The Silent Cells: Female Political Prisoners in Venezuela Face Isolation on Mother’s Day
For most families in Venezuela, Mother’s Day is a sacred tradition defined by reunions, flowers and the warmth of a shared home. However, for a growing number of women detained for their political beliefs or civic actions, the holiday is marked not by celebration, but by the oppressive silence of a prison cell and the profound ache of forced separation.
The experiences of women like Omaira Salazar and Liomary Espina highlight a harrowing pattern of arbitrary detention and systemic isolation. Their stories serve as a window into the broader crisis of political prisoners in Venezuela, where the act of participating in democratic processes or engaging in social activism can lead to sudden disappearance and prolonged incarceration without due process.
These women represent a significant demographic of the Venezuelan struggle—mothers and grandmothers who have paid a steep personal price for their commitment to social and political change. As the international community continues to monitor the human rights situation in the country, the testimonies of those who have survived these cells reveal a calculated effort to break the spirit of activists through total isolation from their families.
The Cost of Civic Duty: The Case of Omaira Salazar
The trajectory of Omaira Salazar’s life changed abruptly due to her willingness to serve her community. A 55-year-old woman with over two decades of experience in social struggle within the communities of the Atlantic axis in the Unare parish of Puerto Ordaz, Salazar was a known figure of local leadership. Her arrest was not the result of criminal activity, but rather a direct consequence of her role in the national electoral process.
During the Venezuelan presidential elections held on July 28, 2024—an event that sparked widespread international debate over transparency and legitimacy —Salazar was designated by the National Electoral Council (CNE) to serve as a polling station president. This role, intended to ensure the integrity of the vote, instead became the catalyst for her persecution.
On October 23, 2024, at approximately 9:00 PM, Salazar’s home was raided by officials from the Bolivarian Intelligence Service (Sebin). She describes the experience as being removed from her home “like a common criminal,” marking the beginning of a nightmare that would last for nearly a year. The precision of the raid and the timing suggest a coordinated effort to target those who had overseen the voting process in key regions.
Following her arrest, Salazar was subjected to 10 months of total isolation. This period of solitary confinement is a tactic often reported in cases of political detention in Venezuela to extract confessions or break the psychological resolve of the prisoner. For Salazar, the most grueling aspect of this isolation was the arrival of Mother’s Day 2025, a date that underscored the void left in her family’s life and the physical barrier between her and her children.
Systemic Isolation and the Role of Sebin
The involvement of the Sebin (Servicio Bolivariano de Inteligencia Nacional) in the detention of activists like Salazar is a recurring theme in reports on human rights abuses in Venezuela. Sebin operates as the primary intelligence agency of the state, and it has been frequently cited by international monitors for its role in arbitrary arrests and the maintenance of clandestine detention centers.
The use of isolation is not incidental; it is a strategic tool. By cutting off communication with the outside world, the state minimizes the ability of political prisoners to document their treatment or coordinate legal defenses. For women like Liomary Espina, another former political prisoner, the experience of incarceration is defined by a struggle for resilience against a system designed to dehumanize.
The broader context of these arrests is linked to the state’s response to political dissent. According to data from organizations tracking detainees, such as Foro Penal, Venezuela continues to hold hundreds of political prisoners who are detained for reasons ranging from social protest to administrative roles in elections . The targeting of women in these campaigns is particularly impactful, as it disrupts the core of the family structure, leaving children and grandchildren in a state of perpetual anxiety.
The Human Toll: Families Divided by Politics
The impact of political imprisonment extends far beyond the walls of the cell. The psychological toll on the families left behind is immense. In the case of Omaira Salazar, the void at the family table was felt most acutely by her grandchildren, who spent their days writing letters to a cell, hoping for a response that the system often blocked.
For the children of these detainees, many of whom have fled the country to escape political instability, the distance adds a layer of helplessness. Families thousands of kilometers away are forced to wait in agony for a phone call, often the only link to a loved one who has been disappeared into the state’s security apparatus.
Despite this, the testimonies of Salazar and Espina emphasize a “unbreakable faith” and the power of resilience. For many of these women, their faith in God and the clandestine emotional support from their children became the only tools for survival during months of silence. Their stories are not merely accounts of suffering, but narratives of survival against a regime that seeks to erase their political existence.
What This Means for Human Rights in Venezuela
The detention of civic workers and social activists represents a significant erosion of the rule of law. When individuals are arrested for performing duties assigned by the state’s own electoral body, it sends a chilling message to the entire population: no level of official designation provides safety if the outcome of a political process is deemed unfavorable by the ruling power.
The focus on female prisoners also highlights a specific gendered dimension of political persecution. Mothers and grandmothers are often the pillars of community organization in Venezuela; by removing them, the state targets the social fabric of the neighborhoods they serve, such as the communities in Puerto Ordaz.
The international community’s role remains critical. Continued pressure through diplomatic channels and the monitoring of prisoner lists are the primary means of securing releases. The transition from “prisoner” to “ex-prisoner,” as seen with Espina and Salazar, often depends on international visibility and the refusal of the families to let the world forget the names of those behind bars.
As the situation evolves, the demand for the release of all remaining political prisoners remains a central pillar of the Venezuelan opposition and human rights advocates. The goal is not only the physical liberation of the detainees but the restoration of a legal system where civic participation does not result in a prison sentence.
The next critical window for updates regarding political detainees in Venezuela typically follows international human rights reviews and diplomatic summits. Observers are closely watching for official lists of released prisoners and reports from the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights regarding the conditions within Sebin facilities.
We encourage our readers to share this story to keep the visibility of political prisoners high. Please leave your comments below regarding the importance of international solidarity in human rights crises.