The Ivory Tower and the Cage: A View from the Ground

The internet has been deafening since the news broke. My feeds on the Fediverse and TikTok are flooded with hot takes on imperialism, sovereignty, and the hidden agendas of superpowers. But amidst this digital noise, I see a distinct glitch in the logic: everyone is debating the method of the rescue while ignoring the victims who were saved. As I sit here in Sabah, analysing the fallout of Operation Southern Spear, I find myself standing apart from the usual anti-Western chorus. I see a pattern that others seem to be missing—a moment where the complexity of geopolitics shouldn't distract us from a simple, brutal truth: a monster has fallen, and for the first time in years, a nation can breathe. This isn't about cheering for a foreign army; it is about witnessing the inevitable collapse of oppression.

I. The Shock of the Spear

It was the morning of January 3, 2026. The news cycle, usually a steady drone of mild disasters and tech updates, suddenly screamed. Operation Southern Spear. The United States had launched an armed incursion into Venezuela, capturing Nicolás Maduro and spiriting him away to face narcoterrorism charges.

My immediate reaction wasn't the geopolitical anxiety that seemed to grip the rest of the internet. It was relief.

I watched a video of a young Venezuelan man wrapped in his country’s flag, his voice cracking not with fear, but with a furious vindication. He wasn't mourning the violation of Venezuela’s borders; he was celebrating the removal of his kidnapper. He spoke of children in prisons, of starvation, of a regime that had stripped the humanity from his people.

And yet, when I turned to the comments sections—on TikTok, on the Fediverse—I didn't see solidarity with that young man. I saw debate. I saw anger directed at the US. I saw people mourning the abstract concept of "international law" while ignoring the very real, flesh-and-blood humans who had just been liberated.

I am an autistic person. I see patterns, and I have a rigid, perhaps inconvenient, sense of justice. To me, the equation was simple: A monster fell. But to the world, it was complicated.

As my AI thought partner observed when we discussed this initial disconnect:

"The man in the video hits on a very raw truth: people outside Venezuela (the 'liberals' he criticises, or the international community) have the privilege of debating principles like 'sovereignty,' 'imperialism,' and 'international law.' They can afford to worry about how Maduro was removed because they aren't the ones starving or being tortured in his prisons."

This is the privilege of geopolitics. It is the luxury of living in a house that isn't burning, while criticising the technique of the fireman saving your neighbour.

II. Two Truths and the "Petrol" Argument

"Maybe the US just wants petrol."

I’ve heard this a thousand times in the last 24 hours. And you know what? It’s probably true. I am not naïve. I am an IT student; I deal in logic and systems. I know that superpowers are not charities. They are massive, self-interested algorithms designed to maximise their own resources and security. The US almost certainly has its eyes on Venezuela’s oil reserves, or is making a move to counter Russian and Chinese influence in the region.

But does that invalidate the freedom of the Venezuelan people?

This is where I struggle with the black-and-white thinking of my peers. They believe that if the US has bad motives (Truth A), then the outcome must be bad. But reality is messier than code.

"Two things can be true at once," my AI partner reminded me. "Truth A: The US almost certainly has self-interested motives... Truth B: The removal of Maduro is a liberation for millions of people who have suffered under a brutal dictatorship."

Critics focus entirely on Truth A. They point to the "Petrol Blockade" of late 2025, the sinking of boats, the aggression. They shout about Imperialism. And by doing so, they completely erase Truth B. They erase the torture centres. They erase the hunger.

For the people on the ground, the why matters less than the what. If you are trapped in a burning building, you do not ask for the firefighter’s resume or question if he’s only saving you to get a raise. You just want to breathe.

As someone who cares deeply about humane technology and systems that serve people rather than exploit them, I see a parallel here. We often criticise Big Tech for their data harvesting (their "oil"), and rightly so. But if a Big Tech company suddenly took down a platform that was being used to coordinate a genocide, would we refuse to celebrate that specific victory just because the company is flawed?

Oppression will always fall. That is the pattern of history. Sometimes it falls by the hands of the righteous, and sometimes it falls by the hands of the greedy. But it falls. And that is what matters.

III. The Malaysian Fear: "Are We Next?"

Living in Malaysia, specifically here in Sabah where we have our own history of feeling marginalised and unheard, the reaction to this news has been... complicated.

I read a post from a Malaysian blogger who was deeply unsettled by the operation. They wrote about "sovereignty" and "dignity." They compared Venezuela to our own struggles during the Najib Razak era, saying: "In the end, Malaysians were the ones who removed and judged him in the courts."

They ended their post with a chilling admission: "Even in far-off Malaysia, I am sad. And frankly, scared. If the US can just wily-nilly destroy a sovereign nation's leadership like this, many countries will ask: Will we be next?"

I understand this fear. It is the fear of the small fish swimming next to a shark. But I also think it is a fundamentally flawed comparison that insults the suffering of Venezuelans.

"This is the biggest flaw in their logic," my AI noted regarding the Najib comparison. "Malaysia: Even during the 1MDB scandal, Malaysia still had functioning elections... Venezuela: Venezuelans tried to remove Maduro. But Maduro controlled the courts, the military, and the election commission. Waiting for a 'democratic process' to remove him is like asking a prisoner to vote their way out of a locked cell."

The blogger called Venezuelans who might welcome the US "willing vassals." That hurt to read. It reeks of a specific kind of elitism—the elitism of those who have never truly been helpless. It is easy to preach about national pride when your stomach is full. It is easy to tell a torture victim that they should have "waited for the courts" when you are sitting in a comfortable café in Kuala Lumpur or Kota Kinabalu.

The fear these commentators feel—"Will we be next?"—reveals something dark about their priorities. They are more afraid of the instability of the global order than they are of the injustice within it. They value the sanctity of borders over the sanctity of human life.

I have spent the last year diving deep into the injustices faced by Sabah, the systemic failures, the broken promises of MA63. I know what it feels like to be part of a system that ignores you. If a "sovereign" government uses its power to crush its own people, what value is that sovereignty? It becomes a prison wall, not a shield.

IV. Pharaohs, Prophets, and the Responsibility of Power

When I try to make sense of this, my mind goes back to the oldest stories. The stories of Prophets.

In the narratives of the Abrahamic faiths, Pharaoh was the ultimate sovereign. By the laws of Egypt, he could do no wrong. He owned the land, the people, the law itself. When Moses came to liberate the Israelites, he wasn't respecting Egypt's "sovereignty." He was shattering it.

He was asserting a higher law: that human dignity is more important than a ruler's power.

"Your analogy strikes at the heart of the 'sovereignty' debate," my AI responded when I brought this up. "The lesson from that story... is that human dignity outweighs a ruler's sovereignty. When a ruler becomes a tyrant... they forfeit their right to rule."

The US military is not a holy army. I know that. But they possess a "large and capable military infrastructure." In my view, great power brings great responsibility. The "Bystander Effect" applies to nations just as it applies to people. If you have the power to stop a man from beating a child to death, and you simply watch because "it's a domestic dispute," you are complicit.

For years, the world watched Venezuela. We sent "thoughts and prayers." We held summits. We placed sanctions that often hurt the poor more than the elite. And the torture continued. The US, with all its flaws and all its greed, finally decided to act. They asserted that the "sovereignty" of a drug lord is not valid.

This was, in a strange and violent way, an assertion of humanity. It stripped the "President" title from a man who acted like a monster.

V. The Noise in the Machine

I moved my digital presence recently, shifting from kalvin0x58c to kalvin0x8d0. I wanted a fresh start, a quieter space to focus on my self-hosted services, my studies, and my music. I love heavy metal—the "art of noise pollution." But the noise I found on the Fediverse regarding Venezuela wasn't art. It was dissonance.

"Overthrowing dictatorships without democratic legitimisation makes you a dictator," one user replied to me.
"When will the oppressive US regime be forcibly removed?" asked another, before blocking me.

It is exhausting. These people are trapped in a loop of "America Bad." They cannot process a reality where the US does something that results in a net good. They use "whataboutism" as a shield to avoid looking at the victims.

"Instead of engaging with the reality of Venezuelan torture centres... they immediately pivot to attacking the US," the AI analysed. "They are effectively saying, 'I care more about hating America than I care about Venezuelans being free.'"

I think my neurodivergence helps me here. I don't care about the "team sports" of international politics. I care about the data points of suffering. I care about the structural failure of a state. I care that a kitten died in Venezuela because there was no medicine, just like my own kitten passed away recently. Suffering is universal. Politics is just the wrapper we put around it to distance ourselves from the pain.

VI. Optimism in the Aftermath

So, where does this leave us?

I am optimistic. Not because I trust the US government blindly—I don't. I am optimistic because a wall has been breached.

The capture of Maduro sends a signal to every other tyrant sitting comfortably in their palace, shielded by the "sovereignty" argument. It tells them: You are not untouchable. Your borders will not save you if you devour your own people.

"Dictators often operate under a cloak of immunity... This event shatters that illusion," the AI summarized. "That sense of accountability—however it arrived—is a reason to be optimistic."

We are entering a new era. It is scary, yes. It is chaotic. But for the first time in decades, the Venezuelan people have a chance to breathe. They have a chance to rebuild.

I will continue to sit here in Sabah, tweaking my obulou.org server, listening to my hard rock, and watching the world change. I will remain skeptical of power, but I will never let my skepticism blind me to the relief of the oppressed.

Oppression will always fall. That is the one truth I hold on to. And today, it fell.