Guillermo José Rueda Parra

I believe that if I could say something to him right now, those are the words I would choose—nothing too long, so my voice wouldn’t break. You might wonder why I am here, with tears in my eyes, telling a story that repeats over and over in my mind, remembering a feeling of immense pain.

But to answer this, as in every story, we must go back to the beginning. Guillermo José Rueda Parra was a kind, funny, and passionate young man. He was always concerned about those most in need. I remember many occasions when children would pass by my house looking for food; he would help them and offer them food without hesitation, even when what we had was already scarce.

At school, he was always a great student. It was a source of pride for me to hear his teachers talk about him and congratulate me on the excellent human being I was raising. I think I could stay here and tell you so many beautiful memories I had with my son, but we would need hours to get through them all.

My name is Ivonne Parra Solano, and beyond these memories, I am here to tell you how my son was murdered by the Venezuelan regime.

On December 12, 2017, during the morning hours, five (5) regime funcionarios arrived at my home. They told me they were conducting a government operation throughout the area. I saw they were carrying long weapons, so I asked if they had a search warrant to enter. They showed me a metal crowbar (pata de cabra) and told me that was their search warrant. I asked them not to break down the door and proceeded to open it for them.

Two (2) women and three (3) men entered. They began searching my entire home while my son was still asleep; he hadn’t realized what was happening. They asked who lived there, and I told them it was just me and my only son. At that moment, hearing me speak, my son woke up and asked for my blessing (la bendición) from his room.

When they heard him, they put me in his room, ordered him to get dressed, and began searching the bedroom while he sat on his bed. Then, the female officers asked if I could accompany them and my son to the National Bolivarian Police headquarters to sign a document stating they hadn’t found anything and weren’t taking anything from our home.

Despite agreeing to go, the funcionarios forced me out of my house and did not let me back in until they had murdered my son in cold blood.

They told me they were doing this as part of a government operation to eliminate criminals who paid CICPC officers for protection. I told them my son had never paid any officer, had never been in prison or detained—not even at a local station. He owed nothing to the law; he was a kind, affectionate, and respectful young man.

When I finished speaking, the funcionarios didn’t know what to do; they argued over who was supposed to plant bullets (sembrar balas) at the scene. They cordoned off the entire area and began firing to simulate a confrontation. I told them my son was innocent and that they were creating a movie (a setup), to which they replied: “Yes, and what are you going to do about it?”

One of the female officers in charge of the operation continued to insist my son was a criminal, so I asked why they hadn’t investigated thoroughly before murdering him. She replied: “We’ll go to jail.”

Four years have passed, and justice has still not been served, even though the Prosecutor’s Office proved it was an extrajudicial execution—even after recovering the bullet from my son’s chest and after an arrest warrant was issued for his killer. The person responsible has still not been detained.

The funcionarios who murdered him remain free and continue their supposed security duties, murdering those they swore to protect. I have tried everything in my power to get justice for my son, without receiving an answer in any arena.

Today, I am the one asking for justice for this murder, but I am certain that many other mothers have had to suffer the same as I have. I know this is not an isolated case where officers simply got the wrong person; rather, it stems from a State policy that clearly and systematically violates the human rights and dignity of Venezuelans.

The truth is, I have yet to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I feel helpless, and I feel that achieving justice is a distant concept, detached from reality. My son was not a criminal, and I will not allow the State to attempt to stain his image to avoid taking responsibility for his murder.

If my son was guilty of anything, it was of growing up in a low-income neighborhood (barrio), raised with great sacrifice and shaped by values—reason enough for the regime to take his life, just as they do daily to hundreds of innocent young people.

To all the officials, I say: you do not only take the lives of those you deem guilty; you also take the lives of all the family members who must live with the consequences…