They put a hood on me. I began to feel scared
Cody Weddle, a journalist writing for The Telegraph, describes how he was arrested in Venezuela
WHEN the doorbell went at 6.30am at my home in Caracas on Wednesday, I assumed it was the guy who delivered the water. Monday and Tuesday had been carnival and I was half asleep.
I got out of bed and answered the door, still wearing my pyjamas, and saw outside the front gate three military counter-intelligence officers in black uniforms and bulletproof vests holding handguns. Behind them was another guy with a rifle.
An order for my arrest was passed through the metal bars as one of the men threatened to break my door down if I didn’t let them in.
My neighbour begged me to open the gate. “We’re not used to this,” she pleaded. In Venezuela, suspected dissidents are frequently tortured and arbitrarily detained. Nobody wants to fall under the authorities’ radar. I felt terrible for her. I let them in.
Though I wasn’t sure exactly what had prompted the early-morning raid, I suspected it was connected to my recent reporting that Venezuelan security forces were ready to turn against president Nicolás Maduro.
There had been a slow deterioration of reporting conditions in recent months, but in four and a half years, nothing like this had happened to me.
Immediately, the men started going through everything – my electronics, my notebooks, taking pictures of my computers, sifting through my Whatsapp messages and voice notes.
Guys in civilian clothes came in pointing lasers. They said they were “sweeping” my place, apparently to check for hidden cables and spying equipment. After a bizarre moment improvising a makeshift inkwell from broken Biros to take my thumbprint, I was told I would need to accompany them to their headquarters “for the interview part”.
I tried to say I didn’t want to go, but they told me to get dressed. I mouthed to my maid, Marina, to call my assistant. I had no idea he was being detained at the same time.
When the SUV pulled up at their headquarters, they put some kind of hood on me. That’s when I started to feel scared. They moved me from room to room, telling me not to speak to anyone. I lifted up the mask when I was sure I was alone and got a shock when I saw written in dirt on the wall: “God, Jesus and Mary”.
The main official from the raid asked for my computer password, which I gave, and the surnames and addresses of people I had worked with, which I didn’t. Eventually, I was told it was time for my interview. Three men faced me. One asked me if I worked for the CIA. “I’m not important enough to be CIA,” I said, unsure if he was joking. They asked who I had been writing about the Venezuelan military for, and I told them – The Telegraph.
Later, there was a flurry of activity – people started to get nervous. One official said: “There’s been a bit of an uproar because you’re here.”
Reports were emerging that I had been arrested for treason. Thousands of miles away, Marco Rubio, the US senator, was tweeting about my situation. I was so relieved. “No, no,” a woman said. “He has to go now.”
I was told I was going home. Not to my apartment, but to the US. On the way to the airport, I was flanked by a man with a handgun. My assistant had been released and I texted my mother and sister in Virginia to let them know I was alive. “How do I know it’s you?” my sister said. “Tell me the nickname I used to call you when we were kids.”
I am at least safe. But the intimidation of journalists will continue. So far this year, 37 have been arrested in Venezuela, and the raid on my flat and deportation represents an unprecedented rise in pressure on the media. As paranoia rises within the administration, getting the facts out is only likely to become more difficult.