Trump Cracks Down on Narco-Traffickers—Protesters Rage in Philadelphia Streets

Paul Riverbank, 11/16/2025Protesters in Philadelphia decried U.S. military actions and sanctions against Venezuela, arguing these policies worsen hardship for ordinary people. As American officials defend their strategy as anti-narcotics, demonstrators demand peace and non-intervention, reflecting deep divisions over the human and geopolitical costs of U.S. policy in South America.

A woman near the edge, shaking the last drop of coffee from a paper cup, called out in Spanish—her words half-lost in the wind, half-caught by those nodding in agreement. “Viva Venezuela, enough Yankees!” Nearby, someone fumbled with a wrinkled sign: “No war on Venezuela, no troops on our streets.” There’s nothing uniform here—markers bled through cardboard, jackets of every color and cut, banners taped hastily to broomsticks.

What brought them out, more than idealism, was a string of military strikes—U.S. warships hammering vessels between the Caribbean and the Pacific since September. The Pentagon put a name to it—Operation Southern Spear, a phrase as sharp as the operation’s stated goals: intercept drug traffickers, Homeland Security, definitive action. Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth insisted, “This…defends our Homeland…removes narco-terrorists from our Hemisphere.” Over 21 boats struck. Reports say at least eighty dead in those operations, though no one protesting today could produce an official count, only a grave sense of loss.

Among them, Steve Malloy from CodePink Greater Philadelphia—his scarf trailing, voice wavering but resolute—was clear: “We add our voices to end U.S. government meddling, militarily or otherwise, in the affairs of Venezuela.” The signs reflected that sentiment with uneven clarity. Underlined words, overused exclamation points: “Militarized bullies and murderers do not result in peace.” Some signs threatened to fold in the breeze; someone grabbed duct tape from their backpack.

But for Fernando—a 22-year-old whose speech bore the hesitation of translating pain—this was painfully concrete. “My family, bakery … no flour, food, because [of] U.S. economic sanctions. They don’t want this; nobody wants their houses, hospitals, schools bombed.” He shifted, hands deep in his pockets. The crowd’s response was subdued, a few fists raised, shoulders hunched.

It’s impossible to ignore President Nicolas Maduro’s role, both as symbol and antagonist. At an international conference the previous day, his voice, transmitted through several layers of translation, made a direct appeal: stop the bombing, stop the killing. “It is to the people of the United States I am addressing … war no,” he insisted, switching briefly into English, “Peace, peace, peace.”

Official Washington remains unmoved. The Trump administration maintains that its interventions—military or otherwise—are squarely aimed at drug routes and narco-traffickers, not everyday Venezuelans. The Justice Department’s offer for information leading to Maduro’s arrest—$50 million—is a figure repeated so often it’s become almost mythic.

Most in the crowd weren’t interested in such arithmetic. Geo Maher, who claimed a few years living in Venezuela, paced near the front. “The U.S. has made it almost impossible for Venezuela to care for its people,” he told a handful of listeners, pausing when a passing ambulance drowned him out. He tried again, louder, more insistent, “Sanctions are not bloodless.”

By the time they reached the Armed Forces Career Center, night was settling—protesters shifting their weight from foot to foot, some checking phones, others bracing for another plea. A young protester, face obscured by a knit scarf, shouted: “If they start a war abroad, we start a war on Broad!” The phrase rippled, occasioning more laughter than applause, but it was enough.

As they drifted away, promises lingered in the chilled air—vows to return, to resist, to tell stories others would prefer faded. There was no triumphant conclusion. Just the fading, insistent chorus: “Peace, peace, peace,” and the cold, which by now had found its way through even the thickest winter coat.

Early Saturday evening in Philadelphia, the air bit at exposed skin, the wind swirling beneath hastily fastened jackets. Around City Hall, traffic groaned over cold asphalt, yet another unavoidable backdrop to a gathering that didn’t so much block the city’s pulse as thicken it. Sixty people, maybe more—no one was really counting—compressed themselves into a loose, determined cluster, their chants refusing to be swallowed by passing buses or the clatter of skateboards against granite.A woman near the edge, shaking the last drop of coffee from a paper cup, called out in Spanish—her words half-lost in the wind, half-caught by those nodding in agreement. “Viva Venezuela, enough Yankees!” Nearby, someone fumbled with a wrinkled sign: “No war on Venezuela, no troops on our streets.” There’s nothing uniform here—markers bled through cardboard, jackets of every color and cut, banners taped hastily to broomsticks.What brought them out, more than idealism, was a string of military strikes—U.S. warships hammering vessels between the Caribbean and the Pacific since September. The Pentagon put a name to it—Operation Southern Spear, a phrase as sharp as the operation’s stated goals: intercept drug traffickers, Homeland Security, definitive action. Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth insisted, “This…defends our Homeland…removes narco-terrorists from our Hemisphere.” Over 21 boats struck. Reports say at least eighty dead in those operations, though no one protesting today could produce an official count, only a grave sense of loss.Among them, Steve Malloy from CodePink Greater Philadelphia—his scarf trailing, voice wavering but resolute—was clear: “We add our voices to end U.S. government meddling, militarily or otherwise, in the affairs of Venezuela.” The signs reflected that sentiment with uneven clarity. Underlined words, overused exclamation points: “Militarized bullies and murderers do not result in peace.” Some signs threatened to fold in the breeze; someone grabbed duct tape from their backpack.But for Fernando—a 22-year-old whose speech bore the hesitation of translating pain—this was painfully concrete. “My family, bakery … no flour, food, because [of] U.S. economic sanctions. They don’t want this; nobody wants their houses, hospitals, schools bombed.” He shifted, hands deep in his pockets. The crowd’s response was subdued, a few fists raised, shoulders hunched.It’s impossible to ignore President Nicolas Maduro’s role, both as symbol and antagonist. At an international conference the previous day, his voice, transmitted through several layers of translation, made a direct appeal: stop the bombing, stop the killing. “It is to the people of the United States I am addressing … war no,” he insisted, switching briefly into English, “Peace, peace, peace.”Official Washington remains unmoved. The Trump administration maintains that its interventions—military or otherwise—are squarely aimed at drug routes and narco-traffickers, not everyday Venezuelans. The Justice Department’s offer for information leading to Maduro’s arrest—$50 million—is a figure repeated so often it’s become almost mythic.Most in the crowd weren’t interested in such arithmetic. Geo Maher, who claimed a few years living in Venezuela, paced near the front. “The U.S. has made it almost impossible for Venezuela to care for its people,” he told a handful of listeners, pausing when a passing ambulance drowned him out. He tried again, louder, more insistent, “Sanctions are not bloodless.”By the time they reached the Armed Forces Career Center, night was settling—protesters shifting their weight from foot to foot, some checking phones, others bracing for another plea. A young protester, face obscured by a knit scarf, shouted: “If they start a war abroad, we start a war on Broad!” The phrase rippled, occasioning more laughter than applause, but it was enough.As they drifted away, promises lingered in the chilled air—vows to return, to resist, to tell stories others would prefer faded. There was no triumphant conclusion. Just the fading, insistent chorus: “Peace, peace, peace,” and the cold, which by now had found its way through even the thickest winter coat.