Inside a Venezuelan Political Prison: False Identities and Kangaroo Courts

Not long after I spent 11 days in a bare-bones clinic attached to the prison, where staff struggled to provide even ibuprofen, inmates across from my cell told me the loose sheet outside my door carried a new name: Jhon Piamond. I could see the same kind of sheets outside other cells, but the angle prevented me from seeing my own. The name sounded invented: Jhon was a Venezuelan spelling of John, and Piamond was simply Diamond with its first letter changed. During bed checks, guards called for Jhon Piamond and waited for me to respond. "Who the hell is Jhon Piamond?" I asked.