The Day the Drums Fell Silent

Nuri Kino, July 7, 2026

On the morning of June 24, Venezuela was celebrating. Public squares filled with music. Churches opened their doors. Families gathered around tables. Children ran between neighbors, and many dressed in red and white. For a few precious hours, a nation worn down by years of economic hardship allowed itself to celebrate.

June 24 carries a double meaning. It marks the Battle of Carabobo, the 1821 victory that secured Venezuela's independence under Simón Bolívar. It is also the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, San Juan, one of the country's most beloved celebrations, held six months before Christmas.

Along the Caribbean coast, church traditions blend with Afro-Venezuelan culture. The sound of tambores de San Juan echoes through towns and villages. Processions fill the streets. Statues of Saint John the Baptist are carried through cheering crowds. The drums are more than music. They represent faith, community, freedom and hope.

Then, shortly after 6 p.m., everything changed. Two powerful earthquakes struck just 39 seconds apart. In less than a minute, drums and laughter gave way to collapsing buildings, sirens and cries for help. The disaster hit a country already on its knees, its shelves empty, its hospitals short of medicine and the most basic supplies.

As someone born in Tur Abdin in southeastern Turkey, into one of the world's oldest Christian communities, the first images caught my attention. I saw churches with open doors. I saw icons of Saint John the Baptist. I saw crosses and traditions that reminded me of the ones I grew up with.

I wanted to understand why. Venezuela is known as a Catholic country. But during the twentieth century it also became home to thousands who fled genocide, persecution and war in the Middle East. Among them were Armenians and Assyrians/Syriacs, who built new lives while preserving their languages, churches and traditions.

Then I called my brother's mother-in-law in Sweden. She has relatives in Venezuela. Suddenly this was no longer a disaster far away. It was personal. I saw a part of the Middle East living on the other side of the Atlantic.

For more than two decades, I have watched the same pattern repeat. The headlines dominate. The cameras arrive. World leaders offer condolences. Then another crisis erupts, and the cameras leave. The suffering does not.

That is when humanitarian work matters most. That is why we acted at ADFA – A Demand For Action. We would have made the same decision regardless of who the victims were. We acted because we knew what would come next.

Within hours, our international network answered. Pastor Winston Parrish and Trinity Church in North Carolina opened their warehouse and their hearts. Hearts with Hands mobilized donors and supplies. Gary Wasserson, Dr. Richard Zoumalan and Miguel García in Venezuela connected people and prepared to receive the aid. Today, nearly 300 pallets of food, hygiene and medical supplies are ready to ship.

One challenge remains. We still need a logistics partner to carry this aid from North Carolina to Venezuela. For a freight company, it is one more shipment. For thousands of families, it is food, medicine and dignity.

The drums that filled Venezuela's streets on June 24 may have fallen silent. Solidarity has not.