The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2008

S even months ago, I was living in a barrio of Caracas, on top of the last green hill in the city. I was living in what any outside observer would call the slums: the water comes just two days a week, the kids play baseball in the street with bottle caps, families live three generations to a concrete room, and salsa and techno versions of 1980s American rock songs blare from every house at every hour of every day. Embassy Caracas also sits on top of a hill. It is on the opposite side of the city, however, in the richest neigh- borhood in Caracas. Before this trip, I had done most of my traveling with the advantage (or so I thought) of a diplomatic passport. With a father who works for USAID, I was raised overseas with an interest in interna- tional development and a conscious- ness of other cultures. This time, however, I realized that while a diplo- matic passport may get one through lines more quickly, it also tends to keep its bearer separated from the people and realities they are there to understand. The gulf between our two moun- taintops was real. In a brief visit to the embassy, I met with a friend of my father. It was a week before last De- cember’s referendum on constitutional reforms, and I had been immersed in reading and debating the proposals with local friends at the bodega. I was unprepared for how completely our two perspectives clashed. My father’s friend was against the reforms because they were undemoc- ratic; I was for them because they were democratic. He believed most Venezuelans hated Chavez; I hadn’t met one who didn’t support him. He believed the milk shortage that pre- ceded the election was the fault of the government controlling vital sub- stances; I had been told that pow- dered milk was controlled by the oli- garchy, and ran out before every major vote or election to make people uneasy. The only thing I knew for certain after our conversation was that my father’s friend had never been to my hilltop, and no one I was living with could afford the taxi required to climb to his. The disparities in our facts and our opinions were vast, and I won- dered where the truth lay. I was acutely aware that there were dangerous misconceptions on both sides. I felt, however, that if Ameri- cans could see and hear the things Venezuelans are fighting for when they back Chavez, they would find them eerily familiar. Venezuelans want the dignity and respect of being a sovereign nation. They want jobs, access to health care and the pride of a strong military. They want things that we want ourselves and should therefore be supporting in other nations as they develop — even if they sometimes look different than ours. Observing America from the other hilltop was sobering. Like our embassy, it was isolated, not welcom- ing, and catered only to those with the money and means to reach it. If elit- ism is what our foreign policy is striv- ing to convey, then it is perfectly posi- tioned. I couldn’t help thinking, how- ever, that in terms of our national interest, and our cherished American ideals, we should be forming long- term, sustainable ties with people and nations based on shared values. If we want to understand the com- mon bonds we share with Venezue- lans, we don’t need to move moun- tains. Only mountaintops. n Amanda Eckerson graduated with a B.A. in history from Yale University in 2007. She grew up in Haiti and Ethiopia, and will be returning to Venezuela on a Fulbright Scholarship next year to research the use of per- formance in political struggles in Caracas. 92 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 8 R EFLECTIONS On a Hilltop in Venezuela B Y A MANDA E CKERSON The only thing I knew for certain was that my father’s friend had never been to my hilltop, and no one I was living with could afford the taxi required to climb the hill to his. w