So an earthquake has levelled parts of Venezuela. Cue the British government issuing a stern condemnation, as if tectonic plates respect the sanctity of international law. This is the same Britain that once brought gunboats and quinine to the New World. Now we send strongly worded statements. How very Victorian of us, without the empire to back it up.
The real tremor here is not geological. It is the collapse of a regime that had long been living on borrowed time and borrowed petrodollars. Maduro’s socialist experiment was already a ruin before the ground shook. Now we have a perfect metaphor: a shaky state meeting a literal shake of the earth. And what does Whitehall do? Preen. Condemn. As if nature needs our moral outrage.
But let us be honest. This condemnation is not about the suffering Venezuelans, who have been suffering under Chavismo for two decades. It is about signalling to the chattering classes at home that we still matter. That Britain still has a voice in the world. The same voice that tuts at Boris Johnson’s parties while ignoring the crumbling NHS. The same voice that sighs at Trump but winks at Xi. We condemn Venezuela because it is safe. It is like kicking a dead horse.
The earthquake is a tragedy, yes. Hundreds dead, thousands displaced. But the greater tragedy is how we Westerners use these disasters as props for our own moral theatre. We pretend we care. But we will not open our borders to Venezuelan refugees. We will not cancel their debt. We will merely send tweets and press releases. The Viceroy of India would blush at our impotent grandiosity.
Some will say this is heartless. But heartlessness is assuming that even nature must abide by our political correctness. The earth does not care about democracy or tyranny. It just rumbles. And we interpret that rumble as a sign of divine judgment or cosmic justice. It is neither. It is a reminder that our civilisations are built on shifting sand. Even the mightiest empire can be toppled by a sneeze of the planet.
So let Britain condemn. Let them wring their hands and cluck their tongues. But do not mistake this for compassion. It is a ritual, a tribal dance to reassure ourselves we are still relevant. Meanwhile, the ground in Caracas is still. And the only thing rising is the dust.
