola sin el amparo y garantía de las leyes“). 

It asserts, furthermore, that the vast territories of the Americas with far more population than Spain itself cannot be governed from afar, etc. Here, the author presumes to speak for all the Spanish Americas. The layman is justified in wondering if this misdirection is inserted to remove attention from special pleading in the document that does not wholly stand up.

This section is not easy to follow today without some knowledge of the events current in 1811.

This was not a unanimous declaration; three provinces did not join, presaging the terrible bloodletting which was to follow.

For its justification, the American declaration uses 824 words (332 less than the Venezuelan), to list the abuses and their attempts to humbly address these legally only to have their attempts rebuffed. They make no allusions to 150 years of oppression or of unhappiness with their colonial status. They address only relatively recent abuses, including violence against life and property, mercenaries on their way to fight against them, war waged against them, threats to their religious liberty (the Quebec allusion), and much more. These are listed almost in bullet point format, but without the bullets, and are easy to understand, even 244 years later. It reads as if the document were a declaration of the right to self defense.

This was a unanimous declaration signed by representatives of each of the thirteen colonies.

In their conclusion, the Venezuelans, yet again, allude to centuries of oppression and their natural right to govern themselves. They assert they have a right to establish a government according to the general will (“voluntad general“) of her people.

It is hard to miss the influence of French revolutionary thinking in the Venezuelan document, despite allusions to a Supreme Being (“Ser Supremo”) and to Jesus Christ (“Jesucristo”). Its reference to the “General Will” is Rousseauean and is also found in the atheistic French Declaration of the Rights of Man

They also state they will defend their religion. 

The layman can’t help but be impressed by the schizophrenic nature of this document which contained appeals to atheistic revolutionary thinking then in vogue, while recognizing that the “regular folk” were still very religious and needed to hear allusions to religious fidelity.

The American conclusion appealed to the Supreme Judge of the world and in the name and authority of the people in the colonies they declared independence.

I know that professors delight in pointing out that Thomas Jefferson was the “author” of the American declaration and that he was not a Christian, etc.

However, one does not read the Virginia Fairfax Resolves (1774), or the Virginia Declaration of Rights (May, 1776), both of whose  primary author was George Mason, a Christian, nor does one read clergyman, John Wise, who in 1710 wrote, “Every man must be acknowledged equal to every man,” and “The end of all good government is to cultivate humanity and promote the happiness of all and the good of every man in all his rights, his life, liberty, estate, honor, and so forth…” and “Democracy is Christ’s government in church and state.” Jefferson drew from a rich, deep Christian well. According to President Calvin Coolidge, Jefferson himself “acknowledged that his ‘best ideas of democracy’ had been secured at church meetings.”

The American declaration was followed by seven more years of war whose official end was the Treaty of Paris in 1783 and a constitution, still in effect, whose final ratification was in 1790. The Venezuelan declaration was followed by nineteen years of wars (plural) characterized by unspeakable cruelties and tortures, including a proclamation of “war to the death” by Simón Bolivar. By their end in 1830, one third of Venezuela’s population had perished. These wars were followed by more wars and rebellions which continued to the end of the century. She’s had 27 constitutions.

In sum, the American hearkened to her Christian heritage and history; the Venezuelan, to French revolutionary atheism, most starkly demonstrated by yet another revolution, the Russian, in 1917. Both the American and the Venezuelan shed blood. But the latter, like the French, shed it more abundantly.

I love the United States of America and its history. I love her Christian heritage and her pioneers. She is a wonderfully great country with a people who will always pull at my heart. I also love Venezuela and the warmth and genuine friendship of her people. I am grateful the Good Lord has exposed me to both and shown me that, in Christ, our best days are yet ahead.

​Declaration of Independence – Text of the Declaration of Independence | Britannica

Text of the July 4, 1776 Declaration of Independence

Acta de la Declaración de Independencia de Venezuela – Wikipedia, la enciclopedia libre

Towards the bottom of article linked above, the reader will find the text of the July 5, 1811 Venezuela Declaration of Independence. It is in Spanish.

(Note: The above was first posted on July 4, 2020.)