In a small apartment in a social housing complex near Caracas, Adriana Briceño holds what at first glance looks like a piece of trash, but a message is hidden in the old wrapper of a chocolate bar.
The scribbled words were written by his son and are addressed to Ángel Godoy, the teenager’s father and Briceño’s husband, while Godoy was imprisoned in the infamous Venezuelan Helicoide prison.
“Here is this to sweeten your heart,” says the blue ink. “We love you.”
Built in the 1950s as a luxury shopping mall, El Helicoide was never completed and was eventually occupied by the feared Venezuelan intelligence services.
It became a symbol of government repression.
A United Nations investigation documented that this was the place where people who had been arbitrarily detained or forcibly disappeared were taken, and in some cases tortured.
Recently released former detainees, like Godoy, described the brutal conditions in interviews with BBC News Mundo.
He is one of hundreds of political prisoners arrested during President Nicolás Maduro’s government and held in Venezuela’s vast detention system, sometimes for years.
More than 600 people have been freed since Maduro was captured by US forces in a military operation in early January, but according to prisoners’ rights group Foro Penal, hundreds more remain behind bars.
Godoy is one of two former inmates who described to BBC Mundo the punishment cells, forced isolation and threats against their relatives that they suffered before being released.
Punishment
Human rights activist Javier Tarazona described the moment of his arrest in July 2021.
“They handcuff me, they hit me, they insult me, and they put a balaclava on me when I get into a patrol car.”
Tarazona knew that he was on the radar of the security agencies of the Venezuelan State, but it was still difficult for him to assimilate what was happening.
“The first hours were terrible,” he said, remembering the beginning of an ordeal that would last more than four and a half years.
After his arrest they took him to a small punishment cell where all new prisoners were sent. It was infested with rats and cockroaches, and the smell was nauseating.
Tarazona, director of the human rights NGO Fundaredes, drew the attention of authorities for having requested that a formal investigation be launched into alleged links between senior Venezuelan government officials and Colombian guerrilla groups.
He was arrested along with his brother, José. They were held together with another activist in a tiny cell.
The room was so small that they had to take turns lying down and resting, using a cardboard over a drain as a makeshift mat.
Prisoner rights group Foro Penal says these small punishment cells, known as “tigritos,” are a common feature of the Venezuelan prison system.
“We spent 46 days there,” says Tarazona. “Then they decided to move us to another space in the same hallway, where the atmosphere was a little bigger, but just as disgusting, just as depressing, just as nauseating.”
Tarazona stated that they did not see daylight and had no way of knowing if it was day or night. The guards used to feed them at irregular times to disrupt their sense of time, he added.
Isolation
For Godoy, the hardest thing was not the conditions of detention, but being separated from his loved ones.
“I believe that the strongest torture, even above physical torture, is the torture of not knowing where your family members are, how they are, because they cut you off from communication, they isolate you from the world. Psychological torture is that, the strongest, it affected me a lot on the inside,” he said.
The political activist stated that he was detained without prior notice outside his home by a large group of security agents.
He then remained without contact with his family for 96 days. “I have to assume that the purpose is for you to break down and start saying things you don’t even know, just so that they will let you go or so that they will let you see your relatives.”
After more than three months, a member of the prison staff told him that the authorities were considering allowing his wife, Adriana, to call him by phone, but only if he agreed to moderate his presence on social networks and in the press.
Adriana Briceño says that, after her husband’s arrest, she was fired from her job at the state telecommunications company without being explained the reason, despite having worked there for 21 years.
She said being home alone with her son made her feel so inclined that she decided to move. “I was afraid that someone would break into my home to look for who knows what. The alarm was if they placed something, I knew there was nothing at home… That fear over time turned into courage,” he said.
For the first few weeks after her husband’s arrest, she didn’t even know where he was being held.
25 days passed until the authorities confirmed that he was inside the Helicoide, and only then did they authorize them to bring him clothes, medicines, and sheets.
After 96 days he was allowed regular visits.
Threats
Tarazona said that his family also suffered pressure from the authorities.
“In the middle of an interrogation, an official tells me: ‘Do you know this woman?’”
The official held a photo of Tarazona’s 70-year-old mother, whom authorities had arrested.
Tarazona stated that the man then threatened him: “Either you record the video that I am asking of you or your mother is going to be imprisoned.”
Prison authorities wanted the activist to agree to be recorded accusing other activists of crimes.
“And I always refused,” he said. “I always refused because I knew that my mother was going to pass that test.”
“And I thank God for giving me enough strength to endure so much pain and not point fingers at anyone.”
Hours later, his mother was released.
However, another problem weighed on Tarazona’s mind. He felt responsible for his brother ending up in jail with him.
His brother was not part of the NGO that Tarazona directed. He was simply driving the car in which they were traveling on the day of the arrest.
“Obviously I had a great sense of guilt,” Tarazona explained.
“My brother complained to me that because of my fight he was paying something that did not correspond to him. And that was a burden.”
Both Tarazona and Godoy deny having committed any of the crimes of which they were accused and claim that they never received adequate legal representation after their arrest.
Tarazona claims that he was denied the right to hire his own lawyer and was only allowed to see one ex officio seven months after his imprisonment, even though he faced charges of treason, terrorism and inciting hatred.
During his 1,675 days in detention, he claims to have seen a lawyer less than five times.
Godoy was accused of terrorism, hate crimes and incitement to armed action, but claims that he never saw the file against him or knew who his defense lawyer was, despite having been detained for more than a year.
BBC Mundo contacted the General Prosecutor’s Office of Venezuela, the Ministry of Information and the Ministry of Defense for comments on the prisoners’ accusations, but had not received a response at the time of publishing this note.
Go ahead
Tarazona told the BBC that he has not allowed the experience he lived to fill him with anger.
During his imprisonment, guards found a book and several letters he had been writing. As punishment, he was placed in solitary confinement.
“Although that happened, they did not change my mind. On the contrary, I found the light in that difficult trial, and from the pain, the opportunity to review and work on forgiveness. I managed to forgive in captivity, and that meant an entire transformation in my life.”
“When I say that we Venezuelans have to walk towards reconciliation, walk towards reunion, it is because this transgenerational trauma has to stop,” said Tarazona.
“But that is not rhetoric, it is not a matter of words, it is a pragmatic matter, we need concrete facts, legislation that must be repealed, that what they have done is criminalize, that what they have done is harm entire families.”
Back at her family’s house, Adriana Briceño holds an old t-shirt with some phrases scribbled in pen.
The messages on chocolate bars were the way the family sent notes to Godoy in prison, and that was also how he responded: writing on the dirty clothes that his relatives took out of prison to wash.
“Adriana, you are the most beautiful woman in the world. Proud of you,” the message says. There is also a message for his son: “I love you son. Greetings to your friends… God bless you son. To excel in classes. Always together.”
Although Godoy was allowed visits from his wife after an agreement with the authorities, those secret and personal messages were still very important.
The interim president of Venezuela, Delcy Rodríguez, declared before parliament in January that El Helicoide would stop functioning as a detention center and would be transformed into a social, sports and cultural center for the police family and the communities in the area.
While the release of prisoners from the jail has been welcomed, some human rights groups described the move as an attempt to cover up and whitewash the prison’s past.
Like Tarazona, Godoy hopes that the country can move forward in peace.
“After all that abuse, after all that anger, all that evil, it seems incredible that I ask people, I ask my friends political prisoners too, that we remove from our hearts every hint of hatred, resentment, resentment, and disagreement,” he stated.
“Because if we think about going to rebuild a country with that in our hearts, then we will do a disservice to future generations. The message is that: that revenge that I once heard about becomes forgiveness and moving forward, despite all the damage they did. Forgive them and build the country, build that civilization of love—of love properly understood—of the love of doing things well, from the heart, with selflessness.”
“Let the interest of the country come before the interest of any political party or any pretension, and without hatred or resentment, go without resentment to build that Venezuela.”
Note produced and edited by Peter Ball
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