Nasar Ramadan Dagga Mujamad, born in Carabobo in 1976 and of Palestinian descent, is the name behind the retail empire that turned Daka into a byword for currency-exchange favoritism and price-gouging under chavismo. With a brief stint studying law at the “Santiago Mariño” institute and an early sales job at “La Linda” in Morón, Dagga vaulted into the big leagues through Cyberlux de Venezuela, an appliance assembler that became a privileged recipient of Cadivi’s cheap dollars.
The math was obscene: while Venezuela slid into scarcity, between 2004 and 2012 the Dagga network’s various shells drew over $647 million at the official rate—more than heavyweights like Alimentos Polar. Daka de Venezuela (later rebranded as Cyberlux) alone absorbed $407.8 million. The scheme was textbook: goods imported at the subsidized rate were flipped on the floor at eye-watering markups—up to 1,000%.
The machine ran on a carousel of paper companies—Mundo Daka C.A., DKZL C.A., Cyberlux de Venezuela, Consorcio Lux, CLX, Bullpro Maracay, Importadora Las 3G, and more—incorporated and juggled by members of the Dagga clan. They imported through one set of entities, invoiced Daka at inflated transfer prices through others, and hid the trail. In 2013, then–Interior Minister Miguel Rodríguez Torres said the quiet part out loud: this was “not really a company, just a briefcase that imports”—and sells to Daka at “exorbitant” prices.
That same year, Nicolás Maduro ordered the “Dakazo,” a made-for-TV occupation of Daka stores that wrecked much of the private retail sector but somehow left the Dagga group intact. Incredibly, months after being paraded as public enemy, Mundo Daka and DKZL were back receiving preferential dollars via Sicad/Cencoex. The message was clear: the spectacle was for the cameras; the pipeline stayed open for the insiders.
Instead of folding, Dagga expanded. In 2013 he launched Consorcio Lux C.A. (with affiliates in Panama and the U.S.) and opened CLX Samsung stores, now the dominant distributor of that brand in Venezuela (and with a presence in Panama). He layered on LG Gad Technology, Xiaomi Venezuela, Aiwa Venezuela, and the multi-brand big-box chain Multimax, which mushroomed nationwide while competitors vanished. At the luxury end, the group fronted Galerías Avanti in Las Mercedes—a red-carpet bazaar for Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton—while buying goodwill with celebrity sponsorships, film projects, and even baseball via the Magallanes Foundation.
None of this happens without political air cover. The Dagga orbit is tied to Carabobo’s governor Rafael Lacava—ally, protector, facilitator. That shield helped the family duck real accountability for usury, speculation, and criminal conspiracy—even as store managers were briefly cuffed for show. The corporate genealogy is simple—Nasar, Manzur (“Falles”), Fauci, and Yaser Dagga Mujamad split roles and signatures. The structure is not: a maze built to capture official dollars, triangulate imports, and wash margins. Offshore, they’ve parked vehicles in Panama—Global Trade Panalux, Venax, GD Midea Air-Conditioning Equipment, among others—while touting “assembly” lines through Cyberlux and Frigilux at home.
Today, while most Venezuelans can’t afford a TV, Nasar Dagga plays the part of visionary CEO at Multimax and CLX ribbon-cuttings, handing out phones to staff and posing with influencers. His true skill was turning the Dakazo from a political hurricane into a trampoline—emerging stronger, more diversified, and better connected than before.
On the shop floor you see fridges and screens. Behind the glass you see a business model perfected in crisis: privileged access, political patronage, and the quiet siphoning of public dollars into a private retail empire—one that not only survived the regime’s showy crackdown, but feasted on it.
