The rescue teams in Venezuela are toiling in a silence so profound you could hear a pin drop, or more accurately, the agonised creak of a collapsed building settling on its foundations. British K9 units, flown in at great expense and with significant bureaucratic hoo-ha, are now on the ground, their noses twitching at the rubble with the kind of grim determination normally reserved for truffle hunters at a Michelin-starred restaurant. But let us be clear: the silence is not a sign of efficiency.
It is the sound of a nation holding its breath, of hope curdling into despair, of the international community wringing its hands while the earth continues to shrug off the dead. The dogs, bless their wet-nosed souls, are doing sterling work. But sterling work in a crisis is like putting a plaster on a severed artery.
It makes for good optics, but the blood still pools. Meanwhile, the politicians posture, the cameras roll, and the survivors dig with their bare hands, because the heavy machinery is stuck in a bureaucratic quagmire that would make a snail weep. So here we are, with our four-legged heroes sniffing for the living among the dead, while the world watches, silent, agonisingly silent, as if waiting for the next act in a tragedy that has long since forgotten its script.
