Israel Centeno

One should not mechanically transfer the political experiences of a country left behind into the one where exile has led. Yet memory often bypasses willpower—it resurfaces uninvited, like the reflex of someone who has lived beneath a collapsing roof. That’s how I relate to certain strains of American progressivism and liberalism, including those who call themselves democratic socialists.

I observe them—not with hostility, but with a cautious eye—because they remind me too much of a political structure I once knew intimately: Acción Democrática. Not the Communist Party of Venezuela, not the armed radicalism of the ‘60s, but that brand of social democracy that crushed the Marxist insurgency only to build a fragile state atop an oil-fueled illusion: addicted to government intervention, addicted to its own reflection.

Yes, Acción Democrática won the war against guerrillas. But what did it build in the aftermath? A heavy-handed statist model of subsidies, patronage, and a seemingly functional democracy—one that over time incubated its own decay. Carlos Andrés Pérez, during his first presidency, took this model to the extreme: Venezuela became euphoric, indebted beyond control, and convinced public spending could last forever. But it couldn’t. The model collapsed under its own weight.

Today I can say it without hesitation: Chavismo was not the rejection of Acción Democrática—it was its most radical continuation. Maduro is no anomaly; he is the grotesque echo of a political model that had already failed. Chavismo didn’t rise out of nowhere; it bloomed in the same soil where the promises of social democracy once took root.

So when I hear young American socialists speak of “democratic socialism,” I don’t fear they’ll turn the United States into Venezuela. That’s not possible—this country is not a centralized republic. It’s a federation of fifty states, each with its own constitution, its own laws, its own internal logic and resistance. What concerns me isn’t the ideology itself, but the mirage—the belief that an all-powerful, ever-present state can deliver justice and equality. Because I’ve seen where that road ends.

The truth is: the machinery is already built.

Trump didn’t create it.

Both major parties have contributed to it—each with different rhetoric.

A stronger executive branch.

A technocratic class that claims moral authority.

A growing surveillance and regulatory apparatus, justified by promises of safety and efficiency.

These tools can be used by any populist—left or right. And if a populist reaches power with such sharpened instruments at hand, it won’t take much to cause serious damage.

If civil conflict ever erupts in the United States, it won’t resemble the Civil War of the 1860s. It won’t be fought with rifles and bayonets. It would involve nuclear technology, autonomous drones, algorithm-driven propaganda, and a modern kind of chaos. And while that may sound dystopian, I say it grounded in reality: what destroys a superpower is not an external invasion, but the rot of a system left unchecked.

I’ve lived in this country for over fifteen years. I’ve spent time in Texas, built a life in Pennsylvania, and walked through Ohio. I’ve seen where the blue map turns red and vice versa. I know there isn’t just one America. And that’s why, with respect but without naïveté, I offer this reflection—from a place of exile, but also of integration: if institutional architecture is not preserved, if state power continues to grow without restraint, there will be no need for a coup to bring it all down.

A civilized push will be enough.