Afro-Venezuelans discuss syncretism, anti-colonial resistance, and community organization on the southern shore of Lake Maracaibo.
Originally published in Venezuela Analysis.
On the southern shore of Lake Maracaibo, Palmarito is an Afro-Venezuelan community shaped by centuries of history, culture, and resilience. Its people carry forward traditions rooted in their African heritage and in the fishing trade. Central to Palmarito’s way of life is the socialist commune, a form of popular self-government that transforms everyday life and work into a shared project.
The town forms part of the “pueblos santos,” a cluster of Afro-descendant communities bound together by devotion to San Benito of Palermo, the “Black saint,” and the ritual rhythms of the Chimbánguele. Life in Palmarito has always revolved around the lake—its fish provide sustenance and its water routes connect those living along its shores. From the struggle against enslavement and the creation of maroon communities in colonial times to today’s communal self-governance, Palmarito’s story is one of resistance and collective action.
In Part I of this testimonial series focusing on the Afrodescendant Palmarito Commune, we explore the organization’s origins and the history of the town. Future installments will turn to its cultural life, fishing economy, and the impact of the US blockade.
[Part of the Communal Resistance Series.]
Arsenio Chourio Morante is a maestro (teacher) and a local historian | Francisco Segundo Estrada Balza is a campesino, Chimbánguele capitán, and a founder of the Palmarito Afrodescendant Commune | Leonardo Pirela, the son of fisherfolk, is the Fishing and Aquaculture Ministry representative for Merida state | Luisana Desirée Antúnez Chourio is a communal spokesperson and the director of the San Benito de Palermo High School in Palmarito | Nereida González Vásquez is a communal spokesperson and the coordinator of the local medical ambulatory | Yoglis Solarte is a communard and a PSUV member (Rome Arrieche).
Palmarito’s Commune
Founded in 2011, the Afrodescendant Palmarito Commune brings together some 3000 people along the southern coastline of a large lake connected to the Caribbean Sea.
Leonardo Pirela: The commune is the project that Chávez left us, but here in Palmarito, the spirit of the commune is much older. Long before the word existed, we were already a tight-knit community.
We are part of the pueblos santos, a cluster of Afro-decendant towns along the southern shore of Lake Maracaibo marked by the devotion to San Benito, our Black saint clad with a deep blue garment, and by the Chimbángueles [drumming tradition] and chants that bring us together in celebration of him and of community life.
To San Benito we sing: Ajé, San Benito Ajé. Ajé* is the syncretic counterpart to San Benito.
Our history is one of resistance—first against enslavement, later against criollo domination—and out of that came a community capable of standing on its own. Life here has always been defined by fishing and by our cultural practices with African roots.
San Benito and the Chimbánguele, the commune, and the fisherfolk councils [CONPPAS] are how we carry forward life with dignity. The commune is more than a structure of governance; it is our way of affirming that we exist as a people with our own history and destiny.
Nereida González Vásquez: This commune brings together eight communal councils. In 2011, we took the step of formally constituting it, but Palmarito has always been a community with strong traditions of organization.
For me, the commune is a tool—a means for us, as working people, as fisherfolk, as pueblo, to solve our problems. We come together in assemblies and from there set our priorities: building a new wing for the school, repairing the roads, and tackling the numerous problems with services, which have become impaired by the United States imposed blockade.
The strength of the commune is that it is not about the government telling us what to do—reproducing old colonial ways—nor about some bureaucrat who knows nothing about how we live attempting to “solve” the problems he projects on our community through institutions that are almost always sluggish and ineffective.
The commune is about people coming together to decide what matters most and charting a path to address it collectively. Communes are popular self-governments, and as Chávez often said, they form the foundation of socialism—a socialism that grows from the grassroots, from the people themselves.
Fishing with nets on Lake Maracaibo (Rome Arrieche)
Luisana Antúnez: Palmarito is known for its cultural traditions—our devotion to Saint Benito and the Chimbángueles that we play in his honor—and our life as fisherfolk who draw their sustenance from the lake.
But there is something else that defines our commune: from its early days, women have been at the forefront of this process. Palmarito’s commune is marked by the leadership of women. We are at the heart of communal life, caring for health, defending education, organizing culture, and assuming political responsibilities. In Palmarito, women are not only caretakers of the home, fisherfolk, and teachers; we are also caretakers of the community. And the commune gave us the space to make that visible, to make our leadership into something tangible.
Yoglis Solarte: What we have built here is possible because the Chimbánguele and the fishing trade taught us to work together. Long before Chávez spoke to us about the commune, we already had a kind of communal structure in the Chimbánguele. Everyone takes part in organizing the San Benito festival, even though the ensemble has its mayordomo, capitanes, and a director.
These figures carry moral authority and are elected by the community; they embody a leadership that the people recognize. This living tradition made it natural for us to seize upon the commune as a way forward. That’s why, when Chávez called us to organize, it was as if the soil was already prepared—the seeds of the communal project, which is nothing other than socialism, had already been planted.
There is something I always say: the only salvation for the world is socialism. Socialism is community, humility, equality, and giving power to the people. In the Fourth Republic [1958-1999], the government did nothing for us, and there were no participative spaces beyond the ones we carved out ourselves at the local level. Now things are different.
This government is humanist and promotes protagonism; who can deny that? Let’s compare: do the people in the United States have power? No, they don’t. Here we have many problems, but in the commune, the people are the ones who decide.
There’s still a long way to go: there are contradictions and we have a big problem with imperialism, but we are moving in the right direction.
Francisco Segundo Estrada Balza: When we speak about Palmarito, we cannot separate it from culture, from fishing, and from tending to the conuco [small diversified plot]. The Chimbánguele and the fisherfolk councils are part of the same social fabric. The ASOCHIPA—the association that safeguards the tradition of the Chimbánguele—works together with the commune, as do the CONPPAs [fisherfolk councils]. And the commune, hand in hand with the government, addresses the problems we face. It’s a single body with many limbs, but all moving toward the same goal.
Leonardo Pirela: Our commune has a productive vocation. We live from fishing, but we also farm yuca, plantain, banana, and topocho, and our beautiful beach becomes a seasonal destination during the holidays. Each activity sustains life, but the commune allows us to integrate all these activities into a common project. That way, what each family does is not isolated: it becomes part of something larger, something that belongs to everyone. That is what makes the commune powerful: it transforms mere survival into a shared future.
The commune is Chávez’s legacy.
A communal assembly in Palmarito. (Rome Arrieche)
The history of Palmarito
The story of Palmarito’s people is linked to their African heritage and their traditions of resistance.
BEFORE THE 20th CENTURY
Arsenio Chourio Morante: Long before Palmarito existed as the town we know, this territory was home to Indigenous peoples—the Bobures, Quiriquires, Motilones, and others, all of them Caribs. Along the lake’s shores and in the lowlands, communities survived through fishing, hunting, and small-scale farming. That still defines our life, but they were the first to understand the lake’s rhythms, its cycles of abundance and scarcity.
That practical knowledge of how to live from the lake and the surrounding land was passed down from generation to generation.
With colonization came violence. As early as 1528, enslaved Africans were brought to this region via Maracaibo. By the late 16th century, the neighboring town of Gibraltar had become one of Venezuela’s largest ports and a central hub for the transatlantic slave trade. At the same time, there are accounts of Indigenous resistance near Gibraltar that lasted until 1668, when they were subdued and enslaved.
The colonizers in this region possessed large plantations of cacao, coffee, banana, maize, beans, tobacco, and sugarcane, relying on enslaved people to work the land. Yet, wherever there is slavery, there’s also resistance.
There are stories—and even some documents—about uprisings of enslaved people, and there are accounts of their cumbes [maroon communities]. Here, people speak of the Cumbe del Parral and the Cumbe de Si Dios Quiere, which were self-defense territories organized by formerly enslaved people. Of course, these cumbes were tucked away, closer to the mountains, not in plain sight on the shore of the lake, where Palmarito stands.
It is said that among the Africans who were brought here were Mandingas, reputed to be tall and strong. Perhaps that is why in places like Santa MarĂa, a neighbouring town that was fully settled long before Palmarito, the population is taller. Other towns like San JosĂ© de Era in Sur del Lago were populated by enslaved people from other African peoples.
There are also many accounts of pirate attacks, including [Henry] Morgan’s raids, on the lakeside towns during the seventeenth century. One such event is the burning of Gibraltar in the 1660s, when the entire church was destroyed except for the figure of Jesus. From this event emerged the devotion to the Black Christ of Gibraltar.
The histories of our people have been passed down through generations, and some events are also preserved in written documents.
Leonardo Pirela: The memory of resistance is not just history. It’s our identity. When we say that Palmarito is part of the pueblos santos, we are saying that we belong to a chain of communities of Afro-descendant people along the Sur del Lago who survived slavery, resisted all forms of domination and oppression, and preserved their traditions and celebrations. Palmarito is culturally, historically, and geographically bound to Gibraltar, Bobures, Santa MarĂa, and San JosĂ© de Era. Each town is different, but all are linked by the common devotion to San Benito, a Black saint, a symbol of resistance.
San Benito and the Chimbánguele drums (Rome Arrieche)
THE 20th CENTURY
Arsenio Chourio Morante: My parents told me that back when this was just a caserĂo [hamlet], the Sugar Company and Maracaibo’s HL Boulton had a plantation here. Their sugarcane fields stretched from this lakeshore all the way to the Pan-American Highway—a span of about 13 kilometers. They left around 1940. As you know, sugarcane production was highly exploitative, and our ancestors would have had to work under those harsh conditions.
Nereida González Vásquez: Our grandparents tell us that Palmarito was a small caserĂo on the lakeshore, a dock where small boats arrived with goods. At first, people came to trade cacao, plantain, or fish. Then some stayed, built their homes, and formed the town. Coastal transportation in small boats—cabotaje—was the way of life. The lake was the highway and Palmarito was one of its ports. It was in the mid-20th century that Palmarito became a larger town.
Arsenio Chourio Morante: Palmarito has always been a crossroads and a place of encounter. The piraguas [small boats] brought products and also news, music, and people. This meant that despite being small, Palmarito was connected. Later, in the twentieth century, came electricity, a health post, and the school.
Some people ask why Palmarito, on the southern shore of Lake Maracaibo, is part of Mérida—a state known for its mountains and Andean culture—while the remaining pueblos santos are in Zulia. This is an old story about borders. Administratively, we have belonged to Mérida since 1904, and we are proud of that. But culturally, we are deeply connected to the pueblos santos. We carry both identities: Mérida on the map and in our hearts, and the Afro-descendant traditions of the lake in our daily lives and in our blood. We are proud of both identities.
Luisana Antúnez: The history of Palmarito is shaped by the lake. The lake nourished the town, connected it to other places, but it also threatened it with floods and storms. Even with those dangers, our people never abandoned this land. On the contrary, they held on because the territory was more than soil—it was a community with its own traditions.
At sunset, people gather by the lake. (Rome Arrieche)
NOTE:
* “Ajé” is a sacred chant dedicated to San Benito in the Afro-descendant towns of the Sur del Lago. Scholars trace the word to West African, likely Yoruba, traditions where ajé signifies power and the capacity to give life. In Palmarito, the chant is sung collectively with the Chimbánguele drums.
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